Valentine’s Day. A window to peer through. Who indeed celebrates it? Cupid, even hobos having heart shaped red boxes full of candy to spare. Bright sun upon the disuse of snow. Melting stopping you in your tracks. Long pursed lip pause along the fractious social inattention. Some have shopping rags. Some have deeper closets. And some are on the bum within their own long overused underwear! And yet, still others still, are contemplating a much freer life! People watch normal. Normality whatever that is? As abnormality goes, too Left or too Right. Something at the apex, or within the lowest dimension of a crevice. People liberally in surround as inexplicable as the fact of one’s own existence. Why? No qualms about cameras, static or drone mounted. Yet flash those human eyes in an unwarranted manner in an untoward direction and then catch the hoopla! Iconic visage topics undergone in tomb borne possibilities of inane explanations shunning these modern times. What a dialogue! Held in silence within one’s self. About the many demeanor’s passing by one on their way to uncertain futures. Perhaps a machine producing same existing just out of sight? Is this responsible for the singularity of the greater illusion? How do you put this mental Swan Song in print? Tchaikovsky? These animals padding back and forth behind this glass before one. Whatever the incongruities! The attempt is genuine and faithful and even being well-intentioned.
Concert time of decadent works of longstanding presupposed art. The same old prudish characters hobbling in. Some approaching on their last legs. Dear sweethearts all! All and all, faithful to the glories of the past. And determined to be as best as able in consort with the fade afflicting them. What remains within the ancient shells of these still young? Resisting that fate with whatever remains lurking within unsung and still young? Resisting what meager fate that has inevitably descended from above to rest upon the inevitable. How many will be absented from this gathering next Spring? Music that Maurice Ravel could appreciate. Sweet, delicate to the ear. Bringing forth the best tones of the instruments. Someone’s perfume overpowering but not reaching the level of annoyance. But yet, not far off the mark. Gothic old lady chic. “What the fuck is chic any ways?“, as the latest popular movie had said. A forest of hopes. All strangers, some transfixed by this performer. Some by their own God almighty. The imagined remnant of the grand salon of the Belle Epoque. Hanging on collections of fast paced notes drifting into imminent oblivion. If not cheerfully so. Pleasure and happy thoughts. Items no longer in fashion. A separation from audience to performer, not unlike from left hand to right hand. The level of respect maintaining silence in the hall growing troubling like a dumb cane. Some traditions, all ‘black‘, lodging loud protest in constant discontent from their own persistent surround of this enclave of whiteness. Something that they call in their own self-conjured sense rightful consternation. Something by the fact of their own moral lack to right of evidencing same. The slow creep of death announced so over dramatically by Liszt. Dance of Death like some Hollywood big budget vehicle summoned from a half a century past.