And foolish though it may seem--

Here is one last faith in metaphor.
That it must do what it's meant to,

and draw you near.
Abstraction is the silence of skin:

- from "Braille", Mookie Katigbak-Lacuesta

This morning, the sun was not its usual self and let the clouds have their way, but, pushing the threat of rain aside, I braved the gloom and took a walk. My feet led  me to a pathway I had not taken in a long while, and soon, I found myself in a familiar spot where the trees parted, ushering me into a clearing that I knew well.

"and there whisper-sing her songs to the sky, to the distantly aloof stars, the insomniac clouds, the attentive moon."

I felt my heart skip a beat at the sight of a well-loved wisteria-wrapped bower and, crossing the short bridge, I braced myself for the next sight.

"and when he spoke it was with a voice that reminded one of a perfectly tuned harp."

There it waited, the garden, but oh, how empty it stood, how desolate! Patches of brown grass called the eye's attention; yellowing leaves, fallen overnight, danced aimlessly about, blown by some vagrant wind. Last night's rain still lingered everywhere, its drops lacing what  little green remained.

My heart broke a little when I saw the chairs, empty now as I knew they had been for a long time. I walked toward the spot that was and still is sheltered by that huge beloved tree, its branches privy to so many conversations, much laughter and, later, some tears, some talk in low, mournful tones, an uncertain parting. Sometimes I fear I would never see you again. No books lay in the faded basket, no cups of tea sat on the rain-streaked table. I leaned against the still sturdy trunk of the faithful tree and looked about. I wondered if you had been here, at all, all this time. It didn't seem likely, but not absolutely impossible. Still, my heart sank as I drank in all the emptiness that lay about. How still the place seemed, but for a cold breeze blowing by, now and then. I am very ill, love. I am.

I searched my memory for all that had been said and realized I could no longer remember what the last words were. Has it been that long ago? Yes, it has. 

I started walking away but could not resist looking back. One last time, if this, indeed, be the last. Wherever you may be, happy birthday. I cannot altogether promise never to come back, but I will try.

"There's a few ways to call down the moon-road, if the sky is ready, and the timing's right. Sometimes you can summon a moonbeam by whistling, like some people can summon the wind."

Radiohead, The King of Limbs: This Fan Raves

"It's like I'm falling out of bed

From a long, weary dream

The sweetest flowers and fruits hang from the trees

Falling off the giant bird that’s been carrying me--"

- from "Separator", Radiohead

Heard melodies are sweet (sorry, John Keats), but music also "seen" is sweeter. For a musician's full magnificence to be experienced, one has to be witness to the performance. The auditory reception is enhanced--non-exclusively, of course, since people have different ways of appreciating--all the more when one catches these people in the act of making, creating the music. Imagination liberates, but we are, sometimes, limited by what we cannot see.

In the case of Radiohead, masters at their craft who have forever changed the sonic landscape with their music, and withstood the test of time and all other elements, this is especially true. I watched "Radiohead: King of Limbs Live at The Basement"--over at YouTube, where else--and was struck by some nameless sensation: quickened heartbeat, bliss surging up from the chest, or something of that nature. The passion, skill, and ease with which the band went at it, just doing their "thing", took my breath away. I experienced something similar with "Radiohead: In Rainbows Live in Japan", but "King of Limbs", because recorded in a smaller venue, offered a much closer, more intimate view. The years have not at all diminished the intensity that Thom Yorke not so much exhibits as exudes; the same is true where Jonny Greenwood is concerned (still ruthless, still insanely skilled); and of the rest of them, all as essential and as present as ever. Face contorted in intensity, mindless of all other things except the music; fingers caressing, plucking effortlessly at, and flying over guitar strings; fingers touching and striking keys; able hands, masters to drum sticks--what a spectacle, a thing of beauty!

Radiohead's lyrics have only become more cryptic, the music as beautiful and more complex. My favorite track from the album is "Lotus Flower", but I was blown away by Thom's performance of "The Daily Mail" (the phrase "king of melancholia" crossed my mind); "Codex" has a similar relish, though a bit toned down; the jazz barroom flavor of "Feral" and, by a little measure, "Little By Little" (I wondered if they were trying to pull a Miles Davis, with a 21st century flavor, of course); the percussion-led sensuousness of "Separator"; the acoustic, mellow air of  "Give up the Ghost"; the guitar-playing skills showcased in the rest of the songs.

The King of Limbs, like In Rainbows, features elements of electronica (in smaller doses) but the former, upon close inspection, chronicles Radiohead's absolute comfort in what they do, and highlights the poetry and talent that has been characteristic of their music from the very start. The King, for this fan, is sonic perfection. The effect of their music on me has always extended to the heart and the deepest recesses of the brain, but more so this album. I could only wish I were really there when they recorded the session--probably sitting in a corner, and certainly my cup of tea would have long grown cold, forgotten.

Imagine how much tea I've been consuming, waiting for the next album. Meanwhile, let the music play, and let me watch while it does.

Variation on a Theme: Rain

On a rainy day, one entertains thoughts similar to rain. The general chill in the air becomes a prolonged brush of coldness against reluctant skins. The falling raindrops create a symphony of sounds--raps against windows, patter on the ground, pin-sized knocks against doors, but magnified many times over. The mind roams over darkened plains and dismal landscapes, beneath unfriendly skies and indifferent roofs, across winding streets.

On a day such as this, you materialize, but never matter enough to be palpable. Your ghost descends, in perfect synchronicity with the rain and the blowing gusts, disturbing the spell of warm days, a hand against the stillness. You appear, though the validity of this, I am never certain of.

I am wiping the glass to make your image clearer, silently praying for recognition. I end up mumbling into the grayness of the day, mouthing names I can barely pronounce. Your image gets washed away by the rain, but for a moment, I make-believe it's your face I see reflected in a puddle.

What I love about rainy days is they blur remembered faces, dull the sound of uninvited voices, wash away intruding memory. The rain dampens the very sadness it carries with it, turning it into something that faintly resembles sorrow only. There is comfort in faintness--it softens things like pain, the way years of forgetting sometimes do.

After hours of rain, a hush follows. We wonder if the rain has gone, and slowly pick up where we had left off before it came.