Is
Nolde's hallucination, conveyed to me by a message passed, each time
I look at the wall, each time seeing is elusive vision.
It floats on a dragons wing, a bump in
the night calling you to wake up from however many dreams you have
had. it does not have rest in the piano trio number three, which
enrobes you with gentle slumber, becomes that is the next movement.
this is violent and obscure, at one with old century, which is passed
and present the same time.
Not that it does not have a kind of
peace, but it is a kind of amused quietude that is not present except
where the kind of rest appears, perhaps a kind of wickedness about
the edges, but that first klingclang disturbs all easy known sleep.
It is a kind of imagined call to nature, but of the kind that wears
many guises; because it is only in the dreamscape that such creatures
walk on the base of their toes.Aand yet do not quite touch the
ground.
Once when I dreamed of this country,
and saw downwards another one, equally strange, and doubly deployed
by yet stranger visions, I had a vision which could not be described
except by site in terms of sound. Each moment came to me merely
hinting at the one before it, because they are were creatures that
were both terrible and wondrous, both at the same time, and in the
same measure. It was the night figure that had dreamed of me to watch
them, and not the other way round.
And then quietly they struck a chord
that reminded and reminiscent of the start of the movement. And it
was, to my mind at least, strange and beautiful and terrible and
other words that I cannot describe. It was like Ko-Ko, you remember
it as loud, but when you sit back and listen, there are more moments
which one could only describe as piano, that struck back time of
balance, that can only be described as equipoise in pursuit of fetish
and lucidity.
It was all alone when I composed this,
it is alone, like so many other pieces; it was alone as many others
are composed by various members of my fraternity. It is alone that it
is played now, even though there are many other people as; they are
alone to.
As I write the words and capitalize the
inner most word that begins a sentence, I wonder if the reader knows
that I have to re-capitulating the punctuation each and every time.
Each time a convalescence of obscurity into intoxication, yet no one
realizes at all, it is a private revelry which only I know, because I
am disabled, and yet I see to write the tale as it was from the
beginning. And each moment that I regain consciousness, I remember
that it is for this that the consciousness flow, and eddies in my
wake. And I can only communicate that by and aside to the reader,
which both interrupts and intercepts the meaning.
But who is to know that this
incandescent escapade is not part only of the interruption, but is
also a fugue by Bach, a bit of pause to think of a tune, which I will
use elsewhere, in time and place, but not here and now.
But as with the storm of the opening,
so to is the gentle part of the opening undone, undone as the same
way it will before, and may yet be again. the heralds cry; and the
footman gather, for each time it is the same; bravely to die for the
slings and arrows; bravely to fight and die, even as if a dream. To
boldly set off to the same battle, as has been done since time
immemorial remembered a single battle that was retold. And their in
the darkness, the ghouls, ghosts, and goblins, pick at their flesh
each time they have sacrificed in the telling of their tail.
Each fight the same; each fight
different; each fight renewed again. Ever to weep, ever to lead; each
part to live again. Was it a dream? I cannot find it on the Internet.
