Shit - It looks like I didn't finish my piece in time, or did I? I guess I live or die by what I put up already, but I'll go ahead and wrap this up anyway. By my clock, the timestamp on this post is 10:15pm, but I'm not sure where midnight is being judged from in this.
I have nothing to say
and I am saying it
--John Cage
This kid, this Henry, he fear th' worst, he been fearin' th' worst ever since he could 'magine what th' worst might be. An' tha's about how long th' worst been happenin' ta him again an again. Coincidence, ya think?
That a trick question.
He look at me confuse. He expect a beat, a tune, a tone, a whistle, a wail, an alarm, a boom, a crash. He expect anything but what I give him, this clear, open, expectant and welcoming space. I'm playin' him a paradox, music with no notes, a concert where the musician listen rather than play. [http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/4%E2%80%B233%E2%80%B3]
People talk about
4'33" bein' a silent piece, but it just music turn inside out. People think of the concert hall bein', in a perfec' world, divided between th' music and the silence, like the music so delicate, can't no other sound be allowed to touch it except for applause at th' end, and even then, th' sound a'that applause only touch the music like the hands of the doctor closing th' eyes a'one that just died. People want their music apart from other sound the way children want the food on their plate not to touch. That's the dread o' the concert hall - the candy wrapper, the coughin' fit, the whisperer in th' row behind.
Did I mention that even now, Henry delicately nudge his peas away from the gravy on his dinner plate when he think no one lookin'?
Right now, we got 4 minute an' 33 seconds in which nothin' expected, nothin' unexpected. We got 4 minute an' 33 seconds in which nothin can go wrong. Let th' candy wrapper crackle, let the throat tickle, let the baby cry, let the cell phone ring. It all suppose to happen just as it happen. Let the worst come and, while this music not-play, be welcome. In this place o' Karma where you get to do right what you done wrong before, I open this to him, for him, in him.
He run away, a'course.
But that a'right. I could let him go, let him play drum solo with his feet onna ground, until the other find him, an' true to his luck, as he would say, he runnin' right at him, but instead I grab his hand, th' one with th' watch, an' pull him back. Contact improv [http://www.contactimprov.net/about.html], it become, dancin' a trio, him, me, an' physics. He don' trust any o' us three, but for 4 minutes and 33 seconds, it don't matter if we stumble, tumble, twist, an' fall. In that crowd o' th' lost and wronged, th' music take shape inside the minutes, a percussion of collidin' bodies, feet thumpin' onna groun', BPM o' th' heart climbin' to 140, all syncopatin' with the grunt an' the breath, as he try an' shove me off. I just pivot 'round an' roll back to him, lettin' th' physics an' chance o' th' encounter improv an' improve th' connection between us.
Henry feel it comin'. He know th' feel of thunder inna air, and he been struck by lightnin' more than once. He feel it comin', it an
it to him, not a person, but all people
its to him these days, what is mosta th' problem right there.
I don't feel it comin', I hear it, hear
him, the it that got Henry half-hunched in dread. The watch know to. It tick, stop, hesitate, tick some more. Henry feel the cogs twitch 'gainst his palm an' get frantic. He sees the face of the watch, the second hand. He so busy checking to make sure his doom on schedule, he don't watch for the face o' th' one we been waiting for, an' the third hand that reach out an' grab him him from me.
The third one, he young, wavy brown hair, taller'n average but he keep his head and eye low, a long habit of avoidin' catastrophe an' eye contact. Henry see him seein' him an' recoil, until Henry realize he ain't one of his victims. But he wrong about that. This one, he been Henry's victim all his life, an' he determine that gonna change. Henry don't even notice his hand curling protective 'round the pocketwatch, but the third one do, an' it put him in a fury.
"Damn you!" the boy yell at him, "Damn you and that damn watch! Don't you care about anything but that fucking watch? You are ruining my life with that thing, you bastard, but I'm not letting you get away with it any more! Not for one more second!" An' he give Henry a hard shove an' the watch go flyin'. It hit the ground an' the glass shatter in a burst o' crystalline notes. The back pop open an' th' works fly out, chiming like th' notes of a music box 'gainst th' stones. Only the case an' th' face an' th' hands remain.
Only the case an' th' face an' th' hands, and th' young man, wavy brown hair, taller'n average an' standin' straight now, finally. He ain't the third any more, or th' first, or th' second for that matter. He just Henry, lookin' down at the face of a busted pocketwatch. The time it tell, now an' forever, is 4:32.
I pick up th' watch an' hand it to him. "You still wanna be god?" He look up at me, surprise at the question. He right, it a stupid question. He never wanna be god to begin with.
"No, absolutely not. I got way to much other stuff I gotta do."
"Better get t'doin' it then, eh?"
"Yeah, I suppose I'd better." He put the watch in his pocket and start walkin' away, but before he disappear into th' crowd, he turn to me. "The way I...change things, you think I could make things
better?"
"I give you 4 minutes an' 33 seconds of open chance. Th' watch says you got one second o' that left. But you got it forever."
He smile an' nod. He gettin' it now, slow, but he gettin' it. "Hey," he ask, "you think you are going to be god, or whatever?"
I shrug. "Dunno. I'll be what I'm s'posed t' be. Jus' like ev'rythin' else in the world."
He disappear in th' crowd. Hell got one less soul in it now.
