Sunday, without a mother

I strain to follow the lyrics, the score from a fine movie, with a fine Scottish actor, the Russian anthem, a feeling of elation, memories of seeing the film for the first time, then dozens more times, all blending into one, becoming part of the underlying self, the known, the calculable happiness.
Incalculable remain further mood swings, further developments regarding comfort levels in public places, this ...
Change of music. Hunt for Red October soundtrack too distracting, too much RAM occupied trying to track the variations in tone dynamics, trying to guess where the composer was going, what mood he wanted to convey. The mind storing the music for future reference, at the very least creating reference tabs to subfolders of memory, music spilling out randomly at times, filling the consciousness, hurting the ears, the power of it.
The mind, playing back music at appropriate times, unless consciously called upon to repeat certain music files. In cases such as these, the conscious memory of the music is limited to favorite portions, to stalls, or crescendos, to a heart-wrenching chorus, while the unconscious memory, if acknowledged but not coerced, will play back whole movements, lightly humming in the background, shuffling through its repertoire.
Oh but could I scream what I hear, but could I broadcast the majesty of just the right note, violins skipping lightly downward to a rising horn section, would it better convey my emotional wellbeing at that time? Perhaps we should piggyback a receiver onto the old audio nerve, link it to a harddisk, wait.
If I hear noise, music in my head, it is not being transmitted from the eardrum up the nerve to the brain, it is isolated within the brain, and my daimon is tricking me into thinking that the music is loud, that it is beautiful, that it is the right music for that situation. So any external device will not pick up signal transmissions from the audio nerve, but an electrode tiara should be able to track the increased activity in a certain isolated sector of the brain, or scattered throughout the brain, as we are finding out, with the mind linking sounds stored in one area to pictures stored somewhere completely different.
Regardless, if that could be tracked, and software written to recognize the music in question, then it might be possible for matching music to be played through portable loudspeakers, given that the appropriate music is retrievable from a wet-ware harddrive, or iPOD.
Beethoven’s First Symphony, written when he was, please hold ... thirty years old, in 1800, is far more familiar to mine ears, and therefore far less distracting.
This is trick learned in college, when forced, due to lack of proper planning, to spend the whole night before a test, without sleep, in the school library, in hopes of cramming enough info into my brain to allow me to pass the test the next day, or write a fifteen page paper from scratch. The last year, when that wonderful person passed away, Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony played a significant factor in maintaining my sanity (I do believe I can whistle/hum/direct the entire symphony, start to finish, beginning at any point during the piece). Classical music, no choral pieces or signing, occupies the part of my brain that needs constant stimulation, that is always checking the surroundings, hyperalert, allowing the cognitive functions to go into overdrive, sucking up data like a sponge, or pouring words out humbly onto a page.
So much confusion, this past week, with the coup-de-grace coming late Thursday, with mention being made of the name of my recent girlfriend. Immediately, the blood sang in my eyes, vision going fuzzy at the edges, like the machine in Iron Giant, catching myself a few seconds later, vision returning to normal, bezerker-rage checked, for now.
Where do these feelings come from, whence does this rage flow? Outwardly, it flowed through my voice, to the visible delight of the surrounded revelers, a hundred faces fixated, caught in a freezeframe between refrain and melody, gasping with joy at a wanton pelvic thrust, raw emotion overloading the amplifier, pressure mounting in the ocular cavities, a blind, explosive performance in front of scores of strangers, a score of friends.
It is so very easy to lash out, in my mind, at couples happy, content, envious of their carefree looks, of their inside smiles, remembering a happy moment, perhaps a particularly explosive orgasm, but immediately turning the lashings back in on myself, for entertaining such base, selfish thoughts.
It has been hard to write, since the retelling of that defining moment, so many years ago, when I laid bare my soul, willing to let it all go, to make that final decision to end things early. Perhaps I am reluctant to feel that pain again, perhaps it is one wall of fire I must transgress in order to do while clinging to non-ado.
Weary, for reasons unclear.
I have come to the realization today that she most likely made her decision during a moment of rational thinking, then called for a retraction once her emotions kicked in, once we met, for the handing over of items left behind, in the brilliant sunshine of a Californian spring, an innocent meeting casting doubt on the value of rational thought.
In retrospect, I believe I said NO because I couldn’t bear to lose her again.

FIN