Un Perro Y Una Guitarra

On la Calle Relox, there is a woman who plays three strings. She plays the same off-pitched amalgamation of strings on her guitar perpetually until the sun hides behinds the buildings of my colonia. And with the vibrations comes a melody, which does not really have melody, pitch, or any other features common to music. Her composition lacks what is commonly satisfying to the ears, but perhaps this is because it exists on its on scale, its own wavelength. I am reminded of a vocal Brittish man I listened to at a party last night extol the value of judging artwork properly. "Well of course you can have an opinion about art, but unless it is backed up with the proper training and agreed upon by an expert community, it is meaningless." Well of course we can come to a concensus about that which is slightly more pleasant to our eyes or ears. But this judgement is meaningful only to a few, and is based on a mere whimsical set of preferences. Perhaps a more meaningful conclusion can be found in listening for the sound that all human beings produce, that which is neither good nor bad, pleasant nor unpleasant, but simply is. This is the sound which these three strings and a rough, worn hand produce so beautifully, I think. It is also embedded within the Brittish man's words, but beneath their superfluous content. Though I prefer to hear the guitar, I try to listen carefully to both. And I wonder, after so much time spent on la Calle Relox, how this woman hears her melody.