Writing Music

How do you write a piece of music? I don't mean how do you write music; I mean exactly how do you write prose that captures the rhythm of a piece of a music. The stuff in my head right now deserves recording and I can feel my fingers trying to work out some sequence that will match the music and capture what emotion it creates within me. I see you are worries that a random Friday is approaching. Maybe it is. This could be automatic typing of music. That note means this and this note means that. We came ashore at Flushing and watched the milk being delivered by dogcart. It was like swimming that morning; the air was thick with the summer and promised a hot day. We crawled through the syrupy clouds from the baker's shop and went to find the harbour master. We found him smoking a long thin clay pipe, leaning against the whitewashed wall of the little hut that was his office. We had to walk all round the four sides of the harbour to reach him but he seemed pleased to see us and gave us milk to drink. It was not until then that we all realised exactly how thirsty we actually were. The boat had had no water other than a gallon tub under the forecastle and it was too difficult to get to while the boat moved about. The seriousness of what had happened hit me hard. I was in trouble for this.

The harbour master smoked on in silence for a few minutes and then sat down to help us file the report. The music fell around us like snow, little impacts causing high pitched hissing like cymbals. As it built up, the sheer bulk began to swallow the sound until anything we said felt dead and empty because it no longer echoed. The trees made shadows against the grey sky, touching the clouds like fingers dragged through water while our panic rose and I began to lose sight of the reality of what had happened. I was ill I knew. The blood was leaking from my head into my ears and swallowing the radio sounds that crackled in the corner. The world span about me and fell upwards. I was six again. My head pounded and the music played on like dead things decaying; dry, black leaves and jet engines. I had something serious I knew. I should be in hospital, under those crisp sheets being looked after and everyone here wanted me to get up and walk around. I shouldn't be here. One atom this way in the Universe and I would not have been born.