While corresponding with a long-time correspondent recently about our mutual penchant for listening to classical music. With me it seemed inborn and a part of my general autistic, walking wounded flavoring. For the entire time I lived at my parent's house (wherever that happened to be) I would wait for the various orchestras to come on the air at their regularly scheduled times, and it became a well-known reaction among my siblings and parents that I would fight, seemingly to the death, to defend my choice of listening. I liked waxing dramatic very early on.
Many times it would happened on a Sunday when my parents slept late and took naps together. I could turn the radio down low and nobody would bother me then. My only saving grace about the way I defended my right to listen to the music that I liked can be likened to Jung's description of religion. What I was really defending against was my experience of God.
My mother would protect me during the sometime violent fits I'd throw if anybody tried to change stations when the orchestras were playing. I don't have a clue whether she understood my mad outbreaks of behavior. I was too young to know why this music affected me in this manner. I wasn't fooled about the music used in the backgrounds of the cowboy movies we saw at the small town theaters for ten cents on Saturday. I knew it was the sa-me music I heard on the radio on Sundays.
I used to get angry at my classmates and playmates when they swore they hated classical music and yet said they loved the movies the music was played as a background for. How snootily and pompously I would draw my small frame up into a posture of acute indignation, and pointedly accuse them of blatant stupidity. I had to get my job experience in rabble rousing anyway I could. Much of the time I invented it out of sheer desperation, boredom, ennui, and a desperate need for personal attention. I never really saw myself as a person who was desperate as much as I saw myself as a personality who was too impatient to wait for something to happen that would inevitably happen anyway, maybe, in the future... why wait?
Now, I realize they didn't know what was played was classical music any more than they knew that classical music was derived from the sounds of nature amped up from simple folk tunes that imitated nature sounds. They literally thought the background sounds in those old cowboy and Indian movies were what nature intended and would have arranged for it to be like if it knew how.
Sometime I think people who study classical music disassociate their abstract ideas about where music comes from, and disavow that it was organized randomness that led to what eventually got wrangled and horse-whipped into formal presentations of what might otherwise be consider pure smut.
The Circle of Fifths becomes the Zodiac for me symbolically, because I've already me-more-d the Zodiac through years of literally drawing natal charts of at least a thousand people, and have an abstract model of the Zodiac already installed through visualization practices I picked up along the way. Some of those practices I was born with. Most not.
The experiential database I use as a source for the prophesies I pretend to might be a lot less infinite if I hadn't had the good sense to remember a visionary event that changed everything for me simply because I was able to capture the essence of it before it dissipated into nothingness again.
Why else would one try so hard to be-co-me human if there wasn't a definitive reward for the suffering we met with along the way, mon ami? You write like playing Beethoven serves as a way to open up yo' me-moi-rs, and allow the older images that's been cooking on the back burner to take the stage for a while to keep them snookered?
I've always found fancy titles can be cheap replacements for hard cash on a low budget project (Is there any other kind?). Anybody will roll over for money, but only a fortunate few will take an imaginary, trumped up, temporary fulfillment of their fragile sense of self-importance as payment, but always with a guilty look and a shamed-faced grin.
There is a drop dead secret to usefully critiquing how the other reacts to certain of my considered personality roles. Often enow, it's as if I have something they want that can only be gained by certain manipulations of their version of reality that can only be gained in the sa-me way muscle memory incrementally informs the brain as the last hopeless one to know of it's past and irrefutable decisions in behalf of the docetic soul. Do (find),
Literally something that can happen with no more implicit refinement of speech than crude grunting. One of the most important things for me presently is to be able to live where I can run around nakid if I wanna, and make all the odd noises that have universal me-and-thee-ing locked up within the ancient inimitable grunts and hollers that originate deep in the root spirit dwelling for my soul.
Amateurs and wannabes contemplate their navels. True seekers contemplate the taint, and mostly through sound. Every chakra can be made to vibrate it's purest form and nature from the root. Its from that state of being that many events and gestures can be inviolately contemplated as if removed and considering mundane reality as if a mere alias if the real target.
I do not attempt to tell the God's own truth here because I don't know what the truth is or hardly ever. I try to capture the drifting thoughts that randomly appear in my imagination for reasons I may not understand. I don't know if the content I capture with these words is true or false. The Comments settings are turned off to prevent me from having to defend what amounts to little more than fanciful, sometime crude speculation. Great moments in our lives never return.
