13 June 09
Only the music belongs completely to itself…
Tosh, she thought.
The string-section shimmer of sapphires and turquoises on a mid-afternoon mountain lake, edging into the dark purple bassoon murk: they own the music. The gray pines that sang her their song that day in the rain. The clarion “play ball” and thwack of the bat on ball, the sub-human bellowed glottal stop of the umpire. Ours. The sweet saxophone solo: maybe it doesn’t belong to Charlie Parker, but it belongs to the night, to the smoke and the sweaty sex and the swilled liquor and the bebby Jesus.
We are along for the ride. We gulp what is here and ours and nobody’s and nothing’s.
(This is the fifth post in an ongoing online game of Consequences. Each successive entry begins with the closing lines of its predecessor. Entries are 250 words long, and are linked thematically. The series started with Hydragenic and was followed by Patteran Pages, Porous Borders, The Middlewesterner, and Feathers of Hope. The series will continue in a day or two at Blaugustine. )