by Chris Chandler

What does an insect see when it lights on a mirror?

Does it register vanity?

Does it pause and comb its antennae or contemplate the slight overbite to its mandibles?

Is it transformed when it flies through a room where Mozart is playing?

What divine music surrounds us at every momnet of every hour of every day that we do not hear?

Are we all flies flitting about in a giant music chamber, yet we hear nothing?

Does that mean the music is not there?

...It occurs to me that all matter is in constant motion for everything is comprised of molecules reververating, forever
undulating, resounding
like Jacques Barele, Johnny Cash, Ravi Shanker, and all of Motown.

All matter is in constant motion, only some is vibrating so fast that they seem to us to be solid - which for us, being solid objects our selves is rather convenient - other wise we would pass through each other like the low bass tones from your neighbors stereo passes through thin walls otherwise cops from other dimensions would come to tell us to turn our stereos down.

Still there are some out there that say, "give me the familiar, let me hear Hotel California just one more time." Give me hard, unflinching, empirical facts. I need sheet music for jazz. Tune your instrument, they cry. Seduce me with realism. Don't get me drunk on cheap poetry, then try to take advantage of me.

They don't realize that it is with in that moment of infinite uncertainty that we are able to hear the note, magnificent, bent, out of tune that compromises the chord with in the progression that generates the phrase that builds the stanza that defines the work that is the world in which we walk...

Our lives hang in the air like musical notes. Sometimes we lilt towards heaven like the angels of Chigal or we slither downward to the abanabal baritone of a Leadbelly ballad. Either way, all is Coltrane. Louie Armstrong sings Cole Porter, and we are walking on, standing on, sleeping on music.

We are the fly that dreamed Mozart.

Open a window -- eves drop on God.

Turn off your radio and hear it.

Nothing is solid. No moment can be
relived except in every
moment of everyday. This world is made
of molecules vibrating like
musical notes faster than my voice, more
frequently than the frequency
of this G chord. All matter is pulsating at a
rate all it's own. All is

Coltrane.

We are standing upon a giant G chord
and perfect pitch must be
attained by the imperfect musicians with
in this orchestra of
infinite uncertainty striking impossible
harmonies in order to
create this world for all is song all is song,

all is song.

         a   l   l         i   s         s   o   n   g   .