humlings for my mother

This is just a short sound oriented piece for mom...

http://soundcloud.com/aya-atoui/ou-you-mommykins-intro

click on me? listen to me! critique me! if you please?

This might be an epic fail... but I'd like to know if it is...
Some constructive criticism would be wonderful.

I just had the sudden urge to make music that didn't just sound like sound or noise.
I've always had trouble with harmony and thought of trying to harmonize... it took me a while, but I think the harmony is there... i think... I just don't know if it's right... I've had a few people tell me they liked it but if there is more to say in terms of constructive criticism, I would be so happy to hear it.
Merci.


your current cottony companion (i done did an alliteration!),
Aya

oh! and here is a link to the piece in case you done didn't click on me above

http://soundcloud.com/aya-atoui/i-dont-know-what-to-call-you-yet-so-you-will-remain-to-be-untitled-for-now

peace in and from the middle east yo.

A Cottonball that Reminisces and Thinks Freud Is a Fraud

As a little girl, I used to love cotton. I used to play with it as it was a favorite toy. More specifically, I used to benefit from it by keeping it in my mouth. So very undisclosed the beneficial part seemed to be. But as I ate the cotton I seemed to have profited something out of it. I don’t remember it so vividly. I was around five when this habit had begun. It started with receiving gifts from my mother and father. They were gift boxes that were wrapped and held in puffy and swollen little toy animals. My first one was a bunny, naturally. It was indeed swollen seeing that its size was not normal. It could barely fit in the box. I didn’t care. There were many things in my life that held exaggeration very well. Held it so well in fact it almost seemed like my life loved it. It all seemed to fit with me. The bunny had one lanky ear and brown buttons for eyes. It also squealed everytime I held and squeezed it. For the longest time, I thought rabbits made high pitched squealing sounds. Not until later on did I find out that rabbits didn’t make much sound from an educational kids TV show. Cows went moo, cats went meow and pigs went oink but rabbits went nothing and nowhere, but they multiplied popping out of nowhere ever so quickly. Imagine a rabbit that squealed… Eeeep. That’s how my bunny sounded.

My bunny gift was very soft. I knew there was also more to it because bunnies weren’t meant to be that big. I was also a very bratty child. After having played with it for more than a year, I decided to rip it open. I wasn’t violent, I remember using scissors and slowly cutting a small line into it just to see. And then I ripped it open. My desecrated bunny was forcefully stuffed with beautiful white puffy cotton. As I think about it now, it was an unsettling but beautiful sight. My first reaction was to pull the cotton out and to play with it between my fingers. This stuff was what made my bunny excessively large. This stuff was so pretty. I’m not one to enjoy white, the absence of color, at all unless it is on cotton or on pale skin. I couldn’t imagine cotton being colored. The first thing I had done with the cotton was picking it up and squishing it in my palms. It was as if I was keeping a cloud captive in my hands. It felt wonderful because I knew I couldn’t really have a cloud in my hand no matter how much I wanted one. I also knew I’d be disappointed because cloud is nothing but a visible mass of water and I had enough water being forced down my throat by my mother. She only wanted what was best for me. She wanted a healthy hydrated child.

As I played with the cotton between my fingers, I thought to myself about how it would feel in my mouth and how it would taste. I immediately put it in my mouth. Ever since then, I started to love to chew on cotton. Now I am a twenty-one year old who’s very soul is wedged down the middle of a little white pufferball, cottonball. I am cotton incarnate. I am a cottonball that does nothing but sit and reminisce about everytime it has used and abused cotton when I was a person that belonged to a family. I wonder if this is payback. I think about all the other things I could have probably reincarnated to. I have put so many other things in my mouth as a child. Children do that. Was that a Freudian Slip? I’ll bet Sigmund Freud would have probably loved to dig his dirty fingers into what I just said. I won’t give him the benefit of the doubt. Children who put things in their mouths and are fixated on this don’t necessarily become smokers or compulsive eaters. It just doesn’t work that way. They become cottonballs. His psychosexual analysis lied to me. Liar.

I Am a Cottonball Conundrum

Once upon my reincarnation, I understood that I was a cottonball. I would have preferred to have been something a tad more majestic like the wind or a tree or a cloud or even pollen. But instead my soul went pummeling into the puffy absorbent form we all know and see as the cottonball. It didn’t bother me too much since I had passed away and my mother had purchased a bag of me at the market to use to remove the nail polish off her fingernails. If I knew my mother well enough, she would definitely be using me for her nails. For the sake of all things small, round, puffy, white and insignificant, I was a happy puffy. I was happy to be back with my family again after having been in an indeterminate state for as long as I could remember. I was placed on my mother’s dressing table in her room. I was cozy because I was amongst her belongings. I belonged to her again. I could see myself in the mirror of her dresser as I began to recollect how I had wanted so much to be a cottonball last Halloween. I couldn’t celebrate Halloween because I was sinking into a deep puddle of work. So many things to do, it almost felt like the work was intangible. I couldn’t touch it; I couldn’t finish it. But, I am a cottonball that enjoys exaggerations. I always was, a person, who enjoyed exaggerations.

By the time I was acquired and taken home, everyone had seemed to have dealt with my unhappy casualty. Afterthought: I am also a cottonball that thinks the word ‘casualty’ better defines the word ‘death’ because it begins with the word casual and casual things seem to be accepted more casually and without difficulty. Seeing that my mother had moved on, I couldn’t help but think to myself whether or not I should approach her, most importantly, whether or not I ‘could’ approach her. I tried to nudge myself against the other cottonballs in the plastic bag I now called home to get some sort of attention but I was inanimate. I was an inanimate thing that was also an emotional wreck but I was unable to move a single fiber in my cottony… anatomy? Structure? Arrangement? I’ll settle with arrangement.

I had come to realize that my plastic container-surrounding thing was my new home within my old home because I was lucky enough to be bought by my mother. How weird my new life is. Now I am stuck here, rubbing off against other cottonballs who, might I add, don’t seem to like me. In fact they kind of sound like the New Yorkers on television who constantly like to yell at each other about watching where the other person is going, only cottonballs keep nudging not going. I’ve always wanted to go to New York City but still be close to my mother. I guess this is a combination of the things I really wanted to do in my life before I died… only now, most of it is stuffed in a plastic bag. Being a cottonball for Halloween is now what I am for another lifetime. An impression I have of New York is now living in the bag as my mother ‘casually’ falls into a deep sleep in the bed right across me as the television is on.