|
pete
|
just sitting back, opening the mind to the alleyways forgotten when i tried to bike down the main roads for a dangerous change. the sky hands low, scraping the roofs of the dank hidden sides of beautiful buildings. the path is never straight, always twisting away from where i really want to go, but its summer and who knows, maybe this is where i need to be.
he spoke to the class once, trying to explain things in music. "you know, the rolling stones got it wrong" he began, grinning as he recounted his youth spent "they were from my generation you know" he put in before continuing "people always get what they want, but they don't always get what they need."
maybe travelling the straight road is a convoluted way of getting from here to there, forgetting to stop and picking up the essentials on the way, because they aren't along that route. only by going down these dark alleys can i find what i truly need.
he tried to explain things with music this time. speaking calmly, without an attempt to make the lyrics lyrical. "it goes like this, remember: 'wild thing, you make my heart sing, you move me.' that, there, is the key. he is moved by the wild thing. not physically, but by desire for it. and that is how the soul moves towards the nous, or how all things move towards the unmoved movers, or, if you will, how man moves towards god."
and in desire i also end up back on the straight road, watching everyone else walking along with me, trapped by their desires for everything, yet not really trying to figure out why they want it. or perhaps trying to hard to figure out why. or not caring about the why, and enjoying the rush. its not fair to label, but the pathways seem so clear when surrounded by rot, if only the will wasn't divided against itself in those darkest moments.
music guides so much, but leaves much more in the open, bare and rotten. emotionally laden it is beauty, which is the hook. emotionally laden it can bring out the worst in me, turning a happy pete into a angry pete as the loud rappers talk about violence during the middle of the rush... where just moments before a softer beat was playing and everyone moved as one. some music holds to many memories, and is locked away until the day that they are bearable again. other music has been played over and over countless times for the last decade and still never gets old, holding memories of simpler days when the world had yet to form within my eyes.
" All I can see is black and white
And white and pink with blades of blue
That lay between the words I think on a page
I was meaning to send to
You I couldn't tell if it'd bring my heart
The way I wanted when I started
Writing this letter to you" (wilco)
|
050804
|
