Cantata No. 106 (Doot)
In his dreams, he sang so beautifully. Like a classically trained operatic performer, with easily four or five octaves of range, a baritone that vibrated the ceiling, that was how he sang in his dreams. It was a pleasant dream.
“In sleep he sang to me, in dreams he came, that voice which calls to me, and speaks my name. And do I dream again?”
It was a pleasant dream, for, in the waking the world, he hated his voice. In recording, in echo, on the telephone, it didn’t make much difference—he hated it, dispassionately in a calculated way. Everything he did was dispassionate, honestly.
“Angel of Music! Guide and guardian! Grant to me your glory!”
He remembered, with an edged clarity, the day he realised how hideous his voice was when heard outside his own skull; that was the problem: his voice sounded so wonderful to his own ears. But, the sound vibrates the air differently outside one’s own head, as it were, and he, one day, finally heard his voice on the answering machine, and wanted to vomit.
“Stranger than you dreamt it—can you even bear to think of me: this loathsome gargoyle, who burns in hell, but secretly yearns for heaven?”
Late at night, he would put on headphones and listen to operas in order to lull himself to sleep. He would never dare to try and sing along, as he had made it a habit to speak as little as possible. He dreamt that he was on the stage always, though.
“In sleep he sang to me, in dreams he came, that voice which calls to me, and speaks my name. And do I dream again?”
It was a pleasant dream, for, in the waking the world, he hated his voice. In recording, in echo, on the telephone, it didn’t make much difference—he hated it, dispassionately in a calculated way. Everything he did was dispassionate, honestly.
“Angel of Music! Guide and guardian! Grant to me your glory!”
He remembered, with an edged clarity, the day he realised how hideous his voice was when heard outside his own skull; that was the problem: his voice sounded so wonderful to his own ears. But, the sound vibrates the air differently outside one’s own head, as it were, and he, one day, finally heard his voice on the answering machine, and wanted to vomit.
“Stranger than you dreamt it—can you even bear to think of me: this loathsome gargoyle, who burns in hell, but secretly yearns for heaven?”
Late at night, he would put on headphones and listen to operas in order to lull himself to sleep. He would never dare to try and sing along, as he had made it a habit to speak as little as possible. He dreamt that he was on the stage always, though.
posted by c.Jay Wrong at
4:47 AM
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