worm holes

You are the music while the music lasts.  ~T.S. Eliot

As I may have mentioned before I don't believe time is linear. I believe we live our lives in a sort of eternity. It is why some things which happened yesterday feel so long ago and other things which happened a long time ago feel as if they just happened or perhaps are even still happening now. Memories are time in another form.

Well I have now decided that music is one of the worm holes through which time bends and overlaps. Have you ever found yourself hearing a piece of music that transports you some place else so vividly that it is possible you have actually disappeared from the present and are back with the music, living it once again. In fact all that is left of you in the present is a pile of clothes ( since worm hole travel is surely best done naked) and your corporeal self is  enjoying another version of the present. 

The reason why I say this is because it happened to me the other day. I heard a piece of music on the radio that I had not heard in some time (in fact I had never heard it on the radio before) and I truly believe I disappeared. When the music ended I returned back to where I was but I had an unshakeable feeling I had really been someplace else. 
Of course  not every piece of music is like this or everyone would be hurtling naked through worm holes for a good part of each day but occasionally there is a piece of music which  transcends time completely.

Here are some examples of my worm hole music.

  The Swan  : I am eight again, lying under the fan in the bedroom I share with my sister. The evening is humid and I can't find a cool place for my head. In the background I can hear my brother practising the cello, playing this piece of music. Somehow its melancholia suits the damp heat and my restlessness. 

Supergirl : I am wearing my cat print shorts and am running through the forest near Bottmingen. D is riding on a bike next to me trying not to fall off because I run so slowly. I feel strong as I run  - like I could keep running for hours. I feel as if I am breathing with every inch of my lungs.

Movin' On Up : Spaghetti hoops cooking on a portable stove in the corner of a Cricklewood bedsit. There is a warm spring breeze. My Irish boyfriend and I are dancing with tiocfaidh  (pronounced Chucky) and Cousin Spliff,  who are  two plush toy marionette puppets I have at this time.

Black Earth : We are lying amongst twisted bed sheets, my heart is thumping in my ears. The air is thick with heat. I can hear sparrows singing late evening songs out on the street. The music begins ominously and then transforms into a beautiful, passionate  wild dance. Everything is alive.

Hana and Kip : I am riding Elizabetta, my beautiful red bicycle, down Via Del Corso in Florence. It is the middle of summer and I have just had a lemon granita up near the loggia. As I weave my way amongst the people I can hear this music floating out of one of the towers along the way. I stop in the shade and listen. I may even cry.

Music, once admitted to the soul, becomes a sort of spirit, and never dies.  ~ Edward George Bulwer-Lytton