Explicitly Implied

L. Wexler explicitly concludes and states, in the last two pages, that Loy has taken an active part in the murder of the four unfortunate.

How could she write this since all the testimonies are contradictive? I don’t buy it.

In fact she doesn’t. She doesn’t write this, but I’m convinced that most readers in the end believe that Loy is one of the organizers and executors of the murder. And if she would have written it explicitly, most readers would have argued that this is unproved and pure assumption.

Is all of this more than a speculation? Does a well implied idea have better chances to make a message believable than a straight forward statement? Yes to both questions!

Anyway, if the above seems un-whatever, I’ll be happy to blame it on the traffic. I have to fill up the 80-90 minutes morning commute to Silver Spring with something. What a better occasion to think about L. Wexler, while listening and repeating to French tapes? It’s much better than staring at the global car burping around me.

Then, during the meeting, my boss asks – “What’s on your plate?” (He likes this expression.) – Today it was leftovers from other people – some over-chewed code to fix… bwah. And I like it when one of my colleagues says – “Like I said:” – then she quotes herself from some previous conversation. What a lovely thing! The other webmaster gave blood today. She was awarded with a sticker - “Be nice to me, I’m a blood donor.” Sure I was nice, while trying to avoid the smiling sticker stuck on her left bumper.

Back home, I realize again, that on Friday evening the Beatles sound like a fly. I’m gonna catch and use them for tomorrow’s fishing. In the meanwhile, some additional distortion will help me get straight.

The Butterflies Flying Low

There's a road to walk ahead, happy with the company of the street lamps. I say hello to the taxi driver - "Give me a light, 'cause I don't know where to go."

I count the shadows, mine's always behind me; the only one that follows me. Yes, I know, one day it won't be there.

I've got nothing to say. I don't feel like thinking. I can't even forget. Yes, it's better this way.

So, you can feel the butterflies - le farfalle volano basso. La vibrazione e' una commozione. Immaginare, toccare. La sensazione e' una esplosione. E poi - silenzio. Cosi puoi sentire - You can feel the butterflies flying low.

Then I become a sinless being, to feel all I can in a dream so real, that you can feel the butterflies, you can feel the butterflies flying low.

I've got nothing to say. I don't feel like thinking. I can't even forget. Yes, it's better this way.

Reflections

Today, between 11:00 and 12:20 pm, my head lost a few more hairs due to resentment. I heard that writing text is a better thing than writing music. That's terrible! Well, the positive part is that from now on, more sunlight will be reflected back to the space.

Of course anyone can ask for a pay raise by writing a letter. A few can ask the same by writing a song. And very few will not ask that at all; they'll be happy just to write their text, painting, or music.

Well, I feel better now that I shared my reflections. The blue shadows are gone, and the birds outside sing in major key again.

To conclude with the writing -- music thing; an aphorism alone could be worth a symphony some time (even though I've never heard of an aphorism concert, nor of aphorism with a twist¹.) And a song without text is like a red wine without the 12 thing².

So, as a good scale boy, I'll just enjoy both: writing and music. After all, someone has to reflect and take care of the global warming problem.

 

¹A bald bold allusion to the "Symphony with a Twist Series" at the Meyerhoff Symphony Hall

²The author here probably thinks about the 12% alcoholic conent of the wine (note of the author.)

Feel like an animal

Actually the feeling is that of the herd. That's because my favorite actor is Pecory Greg. The name sounds well in Italian. It reminds a flock of sheep. Or a herd of students. I am one unit of that herd. And tomorrow, first class in the morning, our pastor will read us her bible again. A female pastor - isn't that a pastry? Or it's just about time for a plate of pasta snowed in pecorino cheese.

Music, music, music, music

Music, music, music, music – we live together since the beginning of time. My first scream must have resembled some kind of basic belcanto intonation. The nurse, who took care of my mother after the delivery, must have alluded at it while trying to calm her patient. My mother must have believed it, or she just made it up as an answer to her own dreams. At that time I caught the dream and began to live it.

Until the age of eight, I must have only collected impressions and feelings about the music. I must have had a very good excuse for not starting to play it. Then I decided that it was about time to give the world the fruits of my musical talent. It might look bizarre now, but at that time at school, my second grade fellows and I had to go to sleep for two hours after lunch. It was one of the school practices I didn’t like but had to obey. Music, music, music, music – It sounded like a beautiful song when I heard that if I play in the school orchestra I wouldn’t have to play the dead for two hours a day. It was a deal.

The deal my mom made with me called for piano and theory lessons in addition to the mandolin in the orchestra. She must have been deceived by that music teacher who told her that I had talent. Liar! Only because I was a quick music learner, it didn’t mean that I had talent! Even later, when I began to like playing music, I thought that this is not talent. It is just that the music is good.

As a teenager, I believed that all I want is to become a musician. The music school was the natural consequence of my aspirations. Play and dream. Dream and play. It is the most beautiful art. Music, music, music, music. Love it, hate it, live it.

One can really live the music when he starts creating it. It is a painful process that can give so much pleasure. I think it is a pleasant pain. My wife says it is just a pain that gives you the world’s most marvelous satisfaction. Of course she is a musician too. When my son takes my guitar, I jump on my toes and say, “Careful, if you break it you will feel the pain!” - “Ok, I know” - and he starts caressing the strings…