Dry grass. I told my housemate in Orléans, France that I liked fibrous foods, that I almost long to chew on a thick piece of rope. She told me I may have something from childhood.

Playing guitar tonight, I was thinking about texture. After twenty minutes of exploring, listening, and responding to the strings, I looked up. The couch was vivid, green, and almost resonating with a visual timbre. The yellow light from the lamp bounced around dully.

In music—or stories—melodies themselves can have texture, but more often they are surrounded by it. Precise colors and weights move on the surface of melodies and the notes are the music’s interior, like thoughts or spirit. But looking up at the couch tonight, my sensitivity to texture is high and I question melodies.

Melodies, or concepts like “couch,” can intertwine with textures, but more often they distract from them. Melodies distract from the environment with airs of ready meaning. Like looking into the woods and suddenly noticing a moving animal crossing a scene, our minds follow stories, motion, and any other sign of significance. I’m interested in heightening more of the environment, so that textures are as important as notes, or words, or s-o-n-g. As foregrounded as any spirit that dwells inside. Surfaces should be as ready as ideas.

I’ve looked at the woods many times, raised a camera, and hoped to catch the depth of the melody. It’s unlikely to happen, usually, because the woods is so noisy. The melody, poem, song—whatever I thought I saw is obscured. This photo from the summer, nearby, catches depth. Whether it captures melody or not, you determine. But I think it catches surfaces.