sunrise ; sunset.

when a child is playing or running, inside their minds they are listening to music  /  independant & private multimuse as being compiled ( but not controlled ) by chili; under massive construction; and by multi i mean 89% rodrigo de souza

[lisztomaniae-blog]

chaied.

THERE WASN’T TIME FOR THIS;  she watched him with a look of mixed fond curiosity & bitter frustration. The frustration seemed to be winning, as she stood just beside his chair with folded arms, her finger tap-tap-tapping away at her left elbow. It took her another moment of watching his slow, very very slow ( larghissimo ) progress before she realized that maybe he was talking to the small wooden blocks, not to her, when he’d thrown that ringing command of stay still into the air.     Besides, there really wasn’t time for this. Where the hell was Michael? She decided to ask him.     “Where’s Michael?” It wouldn’t have taken a genius to catch the disapproval in her tone, & Rodrigo certainly was a genius. “You know you have somewhere to be, right?”     She leaned down, arms still folded, hair hanging just inside the bend of his arm, their heads close enough for her to force him to focus on her. “Maestro?”

RODRIGO IS MOST CERTAINLY NOT A GENIUS. not in the traditionalist sense, anyways. not how he wants people to see him, though certainly some people ( everyone ) sees him for his genius. he gets tired of it sometimes, having to correct people. having to sort through their misconceptions, trying to explain the way things work in his mind. his brain fires off neurons with all the commonality that notes are tied up in the staff lines; there is a longing, a sense of wanting to be free, sending them spiraling higher and higher with every twist, every flick of his wrist, longing, longing, longing―

and then rodrigo screams. and sneezes.

he was lost in thought, to be sure, and in doing so forgets two very important, crucial details. one, hai-lai is at the door. well technically she’s already let herself in, but he doesn’t find that quite so pressing, although she near scares the piss out of him with her closeness. two, and considerably more crucial in his eyes, his nose has been itching for about three hours now. 

*picazón con rencor, he thinks to himself bitterly, sniffing from the floor. rodrigo is a heady sprawl, his scarf instead around his head and his tower a mess on the table.

‘ ¡oye, hai-lei! ’ rodrigo snarls half-heartedly; his pride is more than a little bruised, but that may just be in how he fell so suddenly, and with an auspicious lack of grace in a moment’s frantic antics. 

‘ oh hey, that rhymes. ’

[lisztomaniae-blog]

THERE ARE SUBTLER INTIMACIES AT WORK than are readily apparent to him, and certifiably less to anyone else witness to the occasion. the flies perhaps; he thinks that people have often underestimated the flies capacity for anything, let alone it’s persistence, which seems to be so token in the eyes of today that it’s almost all but forgotten. it is the flies that accompany him, the flies that he prefers abuzz and around his mind’s eye, provided it doesn’t omit him from him his vision...whatever that may be.

‘ hai-lai, shush! shushshushshush *estoy muy centrado en esto ahora mismo, don’t move from that spot! stay right there...stay right...there... ’

@chaied  /  he Did That.