of suns and moons

Surely, this is another sleight-of-hand. It’s a little dispiriting. Wait, I lie.

It’s terribly dispiriting. I’d let it slide, but this isn’t just another day. It isn’t just another month; it isn’t just another year. Our lives are weakning by the day, our resolve no longer stoic. Time’s a whore, without a doubt, but under whose tutelage – surely not His – will we manage to learn the ways and means of this whore and subsequently exude some semblance of control over it?

I want my own Grushenka. Well, let me rephrase: I’d like my own Grushenka. Ofcourse, with it would come the caveat that i’d be able to toss her whenever I’d have had enough. Wouldn’t that be just sublime?

Convalescence

Singing, or vocals, have by and large been secondary to me since I started listening to music. My initial exposure, or atleast the meaningful initial exposure, was to classical, the concertos and violin suites of Mozart, Tchaikovsky, Beethoven, Haydn and Schubert, and the operas they wrote were far easily enjoyed by putting the singing out of my head.

So, it’s rather weird that despite my growing fondness of vocals and their significance, I seem to dream more and more of a chorus of voices; of people so completely in love with their own voices in an almost spiritual halo that it lends them an etheral, supernatural air. Not quite angels, for there is still some of humanity’s folly and foibles amongst them.

Anyway, instead of a deluge of guitarists carrying out Rhys Chatham’s latest masterpiece, it is now dozens of people wearing elegant oakwood brown robes, with temperings of silver and blue lining their shoulders.

They sing in unison, and their dulcet tones mix with melancholy to leave me completely disarmed. As beautiful as it tends to seem, I can’t help but feel awkward. I suppose, as I said, I’m not at all used to this…