It is an eerie thing—underlying the cries of children in the garden square, a sinister melody booming from an organ is seeping out of the Victorian church beyond my window. The only music I ever hear from there is new age Christian rock on Sundays, never an organ, never on Tuesday, never of that magnitude and fervor. Huh. It’s creating an odd atmosphere for me inside my old Victorian terraced home, I must say…the computer desk and bed are disintegrating from sight, along with a century and a half of paint as I start to envision the dressing table and hip bath that might have once stood in here, this room that I believe was once used as a dressing room. The unit we live in was once only the bedrooms of an entire four-story house, you see, which makes it quite laughable for me to think that what we now occupy as both our kitchen and reception room space was only the master bedroom. It is a place in which every petal in the ceiling’s floral moulding sends down whispers to me of all they have seen through the decades. Trees have grown tall around brick and stone that was once exposed, new, though sooty now and crumbling and left for fanciful folk like me to point to and sigh for a bygone era. But, my, how my feet would have pinched, my organs been crowded and lungs bereft of a deep breath of air…the dust kicked up on my hems and the humid sweat on a sunny day bleeding into the tight-woven fibers of my sleeves to cake in my dead skin and bake my scent. No, though I used to lose myself in imagination of how much simpler, more romantic a life back then would have been, I peer through the wormhole to see it as it was and feel quite thankful I won’t be lugging tins of water up and down all those flights of stairs, past the pretty banisters, thank you very much. Burgundy velvets, trembling fringes, clinking china, flickering flames…all these and the incantations of a seance fade to ivory. My computer materializes back into my field of vision. The organ music is muffled beneath the waterfall sound of speeding autos. It diminishes into a pleasant tune or subtle nuisance, depending on which I will choose it to be.
15 June 2010
Mood Music Musings…
Primate that dapples in writing when not picking others' fleas or flinging its own poop. View all posts by thefallenmonkey
This entry was posted on Tuesday, June 15th, 2010 at 16:48 and tagged with appeals to the senses, creative writing, free association of thought, organ music, Victorian clothing, Victorian England, Victorian life, writing blog and posted in Descriptive Language, Freewriting, Setting. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.
6 responses to “Mood Music Musings…”
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