Street Symphonic

My front rim sings a close E from the vibrations of the new brake pads scrubbing friction into them. As I pull my weight off the frame, the more slides up to a flat F. I listen to songs in my head that make use of these two notes, and the clacking of my brake levers offers a percussion line.

The beeping of the walk sign clashes with the quiet melody line, and the symphony becomes one of discord. Car suspensions rattle over sinkholes formed through a rough winter, but still I hold on to that single high E as I scrub my speed so I can wiggle through the traffic. I'm humming a song that weaves together noises no one else understands, and the group waiting for the bus (a staccato C chirping from its pumping brakes) gives me a set of strange looks.

I once dreamt I sat at a piano and composed an entire opera at once, going on to bring instruments out of the earth to play it for me, and when I awoke, I tried desperately to scribble down the lines. Dreams are never sensible enough for such a thing to work.

28 March 2014 16:08

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