corvi (corivax) wrote,

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  • Music:
So a couple of days ago I dreamt I was dead, and ended up in some sort of afterlife that looked like the medeval conception of heaven: angelic being doing various "jobs" - plotting the dance of the stars, singing spring over the face of the earth, celestial record-keeping, whispering sacred songs into the ears of prophets. Reality is programmable, and song is the language. The trick is to hear the song of the universe. Once you hear it, you've no trouble harmonizing with it, changing chord structures. By the way, the universe does not sound at all like country music, which is a very good thing.

So they put me in the Library (I think this may have been a partial result of a long conversation with gfish, shadowblue, randomdreams and dymaxion about how good books smell and whether librarians were sexy). Now, Jack-chick variety Christianity (and I'm actually acutely disturbed that something similar showed up in my dreams - makes me feel vaguely dirty) always has this scene at the end where the evil sinner is at Judgement day, and an angel looks in a huge Book and says to the glowing god-thing, "his name is not here, Lord!" and the sinner is cast into fire and brimstone, et cetera. So that's kinda what the library is - a book for each being with a soul, and when the guy dies, you find his book, and you take it to the Studio, and they decide what to do with it.

The books are full of music, of course. Plain black leather covers, and page after page of music. The way judgement works is they play his own music at the newly-dead guy, and then what they do with him is based on his reaction. So there are lots of orchestral angels, and trust me, you don't know surreal until you pass a couple of people on clouds playing harps delicately plink plink plink - just the way heaven is supposed to be, and on the next cloud there's a guy with a mohawk and a kickass drumset well-loved, the cymbals slightly flattened and some chick with a saxophone, wailing away gleefully, painting jazz color into the sunset over some island in the pacific, muddy oranges and shifting blues.

So, aside from just fetching scores to the Studio, I got to look at the books myself. They're bound in plain black leather, identical sizes. None of them have visible titles, but all of them have what appears to be a stylized silver flower, perhaps a violet, stamped on the spine. The Library is so large there are stars between floor and ceiling. If there even are floors or ceilings; I never find any. A lot of musical scores to peruse, stories and personalities to devour.

So out of curiousity, I started looking for the scores of people I know, and looking in them. Lemme tell you guys: you (and my non-livejournal friends) are freaks. One time I picked up a book and got showered by glitter someone had shut in it. Another time, I noticed several pages missing, and a photograph of a woman with dark hair. At least one person I know has part of the score written in violently scarlet lipstick. Pressed flowers. Cryptic notes scrawled in margins, with what appear to be electric diagrams. Parts written for sousaphone, triangle, Gregorian chanting, harmonica, tapping spoons, laser harp, cat (you pet the cat. the cat purrs. This is accompanied by a whisper of dark, murmuring cello), or thudercloud (mmm, rain sounds).

For the record, I love you guys. Yes, this entire post is a long way to say, "I had a dream and it reminded me my friends are cool. And also utter freaks." So sue me.

Take-home question: How should I recognize your life music, when I see it? Either something wierd about the score itself, or some strange instrument/melody/musical form.

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