Sometimes I wonder if my brain is big enough for music.
Musica Intima wasn't mind boggling, it was... intellectual.
It was careful. It was considered. It was an artist's wet dream of sonorous shades and echo-infested corners.
It was a lot to think about while the voices played and bounced against each other, satyrs built of sound. It was beyond the techniques I've learned to listen for, past questions of lyrics, without a story to tie and wrap and package it neatly.
It was unlike opera, and unlike symphony, and yet so very much like music.
Last night teach and I spoke of it and we oohed and aaahed and resulted in a comparative discussion of culture versus creativity.
We all know unhappy cultures are more creative. Unhappy people, groups, communities are driven to create.
I write when I need strength. The Montmartres-folk created music to deal with slings and arrows.
Heather put forth the theory from her time in Vancouver that musicians there are more exposed to snot and snobbery and therefore push further with music.
Every city I've lived in has been broken. The city I am learning to call home is no less broken than Montreal, or Paris, Lyon, Limoges, Llodz.
I am only learning to call it home because I am becoming less broken. Not it. I.
I wonder if the window on my creationist dreams is closing.
And in the meantime last night I nailed my sustained notes and made it home in time to lose all strength and mobility.
I am oddly "zen" today. I have accomplished a good amount of work, and for some reason I am too dizzy to worry about the rest.
My heart is quiet. My brain is swimming somewhat, but learning swiftly not to drown.
And my finger is healed not three weeks from the day I sliced the top off, nail and all. Without a scratch or a bump.
If ever I forget again I will at least remember typing it out this time:
I am astonishingly resilient. I heal almost impossibly well.
I am still of monstrian proportions.