When I found the beautiful lady, still seductive and beautiful recumbent in her bed, a cantata of sweet moments that we shared in our youth played like a most harmonious acoustic song from long ago.
Her distinct perfume of a masterly crafted sweet wood and oil filled the space between us. My fingers itched to touch her and relive our sensuous operas of emotional expression — operas of great pleasure and pain.
Like a 15-second jingle, I pretty much forgot everything that I ever learned about Bartolomeo Cristofori’s grand creation, the piano. My upright piano where I expressed every emotion that played through me at the time transitioned from my secret love to a forlorn and neglected, out of tune, collector of dust.
The near-full moon hovered above three massive outdoor screens. Thousands of people looked at the screens with anticipation. At strobe speed, each screen flashed drum skins, guitar frets, backlit Joshua trees and saguaros, and the faces of older men. Heart-pumping rhythm pounded through acres of speakers and shattered the desert air. Like LSD-fueled geysers, fireworks blasted millions of rainbow sparks into the dry, windless sky.
The nuance of legato vs staccato is lost in conversation. Reasonable thinking has fallen out of tune. Sour notes meant to distract is the current composition.
Will the music die? Will the system collapse?
It’s possible.
The Muse Pallet 