Chroma

I sit here with my bass in my lap, my headphones on, my hand on the dial of my amp. All the strings are tuned down one half step, and the treble is turned way down, the volume up. I press my index finger down on the first fret, on the lowest string, and gently strum the string with my thumb. My ears fill with fuzz and hy head feels heavy, the floor beneath me shakes and I can see the drawing mannequin on my desk vibrate slightly. I hold my finger to the fretboard and the the sound hum out of existance, and then firmly place another finger on a fret further down the neck of the guitar.

The change in tone is obvious, maybe to someone with a good ear for music. It's subtle to me, one step up from the last note, the fuzz and the humming continue in my head and the room keeps shaking. The tone change is subtle, but it's there. I feel it like a shade of yellow. Each new note played along this yellow string adds more blue to the mixture, until finally my fingers slide all the way down the fretboard and it changes to a deep and vibrant green. The note rings out and the fuzz keeps coming.

Sitting here on my floor with my bass and my headphones I can think and forget about the distraction of people, the words they write and my insistance on reading them. My inability to ignore and pay no attention to the things that make me weak, and my unwillingness to move on and leave that part of my soul behind.

I don't need to understand this music technically or understand why these notes sound the way they do, which notes match up, because here I don't have expectations or a need to fulfill. I don't have a need to impress or to have something to show of myself. No, here I have my noise and my colour, something that will never grow tired of me, something even providence can't take away.