The Cavity of Absence or, Redefining Gravity

He left for the mountains in the Victorian countryside. A train and two hours brought him back to me. When you pine for someone or something, time willingly stretches itself to fill the cavity of absence. It is one of those things you possess, but do not always have. It is carved by companionship, by affection, and appears only when you are apart from something dear to you.

He was gone for four days.

In that time, I became a kind of fading daylight. A waning moon. I walked around to the back of the house and slipped the key into the lock. My hand on the doorknob to my room; the creak of its aging and there he was again, in my presence. We held each other for a little while, there in the center of my room. He rolled a joint for us and like rag dolls we lay half-entwined on my bed. Dreamy, white haze filled the space. We questioned our hunger and decided to take a walk to the cheap Vietnamese restaurant I had discovered. We carried the bags of take-away down Sydney Road. Our wrinkled palms, the sound of his voice after mine in the cold air. I smiled. The menu he gave me to keep was folded in my back pocket. On the wooden floor of my room we sat cross-legged, shoving our mouths with plastic forks and spoons. Coriander and red chili. Rice noodles. Bright orange julienned carrots. Little slivers of mushrooms. The door was left ajar.

“Should we shut the door?” I glanced at him, feeling my lust rise like heat.
“I don’t know. Should we?” He grinned with eyes of desire.

I stood up and pushed it shut. How eager he was. With my foot, I slid the containers of half-eaten food away from his mattress. I fell upon him with my lips and my tongue. His shoulders embraced me, the muscles contracting, harder it became. We had already undressed each other with our eyes and now, with our fingers. I had not even stripped bare and he was ready to consume me. He positioned my legs above his waist and pulled my body downward, now caught in his gravity.

I sigh and sigh, like blissful flames.
Our bellies were full. Our hunger,
satisfied.

The Bird Sings

It is very dark. People are whispering. On stage, there is a bright, red rug in the shape of a rectangle. On one side sits a medium-sized, marigold gramophone. Sitting at its base is a dilapidated toy monkey, its head cocked to one side. On the other side, there is a violin case, two guitars on their stands, and a small glockenspiel set up. By the front of the rug lays a series of complicated-looking foot pedals and wires. The lights behind the stage begin to glow different colors and suddenly, it seemed as though everyone held their breath. Quickly and quietly, Andrew Bird walks out from the right side of the stage wearing his usual forest green vest, and crinkly brown shoes. A classically trained violinist, former swing jazz musician, his music is an eclectic, passionate mix of gypsy ballads, jazz, folk and rock.

He says hello, picks up his violin, and starts in an instant. The bow runs along the strings—the sound is mere perfection, like the intertwined symmetry of sea and sky. The vibrations of the strings are quick and the sound comes in waves, the audience is softened like the skin of all fruits and suddenly, we’re all in love with the way his neck is bent along the body of his small, wooden instrument.

He will play a simple melody, its tempo ranging from fast to slow, the timbre of the violin like the fullness of a newly-bloomed spring forest, like the smell of pine, the sound of running water—that is how his instrument sounds. And this simple rhythm becomes looped by his foot pedals. Suddenly, he’s playing yet another rhythm, something entirely different, maybe even whistling the notes of a familiar song. And again, this new rhythm  embedded in melody is looped, entwining with the first rhythm. He does this multiple times, using the glockenspiel, using the guitar, banging on the wood, plucking the strings of his violin; staccato, legato, a crescendo! There are the whirling, exposed double-horned Leslie speakers, all of it together is epic, yet intimate.

His music is musical epiphany, it is communication in most primal, human form—of sounds and colors and tastes even. The lyrics he plays with are fantastical and strange and thought-provoking: “Bird’s lyrics often feature archaic language — words such as radiolarian, plecostomus, dermestids, coprophagia — which he chooses mainly for their sound,” Bird says in an interview, “I don’t write poetry and then strum some chords and then fit the words on top of the chords. I start with a very distinct melody, so my options… If one thing is fixed and then the words then have to then conform to the fixed melodies, then it’s like cracking codes. It’s like trying to go through a number of options of things that [will] just be exactly the right word” (NPR, All Things Considered).

His voice is strong and deep and smooth like a viola, it reaches and yearns like an outstretched arm to the audience. I believe that only after imperfection that one can realize its perfection. The sound is raw, he plays with timing and relies on his technology. Sometimes it fails, and he starts over again. The imperfection I talk about does not relate to literal “problems.” It’s the fact that the songs I have heard on his albums are nothing compared to when he plays those songs. He transforms each song to how he feels at the time. Sometimes he’ll hum or whistle a part of a song that he usually plays guitar on. Sometimes he’ll pluck his violin instead of singing. Or he’ll change the rhythm of the song, play on the upbeats, add rests, make some parts louder, and some parts softer. The imperfection here is that it is whimsical in nature, perfect in his eyes, and its translation to the audience and myself is completely mystifying and literally awe inspiring. He plays as a one-man show, he depends only on himself and his instruments. He truly is a magnificent, beautiful, musical human being. Seeing him in concert allows me to transcend this reality into the musical one he creates in the sacred space of the venue.

(PHOTO LINK: NPR First Listen: Andrew Bird, ‘Break It Yourself’)

photographie

I question why I don’t put my photography up here.
I need a Flickr Pro account. Sigh.

+ + + +

Think i’m seeing Brian tomorrow.
Usually when I become involved romantically or whatever you call it, I never make the first moves only because I want to know for sure that when I do start giving bits and pieces of my heart and soul to this person, they are worth it. I give him a test, you could say.

But I’m making this a habit of the past.

It might not only be a habit, but a flaw as well. For once I need to rear the lion’s head and go for something. Take a leap. Initiate something. Feel confident, feel feminine and sexy and in control of something, you know? Okay, I have a shy nature, but I want to show passion. I want to exude sexuality and seem romantic. I need to captivate him. I must!

Yes, I have been watching too many chick flicks in a span of 48 hours.

Is this my impatience speaking?
Hello?
Ciao??

Oh no, I feel like I have to get things on the road.
Really.

We had a decent phone conversation today. We’re doing better. I was extremely happy.

I will be bold and say that I shall kiss him passionately next time.
Do I make any sense?
Good night.

And HOLY SHIT he’s hot: