All the fuel you need to drive the songs of yesteryear back into your blood, back into your brain, back into your realm of understanding, is within. The electroshock therapy of late (and not so late for those who have served so much longer) will dissipate. But our prints in sticks meant to prevent the shattering of teeth will always remain. There are patterns there in the indents, a Braille of history we need to remind each other to read from time to time.
But the music is starting. Actual strings of notes—F major melting into the haunting of an E minor and back to the buoyancy of C. And they will push away the buzz of old circuitry. And they will ignore the old gauges that indicate a drying up of the supply.
Tap the reserves friends, because we are almost there. Speak and forge and touch and reach out. They are the tools no one can strip away or break. The jukebox is gonna play number C3 soon and you’re gonna wanna dance.
(This is a guest post by my wickedly talented friend Kristin Steele. It's a riff she made on the photo I took.)
1 comment:
Start with a photo, add in a little Sci-Fi, a healthy pinch of prose-y poetry and top it off with a large helping of originality and what do you get? Pure fantastical fun.
Thanks for sharing.
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