Story Go Round 10/21/2006, round 2, #3

The Muted Music of Modern Madness

(pre-titled by Amber)

High tinkling notes, followed by the bassoon. They play for me, for me only, every day at high noon. I hear it when no one else does. And yet they call me mad. Ha! I pity the poor benighted blighters, bereft of such soothing sounds. They'll never know what it is like to hear the sweetness of the sibilant symphony. When I dance, they come at me with handcuffs and tasers, but because I can shrink into a stone, they never find me. I hide handily until the stone breaks and ice chimes call me out. Each snow flake is a tiny tap on the triangle when it lands, and a low note as it melts. I see each one. I hear each, unique, flake as its life ends. You will never see as I do, I realize, but I must proclaim they beauty that is so plain to me. And if even one person contemplates the possibility I speak truly, I shall be content.

There is a crack in the wall and a spider crawls up it. I find that if you become the crack you can get through it. People just don't inhale enough.

The blat of a horn flips me over in delight - the timbre of timber and twigs join in a fugue unforgotten melodies. I sway as the leaves and branches in a strong wind, while you stare and hear nothing but heavy, dense silence. And yet they would whisper to one another, shaking their heads in a posture of pity, poor thing, so sad. I mourn for you, as you would never truly feel for me. You are disharmony itself. A piece played against another, discordant. A fool for a flute, a buffoon for a bassoon, and now I shall take my leave. Or leaves. I wait for the night shift nurse, who is always sleepy, and dance with her just a moment - and leave with the keys. Down there in the courtyard they dance, the leaves. A moment and I am with them.

A clarion blast is a trumpet call and it propels me through the gates, a searchlight wants to dance with me and the darkness too. I waltz with both in turn, but grow fonder of the one with whom I can hide, and cling tighter with each few lilting steps. Pursuing feet become my dominant beat, one two three four, one two three four, the secret world that only I command, plays for my ears its final score.