The first time

I remember the first time...


I didn't know it at the time but I was painfully sliding out of my most sophamoric year in university. I was in my third year and was finally being granted license of thought over mere regurgitation of fact (disputable as it may have been).

I lived with my roommate and his dog, in between his prized antique purchases. His cluttered Americana softened to the eye by smatterings of caustic throw-pillows and the odd-burmese mountain dog; slick with slober. I can't recall living in such a warm austerity at any other time. Ray, my room mate could add a gentle comfort to any room he occupied and his home reflected all of this. I think it just happened that his period of choice favored wooden benches.

I would study in his, in our home for hours on end. I was in that AA/BA overlap when I actually cared about 80% of what I was contending with. It has been the only time, on those wooden benches that I have been afforded a complete consumption of what I was passionate about. I was justified in pursuing only that which I wanted to disappear forever in.

it was nearing finals. It was winter I think, though this is only because I remember most of all my love at that moment for his wooden stove, which i fed at every pause.

I couldn't study in my room. It was basically a bed made by my grandfather and a sea of dirty clothes over which I had to jump in order to sleep. In retrospect I probably would have slept in the living room had Americans popularized plush couches prior to the 20th century. Honestly I can't remember if the house sported a washer and dryer... just Ray, his giant, slobbering dogs and hard, woodend furniture.

Finals aggressively challenging my ability to procrastinate but I had managed to procure what meager source material my university could supply on short notice. The internet, at the time for me, was basically a set of hubs linking universities and dot-matrix printers. Not much literature was compiled on many of the more luxurious subject matters, so the throw pillows had to move aside for 10-20 obscure books on the 'low-renaissance', the Reformation and some more modern distractions.

My challenge was great. I could find little documentation written about the subject of my thesis, which was exactly why it intrigued me. "Hieronymous Bosche; the first Reformist..." or something of the nature. It was my first real foray into practical critical thinking. I savored writing my bibliography.

I settled in amongst my throw-pillows, afghan rugs, candle-light, wood-burning fire and sticky-notes (not the electronic kind), notebook and yes; a mechanical pencil to begin builing my protestant case.

Something was missing from the equation, I realized after about an hour or so. Data? No... I was having a blast watching my theorum begin to take shape - and realizing that the evidence I was procuring was not that far-fetched - and more importantly - was not being fed to me by some other historian.

But something was missing none the less.

Music. Music goes with history, candle-light, wood burning fires and dried giant-dog slobber very well. That was it.

I carefully unstacked all the books and [with sticky notes] tried to keep my train of thought. I ran back to the tiled-coldness of the kitchen and groped the old radio we used for entertainment. The only TV was in Ray's room which was impossible to watch as his bed filled the entire room... upon which the two slobbering beasts usually resided. We had no cable, so the price of showering after every episode of mST3000 really the only worthwhile foray into tv land. just as well.

I rapidly spun the dial away from Ray's 'Sound of the 60's', which reminded him fondly for some reason of his otherwise very painful childhood to my station of choice - 'All Classical - All the time", or something of that nature.

I spun the only other analog dial up to three-quarter volume and upon hearing that 1970's "Old-Spice-infused" voice at the proper dog-safe volume, i leapt back towards the warmth of my books.

About 10 minutes later, while trying to cross reference dates of the few recordings of my favored artist with known Reformist activism, I realized the radio was and had been silent for some time.

VEXATION! I wish I had a jesuit handy to go remedy this radio's blasphemy.

Bouncing back in a flurry of thumping books on wooden-benches I head to tweak the analog.

Something grabs me mid-stride and slows me half way across the room. It is a sound, but a sound that hits me first in the stomache. A vibration. My legs stop before I realize anything is wrong.

A harmonic series being slowly pulled up my legs and my chest at the same time... something vibrating in my stomache. I can't hear it so I stop, feet cold on the polished, American wood.

waves of Anti-nausua start to roll up and down me just short of my ears. I can feel the BPMS... I don't remember for certain, but i believe i was in full crouch trying to figure out where this crimson-vibrato was coming from.

Bass pulled like slow-roasted pork. Juicy, deep and guilty smearing what soul i had left exposed.

A vibration being rubbed into you by fat, greasy and careless hands. Beethoven's subtle irony.

Double Bass not caring if it was heard because he knew how deeply you had to feel him.

So breathy and slow I could feel the blue being torn from the red.

It was there. That open fifth. repeating.




repeating.



again.



up.



down.


left.



right



1st.



diminished 5th.



Caressing you the way some lover does that first time...



...When you know you could fall in love.



Very Deeply...



Confusing...



And real...