![]() ![]() I guess for many people, this sounds strange, but I believe that writers are no different from musicians or artists and are more sensitive than the rest of the population, and there will be many of you who will not look at me like a cuckoo, hahaha. I like to imagine people like colors and sounds this helps me in working with clients to more easily tune in to their frequency and understand their perception of the world. And although I have decided to change the direction of professional development, symphonic music will remain something that I can only compare with the love that one feels for the newborn miracle that he holds in his lap for the first time. I studied piano and classical music for 17 years and graduated from the best music academy in the capital of Bulgaria. We perceive it as conductors with our senses, but not everyone manages to "hear and understand" it. This music is like a living ocean with its own vibration and breath, giving a person unsuspected strength and urge. ![]() Complex symphonic music with a consonant sound carries the charge of a small universe. Man is a wave whose frequency is constantly changing, influenced by the environment in which he is. It can only be experienced with something that is beyond hearing, notes, and musical terms. ![]() How the girl wishes this measure of salvation for herself: to claim her own barking voice, to revel in her own scent and sleek brown body, her fingers woven into the cyclone fence.Music is something that one does not have the means to express. Can you see her? She is lead to the gates that separate the wounded sea lions from their home and the class. I might ask you to imagine a young girl, no older than ten but also no younger, on a field trip to a rescue. Or should I say, what must be sheltered and what abandoned. How to understand, then, what deserves rescue and what deserves to suffer. I call this the difficulty of the non-believer, or, put another way, waking, every morning, without a god. This is a prayer like the sea urchin is a prayer, like the sea star is a prayer, like the otter and cucumber- as if I know what prayer means. ![]() The ocean, I mean, not a woman, filled with plastic lace, and closer to the vanishing point, something brown breaks the surface-human, maybe, a hand or foot or an island of trash-but no, it's just a garden of kelp. The tide pool crumples like a woman into the smallest version of herself, bleeding onto whatever touches her. But now I wonder: better to be the egg or scaled mandible? The small hand or the flies, bottle black and green, spilling their bile onto whatever's left, sweeping the interior, drinking it clean? I think, something might have grown there, though I know it was always meant to be eaten, it was always meant to spoil. What I wanted: a practice that reassured that what was cracked could be mended or, at least, suspended so that it could not spread. Better to begin as if some small-handed animal hadn't knocked you against a rock, licked clean the rich yolk and left the albumen to dry in the sun - as if a hinged jaw hadn't swallowed you whole. Best to start again, with a new body, voided from a warmer one, brooded and turned. A curious phrase, the anatomy of the egg, as if an egg were a body, which it is, as if the egg could be broken then mended, which, depending on your faith, broken yes, but mended? Well. I've been thinking about the anatomy of the egg, about the two interior membranes, the yolk held in place by the chalazae, gases moving through the semipermeable shell. A Dead Thing That, in Dying, Feeds the Living ![]()
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