To: K-list
Recieved: 2000/08/12 20:28
Subject: Re: [K-list] Thinking Machine
From: Bestpoet
On 2000/08/12 20:28, Bestpoet posted thus to the K-list:
In a message dated 08/12/2000 2:20:56 PM Eastern Daylight Time,
ravensdawnATnospamearthlink.net writes:
<< Yours and everybody's,
Paul
(hailing from the
low rent district
of the universe.) >>
Hey Paul,
Thanks for clueing me in. As a reward for your effort, I will impart one of
my favorite jokes, which I feel has very spiritual resonance.
There's this virtuoso bass player, the kind of guy that gets a lot of
high-paying gigs all over the world, so he travels a lot. Well, one day he's
on his way to the airport, and he's stopped at a stoplight, and he sees this
bass player standing on the corner playing an upright bass, but the guy is
only playing one note. Bong (<--sound of one note reverberating through the
air.) Over and over again, the guy just plays that one note: Bong.
Well this drives the virtuoso nuts. He can't stand to see someone with a
beautiful instrument who doesn't know how to play it. But he swallows his
resentment and heads on out to the airport.
A few days later he's returning home, and he's stopped at the same light
again, and there's that guy again, standing on the corner playing that one
note: Bong. The virtuoso almost chokes he's so annoyed. But he drives on home.
So this goes on for over a month. Everytime the virtuoso drives to the
airport, there's that guy standing on the corner playing that one note: Bong.
Everytime the virtuoso drives home, there's that guy standing on the corner
playing that one note: Bong.
Finally, the virtuoso can't take it anymore. He pulls his car over, shuts off
the engine, carefully locks all the doors and walks over to the guy on the
corner.
"Why hello, friend," says the guy on the corner.
"Hey," says the virtuoso, "I'm hoping you won't mind if I play that thing for
a minute or two," he says, thinking to show the guy what a real bass player
does with a bass.
"Why certainly I don't mind," says the guy, and he joyfully hands the bass
over to the virtuoso.
The virtuoso takes the bass and begins to play, but he's totally unprepared
for the beauty of this instrument. It's constructed so well that it feels
alive under his touch. The resonance of the wood is the most sonorous he's
ever heard, and the action of the strings against the neck allows his hands
to move like a skilled ballerina up and down the neck. The instrument is so
inspiring that the virtuoso begins to weave a most wondrous composition, and
he amazes even himself. He's never played this well in his life. He's
modulating keys, shifting tempos, designing an incredible tapistry of sound
and feeling, he's all over that neck, all over the strings playing every
possible note and making each one a intricate part of this divine one-man
concert (perhaps it's bringing out his k-energy?) that is flowing out from
his fingertips.
This goes on for an hour or so, until the virtuoso, having been lifted to
such heights of creative ecstasy, is so exhausted he can play no more, and
his hands, slowly, reluctantly, ease the composition to an elegant close by
softly running a few obscure scales into a slow sigh of completion.
The virtuoso wipes his profusely sweating brow and hands the bass back to the
guy who is watching him intently, but gently, and smiling compassionately.
"Well?" the virtuoso says, staring triumphantly at the guy. "What do you
think of that?"
"Oh," says the guy sympathetically. "I see you are still searching."
Cheers,
BP
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