

Tiny Telephone Cables. �I didnapos;t know what they were until I got an internship at a recording studio. �When I�asked, apos;what are these little quarter inch inserts on the patch bay?apos; and heard apos;tiny telephone cables,apos; I didnapos;t connect the obvious cables hanging on the hook next to the patcher to the phrase. �No, the black, sleek cables, short and delicate things, were far from my mind. �Instead this image was created of something...organic, something from the depths of the earth. �Something that might come out when itapos;s a nice, warm day, after a spring rain or a blue sunrise. �For some reason, tiny telephone cables evoke some sort of warmth in me, some creature sense that I canapos;t describe without ruining it.
There are many things I�hear that stay with me. �I seldom write them down, I donapos;t know why. �But some I do...
bellapos;s decay
he wears a broken crown
we couldapos;ve made it on green glass
my love for him is eternal--time just passes by
some of these phrases lose something by eliminating the inflection or context, but they all mean something to me. �The last one was spoken on a stage by a soft, delicate Indian woman dressed in a soft pink sari that made me regret being born into a society in which it is not normal to wear such a beautiful article of clothing. �Her cadence and vocal timbre reminded me of vocal tracks that are layered with husky breath sounds, but it was just one small woman in front of a microphone. �She was recounting the story of an Indian woman who fell in love with Vishnu and how the passing of the seasons mirrored the passage and stages of her love for him. �The way her voice took its time, lingered just the right amount of time on the perfect syllables and trailed off at the end...it was musical. �It was really life-changing, if only for a moment.
The dance that followed was geometrically intriguing, and it highlighted the strength of her limbs. �They collapsed and expanded on themselves, like an accordion being massaged. �She stepped with delicate little steps, her legs still bent, arms held out as if balancing trays or tender glasses, bent at the elbow with hands parallel to the floor. �Even her fingers, long and slender, were bent so straight that they curved backwards at the tips, fanned out like a plume.
The dance was dignified and humble, and I donapos;t think I see these traits in people, especially myself, very often.
I hope that I�will never forget some of the things that cause such a momentary sense of awe.
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