Saturday, May 18

No-Prompt Thursday-Two, Pensador Louco

Pensador Louco  Show Offs Community

Symphony

Everything started with an absurd idea.

The old maestro looked back and noticed the endless amount of music he had left in his past. A lifetime of melodies and harmonies, rhythms and conductions, all he ever knew how to do. His whole life had been dedicated to music and symphony, which was the most noble food for one's soul.

All that was lost now. He was deaf, and there was nothing to do about it.

It's so hard to imagine someone having every symphony in his head, and being only permitted to hear them as memories do, as memories go. Never being really there, in his ears. Memories coming back to him were bittersweet as he heard the notes of music playing in his head. An echo off, as were dimmed his entreaties. Oh and he missed it! He missed everything about hearing music and the life. The life.

He was the Maestro! The man who had brought fear to the faces of his musicians as his rule was harsh. But at the end hearing the audience applause it had all been worth it. Fear, reverence and respect are the foundation of a good conductor. The ovation was his treasure forever. And alas, he had it all! The sound of the world in his ears.

But now he was purged and broken. Incapable. He was deaf, and there was nothing to hear. How could they do this to him?

Like a bad joke among his new life of silence and shame, one day the old Maestro saw an auction a piece. And it spoke to him. A museum piece like himself. The old dead Gramophone looked back and a bizarre wish arose. A bond. An equal, unable to sound, just like him.

It was broke beyond repair as he felt he was so he bought it and took it home. He placed it on the mantle.

There it sat in a dark corner unseen, just as he had become unseen. He sat down opposite the Gramophone and studied it all night contemplating his shattered life. What was and never would be again.

One day he noticed it was getting dirty and decided to clean it. While he was rubbing it something strange happened.

He cut his finger. A mere scratch that was hardly noticed. A cut made by the hard and thick needle of the Gramophone. An instrument that reminded him of himself. A cut still, more serious and sad that any Princess Aurora could ever suffer. But the wound suddenly sounded. The needle quickly drew a drop of his blood and drank it like a tyrant. Exactly as a conductor should do. A vibration then rose, shaking dust of ages, crusts of indifference and spider webs of lost time. It created a clear and perfect musical note. And the deaf could hear it.

The conductor was awake. There would be no sleep for Aurora that night. Without hesitation, he jabbed his finger, the same one the needle had cut and, as a casual vagina, let his friend drink at will. It was so thirsty. Like a sponge turned into music. The gramophone drank from his finger and, as a gesture of appreciation, fired away adagios and allegros from its cone. Desire made flesh. Flesh squeezed into music. Music he could hear. His own blood serving as a red and unique musical score. His flesh to violins. Metals. Cadences.

How could he deny it more food?

Great days followed this, and at the conductor's home it was a merry time. And why shouldn't it be? He couldn't care if the world went to hell. Why should he? Wasn't his music back? It was his compositions that dripped and flowed from his veins and was it not his legacy? All he needed was his best friend. Just the two of them. Composer and orchestra together in a solid red. It was obviously too good to last.

Well, was that not a sign of weakness that his source was exhausted? That all meals were not enough and that his blood was not enough? He'd die bloodless listening to the Gramophone and at that moment as the thought occurred to him he knew that was exactly how the idea appeared. The absurd and funny idea.

The old Maestro rose from the floor. He had little strength left to stand up, and the Gramophone was still thirsty for more. Hungry. He could no longer feed him alone, no blood enough to quench all he wanted to listen. But there was so much food in the rest of the world. Wasn't it replete with stupid deaf people? Those who did not appreciate the value of an authentic symphony? Were not the ones blessed with a body capable of listening, that made fun of the few who would really value it and fill the air with heavenly harmony? There were thousands of persons who simply didn't deserve to hear music. Too many. Too many. So many, in fact.

That no one would miss one or two, right?

A week went by since the crazy idea, and no sound was heard in the old house. But soon, alas, soon.

He looked at himself in the mirror, and the image pleased him. He was still deaf. Of course he was. But he was a restful one now, due to days and nights of rest and good meals. He recovered his strength enough to feed his friend for another week. Or to bring home with him a new form of audience. One he would teach how to listen properly.

He left the house through the front door. The night was high and he could hear nothing. However, far from bringing him sadness, his deafness was good now, because it announced its biggest and clearest regency. It would prove to be his definitive work, and he could not wait. He was as eager as a boy, and went hunting for those deaf people who didn't really need to hear and to which no one would hear again. He was happy. So happy. He only needed a few. A handful of them would be sufficient. Just enough for a lifetime of orchestras.

There. He spotted the first candidate a few blocks from him. A candidate so small he would make no resistance to be taken.

The maestro stopped, closed his eyes for a brief moment and imagined how beautiful it would be to conduct his hungry gramophone. He wanted to see what would be given to him in return, for all the food and juice he was bringing home. He smiled. You could almost hear him licking his lips. And as a harsh ruler, again in life, the look of fear on the audience's faces would be satisfaction enough. Each of them waiting their turn.

He stopped breathing and opened his eyes.

And walked into his future, whistling a song that he had no form of hearing.