Art in the afternoon

Art in the afternoon. Sporadic seat filling. Lunch hour for middle class wage workers.  A moment or three of classic melodies carved apart by horrendous vaulted marble acoustics. But the bows and fingers and thoughts wander wonderfully. There is sanity in hearing such beautiful order. There is salvation in the reception of music. Like where rain meets the roof, the play of impact, the sound of interaction with life's elemental beauty. Live chamber music. Fuck is there anything better?  More consuming?  Music can set a background for the mind, a surface against which to bounce like a trampoline, a plane of measurement upon which one's profile may be traced, recording the personal shadow, from moment to moment.  And this moment needs measurement, tracing, recording, memorializing. Not because it is of importance, but because it is all I have now. It is all I am now. Now until no longer.
Forever nonexistent,
persistent and fleeting,
a knife's edge grand canyons wide,
precisely vague,
seldom and continuous,
adamant passivity,
dangerous peace,
lustrous commonalities,
pastime futurists,
fleeing rescuers,
smooth spikes,
leather uppers and coffins made of glass,
old faces newly seen,
babies with instant curmudgeon expressions,
and on, and in,

and so, it goes.