A War for Courts

On Mondays it’s Coltrane. It gets the week going. A little love supreme in the morning, on the 1st Ave bus uptown to 42nd Street. Office cubicles turn into soundtracks. I turn a corner on the third level of floor fifteen and these are a few of my favorite things. The coffee percolates and hums with the memory of morning on the bus, Coltrane wheezing through the exhaust.

On Tuesday I take the bus to Method. Give it to me give give it to me raw. The angles on buildings in midtown sharpen, and the sun gets suddenly brighter. Slanting against taxis and the sound of the subway the agression of crowds becomes manageable, here I am, here I am, the method man. A logic of images and myth turns cities into gateways to [g]od like ancient Babylon.

Wednesday melancholy with the Cure. Seventeen Seconds or Faith, reverberating voices like ghosts in windtunnels of buildings labyrinths of city landscapes. Ghosts of memories of my youth, halfway through the week – halfway through my life? Halfway home, change your mind, you’re always wrong.

Thursday I get silly and listen to Thriller. Then I change my mind on my last minute out the door and transform the day with Under the Cherry Moon. New York is Paris in black and white! Girls and boys walking hand in hand anticipating the weekend. You don’t have to beautiful to be my girl; I just want your extra time and New York, locked in a french kiss, turning the mundane into sheer bliss.

Friday I choose Prokofiev, because I like to begin and end the week without other voices. Its my Friday theme song: Peter’s theme propels me through the day like a wolf. I find myself laughing at disasters, and smiling at strangers. The sun goes down and the moon comes up, and the week dissolves in music.

Sometimes I see people sitting in a quietly cynical silence on the subway, and wonder how they let the city sabotage the solace of the solitary courts of their mind. It’s a harsh, violent, unfriendly, unstrange music, the music of the street. It threatens to snatch your sanity. Music maintains and defamiliarizes in beautiful dissonances all that’s become mundane.