The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive


bols

I don't know the bols. I play tabla. I play melody. I don't know where it
comes from or where it goes. My eyes are closed. I sense the skins. I
sense the rings. I sense the syahi. The puri is mine. The chutta are mine.
The tabla sit on chutta. The chutta offer them to me. The chutta offers
the dayan. The chutta offers the bayan. My eyes are closed. My fingers are
nervous. My fingers move. I am going deaf. My tinnitus grows. The world is
full of whine. The world is full of crickets. Of the dawn chorus. The dawn
chorus stops for no hour. I fill my ears with glycerine. I place ten drops
in each. In one I place twenty, My ears drip. My way is clear. My life is
clear. I hear poorly. I swab my ears with witch hazel, I swab them with
benzocaine. I am numb to the world. The world is a pretty picture. The
world goes still. But I feel the tabla. But I feel the dayan and bayan. I
feel the rhythm in the tips of my fingers. I feel the puri with my palms.
I sway backwards and forwards. I sway to the left and the right. There is
nothing to hear. There is nothing to hear in the world. There is nothing
to see either.

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