My Palate

Over time paint builds up on my palate and I cut it off. When I did this the first time it yielded great surprises and the second time as well. I take a mat knife and very carefully peal back the paint slab and slice, inching my way across the surface. Here I went ahead and cut it in half. I am very careful not to cut myself. And the result of the process is a surface (which is the undersurface) covered with swirls and eddies with bursts of reds and yellows. I would never have guessed that such a psychedelic experience was occurring underneath the surface.
Jami tells me that cat brain waves are similar to the brainwaves of someone on LSD. This gave me a new perspective on the lives of our cats: that for them the world is one big Peter Max poster with radiating lines, cubist structure, and futurist indications of movement: like one big Giacomo Balla painting. Cat nip actually gives them relief from this state of affairs. I think I'm remembering this right - I'm sure that Jami will provide a correction if I'm mistaken in this. So understand this about the kittens you see: for them life is a magical mystery tour and you really are the walrus. I am the egg man. The other day, sitting in a glass onion, elevated above the tree tops about 45 feet, I reflected on the course of the sun, how Phaeton's chariot forms that figure eight over the span of the year, and here we are nearing the winter solstice, sacred to Druids, and the Druid heels are near us in Decatur, what with the price of oil, how sustained our clothesline wanderings and trappings are, when an idea occurred to me. I must admit it gave me a start but not a finish, nor a swede, and I ambulated over to the mantel over the fireplace and under the earth's crust, where I gazed upon the firmament, no slack loose mint a firmer meant and former meint, as Frommer's meant a star grazing reville, the boggy woggy bagel boy of companionish Beh. I prayed for strength and a spring in my step and a fall in my foot. Winter went here spring Sumerian Awe Tum - oh great pill o fight. The Pleiades, a pillow flight, take wing and walk, so tired, where wrest ye thimble nimble quick a caroling jangling jaw popping presents of mind, a mime mummer mamma's bo'sun on my shoulder makepeace tanquarey. Gin. Among the flavored vodkas available: merlot and PBR.
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And now I must return to my paper, a cpe final evaluation. A drab recounting of what I've learned and what I've felt and how I've felt and where I've felt and felt and flannel and cotton blends to make iodine. The bureaucracy of daily life, the Grendel of our times. As we live longer the wait becomes longer. Mark the score Langsam - which seems even more drawn out than the Italian direction Largo - which is equally slow. In high school band we hungered to play Presto or Vivace or Scherzo; Andante gave us fits. Adagio for now.
Yesterday, a mother was helping her son in the ICU. The son was in agony and the mother said, "think of something slow. Think of Brahms." Yes the Passaligia, that would be slow. Not as slow as some Wagner I remember performing. It's the slow movements that require the greatest intensity - fast movements are mainly precision and technique, but slow movements - how the mind wanders. Playing a double whole note at Langsam: it is similar to driving the speed limit on the interstate. Years ago my friend Mark and I were at the Atlanta Symphony when they performed Ligetti's Lontano - a massive set of whole notes. It was a revelation to us. The cherry on top was a woman who got up, threw her stole around her head, and walked out, demonstrably, in a huff. So delightful. I've been to hear other experimental or contemporary pieces at symphony hall, but people are possibly too well trained now - or else the woman in the huff stays away.
One of my favorite pieces of music is Pierre Boulez's Pli Selon Pli, or Fold upon Fold. My blog's title refers to it. It's filled with wonderful bumps and clangs. How I enjoy it. Try to hear the performance with Christine Schafer on Deutsche Grammaphone. Or better yet, simulate the performance with percussive objects at hand. All life is music and music is always right at hand.
Sometimes when I am in the house now there are bumps and clangs. When the cats were here I could just roll over and go back to sleep. Now I hope it's the ice maker. It is all langsam.
I miss Jami. I love her and being away from her so far away is not good for me. I can only hope to amuse myself with arcane projections of art until I fly to Durham this Friday.