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Sunday, November 15, 2015

Clint Mansell

She found a program whistling past her feet over the blue rocks and their sharp edges.  Like leashing her dog for a walk, she bent down and grabbed the music program of the sounds of painful strings followed with beautiful sounds.  The composer's songs always moved her, but with others she never seemed to physically move. Songs from all around her from a place of no where.  Maybe a light house from the constant lights from above and beyond, as stars and lights mixed together, the reflection in her eyes told stories of surprises and past disguises, as a movie played in her soul while feet felt cold and her head fell low.  Nobody else seemed to live on the planet of doom, dark and distraught, alone, her and her regret.  A couple that makes for long nights and random hair pulls.  Eye lids gone from a condition of missing parents somehow made it all make sense.  If a screaming women screamed she would not be heard.  A tree didn't even exist in this list of things to type on this keyboard for making this world become more bliss.

Shallow blue rocks covered by a pitch black sky, this white ruffled up program written and composed by Clint Mansell looked sad and dire, as it laid slumped in her small hands curved as a cup, eyes wide shut, with visions of elephant tusks and child hood animals of stuffed.  Unforgiving and forever forgiving, she hummed softly for a conversation with her inner self, relying on herself to keep sane in this blue dusk of rock and lights, lit from afar with violins of cry and self-esteem from Clint's music notes of lust and hate.  The orchestra played through the dead air, as the hollow world sang tunes of sadness through wooded caves and high up tree forts from others of sort.  Never seeing anybody before she always thought life was living before she showed, fell through the hole, and walked through the closet door.   A single tear fell from her eye, quickly wiped off as if someone was going to see it. The blue rocks felt the salt splash from her blue eyes, lids of gone and a soul of torn, beyond abandoned and lost too long. She might as well been dead.

So much to explore, but what for? As the music played she began to hold her knees, not knowing what way was forward, or back.  Side to side was from her eyes to follow, as her mind started to slip as her twitches told stories of Fantasia.  Unexplained and unedited, twisted and unreal.  She sat and twisted her toes, as Clint Mansell produced songs for lonely foes like her and her toes. Scrunching her eye brows, while now digging lines in the sand hoping to cross them later if the song ever picked up. Why does the dark sky and blue rocks make me feel light hearted and good, only to then draw a fear, that even to her is misunderstood.  She kept talking to herself now leaving the face expressions behind, lips now moved and more and more lines were drawn around her bent over spine, skinny and hurt, hungry and deserted.  She knew she never needed acceptance from others, explicitly pity from her emotions and actions.  The tear was for something else, for herself, for a self understanding that her happiness comes from pain, heartache and sadness.  These are the emotions that get twisted by the composer's sticks, as they swish through the cold air like fly fishing in the winter air.  The lines drawn were all wrong, the emotions were all torn, misplaced and fused with each song.  Composed with her life, Clint kept playing her next step, or soon to be.  She raised form her happy pity, bunched up in a ball and now standing tall.  Clint's music made her steps feel giant, as her closet planet felt more involved.

Involved in her, as other skeletons came out from side curtains and sliding doors.  Blue rocks and wooded caves now filled with skeletons from the same. Only looks for high up forts, as trees now sway widely from winds of massive torch.  Mansell moved his sticks as skeletons met, no words spoken, just hand shakes and nods, tears of happy and skin of warm, understanding is the most powerful conversation any forgotten one skeleton can have.  The light house began to move with each string, chasing each being from one end of the orchestra to the next, onstage the wood was sticky, as the red carpet became muddy from the tracks from the past.  Her once lonely world was now filled with lonely others, lost pasts now meet up with moving forward futures, tired eyes and steady fortunes.  She, the woman of lost, now found by many still forgotten, but understood and respected by the other blue rock humans who once walked alone under the black sky.

1 comment:

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