A few weeks ago I welcomed a new member of the household, a sixth-generation African kitten, named Phoenix Brightstar. She has been, according to her mood, cuddly and affectionate, or wild and playful.
Adding to her ever-growing assortment of toys and playthings, I introduced a wooden, rainbow-colored shaker egg: good for keeping time to a samba band, or arousing the curiosity of a neophyte cat. She batted it around a few times, producing random sounds; and then I thought to show her how it’s meant to be played.
She sat attentively as I started a steady beat: shake, a-shake, a-shake, a shake… slowing to a more incantatory shake… shake… shake… shake.
The kitten’s attention was fully entranced, already. Her eyes were fixed in some indefinite remote space, her posture rigid. What was that, what had happened?
I had crossed the divide between music and sound, culture and nature, human and cat. The effect of such sudden and radical bridging was instantaneous, startling… dare I say, catatonic.
Bonus clip: a more advanced cat listener bobbing to an irresistible doumbek.
Postscript: Later, I sat on a beach beside the harbor and improvised on flute. Playing at will, I became immersed in the flow of the music for ten minutes or so. Too long of a solo, perhaps… since as I drew to a close, a nearby crow chimed in, with caustic staccato, cuing the gull section to launch into their discordant chorus. Well, who am I to say?
Music is in the ear of the beholder.
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