DIRGE
Praise for the Unsung
I hear the opening notes of my life’s anthem, and I’m immediately lost in mortal reverie. The notes sound like posts hand-delivered, which spell out my destiny. Suddenly there sound the chords, struck in fortissimo, addressed to me, ear-delivered.
I listen more carefully, delineating them in arpeggio, stepwise, cause-and-effect—how I got to this point in my life.
As such, the score unrolls out from my music desk, above the simple black and white decisions I fingered so sloppily. I dive to the floor to catch the end of the written score, but I cannot tell whether or not is a winning or a losing score. Tightly rewound together, in its entirety, is this score my obituary written in strange calligraphy?
I can read my music, and the opening notes are a call to action. I follow with a hum and a whistle, and a sonorous tension rises with a seducing glissando.
But it is a dare; a wager.
One that demands exaction. Or it may fail, falsely singing in counterblow, canceling out my heart’s metronome.
How many times have I veered away from my melody? A melody so innocent, simple, and beautiful, launched with my home note?
How many times have I struck a discordant chord, engendering a maverick fugue waxing as several competing advisors interweave along the stave—but which is right? Which is false and self-serving? Will some self-deceiving, self-important, self-appointed backbeat define me? Will there be a reprise?
I hold my ears. I plug my mind’s ear with my homunculus’ finger, but I still can hear it, as I mourn myself in retrograde. Can it be undone, unsung, before all is lost? Is my melody commutative, like addition; or fractionating like division?
Can I wipe the score clean and sing my song, as unsung, unwrote? Before all is lost? Some new song, perhaps?
I choke on some notes, meant to be unread—unsung.
And so it goes, as I choke my way back to my home note where I can rest; where I began, in peace. My song was badly written. I just didn’t have an ear for it at first. And it’s no longer stuck in my head.
“Throw me somethin’, mistah” is a way to make a one-way tip. Or not.
🎼
This is the song that doesn't end.
Yes, it goes on and on, my friend.
Some people started singing it, not knowing what it was.
And, they'll continue singing it forever, just because...
This is the song that doesn't end.
Yes, it goes on and on, my friend.
Some people started singing it, not knowing what it was.
And, they'll continue singing it forever, just because...
This is the song that doesn't end...
(repeat forever)
🎶