After attempting to find an outfit at the Red Cross charity shop for tonight’s bop, I made my way back to college by way of the walled winding Queen’s Lane. The sun was starting to sink and as the sky was a fading blue and the evening birds sang there was something almost like June in the air. As I passed the walls of Queen’s College, the voice of a heroic tenor erupted from one of the windows. A pause. A few steps later, the voice sang a short run, abruptly descending into a tired sigh. After passing the mysterious place where I think the journal Areté might be (where the letters of Milan Kundera are surely addressed) the unmistakable – though surprising - sound of a chord from a full orchestra.
The suddenness of this chord impressed upon me at once the sense of grasping the depth of something which, almost as soon as it was grasped, was gone. This can only be the case of something which happens suddenly. A chord from an orchestra you expect to hear can hardly unveil the same sense of fleeting possession.
(The orchestra was one with both the stability of the double bass and the serenity of the winds, and the chord it played was a tonic chord in the first inversion. In the event that you are the type of person to run to a piano to try it out, I can imagine that the sound my ears received can be transmitted by means of the internet to anyone with an instrument and the ability to play a tonic chord in its first inversion, with its third so sweetly prominent.)
Another chord succeeded it. Just two perfect chords, which lingered in the lane with the sound of graspable possibility.
HA! How pretentious this all sounds. I promise: this year's New Year's resolution is to write in short sentences. Like Hemingway.