I’ve listened to a thousand symphonies not all of them music, some of them colour. What tips the scale from caterwaul to hymn? What turns a heartbeat to a march? A mathematician invented tuning after all, so where does music sleep? The metal of the bell? The steel of the string? It is how we hear it that makes the tune; song the subjective, dance the objective. Vibrations of life only lack composers. -Leo Cookman
It is a strange breath that fills our lungs in the moment before; the moment before the needle goes in my arm before the first boom of thunder before she starts shouting her oaths before metal meets metal with a rending peel before the final sting in the trailer with the release date before the gunshot before the death rattle before the last swig of the last pint at the end of the night before…
If justice is blind what use are the eyes of the law? A blown out iris, two spheres suspended in formaldehyde or a frosted lens that somehow still sees guilt, redemption, truth. What of justice’s ears? Nose? Mouth? Fingers? What does the law taste? If innocence isn’t ocularcentric she must hear a choir of context or smell a bed of appeals or feel the goose flesh of disclosure. The court may hear but does justice…