Daydreaming to Music

����������� She pressed the tuner button, the stations whirring by to land on 88.9.� A piano jazz song floated out of the speakers, lazily surrounding her, making her eyes drift close . . .
����������� She saw a black, white and grey 5os bar.� The band was in the far left corner, a drum, bass, piano, and saxophone and clarinet player making it up.� A microphone was set in the center of the makeshift stage, and a tall man stood behind it, foot tapping along with the beat.� Smoke hovered about the tables that circled the dance floor, ladies in slinky, muted-toned dresses holding their cigarettes between their fingers; men in white suits, complete with thin black stripped ties and hats leaning tantalizingly close to their forms.� Sailors and their lovers, perhaps, or even a stranger, rocked back and forth on the dance floor, the woman�s heads buried into their shoulders, the men�s chins settled into their partner�s hair.� The ride cymbal hissed along with the piano, the chattering of the surrounding people�s voices mingling boredly, slowly, with the melody.
���������������� �When we wanna love, we love
����������������� When we wanna kiss, we kiss
����������������� In our happy setting, we�re getting, some fun, outta life.�
����������� The tune picked up pace; though its indolent movements still remained.� The bass joined in, the instrument seeming to come out of nowhere, strings plucked with an absent care.�
���������������� �When we wanna sing, we sing
�������������� ��� When we wanna dance, we dance
����������������� You can do your betting, we�re getting, some fu-uu-un, outta life.�
����������� The sax cut in next; soothing tones, seeming to cue the tall woman whom sauntered in through the back entrance, hips swaying along with the monotone beat.� No one looked her way; the music was still taking over their senses . . .
����������� The DJ broke in again, his voice hinting at how he really didn�t want to be there; by the way it perked up when he said that the next DJ would be coming in, soon.� Black and white pictures continued to float in front of her gaze; the song still lingered, though it had long gone.
����������� Classical music flowed gently from the speakers just after her thought had finished, fuzzy but understandable.
����������� Elegant bouquets of courtiers, each moving with a superb, unmatched grace stepped into her view.� Huge dresses were they clothed in, of every grand colour to be imagined.� Dazzling jewels hung from their necks in glittery strands, huge stones catching and scintillating in the light provided by the crystal chandelier that was positioned overhead.
����������� Couples paired as they moved to the dance floor, pausing only to start right into the classical waltz, doing nothing but the basic box step, each in synch with the ones next to them.� The orchestra � and it was one � sat at the end of the ballroom, the penguin-tailed conductor waving his bony hands wildly.� A viola player stood, her eyes closed as she played the thickly lovely solo.
����������� The huge French double-doors swung open the fraction of an inch.� What looked to be a serving girl slipped in, wearing a simple grey dress.
����������� Again, no one paid her heed.
����������� . . . the static overtook the piece of music.� She frowned, and set her finger on the button again, scrolling past the further buzzed out stations.
����������� 93.6 was playing what sounded like an old Beatles song, the very 7os tune overtaking the remnants of the classical piece.
����������� She saw . . .
����������� Rainbow colours.� V & W bugs.� Peace signs.� Hippies in tie-dye, loops of love beads.� They stood in the middle of a dark street, made light only by the flashing lights and music, to which they all swung to, and which was played to a stage in the center.� Long hair and beards bobbed in the breeze, the smell of pot in the area was overpowering.� They all were smiling, not caring whom their �partner� was.� All high, and simply moving.
����������� The woman stepped out of a light blue car, that had sun-yellow streaks placed haphazardly along the sides.� She shoved locks of red-brown hair from her eyes and stepped into the swirling mass of people.


(( This is a variation of Daydreaming to Music . . . the same idea.� Which form do y'like better? ))

����������� I heard a love song.� The words were sweet, making me think of him, picture his words.
I saw a red rose, blossoming into life.� The picture widened, and I saw a fireplace with two candlesticks � unlit � on the mantle.� The rose was in a tall crystal vase between the candles, what would be considered a perfect still life to artists.� I could feel myself smiling, and then hear a DJ talking.� The picture faded away.
I waited patiently until another song came on, these new lyrics rather melancholy, though it was hard to put a name to the tune.� One of those that becomes quickly stuck in your head, the familiar lyrics making you grin though frown partially, for you know it�s a sad song.
����������� I saw a train station, of all things.� I stood at the railroad tracks, tears streaming down my face.� A gust of wind blew through the station, carrying dry dust past my eyes, the residue clinging to the moist trails that ran down my now-flushed cheeks.
����������� I stood there alone, nothing in my hands, nothing by my feet . . . a deserted area, more or less.
����������� Again, the song changed, washing away my fake-tears. This was a new-age, celtic-ishy sounding aria, a mysterious tune with no voice accompaniment.� I closed my eyes again, and saw . . .
����������� . . . a sky full of spirals.� The shapes looked as if they were quite natural to the people down below, despite the fact that they simply weren�t.� They seemed as if they might fall, threatening those below who passed so casually underneath.� A silvery grey cat slunk through the people�s legs, purposefully weaving its way through the crowd.� It began up some steep stairs, feet padding without a sound on the hard concrete.
������������With its eyes I saw �
����������� The song changed again.

Back to the Library.


This story (C) Emily Kirsch, 2ooo.� Please, be a nice, nice person and don't take it, that'd just be . . . mean.