Dishy, spoon-griddle
The dog did a piddle
The cow tried to squash the cat.
She then sat upon the violin
Which was the final opus of that.
Which was the final opus of that.
As the full moon rose
Above the ghostly scene
The swirling mists returned,
Then all sounds were reduced to silence,
And nothing more could be discerned..
__
I used to have an ear for music. Singularly so, for only one worked, and not too brilliantly either. Now it's worse than ever, meaning that I can no longer tune the guitar I used to enjoy playing.
Although I can't hear music correctly any more, as there are certain tones/notes that the remnants of my hearing can no longer properly perceive to transmit to the part of my brain that still appears to be in function mode... of all the forms of music that I loved to listen to, naturally there are certain pieces that still continue to haunt me. They seem to play on perfectly well when I sometimes recall them in the plush, private auditorium of my memory.
Recently I heard one of them in a dream. It was however a new interpretation of what I have perhaps always mistakenly believed to be a Mozart violin concerto. It was such a sublime, magical interpretation that at first I didn't recognise it. Then, as though having cautiously and extremely attentively crept through a subtle prelude subdued by soft, dense mist, eventually into a beautiful sunlit clearing, I finally recognised it. The music unveiled itself to me gloriously. I was so moved that it literally brought tears to my eyes. And in this blissful dream of fabulous sound I tightly closed my eyes and leant back in perfect readiness to be utterly absorbed and transported by such a marvellous, unique privilege; only to be brutally woken up at that very instant by the cat who suddenly jumped on my chest...
Since then, almost obsessively, I've been trying to discover what piece it was and who composed it. A bit like a blind man trying to find a particular flower in an enormous garden by vaguely recalling from memory its particular perfume.
I even called up a dear friend who used to play violin for the Hallé Orchestra, and discordantly tried to hum some of the melody to him. It must have been a nightmare for such a tuned, professional ear. Unsurprisingly he didn't recognise it, and humoured me by suggesting that it might be something by Tchaikovsky.
It has also occurred to me that perhaps Gatsby was right after all. Had he not rudely awoken me from such a magical dream, it may be that I would never have remembered it at all. Perhaps I would never have recalled such real emotion. Or it's possible that I would have been disappointed, due to my memory not being sufficiently stocked to continue, and complete the particular piece of music as perfectly and as fabulously as it had begun.
Whatever, they is something already magical enough about a dream that resuscitates a sense that no longer functions properly, to such an extent as to cause such profound emotion. Especially when the cause of the emotion is not the revived capacity to hear- granted by the dream, but what one is 'actually hearing' within the dream.
Although I can't hear music correctly any more, as there are certain tones/notes that the remnants of my hearing can no longer properly perceive to transmit to the part of my brain that still appears to be in function mode... of all the forms of music that I loved to listen to, naturally there are certain pieces that still continue to haunt me. They seem to play on perfectly well when I sometimes recall them in the plush, private auditorium of my memory.
Recently I heard one of them in a dream. It was however a new interpretation of what I have perhaps always mistakenly believed to be a Mozart violin concerto. It was such a sublime, magical interpretation that at first I didn't recognise it. Then, as though having cautiously and extremely attentively crept through a subtle prelude subdued by soft, dense mist, eventually into a beautiful sunlit clearing, I finally recognised it. The music unveiled itself to me gloriously. I was so moved that it literally brought tears to my eyes. And in this blissful dream of fabulous sound I tightly closed my eyes and leant back in perfect readiness to be utterly absorbed and transported by such a marvellous, unique privilege; only to be brutally woken up at that very instant by the cat who suddenly jumped on my chest...
Since then, almost obsessively, I've been trying to discover what piece it was and who composed it. A bit like a blind man trying to find a particular flower in an enormous garden by vaguely recalling from memory its particular perfume.
I even called up a dear friend who used to play violin for the Hallé Orchestra, and discordantly tried to hum some of the melody to him. It must have been a nightmare for such a tuned, professional ear. Unsurprisingly he didn't recognise it, and humoured me by suggesting that it might be something by Tchaikovsky.
It has also occurred to me that perhaps Gatsby was right after all. Had he not rudely awoken me from such a magical dream, it may be that I would never have remembered it at all. Perhaps I would never have recalled such real emotion. Or it's possible that I would have been disappointed, due to my memory not being sufficiently stocked to continue, and complete the particular piece of music as perfectly and as fabulously as it had begun.
Whatever, they is something already magical enough about a dream that resuscitates a sense that no longer functions properly, to such an extent as to cause such profound emotion. Especially when the cause of the emotion is not the revived capacity to hear- granted by the dream, but what one is 'actually hearing' within the dream.
__
The top parody is, of course, of 'Hey diddle diddle (...)' the famous nursery rhyme first published in 1765. For more information on it please click here
Text and parody © Mirino. Image (modified) © Curto. April, 2012
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