What happens when the fiery fae decides to tackle prose? The blues.
The Blues is like nothing Mantra has penned before, excepting only she chose a subject removed from my life. It was not born in pencil, instead via Crackberry. It was not verse, metered or free. It was not convenient; driving is not conducive to tablet use. It was not instantaneous; it developed over the course of a week. It was not cloistered; it lay open to roving eyes before it was finished.
Today, it is yours. Listen. Have you heard The Blues?
We spend our lives in pursuit of things and activities which chase the blues from our rafters. Every now and then, we take the blues down to parade them before our people. It is a walk of shame. Each step a defining moment where someone’s actions led us to a choice. We hope our people take the responsibility for the choice out of love or shame or guilt. In the end, the dance is a solo performance. The soulful sounds strum empathetic or sympathetic chords, yet cannot convey conviction for our choices to anyone else.
No one takes a hand when it is a shaking fist, blame splashing off the knuckles. No one strokes a head when it is a wagging spout, spraying venom on all ears. No one holds a body close when it runs away, shirking responsibility for itself. No one carries a load when it is brimming full, spilling threats and blame.
The pat on the hand and the shake of the head are the only outward signs anyone is listening to the mournful melody. If the lyrics are clear, it is an operatic mystery, sung in a foreign language. The emotion rings true even though the staccato rhythm beneath is out of time. The audience knows enough to pick the out of tune instruments.
No encore demanded. How can this be? How do they not want to hear the rest of the album? The prelude of intrigue and the crescendo leading to the climax of a lifetime.
There is the rub. It is the third release of the same songs. Instead of the life-changing hit they cling to, it is merely the cover of the same old routine. It may as well be named Wolf! For truly, it is an unending chorus of lament without the depth to be other than cacophonous disharmony.
Still, the one-man band plays the blues for you. Are you the arranger, guilty of setting the chain of events in motion? Are you the composer, dreamer who dreamt the omen of this performance? Are you the producer, ensuring the finest instruments play? Are you the promoter, driving hapless audiences to toss coins in the violin case? Are you the audience, listening night after night to the discordant sound? Are you the band, belting out nauseous music in hope an agent will discover your pain and release you from your prison of staffs?
Be careful the agent’s case does not hold a Gatling gun. You never know how deep blues resonate.
Are you in the cast?
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© Red Dwyer 2013
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