The cat that got the cream
A cat in crimson plays C on a … piccolo. Why not a clarinet? A crimson cat plays C on a clarinet. That’s a better alliteration, but maybe all those C-words were getting a bit risqué. Someone stammered, tried not to think ‘cunt’, and stuck a piccolo in the pussy’s lips. A Freudian slip. A thought from outside the box. How queer!
Pim’s music blocks must have been reassuring to kiddos growing up in wartime. The building blocks of aesthetic discipline, neatly dovetailing a taxonomy of animals with alphabetised sounds. Comfort in the geometry of universal order. Everything in its logical place.
Freud, however, tells us that life is polymorphous perverse from the outset. Surely it’s also true that we were all synesthetic to begin with. Didn’t we all taste breast milk through our noses and see the world with haptic tactility? Our undisciplined brains must have once chased aesthetic sensations along the continuum of skin that connects eardrums and eyelids with the nasal passage and the throat. Sense-o-rama. The stuff of creativity, invention, artistry … not according to the pedagogy of Pim.
But maybe you could rattle and roll these music blocks like dice, and let their little revolutions connect you with a life less square.