Tchaikovsky - Arab Dance (from The Nutcracker)
(it sweeps. oh yes it sweeps.
i always saw black water, deep. cold. even as a child i saw. all of this.
thoughts moving like plants underwater. a gentle serenity. brushing feathertails. it must be night. in the water.
some creek. i was here as a child already. because it has been here for so long. to revisit. always a great unknown, always embracing and letting go of that one particular cassette, old by now, black with a yellow sticker and on it, black letters. black paper-cut people i did not know yet.
so enthralled. an intrigue so vague it would stay with me for years.
and then to see Fantasia. and see the. dark, black. cold. water. and to believe how i was not the only one to see this. shared minds and translucent fishes.
yes, this water. of such an ink-color you'd think you could stir it like hardened cream, but where would your hand go?
what must lie between the pebbles and the sand, which i cannot see.
it is a smooth rhythm, jagging on, never hurting, like a march into. somewhere. it invites, and dances. goes on. like the water.
sideways of reed.
and then the oboe. that one, long-drawn oboe. the central stained bird gliding over the surface, or under it, among. everything parts aside, and lets it slide through. the oboe.