On The Professor
- Lucien Edwards
- Apr 2, 2023
- 2 min read
sometimes meteors hit thee earth and sometimes they wipe out entire civilisations, if not wipe out all ov earth's inhabitants entirely. sometimes impacts are so seismic they break up the continents and throw land into the sea, or leave holes in oceans where water falls forever. sometimes, when something hits thee earth, it brings with it keys ov the future and colour and care. it will bring with it textures you've never touched, colours you can only somewhat see in your minds eye, if you listen closely enough. it will even bring you emotions you have never felt.
there can only ever be one ryuichi sakamoto. there will never be another, there can be no argument made for someone before him or after him. he holds his time here still like a monument, but all this fascistic, individualist euphemism wouldn't be what he would want. he would want me to say that art lives longer than any human ever can, and that in some way, he is still here and always will be. and he'd be right to say that.
but ryuichi sakamoto is still not here.
i heard his music like skyscrapers tossing down cherished debris, sparks of colour and thee new future made in 1980 for all ov us to experience. i have seen his name alone brighten thee eyes of so many, and in archival footage seen thousands more in awe at who we can only truly call The Professor, as many do. everything that fell from thee sky ryuichi made was in the shape of three dimensional hexagons, light reflecting within these spaces and tossing poppies and melodies and questions and life.
he was a bringer of life, life beyond that ov basic reproduction, but it seemed he could make alive anything he touched. it's abandoned parts would turn and arch and stretch, the sun would cover their bodies, beauty was born. all from one soul.
it's hard to not be dramatic about this.
i'm a very emotional person with extreme emotions, who was switched on by The Professor, and now feels a sense of power in my engine dimming. it is difficult to not think ov everything i wish i could have ever said to him, or to not reminisce on all thee hours we spent together from a distance. i suppose in the end that is what you must do; reminisce and breathe and try to swallow the strands ov memory and savour their taste. what else can you do?
i love you, ryuichi.
and i always will.
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