Vignette

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The orchestra warms up and the sound becomes a metaphor. Naturally.

You can’t have flourishing without transcendence. I don’t know he meant by that, but I know it’s true. And somehow it makes sense now. Sound does that.

Chaos is expectant, I guess. But it’s expected. No one in the crowd is appalled by the horrendous discord coming from one of the world’s best orchestras.

His tie wasn’t tight around his neck and he poured his tea like irony. I read about the symbolism of the square after our argument because I don’t like putting myself in boxes. He laughed at me when I said I was avoiding declaring a major. There was a lull. The cups on the windowsill would be beautiful in their own way if the dried teabags in them didn’t betray some sort of neglect. A dry tea bag is apathetic.

The oboe quotes something intelligible and beautiful. But it’s swallowed by the din before it begins.

It’s a late night. Or an early morning. I don’t have milk, so I eat a Starbucks Via in pinches of powder like a drug. And it is. I feel ordinary. And late to a changed time.

A violinist tries a string and twists a tuning knob. He’s satisfied, yes. But is he content?

She said her children were out in the cold because she couldn’t pay her rent. I don’t know if her tears were real, but my prayer over her certainly wasn’t. Where is the little girl, the crooked teeth, the crooked smile? She fills a silence in the conversation with an expletive. Am I surprised? The IDF probably does that to you.

I feel bad for the woman who plays the cymbals. This would be her only real time to express herself freely, but she’s restrained by some sense of propriety. You don’t tune a cymbal.

He makes paper snowflakes like a kindergartener and sells them for hundreds of dollars. He said the the devil is a club med psychologist on the island of Barbados who drives a Masarati and who’s favorite painting is American Gothic. Who am I to say he’s wrong? He said “ivory mix tapes and sapphire vinyl” like it was a sentence. Who am I to say it’s not? There was a lull. The Israeli girls are the pretty ones. He knows that. Yesterday, he arranged the bloodied Kleenexes in the bottom of the trash can to make his bloody nose look more dramatic than it actually was. We boast in our blood and choke ourselves with extension cords and charging cables. Chalk it up to good life choices, just too many of them.

The second chair cellist’s bow tie is askew. Finally, a chaos that’s unintentional.

Life’s in the transitions. I don’t know what he meant by that, but I know it’s true. “What do you want in life” is such a dumb question until someone answers it truthfully. And we all take the blow to the face and reconsider our faith in humanity. His notebooks are riddled with whales and squid. Mine are riddled with planets and patterns of dots. The ocean is the cosmos of the earth, and so I guess we complement each other in a way. What if symbols make themselves and we just discover them?

The orchestra has finished warming up. The conductor steps onto the stage. And the audience erupts into applause.

The sound becomes a metaphor. Naturally.