#numbered notes

0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89, 144

The Fibonacci sequence.

The first two numbers are 0 and 1 and each subsequent number is the sum of the previous two.

There are thirteen notes in an octave. A scale is composed of eight notes, of which the third and fifth notes create the basic foundation of all chords. The word ‘octave’ comes from the Latin word for eight, referring to the eight whole tones of the complete musical scale. In a scale, the dominant note is the fifth note of the major scale, which is also the eighth note of all thirteen notes that comprise the octave.  This provides an added instance of Fibonacci numbers in key musical relationships.  Eight out of thirteen in decimal form is 0.61538, which approximates phi, the golden ratio, which appears in the works of Debussy, Bach and even the famous Beethoven’s Fifth.

I think in numbers most of the time because numbers don’t lie, they don’t falter and they aren’t ambiguous. Having them embedded in music is an added bonus. I’ve always wished that we could all communicate in numbers, there is less room for confusion.

The people at school don’t like me, mother says it’s because they don’t understand me. I suppose the feeling is mutual as I don’t get what they’re saying most of the time either. Take the other day for instance, Katie was telling Marissa about how Ke$ha ‘totally speaks to me through her songs’. I don’t know you decipher that other than the fact that ‘this place about to blow’ which, by the way, is not even grammatically correct. Naturally I expressed my concerns to Katie and Marissa, to which they replied, ‘Get a life, Mucus.’

To clear things up, my name is Lucas. The only reason my friends call me Mucus is because of an incident involving my encounter with the flu. I didn’t understand the concept of ‘blowing my nose’ and the need for tissue. Back then, I used my shirt and they didn’t appreciate my creativity.

My train of thought is disrupted. I can hear my parents shouting through the paper thin walls in my room using words I’m not supposed to know the meanings to, but I do because the other children use them all the time when talking to me. My mind whirls into chaos as repressed memories push their way out, adamant on throwing me into a mental asylum.

‘What the fuck are you looking at loser?’

‘Fuck off, freak.’

‘You’re fucking retarded.’

I’m just different, but no one seems to be able to see that, or if they do, they fault me for it. I close my eyes play out Debussy’s Image, Reflections in Water in my mind, my fingers tracing the position of the notes in the air where I picture the imaginary lines. Then I notice the sequence of keys marked out by the intervals and the Fibonacci sequence is clear as day.

8, 13, 21, 34