Mar 15
Guitar version of Erik Satie's Gnossienne no. 1 as performed by Corde Oblique on their album Cries and Whispers
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Guitar version of Erik Satie's Gnossienne no. 1 as performed by Corde Oblique on their album Cries and Whispers
i decided I’ve had enough of trying to find a design for winslow’s satie sweatshirt, so i made my own. have fun.
Joseph Cornell (American, 1903-1972) Untitled (Satie and Ravel), 1968-69
Collage composed of cut and pasted, commercially printed papers, with graphite, on cardboard, 30 × 22.3 cm
He put down the string he was coiling and stood up. Oh no she didn't, he thought. He climbed down the chain in the grandfather clock with practiced ease and slipped out of a very small crack in the back.
Ok, YES, this was stupid, he said to himself. Well then it's stupid. Maybe he's stupid. He looked to the sides, although he knew she was in the kitchen on her phone. Then he darted across the front room, along the wall in the dining room, and into the vinyl-tiled silo of the kitchen.
She sat at the table, finishing up her conversation with whomever. Pleasantries and goodbye. She put the phone on the table. Right. Let's do this.
He hadn't thought of how exactly he was going to hail her. Well, fuck it. He walked up to her shoe. Mercifully it dipped down below her ankle. He rapped upon it, three times.
She ascended into the atmosphere with the speed and sound of a rocket full of screech owls.
He stepped back a couple of paces while she landed on the chair, her feet scrambling against the tiled floor. She looked down with primal terror etched deeply on her face.
He cleared his throat.
She began to open her mouth but he interrupted, a miniscule bellow. He wasn't used to talking to big folk.
"OK, first of all: did you say I 'scurried'?"
She looked at him and slowly shut her mouth.
"You were talking on your phone device there and you said, 'This place has mice, I saw one scurrying this morning.' You said that."
"... did I? Wait. What..."
He cut in, no small feat when you consider that he was two inches tall with a voice to match, but he had righteousness on his side.
"That was me. I am not a mouse. No ears." He pantomimed ears, waggling his hand at the sides of the top of his head. "No tail." He turned around and shook his rear end at her. "Not a mouse."
She took in this information. He was undoubtedly right. He was not a mouse.
"What... what are you?"
He hadn't considered that. He tried to keep his stern look. His neck was getting sore from craning it so far back.
"A tenant. Just like yourself. A tenant of long-standing."
"Oh," she said. Well that settled that: everything was completely insane. Now that that was clear, she relaxed a bit.
"You said 'first of all'." "Did I?" he said. He hadn't thought this far ahead. He hadn't thought at all. To be honest, it had already been a long day in a long string of long days. Getting called a rat, well, who could have stood for that? "Well! Yes I did!" He desperately tried to keep his composure. He sensed the power shifting and he wanted to be gone before it went all the way.
"I like the way you play piano."
He turned and started walking back towards the front room. He was just riffing at this point. He was just saying anything, trying to wrong-foot her. Well, really more screaming anything. Keep her confused. Could she even hear him? The truth was he did like the way she played piano. Not infrequently, he would climb into the instrument from the back so he could hear the squeak and rasp of the pedals being used, in a cloud of sound, the wires blurring as they were struck. When he did that he could feel the music more than hear it.
He could only do that every so often because he'd be deaf for hours afterwards. Usually he just sat quietly far up in the clock and listened.
"... thanks?"
"Keep it... uh, keep it up," he yelled at the top of his voice. He reached the door from the kitchen to the dining room. She remained in her chair. He turned around. He suddenly remembered something her heard her say to someone who was leaving.
"SMELL YOU LATER."
He had never run so fast as he did then, but he didn't hear her trompy footsteps coming. He made it into the clock.
What did I just do? he thought.
She remained at the table, glanced around, reached across for a half-full bottle of cabernet.
He likes the piano, she thought as she took out the cork, regarded it for a second, threw it over her shoulder and drank straight from the bottle. She looked down at the sheet music on the table. One page. Vexations, by Eric Satie.
She smiled and put down the bottle. This oughta hold him, she thought.
Erik Satie: VEXATIONS VexationsVexationsVexationsVexationsVexationsVexationsVexationsVexationsVexationsVexationsVexationsVexationsVexationsVexationsVexationsVexationsVexations ... ... ...
