Sense of Scenery

The Repeating Geometry in Elevator Muzak

‘Frozen Music’

 

It was an aging midday when I entered my building

And there I began to notice the floor

Upon it were textiles, patchworks, and dreams

A million miles from their origins, lost in the encoded mathematics of history

Upon dark ochre walls in dim candle lights,

I could see the wall paints: these painted layers brittle, they're now spider-web flakes

Chamber violin

Chamber cello 

This inevitable break-up of surfaces and its reality

Fluttering away like everything else; off into the void of vacuums

Subject to laws and corrosions

Completely mocking my philosophies and poetry:

Anything I try to rationalize; to safely categorize

Her tiny, cold hands, her hot, impatient breath

With its total, systematic, ever-constant, slow disintegration of everything I know and love

I’m shocked at the complexity of this enormous puzzle of lost information

It’s as meaningless as ghosts, it says

I’m still trying to come to terms with the crumbling of everything

These 659’s, the 1530’s, the 1845’s, the 1937’s, the 2010’s…

 

I couldn’t take the elevator, for it was flooded

A man in a long grey coat, and blood-red cap, stood waiting

He told me that Eastern elevators are bigger and flooded much more often

I was hypnotised by the rushing waters flowing out of its locked, heavy door

Walking, this building is large and wide

Many rooms lead to nothing more than vacant, immense concrete spaces

Open expanses and massive cracked pillars

We are not Rome, but rather a cheaper imitation; many fickle imaginations

All have dreams of primeval powers, these visions, these alchemic emotions cling

Sometimes I’m surrounded by many earthy-brown greens like in swamp or forgotten bog

Sometimes I’m surrounded by the suggestion of darker blues: a haunted iridescence on angles,

Or a slight suggestion of intense emotional undergrowth; to travel deep, deep enough to see these dark blues

 

Hallways remain a dried-blood red

These capillaries, these caves of passage and travel

I come to a dry elevator

The elevator takes me down with in a slow-motion, cruel tendency

Every cog-work, corroded in age

Every link or gear, rusted with abuse

We descend down, down, down

Open doors, past more and more rooms that I fear to investigate

We are now aware of an urgency to leave

The whole structure is ready to collapse

I reach the basement, and I get the feeling that I know it well

An open broken passage I can see on my left

There stands a girl who says nothing

She may wear white or red wool

In a plain dress, she has much more to offer than visual appearances

She doesn’t speak, but I know exactly what she means

I exit the elevator and take her urgent hand

She leads the way along the sides of passage and we’re outside

I note her curled, young, strawberry-blond hair that bounces in the movement

She doesn’t turn around again and we’re navigating debris/wreckage: safe

 

sd-08/22/10