We went to Gaudi last night and the Evil Bunny set her pain aside and let her body dance frantic till after 2. The crowds surrounding us screamed Insane, Insanity, and danced as well as if no one watched. They danced as if Morrison had told them to dance with abandon.
I watched and thought of stories I have written and how some were flat and lifeless. I thought of moments in stories past that cuddled and captured the world I stood in at that moment. I swore to write in word what it felt like at that moment and especially his music. I thought in simile and phases like the confusion of a freight train screaming past you as your stood close the tracks in the silence of the forest or facing a pride of menacing lions. All I wanted to do was know the words to describe the music, the artist, the people and the scene.
I am trapped in a writer's anarchy and my brain rains uncontrollable adjectives, describing the moment for later while being in the moment (am I alone?), filled with the fear that the words will fade when my body fails and is forced to rest in quiet resolve and sleep (am I alone/ Do you feel that?).
I wake and wonder what were those words, what was that feeling? Can I translate one artistic media to another? Really. Can I describe Picasso's Dancers or Munch's Madness or the music of Segovia in a quiet hall in a mountain village in Spain (taste the nutmeg, smell the scented burning wax as he plays?(
Can we translate; a moment? Sitting here I know that I can write of fear of zombies and the fear of hate and loss, and love and loves lost. But can we describe a song? And the dancers and the sweat?I don't know. It is early in this dark hotel and I wonder .