2004-07-18

Oil-Paintings in the Summer

Solitude. One lucid blanket of silk floating in the air, dancing down to cover me from head to foot. Dreams feel like this, and their intangibility compel my body to wake up in a cold sweat--reaching for them--I realize that I failed. Alas, dreams simply are blurry pictures streaming about like fireflies, tantalizing two eyes--imagining themselves--awake in another universe filled to the brim with infinite possibilities.

My heart is rapt as I listen to Johann Sebastian Bach--Sonata #1 in G Minor: Adagio (Fantasia). This man possesses the profundity of Chopin; I feel as if my eyes were gazing into an illuminated spring scene captured by Renoir. This particular sonata reminds of studying Foreign Policy Section 2 at Georgetown University. Afternoons well spent sitting cross-legged on a far-reaching mattress of young grass blades--vivacious shades of green. Old bark on trees releasing sap, drooping leaves on young branches--a blizzard of obscure colours. The tip of my index finger trails the dark ink of words as I sit and placidly read my book. With headphones placed on, my ears become drunk with the intoxicating melodies of Bach. When time permitted, I would spend hours sitting in one particular spot--alone--the world turned into an oil-on-canvas painting. Exactly one minute and twenty-six seconds into the �Siciliano� portion of Sonata #1 in G Minor, I am obliged to look up from my book--melodies--much too powerful. The intensity of the sun dies out and my mattress of grass is painted with soft gold. The statue of St. Mary stands in the middle of this sea of green. Looking up, I find that these white clouds--uncharted and billowy--each seem like a feather on a quill. Closing my book whilst my index finger doubles as bookmark, the most beautiful thing happens. Perfection. Sonata #3 in A Minor: Andante (Aria) begins to play.

Thoughts drift back to this very morning--fresh dawn and dew-covered grass--outside my window. Small, unwanted diamonds are scattered about the ground. Sultry clouds roll peacefully. Off-white blankets are now disheveled--I have woken up to Bach. I fell asleep to Chopin. The young reflection in the mirror does not smile back, and I am of absolutely no use. Certainly, I am a good student, yet my efforts--I find--are not enough to balance my daydream haze and states of romantic lethargy that I undergo on a daily basis. Mornings that only inspire me to think and feel words. The joy of words is immeasurable. Words tasting like good wine. I go about my day with my own deliberation--seemingly--not caring whether or not work gets done.

These sonatas are ruining me.

aeka at 10:49 p.m.