Wild forces surround us. And forces fuel the soul. Massive mountains no mustard seed can move, are thrust reluctantly, but thrust they are. The goliath sea, a sapphire serpent, gargantuan though it is, allows a nudge to move its lapping border foam, every day and every night of eternity. And winds like madly spinning tops of infant gods, leap and scar the trembling earth, a Terpsichore of air.
But gentle forces also rage, like silent tears and hopeful smiles, and move our mortal core. Sound, a sentient breath of air, a mythic muse of yore. Each malleus strikes the rhythmic hour, and cilia sway applause. It fondles nerves that stir our soul, and leaves contentment there.
Aeolus has so many names, Williams, John, and Horner, James, Goldsmith, Jerry, and Elfman, Dan. They swell our spirit like a trimester fetus, and all without a word. And lest I’m found remiss to link my heart in this, Stu Phillips joins this aerie fold, craftsman of an epic theme that stirs us still.
Music is naught but trembling air. And air is what we breathe. How odd that what keeps us alive, infuses life as well.
Affectionately and respectfully,
Muffit
