I just finished one of the Alarcón pieces and I feel spent. Y’know, like after sex. I’m sweaty, stinky, and need a nap. When I work, my heart rate elevates. I’m certain my eyes are fully dilated. I breath faster. I see nothing but what is before me. I get hot rushes all over my body. No, I don’t get an erection or have an orgasm, but when I play back the music when the piece is finished, I’m in ecstacy. I guess it’s related to the birthing process. It’s hot, hurts, is erotic, infuriating, and you feel really satisfied when it’s over.
Cigarette anyone?
["Duel after a Masked Ball" by Gérome, Jean-Léon (1824-1904); oil on canvas]
{ 4 comments… read them below or add one }
For another opinion about blogging and sex, see my [otherwise mute on the subject] father’s post today. There’s Always Something”
How about a cuddle instead of a cigarette?
By the way, your lessons are finally starting to rub off on me. This morning I found a print-out with a transcript of the lyrics for Rufus’ new song Sanssouci (I often print out new lyrics and carry them with me, usually in a book I’m reading, so that I can consult them whenever a thought strikes me) and was reading – and humming – through them. Suddenly I *saw* the structure, and what I had done wrong in grouping them before.
As for composing and sex, (pro)creation makes us feel good.
I couldn’t agree more.
As I say on my website, and to any and all unsuspecting listeners to my lectures: “Composing is a lot like making love. We’re trying to please ourselves. We’re hoping to please at least one other person. And, we are in fact, communicating. Passionately.
P.S.– interesting how you present your dear readers with a painting of death, for an essay about sex. Do we need to put you on the couch for this one??
You must log in to post a comment.