￼ She possessed a haunting, lilting voice. Hard to age by ear or eye, I watched as she took centre stage in every aspect of its meaning. The other singers became as statues, their faces unobserved, voices unnecessary, the lavish set as nothing other than a backdrop to her. For me, it was the diva’s […]
￼ Wind in the meadow Tickles the lively crickets Laughing violins
￼ There's jazz playing. I hate jazz. My face gives me away. "Not a jazz fan, huh?" "No." He ignores my abrupt reply. "It's more than music, man, it's a feelin'". "I'm not feeling it." "Coz yer eyes are open, man. Close 'em. S'like love." I do. He's right. It is.
A slide guitar slit through the coffee shop like a catamaran the sea. I imagined the chords gently easing aside the customers, the grinding granules, the general hullabaloo with the same simple efficiency of a gravedigger the cemetery's ochre soil. Apt, as it always was my favourite place to haunt.
She leant over the piano like a soldier his first clean bed after years of war. Her eyes closed, fingers ran over the spruce, lips curled into a gentle memory. And I loved her more than ever as I signed I understood. She didn't see me just smiled some more.
She liked talking, me, headphones. Perfect.
￼ The jukebox clicked over: Bowie, Let’s Dance. The tips of her long, auburn hair twitched, then shuddered, then shook. Her head swayed as her arms loosed themselves from her sides. Freedom. She was free. Lost and found. I watched her red shoes, a scarlet blur, and smiled. She deserved it.
￼ this thing we call dance such exquisite symmetry played out to heartbeats
It's a rhythm felt Through the floor An all-encompassing beat Sending atoms all aquiver Destined to reach minds And swamp them Engulf them Electric, the buzz Transcendence, the goal We embrace with eyes closed Hearts on sleeves Pumping out blood Slick on the dance floor It's rhythmic A million perfect moments Tied with silk bows […]
She loved music; the whole orchestra.