April 16, 2014

Mad people across the water, part 4

“We’ll get that sorted f’ya, luv,” the neck-tattooed hotel receptionist tells me as he hands me a city map that dates back to 2001, and it hits me that I haven’t been on this island in seven years. Before Birmingham for conference, there had been Edinburgh for graduation, and Bristol for business, and London for pleasure.


It takes all I have not to say,


“Have you ever read Redburn by Herman Melville? A young American sailor explores Liverpool using his father’s old guidebook from fifty years earlier in that novel. Or the documentary series Great Continental Railway Journeys, where the 1913 Continental Railway Guide is used to retrace what is left of the Edwardian perception of Europe a hundred years later?”


I shut up and ponder this apparent Anglo-Saxon fascination with belated maps on my own. Portillo and Melville are not even remotely similar, after all, and The Cube and The Mailbox would find me later through unmapped routes anyway. The receptionist would not have that sorted for me, luv, but my room would be cleaned despite my saying no housekeeping please. Some nations can afford not to be up to speed with the world, I guess.


Blessed Britain, where, thanks to a rampant regal Y-chromosome from five hundred years ago, women can today be ordained as priests.


Where a conference colleague can talk about his husband with the exact same pride I have when I brag that “my boy reads Pynchon.”


Where club managers look like Del Boy and the drunks are waited on by ambulances scattered on Broad Street Gomorrah like watchful birds, without even being summoned. I tried to imagine what that cost in comparison to this and this. But hey, at least the drunks came in all shapes and sizes. “Birmingham is very diverse,” my Pakistani cab driver would tell me on the 4-a.m. ride to the airport.


Victoria was elusive that night. She was supposed to be a beacon towards a far-from-the-madding-crowd pub, but she kept disappearing up and down Broad Street, as if somehow weightless in her stony majesty, and I would see The Floozie in the Jacuzzi* sooner than Victoria. When we finally found her, she did not care. I thought about how magnanimity comes from leisure, and freedom from oppression, where your dirty work is done for you and you have the luxury of drop-kicking your shameful to the other side of the globe. Blessed Britain.


I found shelter in the far-from-the-madding-crowd pub, after leaving the cliques and neuroses of fellow humanities’ freaks at the hotel along with my heels. I encountered a vernacular soul who had read “that terrible book” Moby-Dick twice, and made me laugh more than any of the two hundred fellow neurotics earlier. I was told that my favorite Edinburgh pub, The Blind Poet, was still standing, and I could feel it pulling at my heartstrings from seven years ago and five hours up north. I remembered that you hail a bus in the UK and say “Thank you” to the driver, I remembered how you tip over there, I remembered to look right then left, and how much I dislike ‘circuses.’ I found the Cube, the Mailbox, and the geese in the canals. I found rowdy Jamaicans in the Peace Garden, and cathedral spires craning their necks like sunflowers growing from glass and steel.


“God bless you, my sweetheart,” my cab driver would say as I left. We will have talked about qawwali and Sufism and Nusrat, and curry and cab drivers’ working hours, and the children that Britain had taken possession of and misplaced over the centuries, that were now identifying the mother ship by her wake and claiming her back.


I found my breath in displacement once more.


I realized, once again, how much I feed off my dissociation.


It had been too long.


I returned to a freshly painted apartment with no doors, to a country which has a constitutional ban on gay marriage yet has just approved two people to officially change the gender in their documents without undergoing a sex change operation. I returned to a plastic recycling plant aflame half a mile from where I live and a toxic cloud of DeLilloesque proportions. Mine is a wicked and cruel lot sometimes, and more often than not I wish a cosmic flood could wash them clean again.


I returned to find my bird on its last legs. I genuinely thought I would lose him in a matter of hours. He’s never going to recover, but he has picked himself up since I came back. My fantastic veterinarian sister reminded me that parakeets are sensitive buggers who sometimes pluck all their feathers out in protest if their owners go AWOL. Flattering as it is to think he might have just gone sicker missing me, and there’s precious few things I value more in this world than animal loyalty, my bird is a loner and I love him for it. He might be dying but he will bite your finger off if you touch him. In the face of human desperation for someone to just keep us safe and warm and hold our hand as we leave this world, I am stunned by the dignity of animals who prefer to die alone, dissociated enough to return to the very same nature that bore them.
My other "Mad people across the water" writing can be found here:
* I am told that Dubliners' own Floozie, or Biddy in the Bidet, or the Whore of the Sewer, predates Birmingham's: Anna Livia Plurabelle.

March 21, 2014


The smell of coffee early in the morning. The whistle of a clogged vacuum cleaner. Wine stains on the carpet and square halos where old photographs used to hang on the wall. Footsteps, laughter. What shall we do for lunch? The scent of fresh-cut flowers and kitty litter. Music and mud in the hallway.

A life lived.


Do you think they know, when they are built, to expect us somewhere down the line? Are they eager to meet us?

The homes that have us. That raise our children and endure our noise. That see us when no one is looking and cradle our fragility.

Homes that we build. That we are made to leave. Those that were just houses that we never made our own. Those that craved an owner like a tired fighting pitbull, and perhaps spent a lifetime licking their wounds and waiting.

Homes that couch our defeats, and respectfully show them the door when they overstay their welcome. Those that anticipate our triumphs, and celebrate quietly by ruffling a few curtains and stretching their eaves.

Homes that get off on our lovemaking, and sigh and pillow talk with us. That watch us change partners, that change and grow with us. That comfort us when they are gone. That allow their walls to get cold after we are left alone. That listen to too much Adele and La Roux when we are gone as well.

Those that always remain projects, or promises. That were supposed to, should have, ought to, someday will…

Homes that are sad to watch us abused, abandoned, and lost. Those that never get to see happiness inside their walls. Those that were chosen to harbor secrets, ghosts, and death, without having a say in it.

Homes that keep us our entire lives, and those that we treat like train stations, means to an end. Homes that are not even ours, yet embrace us and we get to stay. Homes across the ocean, homes that let us go and never get over us. Those that wait, and wait, and wait for us to return.

Homes that gave us freedom. And those who gave us shit from the moment we moved in. Those that watched us make fools of ourselves and never asked a question. Those that we disappointed.

Do they know their fate in advance?

Do they enjoy being flipped?

Do they know when they are about to be torn down?

Are they jealous?

Do they have regrets?

Our drawbridges








Those that we never forget, and that never forget us, and our lives lived.

March 12, 2014


A few years back I was asked two simple questions: if you could be any animal, what would it be? And, if you could have any animal, which one?

Code for, how you see yourself, and how you see your ideal partner.

I said cat, and horse.

I’ve changed my mind.

I am an elephant.

Elephants can be trained to sniff out poachers, and match them to the exact snares and guns they touched.

Rescue elephants come back from the wilderness, willingly, to their rescuers for help when they are attacked with poisoned arrows. They know their safe places.

Baby elephants throw themselves in mud when upset, apparently.

That’s how you become a big stomper when you grow up.

More than anything, elephants don’t forget.

I danced yesterday, and my heels refused to hit the floor.

They clickety-clicked like a fucking tap dancer’s.

I dug not the allegria yesterday.

It feels like the happy dance of an octogenarian who just discovered he did not die during the night.

Imagined invincibility.

As sweat poured down my neck

I smeared my feet into the ugly distorted marcajes of the farruca.

The ones that look like you stepped in dog shit

Or like you’re putting out a cigarette.

Can you imagine the biteable cuticles on an elephant?

I told my heels I was a stomper with a minor in faceplanting

Give me the yang, you fuckers

You don’t understand

The trunk said out of the mud

That is not why I am upset

That is not why I am crying

That is not why I am furious

The herd watched

Raised an eyebrow

Took a dump

And waited.

I’ve changed my mind.

December 24, 2013

Je bricole

“So, you ride too?”

This just after I’ve told the story of the last time I fell off a horse to a bunch of professional riders. My rambunctious pony had decided that it was a good day to gallop out of formation and shake me off while he was at it. My stirrup got detached from the saddle, my hand got caught in the reins and I ended up with my arm in a cast and a nice black eye from one of his back hooves. Luckily for me, ponies don’t wear shoes. And I got a month of not having to write any notes or homework in school. Score.

“Um, no, I was ten when this happened.”

“Hey Chris, do you still sing?”

“Um, not really, I stopped taking lessons like thirteen years ago.”

Not that ships and sailors aren’t sexy, but I had to wonder: I used to be this creative, passionate amateur, dabbling in all sorts of things. When exactly did I turn into a Fachidiot of academia and translation? And how beautiful that people still associated me with athletic and creative endeavors, even though I abandoned them decades ago.

And then it arrived. My new joy.

Me: “Honey, I think I am going to take up F L A M E N C O.”

Murdoc: “Come again?” [he actually said something else but I’m censoring it]

Me: “Yeah, I’m an angry little woman stamping my feet all the time as it is. Don’t you think it would be perfect for my character?”

Murdoc: “Well if you’ve put it that way, yes.”

So, yes. I have been dancing.

Twice a week I pack a duffel bag with shoes, skirt, water bottle, leg warmers and other dancer paraphernalia. We practise braceos, marcajes, taconeos. We do ballet. We do the tangos choreography for fun and the fandangos for keeps – we are performing it in February [hyperventilation, thy name is moi]. We laugh our asses off and get yelled at. We do balance exercises in animal slippers. Forget the cheap loud celebrations of soccer chants and French matadors: the olé is something you slip in huskily between steps, a bridge between pleasures, an indication that the fun has only just begun. Planta, tacón, gólpes. Planta, tacón, gólpes. Faster. Keep the beat.

I thought you had to be three years old and bendy to do turnouts and grand pliés. You don’t. I thought my bad posture and nonexisting abs would get in the way. They did. I am inherently musical but have never trained professionally. The newly self-aware middle-aged skinsuit has its limits, its knots, traumas and inhibitions. But the body is such a grateful little instrument. And there is that moment when, with the help of a broomstick, you learn how to bend from the rib and not the waist. When that attitude comes out just right, knees open, feet brushing through the first position, coupled with perfect floreos and a flick of the chin. When compáses stop being something you count, but just dance instead. When you feel your body firming up from the inside, wrapping tighter around itself. The gym makes you bulgy. Dancing makes you spindly. Look Ma, I’m an athlete now. I give the world attitude with a sweep of my skirt. Bam.

It is pure yang. Not everyone would agree. There are many different styles and incredible dancers out there, some very feminine, and I’ll be damned if Eduardo Guerrero isn’t one androgynous little Gitano. But it is pure yang. You have to be soft and explosive at any single time, firm and limber in the same motion, tempered yet ready to pounce. If you appear light or gentle, it is because the yang has allowed it. It is a masculine kind of elegance.

Our bailaor has this down to a T. It is enchanting to watch him move. He does with the body what I do with language. He can do the same braceo in three different ways, and you will be able to tell which one is tangos, which fandangos, and which soleá. He can repeat your mistakes effortlessly, with just a sprinkle of caricature on top, so that you can see what you’re doing wrong. Dancing is always a little schizophrenic, he says. You’re always imagining resistance where there is none.

A few years ago I saw a documentary about the former Formula One champion, Alain Prost. After retiring from professional racing, he found an amateurish kind of pleasure in cycling. There was a scene in his garage, him fiddling with wrenches, bike wheels hanging on the walls, spare parts all over the place. He seemed no less devoted to cycling than he had been to car racing, but he was more playful. Je bricole, he said with a smile.

I tinker.
Carmen Amaya

December 16, 2013

It's yours.

I don't know if you've noticed, but after a wee bit of a hiatus, my man has started writing again. And I am so proud that I just had to share it here. The post that follows below is meant to be read with his "Merry Fucking Christmas" (don't you love it already?). We didn't exactly write them together, mine was more of a response to his, so please read that one first. How many installments of long-distance amour can one write? I guess we'll have to wait and see, because there is no breaking point for a good love.


There are three clocks and two watches in my bedroom. Only one of the clocks ticks. The rest are silent.

He heard my voice before he knew what I looked like. It was against the background of a ticking clock and images from another life. He fell deeper in love.


A hundred and sixty-nine days since we last slept in the same bed.

Fifty-three days since his birthday.

Thirty-eight till mine.

It is two in the morning, the clock ticks in my bedroom somewhere across town. I am standing on the kerb, dressed in lucid untipsiness, scanning people and cabs. It’s happy drunks tonight, no bad vibes or danger for a single woman returning home in the middle of the night. Friends have left and will check up on me later. For a moment, a sense of entitlement overwhelms my privileged heart: shouldn’t someone, a loved one, be coming to pick me up?

Baby girl, love isn’t logistics. And you are not a puppy but a Rottweiler in her prime who can get her sweet ass home. Friends don’t owe you pity and the world is paying you a compliment by letting you take care of yourself.


Seven hundred and thirty-nine letters.

We are tied together by invisible strings, reaching across the ocean. When he twitches, I move. When I hurt, he feels it.

It is two in the morning and I am standing on the kerb. I feel like I am being steeped in cold, starting with my toes and moving further up. It is gradual, irrevocable and about to completely take over my body. Some people are attracted to Alaska, or Italy, or the Moon. I was born in French Polynesia lifetimes ago. I walk with grains of beach between my toes, quiet flaneuse born to be a taboo kanaka, to live in the space between, to connect the unconnectable all around and across.

The man can fucking write, I think as I rub my legs together in third position, cold and horny. His letters seduce me anew every time; his blog posts are familiar rooms, fireplaces, paintings, armchairs where I make myself at home. Sometimes he tells me the same stories all over again, and I listen. I never want to stop listening. I take a moment to close my eyes and compose my next letter.


I will always want to write to you. Always.


Four hundred and ninety-one days since we first kissed.

I tried writing about that kiss. Several times. And scratched every time. Perhaps I will get it right some day. Perhaps it is one of those things that cannot ever be written.

I will be in bed by three. He will be at choir practice, leading the lost boys home. We will chase each other across time zones. He will write to me while I sleep. I will respond before he wakes up.

My body will convulse under the covers. No longer sleeping but not fully awake either, I feel my transoceanic strings tugging. My seat of power is deep in my belly, but this I feel in my solar plexus. It is him. He is writing, calling. I curl up underneath the sheets, collecting myself around him.

I hover over the house that is my castle, where I am present only in voice now, and the regalia I left behind. I find him over the telescope, scheming and aching, and wrap myself around him.

Lock the door and pull up the drawbridge if you wish, honey.

You are King.

Load the shotgun, growl and roar.

Dance and sing your heart out, and I will sing with you.

Don’t you know that everything is allowed to those who hear the big music?

It’s yours.

It’s all yours.


Seventy-eight days together. How many more left, to wait and to live? How many uncountables in this love, so outstretched and strong? How far can we go this time around, and what will be left for the next?


I will always want to write to you. Always.


December 5, 2013

The Scorpion and the Dragon Queen

We fight to the tingling of Raindrops keep falling on my head from a passing ice-cream truck.

I curse and yell in a language that is not mine.

“Where did you come from?” I ask, as if I did not know.

He read my call and turned his house into a pulsar.

He came on a cloud of synchronicity, strewing galaxies from his pockets like marbles. Thumped his chest with specters from beyond the pale – the offer of a graceful bow-out, all the freedom I could want. I shook in my boots as I circled around his black wings but gave him that smarty-pants Joan-of-Arc look that said

I am not going anywhere.

He sees me in my language. I come from far away, and he is not of this world. Billy Pilgrim, unhinged in time, I, his inverse double. Aeons are Baoding spheres in his hand. I can stretch seconds into lifetime bubblegum strings before I chew them anew.

He asks if he can get into bed with me. Tells me he loves the way I kiss. His hands, throbbing with calluses, find me in the dark. The Scorpion tail is put to rest and wrapped around me in the softest lovers’ whisper. This magnificent beast has chased me and caught me. You with your New England ways in Old World skin, with ghosts pacing about in the middle of the night, with your uncompromising majesty of patient returns, tell me: am I your redemption?
Just love me.

I do. I do sleep with a dagger, because there is no greater honor in this world than watching over him. There is nothing light, simple or easy about us. We are egos, wit, and intellect. We are lust, tenderness, and pathos. Dragon Queen of this Nation of Two, I embrace my cosmic exhibitionist soul mate. I have chosen and claimed him. I crave him. I give in to his protection, and will never let him fall.

November 29, 2013


This is about everyone I know, and no one in particular. I believe that we all were, or will be, all of these people, or parts of them, at some point. An exercise in the exemplariness of mimetic desire. The difference between what we want, what we get, and what we need. How wanted and loved we are even when we don't suspect it, and how we keep wanting and loving beyond what we want, get, and need.


“Yours is the kind of face one remembers,” he said to you the night you met.

“Is that good or bad?” you responded predictably, with what was supposed to be a careless confident smile, but he made you weak in the knees right off the bat.

You told your mother about him. You never raised your hopes too high but my God, they didn’t make them like him anymore, and your first names went together so well. Might have been a couple.

Only his hand is on the small of her back now, drawing circles even gentler than you had imagined. They are talking to a group of friends but you sense the attraction between them in this barely perceptible touch from across the room. You weren’t prepared for this, walking into your favorite bar to meet a girl friend after work. You wish you’d had time to fix your make-up and take a deep breath before having your space invaded like this. His friends are crazy about her, you've heard, and she seems so totally cool you might have hung out with her yourself, had he not fallen for her and made it all awkward and impossible.

There was no reason for him not to fall for you. You are smart, educated, you take care of yourself. You are independent and have a career. When you change your profile picture on Facebook, you get at least a hundred likes and comments like “Hott!!!” and “Do you ever age???” You shared his passion for exotic cuisine and cars – you were the cool Nitro chick, Goddamnit. You can shoot a gun and like to go camping. There were synchronicities in your life that told you it was no accident that you met. You two practically had your own language when you first hung out. People were starting to talk, and you didn’t mind at all.

You’re sensitive but you’ve been around the block. You don’t make rookie mistakes, except he was so fantastic that you did. You were there when he had a bad day at work, understanding and controlledly flirtatious. You showed up at his favorite bar all dolled up accidentally on purpose, and he noticed. He called you that one time in the middle of the night drunk, and you didn’t want to, tried not to, but you did get excited. He is a swarthy badass, and they have a way of being gallant, because that’s just how they roll.

But he never thought about you that way. He liked your company, and his ego might have used you a little bit, because you made yourself available in the right place at the right time. You write ambiguous status updates on Facebook now and change your profile picture one subtly sexy shot at a time, hoping for that one like among the hundred, that one click that might tell you he is still around, even if he has someone, even if he is madly in love and you are dating someone yourself and your new guy worships you. The hope that the sight of your face might put a smile on his, that he at least remembers you and the language you shared some time ago. Not so long ago at all.

You watch his hand rub the small of her back in this barely perceptible, shamelessly erotic PDA, and the heat between them tells you of the steamy night that should have been yours. She gets him the way no one else could, you see it in the way he looks at her. You could find faults with her if you wanted, but that wouldn’t change the fact that he’s taking her home tonight and not you. He never thought about you that way, and he barely remembers you now. There is no rhyme or reason to this. You are smart, educated, independent, and beautiful. Once upon a time you might have needed someone to tell you this. You don’t anymore. There is no rhyme or reason to this, except that they were meant to be together, and your happiness lies elsewhere.



Bad things happen to good people sometimes. You just didn’t think it would happen to you.

You knew you were reaching beyond yourself when you let yourself fall for her. Perhaps you even knew she would blow your fucking world apart in the end, but you took a chance anyway. You’d played it safe up until then, and it would have been so easy to settle for someone lesser. But you’re no idiot, and you wanted to go higher.

She was out of this world. You didn’t quite know who or what she was, but you wanted it. You watched and studied her, knowing that it would take something different to win her over. And you played your cards right. She fell in love with you. The way she spoke, the tornado of energy she brought home each day after work, the way her body moved when she dressed. And undressed. The things you two did, in the car on the highway, hidden among ocean cliffs on your last vacation together, behind the laundry room door in your building as neighbors walked by in broad daylight.


One of your female coworkers just found out you’re newly single, and offered to take you out for a drink after work. She’s kinda smart, only not really. And she’s kinda pretty, only not really. [Don’t say it. Don’t say, she’s not her. There, you’ve said it, dickhead] The part of you that is still capable of noticing women in this state notes her short skirt and freshly applied lipstick, even though it should have worn off after a day at the office. It would be so easy. But you just want to sit here and be numb, because the sheets are barely cold at home and her perfume is still everywhere.

You are a good man, but you will do stupid things. You will want to see her destroyed and crawling back to you, even though you know it could never be the same again. You will drunk dial her and wonder how come you’re not entitled to her picking up the phone anymore. You will not understand why she is scared of you now. You will blame her for taking away things you imagined ten years down the line, like the kids you’d already named in your mind and the house you would have bought together. You will take up skydiving or hunting or some such, just to get an adrenaline rush from somewhere else instead of this raging jealousy.

Really? This tantra instructor, ten years her junior? With Jesus-like fucking hair and dirty sheets for clothes? He probably even stinks like Jesus, too. What could that quack piece of shit possibly have to offer her? And wasn’t there a movie like this somewhere that we laughed at, but… you promised you would eat whale blubber? And how did that stupid Aerosmith song go that she used to sing, All those late-night promises, I guess they don't mean a thing...

You wanted to be part of her world. She had you hanging off a cliff, reaching back to you from above, inviting you to follow her and go higher. She was sad to see you make a different choice. She didn’t owe it to you to stay, just like you didn’t owe it to her to climb fucking cliffs. You are a different kind of hero. You made her happy for a long time, but the truth was you hadn’t been happy in awhile. She was just the braver one, even if she was cruel. You decided cliffs were not your thing and she smelled a new alpha in the jungle. There are no high roads in break-ups.

Maybe someday you will get all that karma bullshit she was on about, maybe you won’t. Maybe the smart and pretty, only not really, coworker will turn out to be the best thing that ever happened to you. Your sun is setting in a different sky tonight, and there is nothing you can do about it anymore. This love did take you farther than you ever thought you could go, and she might have just ruined you for all other women. There is no rhyme or reason to this, only the lifetime of choices you are left with now. Your sun is setting in a different sky tonight, and your happiness lies elsewhere.

November 25, 2013


I used to be better at this being-an-adult business.

I knew how to hold back tears. I would hear whispers behind my back. An occasional direct insult would be spoken. I was ostracized. I learned that kids were fickle creatures, and I could not fathom where the cruel and malicious came from. But I never thought that there was anything wrong with me. I knew that I was simply in the wrong place, and there would be my kind of people somewhere if I only stuck it out. And I never let it show.

I used to be able to look back on things that made me sad, and appreciate that I was not in that place anymore. The knowledge that they ended gave me strength. It’s gone, I would say. It’s past. And I was able to leave it there, carrying only the strong with me.

I remember noting thresholds in my journal. Moments of clarity, when things fell into place. Moments of growth, when I was able to articulate things out loud after years of failing to whisper them even in solitude, with no one around but my own voice. I remember a growing curve of empowerment, centered and steady, knowing as much as I could at the time, understanding as much of myself as was good for me.

I knew my cycle of amping up and surrendering. I would allow myself to get upset over something to the point of breaking. Then I would break through, surrender, and continue bigger and better. My breaking points used to whizz underneath my feet like sleepers on a railway track. Intense, fast, irreversible.

Something happened to me three years ago. Something happened and I gave away my personal power, or perhaps I was merely shown that whatever private Alexandria I had built, it was time to watch it burn to the ground. The sleepers started reversing, and got further apart. I can now take more than I ever thought I could, and yet every step feels like walking on broken glass. Past pain returns with a vengeance, despite the clarity and having let go. I cannot hold back tears anymore. Whatever armor I had in my command when I was thirteen is gone.

Winter will always smell like America, like my most powerful and my most vulnerable.

I will always feel guilty about making choices that affect those I love, no matter how benevolent, serendipitous, or wise. I will have to learn to make peace with my agency.

I will always be made of an abrasive kind of stardust. I will speak a distant kind of language, and there will always be a part of it that no one will understand. Not even my glorious soul mate. And that’s OK.

I will always negotiate my alone, my solitary, my lonely and my remote. It is who I am, just like I am connection, tenderness and love.

I will always have more than one home. And that is perfect.

October 28, 2013

Broken glass

I dreamt
That I was on a plane
That went down
I dreamt
That my cat had my bird in her mouth
I dreamt
That my sister announced her engagement
I dreamt
Of eating shards of broken glass like potato chips

I woke up
To thunder and rain
Purring, slow, patient
Between the sunrise, when I went to bed
And when I opened my eyes
The heat haze had gone
And fall was sitting on my couch

I fed the bird, the cat, and the hangover
My body had deflated
Into the line that runs down the middle of my being
I exist in two
My dragon tail drags behind me
And I am broken, transitioning

When I open up this suitcase
It smells like old souls meeting
And the spread of a pair of white wings
To go Noplace real slow, purring, and patient
Come find me
And find me again
This God’s child is in love with you
Come tell me
And tell me again
No music should be lost
In this short short life.