Good music never refers to anything except the music itself.

On the art of listening

Dear Beloved,

You know how sometimes, things feel more alive? The same things you see every day gain a new quality; a knowing wink emanates from their presence.

I have believed in animacy for as long as I have been alive. It was always obvious, before I knew there was a word for the understanding that that whole universe, down to the most seemingly inanimate things, is humming with aliveness. The objects aren’t just “objects,” but entities brimming with consciousness.

How could it be any other way?

This morning, I peered into my first cup of coffee and noticed its inky, rich glimmer. And though it was sitting still on the counter, I felt it moving, swirling like the gazing ball of an enchantress. There are stories inside this blackness. Two heaping scoops and five minutes in the french press poured into one of three favorite mugs — this one, soft, creamy white with vertical tan ridges whose valleys my fingers love to run through as I sip — in a matte finish. The matte finish is important. I cannot stand a shiny glaze except in special cases, such as the fucking like rabbits mug my mother gave me. It doesn’t say the words, but upon its white surface are hundreds of little red rabbits in all manner of naughty moments, and in the center, a large heart holding two bunny lovers.

Back to this coffee, and then I’ll tell you about the silver mist.

I’m nearing the bottom of the mug and have concluded that three tablespoons, not two, is the proper amount for the personal sized french press, which I find adorable in its smallness. I used to use the large one, but it was impossible to fill it with only enough for one cup, so I made three and was unfailingly dissatisfied with the temperature of the latter two. Naturally, I made a second round, savored the first pour, and let the rest go cold by the sink. Coffee is not really coffee without fresh steam.

Speaking of steam, I just saw my breath for the first time this autumn. It rained from last evening (beginning when I was walking — my favorite) into morning, and now that it has stopped, the air is that kind of heavy that makes everything feel gentle, quiet… delicate. The trees are baring their limbs to the silver mist and I have never seen anything more beautiful. The intricate fractals of their branches woven with irish moss and wandering vines. When I blur my eyes I swear they are swirling, too. And when I focus? Lungs. I’m sure you’ve seen the photographs.

The other day I read a passage of a book that went, “What are those fuzzy things outside? Trees? I’m sick of them.”

I could never be sick of trees.

In the garden next to me is a Japanese Maple I speak with often. Today she holds fat water droplets on her bare branches. I will go so far as to say they are quite erotic, and that I have the urge to simultaneously touch the tip of my tongue to each one of them with utmost care and precision, while also burying my face in the tangle of wet wood and letting the water run where it may.

A hawk has just flown right to the ground in front of me. They have been circling above all morning, as they often do. Usually two, sometimes three.¹ Now the crows have arrived. How many crows must be present before they become a murder?

It is the crows who taught me the art of listening. Several years ago, I wrote a poem about it, or maybe the crows wrote it, called “Listen to the Crows Speak.” This was the time when I was really coming into my writing. When I was learning the difference between observation and contrivance. I don’t need to tell you of the rage contrivance incites in me, only that I feel it from the first utterance and it is why I never published most of what I wrote before I began listening to the crows; I knew it was phony.

When you listen to the crows — their caws rather jarring until you find compassion for the creatures — you begin to hear every other bird, too. (Why I switched from I to you here, remains to be seen). You begin to hear not singular birdsongs and separate conversations between different species, but something more akin to an improvised symphony. The hum of the garbage truck provides ambiance, and then, layers. The rolling of trashcans across gravel, a car’s high pitched whistling, the thud, thud, thud of a hammer in the distance — keeper of rhythm. A measure of syncopated footsteps here, a cacophonous phrase there, a leaf falling with a cymbalic (get it? hehehe) crackle into a hill of her siblings.

You listen. Life sings.

With love until we meet again,

Faye xx

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“The world is a musical phenomenon. Good music never refers to anything except the music itself. You don’t ask Mr. Bach or Mr. Ravi Shankar what do you mean by this music? What is it intended to express? Bad music always expresses something other than itself, like the 1812 Overture, or the Sunken Cathedral. Good music never talks about anything other than the music. If you ask Bach what is your meaning?—he’ll say, listen. That’s the meaning. —Alan Watts

1. I wrote this by hand originally; as I type now I see the reflection of a hawk in the glass of my desk. I hate the shine of glass, but it is here anyway, showing me.