On the wings of song...

When Aldous Huxley died, he was high on LSD, and listening to music. I hope. That is what he wanted, according to his book, Doors of Perception (and I could be wrong about the title, it's been a lot of years since I perused it). In his honor, when I did my little experimentation (hey, it was the sixties), I listened to music through the whole experience (but did not die, obviously). Later, when I heard the same music, I could reconstruct the "trip", and see what garbage my mind was spewing. That was what it was about, you know, taking out the garbage. It wasn't a joyride, not by any stretch of the imagination. It was scary and thrilling and scary again. There were demons. Mostly, there was guilt. And I only did it twice. Really. And it was worth it. I looked into my own morass of self, and came back to tell about it. I heard some of the music lately, because of my project of recording my vinyl into ITunes. And some of that stuff was still there, in Tchaikovsky's Suite No. 3. Sounds pretty innocuous, but Peter dear had an undercurrent of pathos that just oozes, especially in the waltz. I don't need a drug to sink into the music any more. Perhaps that is what maturity is all about? Or maybe just a lot of years under the bridge.