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Krishna Das
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I am lying in bed on a warm April afternoon, just emerging from a wonderful nap. Two hours ago, I put on some Hariprasad Chaurasia to meditate to... then, getting sleepy, decided to do some "napitation" in bed.
As I am waking up, I hear the music still playing, and am enjoying it's gentle caress. There is a high-pitched vocalist sliding from one pitch to another in beautifully emotional descending phrases. As my conscious mind returns, I reflect that the album actually has only flute for melody... with tabla and tamboura for accompaniment.
The vocalist turns out to be a wailing baby next door - I have the window open on this hot afternoon, as do the neighbors. I watch my mind gradually separate the baby's sounds from the polyphonous circumscription called "the music."
What sound exists within the song, and what sound outside the song? Only a thought determines. Put that thought to sleep, and the whole world is liable to be a song.
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