So, I live and work on the third floor at the front of the building. It’s basically a studio/office with a pretty bathroom, open kitchen, and little, hidden bedroom where I get dressed, sleep, fuck and play DS Lite. Someone just moved in downstairs, and they’re selling some kind of hippy, mood music. Okay, fine, the building is less cool with you, but to each his own, live and let live etc etc. Your business will fail and you will leave eventually.
Today, though, they really moved in and I could hear that nonsense from my office. At first I thought it might be some strange mix in the music my assistant was playing, then I thought it may be my neighbor’s niece practicing recorder again, then I recognized it as piano – like, floating piano, like scales, but in a really mellow way. Like a really peaceful, meditative, repetitive noise. Like a really pointless noise. Like when you come home, dragging your soulless carcass like the dead luggage it is, and you have the faint, nagging little demon on your shoulder insinuating that the past nine hours of work as a trading assistant, and three hours of commute, was in fact a waste of time. You put this music on and it soothes you.
When you come home and the future 4 hours of television, regurgitated conversation, casual mention of a wish that will never be fulfilled, and obligation you dodge, start to seem like the foundation of a repulsive, pointless, hateful existence. Put this on and you feel relaxed at last. Like when you lay in bed, and remember a moment of passion that led to nothing 25 years ago, and you start to realize you are like one expendable, already half rotten piece of cattle being hoarded forward to a death that benefits not even the consumer causing it. This music is for you.
This music; this casually calculated noise, is just for you. It soothes not the savage beast, but the sluggish pedestrian. It is designed for the hollow, ever-so-slightly pricked, least human of humans; the masses that infect this broken world with nothing more than nothingness.
Today, though, they really moved in and I could hear that nonsense from my office. At first I thought it might be some strange mix in the music my assistant was playing, then I thought it may be my neighbor’s niece practicing recorder again, then I recognized it as piano – like, floating piano, like scales, but in a really mellow way. Like a really peaceful, meditative, repetitive noise. Like a really pointless noise. Like when you come home, dragging your soulless carcass like the dead luggage it is, and you have the faint, nagging little demon on your shoulder insinuating that the past nine hours of work as a trading assistant, and three hours of commute, was in fact a waste of time. You put this music on and it soothes you.
When you come home and the future 4 hours of television, regurgitated conversation, casual mention of a wish that will never be fulfilled, and obligation you dodge, start to seem like the foundation of a repulsive, pointless, hateful existence. Put this on and you feel relaxed at last. Like when you lay in bed, and remember a moment of passion that led to nothing 25 years ago, and you start to realize you are like one expendable, already half rotten piece of cattle being hoarded forward to a death that benefits not even the consumer causing it. This music is for you.
This music; this casually calculated noise, is just for you. It soothes not the savage beast, but the sluggish pedestrian. It is designed for the hollow, ever-so-slightly pricked, least human of humans; the masses that infect this broken world with nothing more than nothingness.
4 comments:
I dread the day when I stop having moments of passion that lead to nothing.
Dang.
Come back to NY.
They'll leave eventually, right?
They will leave, by hook or by crook.
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