I
sit in a café to write on many afternoons. There’s a radio playing top forty
hits on a constant loop, los cuarenta, as the ditty promises over and over
throughout the hour. This station plays some of the most godawful excuses for
music that I’ve ever been forced to hear in my life. If I’m even a little
careless with hygiene, I’ll find myself with the malignant virus of one of these
dreadful songs playing in my head,
Much like how we are instructed to wash our hands and use sanitizer when
making contact with any potentially infected surface, I must repeat a similar
process to flush the remains of one of these shitty songs from my psyche. I do
this by sitting down at my piano before I go to bed and playing something,
anything in my modest repertoire, even scale training will suffice, as these
exercises have more to do with music than the hate crimes against art passing
for pop hits that had rained down on me in the café
