Saturday, April 3, 2010
Counterpoint
Counterpoint
There is a strange and silent music to which all the world dances. The languid light of an amber moon lilts upon the muddy water of a silent river. The scent of creosote and daffodils mingles with pear blossom. Viaducts long forgotten bridge the most scenic of enclaves--and the music plays.
Engrafted French bakers fill the former cotton exchange with ambrosial scents that may be had for free. Mennonite canners prepare preserves which must be ordered. Local farmers begin cooperatives which market local produce to local buyers--such quality may not be had elsewhere. Here, the world is verdant. The decaying bastions of defunct Presbyterian colleges, somberly view the melody from The Heights--and the music plays.
Stained-glass fills architectural salvage firms--beside Bailey's Hardware. The Farmer's Seed and Supply stores horse-pellets on the Second and Third floors. The indigenous people (no matter their color) are slow and gentle enough to embrace the novelty of kindness. The Gothic spires of slave churches are nearly as tall as the spires on the churches of their mastering benefactors. Beautiful scars point the same direction--and the music plays.
The cadence has changed. Corporate syncopation threatens to re-invent the melody. The beat is naturally even. Yet, extrinsic motivation entices dis-satisfaction. Contentment is the state of wanting what you have. The loss of liberty--be it economic, social, or personal--creates cacophony. Still, “The Band Plays On.”
This strange and silent music has a Providential timbre. The beat, when slightly held, can create a new melody in the instruments. It must not be forced. If it would contain lasting beauty--it must develop on its own. Despite every indicator to the contrary, hope abides palpably in the hopeful. Crescendos follow contra-puntal melodies. The music begins to compliment itself. And, as it plays, Wesleyan arpeggiation allows the heart to soar."
AM Bailey
4-2-2010
There is a strange and silent music to which all the world dances. The languid light of an amber moon lilts upon the muddy water of a silent river. The scent of creosote and daffodils mingles with pear blossom. Viaducts long forgotten bridge the most scenic of enclaves--and the music plays.
Engrafted French bakers fill the former cotton exchange with ambrosial scents that may be had for free. Mennonite canners prepare preserves which must be ordered. Local farmers begin cooperatives which market local produce to local buyers--such quality may not be had elsewhere. Here, the world is verdant. The decaying bastions of defunct Presbyterian colleges, somberly view the melody from The Heights--and the music plays.
Stained-glass fills architectural salvage firms--beside Bailey's Hardware. The Farmer's Seed and Supply stores horse-pellets on the Second and Third floors. The indigenous people (no matter their color) are slow and gentle enough to embrace the novelty of kindness. The Gothic spires of slave churches are nearly as tall as the spires on the churches of their mastering benefactors. Beautiful scars point the same direction--and the music plays.
The cadence has changed. Corporate syncopation threatens to re-invent the melody. The beat is naturally even. Yet, extrinsic motivation entices dis-satisfaction. Contentment is the state of wanting what you have. The loss of liberty--be it economic, social, or personal--creates cacophony. Still, “The Band Plays On.”
This strange and silent music has a Providential timbre. The beat, when slightly held, can create a new melody in the instruments. It must not be forced. If it would contain lasting beauty--it must develop on its own. Despite every indicator to the contrary, hope abides palpably in the hopeful. Crescendos follow contra-puntal melodies. The music begins to compliment itself. And, as it plays, Wesleyan arpeggiation allows the heart to soar."
AM Bailey
4-2-2010
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