A childhood friend, R., had a dog named Bear who was, ah, markedly slow for his age. He lived to play fetch, and on the weekends when I would come over to visit, I would accommodate him. I would occasionally feint a throw in one direction, which Bear would always anticipate and wind up taking off in the wrong direction. He would eventually realize what had happened, give me a look communicating a momentary recognition of the deception, and dutifully fetch the ball, his cognizance of the feint already ancient history.
No amount of repetition could enlighten him that the sequence was about to begin anew.
So I was listening to the radio, and The Who's Teenage Wasteland came on. It begins as a cacophony of simple, unsynchronized trilling sounds, and no amount of listening has ever gotten me any closer to anticipating the blind moment when they all come together for an instant and the powerful, tonic piano chords join their procession.
To those who've been appealing to me for help: sorry; please accept my apologies. I'll be on tonight to help you with your scripts, if your're around.