Outside, above the garden: stardust.
Inside, onstage, in the Great Hall of Music: Cicada.
The quartet’s music trails off above our waltzing heads, buoyed upon an airy cushion. Weaves of uneven waves of consonances surf to the ceiling, in a sciatic sway. Then they melt and grow cold, mere boulders in repose. They collapse, a shoreline cut into curves, like little pods ravishingly struck, aglow, asunder, awoken.
In the garden, the summer night allows the music to travel thru the windows with the humidity and onto the heads of the azaleas and the marble cherubim in the fountain. The deliciousness of the fountain’s trickle complements the rise and fall of the quartet’s cadences.
The crest of a heaving sea. Spider silk in whole milk, a moon in a puddle, a moon in a mirror. Chewy cello legato suggesting a narrative of lovers falling in love, then out. A fissure of speechlessness causes by insane stomach movements, i.e., butterflies. Star-lost layers of emotions, stacked, fabricating their own hypnogogia.
Dalliances of flimflams, with thuds; sequences of unresolved foreclosures. Love only just subverbal omnipotence.
Purring, unannounced. A drunken hurricane of arguments, with lemons.
The blank drink of a drone, an arm of air. A finger on a string. Several fingers on several strings. Together, together.
More about: Cicada
