Like ten empty tattoo needles going at a half a cycle a second, purring Priest returns my absent minded stroking of his luxurious nape with simultaneous piercings of my bare knee by talons so sharp they must slip between the cells and what at first felt like pain is only sharp, yet bloodless sensation of feline affection as we watch the evening gather of grackles test the watering hole in slower, more deliberate shifts until he can stand it no longer and slithers off my lap for a closer observation. He has yet to grok the lookouts in the trees while perfecting his invisibility from ground level to a foot above; where he can barely see them either.Fools rush in and get the best buys where angels fear to tread upon clerks full of turkey in walls full of mart, compounding the hypocrisy of Thanksgiving with Black Friday’s opening ceremony of the month long idolization of the latest models of golden calfves for the profit of money lenders culminating in the birthday of one later crucified for warning about both. Ironic, it’s trategic stragedy if ever I saw it — parents paying off the yearlong threat/bribe to children’s good behavior lest Santa punish them with switches and coal. It’s built in conditioning like the DNA of civilization, these generations of closed minds following the habitual limits of the invisible prison pointing out the window at the crazy people dancing through walls to inaudible music.
The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art, and all science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe is as good as dead, his eyes are closed. —Albert Einstein
You don’t have to know how to read sheet notation to make music. You don’t have to make music to love it. Music is the string we claim as our heart that runs through all mankind. I enjoy playing my bamboo flute for my garden far more than playing any part of my 4.6-day’s worth of music on iTunes, which I prefer to going out for live performances these days. If it weren’t for getting to meet up with old friends, I might never rejoin the pub-crawl crowd. I think I enjoyed music more before I got too close to the business exploitation of it by managers, venue operators and fame seekers alike that seemed to tarnish the purity of all but the most dedicated musicians’ performances. The most important quality of musical performance is the musician’s love for it. The sour notes make the good ones sweeter so I can’t bitch about any of it.
4 comments:
Poignant pondering: any form of creation is all the better for the artist's love of what he is creating - a form of truth that shines through all the layers of corporate bullshit that endevours to choke the process with money.
You can take the cat out of the jungle but the jungle still remains in the cat. Priest probably dozed off for a second and then was startled. Or either he was bored with it and that is how he said stop...lol pfft...silly cat. I miss my sweet Bowie. She disappeared about a month ago just like your Vera did.
You stated the second paragraph well. Thank you,nicely done. There are many scriptures that agree with what your explaining.
I love the work of a humble artist whether it be music or any other form. The expression of passions within are still there in it's rarest form. I have found it when walking down the hall of a high school, looking at the art students work. Or having my friend sing me her latest song she wrote. Or scrolling through blogs watching people be themselves. There is such power in that! Art has no status but for some reason people are always trying to give it one before they decide if it's likable. We should enjoy it in that moment that our senses first have the encounter rather than trying to define it afterwards. It is only after we define it that we destroy the original beauty by applying a price tag. That eventually leads to one liking it because of who did it rather than what was done.
Hmmm...I'm wordy but you get my point.
I have often been treated to a love'bite' from Owen. I don't know which one of us jumps more.
A perfect description of the sensation of happy cat feet!
"...talons so sharp they must slip between the cells..."
I could never decide whether to laugh or wince. Or both.
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