There is only one real way to listen Chopin: earphones, the best ones money can buy, with the volume jacked the shit up. Sometimes when the breeze trickles in and the harmonics are buzzing, I swear to god I can taste his spit. Yea, I know, I have no idea what his spit tasted like, but I imagine it tasted a bit like old booze, cheese and chocolate. I would have liked to make out with Chopin. Not like "full-on almost-have-sex-with-him" make out, but like nibble on his lips, have his laughter curl up into my neck like the smell of old parchment. Or perhaps I would have fucked him. There's something instinctive about wrapping one's leg around something so tragically singular, like the native belief that one can inherit the wisdom/power/virility of one's enemies by eating their vital organs. My thighs shaken from their hunger, my vagina drools at the anticipation. There was something lost when he died. Not that kind of loss that you regret with an "oh shit, I liked that shoes," not even the kind of loss over which you cry and cry and cry for 10 years and refuse to leave your house. Nope, it was like losing one memories, so that you are cheated out of even nostalgia, the ethereal residue of vibrato and tears that reminds us we are perfectly frail, exquisitely susceptible; that we are never alone.
No matter how many times I play it, whether I’m happy, mad or on the verge of having a bath with the toaster, Nocturne Op.9 no1 is just brilliant.
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