We went to Gaudi last night and the Evil Bunny set her pain aside and let her body dance frantic till after 2 AM. The crowds surrounding us screamed Insane, screamed with Insanity, and danced as if no one watched. They danced as if Morrison himself had told them to dance with abandon.
I watched and thought of stories I have written and how some were flat and lifeless. I thought of moments in stories past that cuddled and captured the world I stood in at that moment. I swore to write in words, of what it felt like at that moment and especially the music expression of the Artist Gaudi.
I thought in simile and phases like the confusion of a freight train screaming past you as you stood close the the tracks, in the prior silence of the forest or facing a pride of menacing lions. All I wanted to do was know the words to describe the music, the artist, the people and the scene.
I am trapped in a writer’s anarchy. My brain rains uncontrollable adjectives, describing the moment for later while being in the moment (am I alone?), filled with the fear that the words will fade when my body fails and is forced to rest in quiet resolve and sleep (am I alone/ Do you feel that?).
I wake and wonder what were those words, what was that feeling? Can I translate one artistic media to another? Really. Can I describe Picasso’s Dancers or Munch’s Madness or the music of Segovia in a quiet hall in a mountain village in Spain (taste the nutmeg, smell the scented burning wax as he plays?)
Can we translate; a moment. Sitting here I know that I can write of fear of zombies and the fear of hate and loss, and love and loves lost.
But can we describe a song?
And the dancers and the sweat. I don’t know. It is early in this dark hotel and I wonder and wait to be taken behind an old wooden shed. Could I evevn describe that?
Visions from the Front Window of an Old Blue Bus 