Monday, November 23, 2009

Angela Deane

My brain goes wild with images when I listen to music.

And living in NYC, it's easy to get carried away - full-scale musicals happen on the subway, out on the street, I jump on the vacant seat of a tandem bike, hailing its' teen driver, spindly metal taxi... and then between squirrels and pigeons tapping their feet and beaks to the rhythm I pulsate and strut. Strut and strut and strut, eyes to the sky.

But when I listen to Holopaw, my chin lowers, all the rushed movements and passerbys smooth out - glinted silvery light takes over and I find myself in a soft world of tenderness, hope, fallen beauty. It's white; snow, or cotton perhaps, lit up and hazy. White sun like fingers, combing over creatures beneath. I can wander through it. I can go slowly. I can take a sharp breath in if I want. I am crestfallen, perhaps, but in the prettiest way.

(Treasures are so often filled with both wonder and regret, no?)

And then, filled with foxes and matadors, I hear, "The tenderness of these wolves, so curious... You know, I'd do it again for the thrill of these crystalline peaks. I'm gasping your wilderness in."

Shoulders shrugged, head set down, my wolf/fox/
bullfighter rests beneath the arctic sun. Golds and blues, pink socks. White sky, blue ring, inspired by the landscape of the words and sounds, or maybe, just maybe, simply from the white splinters inside john orth's own eyes which I only just noticed this summer - on the black waters of Lake Santa Fe, grey raindrops starting to fall, his legendary blues out-twinkling Sinatra, the startling white marks his own crystallines - after I asked something to the effect of...

You lean forward...and I'll lean forward...


Angela lives and works in Brooklyn and cherishes walking; over bridges, down streets, through parks - eying endless city strangers, and, at home, instead of battling her frequent insomnia, rather celebrates it with 4 a.m. headphone dancing.

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