Sunday, September 28, 2008

La Valse D'Amelie : she says to me, "no, don't play that, it makes me too sad"

Datalooknize- Wapping(Cycling) by yesyesnono

it worries me that in dreams eyes that do not look at each other are refracted, urged, guided, lost___and then meet (in each other). After completely ordinary days i discuss my problems with tulips and was sitting on the floor (with my back resting against a couch for support) i was looking ahead where a gentle stream of shadows was moving away from this world into another. objects would descend and drift away; _occasionally, something would rise out. little birds or creatures that next-thing-you-know are flying around the yellow-tinged lightbulbs, fluttering little bundles of life unlocalized into indefinite forms.

there is no way to link it with the times i played for you; or that, for whatever reason, the song made its way into your saddest place. later, a while later, reunited, someone asked me to play, and i acquiesced. sitting on the stool i looked towards you, and you shook your head. no. i just looked at you, i haven't anything else prepared. again, no. your eyes said it too. fine. ok.

later, in the backseat of a car: , you're never allowed to play it again. it's impossible for me to hear it. impossible. ___it makes me too sad. ___that song is everything that is dead about us. about you. ___when you play it you disappear out of this world back into that stream of shadowed memories that ruined me you us forever everything eternity precious history gorgeous sundaymondaytesday (all it took) you kill it so easily with this.

i nod.
for whatever reason i understand.

the song of the dead is a valse.

Strangely, of all the music that has been lost to me, my fingers still remember this one (since music is stored in fingertips and no where else. in that regard, it is like dance, like a special little dance just for everything up-to-elbows). why have i forgotten everything else but your death-waltz? ___(why have i forgotten nothing?

i am playing it now, descending slowly into the shadow version of the Styx, hoping i am not too heavy to flip it over. i am jerky, and my hands tremble slightly. my pinky is stiff, and my hands seem to have lost malleability with age (it probably won't come back). i make tuned pianos sound rusty. the wood creaks. the ivory recoils from my fingers- being dragged into this pit of disnuanced hope-to-be-deadness.

the whole while, i hate the sounds. messy. jagged. i cannot recover this performance. somewhere, i wonder if you are affected. if you are forced to moan. if you are letting me disappear once and for all. if that pest- that bastard string of gravity's can be cut.

perhaps not.
you never heard me play Ravel, it is a dream i wish to be lost in.

but instead i have this. this now. every morning the same.
every 2am the same.

i thought i had outrun the tortoise.

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