This is the origin of Louisiana: there were four musical notes.
They lived together in an old Victorian down the way. The
townspeople hated them & burned them alive. When the
townspeople burned them alive the notes did not die. They
kept being music throughout all the pain. But the origin story
makes no sense: no one invented a note. None control it. There
is nothing to know. But when you hear a note as it is burning
alive you split in two: one you is the you sitting where you are
sitting, the other you the you sitting near you, maybe at the
table’s end. This is why we love music: it makes you sit with you,
beautiful & vomitous as hair. It is rare to be strong enough &
humble enough to hold onto beauty, to sit with beauty & not
fuck it up, to understand beauty & love & stupidity & to drool
& to seep & to fold oneself into a burning kite & to not fuck this
up. It is rare to find something that is both jagged & smooth.
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