Germinating Music

(Before you start reading, listen and watch: at 7:14.)

The musician placed a stone on top of the black piano key, using the weight of a rounded stone as an aid to extend the life expectancy of the note.

Alone, in an oversized hall. Overheard by invisible transmitters of sound; systems catching melodies as if they are mosquitoes over the sea’s surface. A room designed to convince the autonomous, fast-traveling creatures to stay as long as they can tolerate, within the acoustically accommodating walls.

There’s a theory that inserts itself into my mind: the theory of abundance.

And it strikes me like an epiphany every time. The infinite amount of potential music out there that we haven’t heard because we haven’t discovered it yet; myriad note combinations remain in their unlocatable nooks. This is how nature works, in accordance with abundance. How many seeds and eggs are born in relation to how many new flowers mature, or humans are birthed? Girls are born with around one million eggs in their ovaries… it seems to me, only slightly hyperbolic. As the concert progresses, I start to see every musical note as pollen or a seed sent off into space, to inhabit new places, new planets of minds which the flower, their place of origin, cannot reach because she is rooted to the ground: body mass enchained by gravity.

Becoming the new carrier of the waves sweeping over my head, draining into my ears; I have no choice but to bear these eggs that grow into gradual earworms. The longer I listen, the more persistent their presence becomes until I am woken up at night by their germination process. I do my best to caress them as they continue to nest in the spiral of my concha. A few weeks later the earworm stage passes, and I have gotten used to cohabitation.

I have retrieved a small watering can from a dollhouse that I saw in a shop window. Every morning I fill the can with water, tilt my head to one side, until it lies on my shoulder, and pour the minuscule droplets into my ear. The day I see the first green shoots, gleaming through the black curtain of my hair, I go to the hairdressers and ask them to carefully trim my hair short around my ear. Sometimes in anticipation of its scale, I take out a hand mirror to inspect the angles that I can usually not see. I sleep with it a few more days, although I ache to change the side, I lay on… but then the ripe moment has finally come. Proudly, I go outside in company of my musical note. Strangers congratulate me for my fine musical taste as they see the shading and structure of the flower bending and trembling in the air to the rhythm of my footsteps. As the final stage approaches, I unear(th) the flower and place it on my piano, which has a stone lying on top of a black key to prevent the tone from diminishing too early.