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Birds with Long Red Tails
October 28, 2012
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[Written during guitarist Stian Westerhus' solo show, June 4, 2012 at Green Hours Jazz Fest, Bucharest.] I see things, scary things, wars and ghosts, planes and meadows. I hear my pulse and the blood rushing through my veins, I see an old clock on a marble mantelpiece and I see the time falling apart in seconds I have already forgotten. The city traffic stops at the crossroads to listen to the church bells, and the birds in the park chirp heard by no one. The gears of a machine are stuck. The rasp of the cogs breaking the iron becomes a fluid slurry that washes away all time. A persistent knock on the door makes you believe that someone is standing in front of it. Through the thorn lace curtain you see no one. Only the street full of sounds, taking shape by themselves to head in pairs for the first underground stop. A man is searching in a trash bin and leaves with an empty bag in his left hand. And the wind blowing from behind. Somewhere in a room somebody is listening to Heavy Weather and the TV announces that a plane has crashed. Night is falling with a thump that dashes all certainties and annuls all hope. The morning rises before the night ends, and it is winter. A seismograph measures the vibration made by the flutter of a butterfly's wing and the pickup needle digs irreversible grooves in the rotating disc. somebody has thrown a stone and is waiting to see it jump sevenfold although there's no water in sight. Stian bites the chords. Blood is pouring from his guitar, And heartbeats, that belong to no one. The knocking on the door gets up. The street is still empty. When it stops, emptiness fills with pain. And a rare song. (Birds with long red tails) In an empty ballroom, a girl learns to dance without music while her shoes squeak on the polished floor. My breath takes the form of a spaceship that floats beyond of the brink of the possible. A green night is falling and from a basement you can hear a lullaby Hummed by a husky old woman. The clouds have caught a dash of lighting amidst, that turns into a patch of hope. The crowded square is crossed by a hearse pulled by white horses. A child practices the violin on an nonexistent scale, and the beggar at the corner has killed himself. Somebody tries to play a requiem on the mouth harmonica. The notes fly astray becoming birds with long red tails. The church service is over but children of the choir keep on singing because the conductor has left and forgot to bring down the final note.
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