Monday, October 31, 2016
Nocturne (On Theme by Whistler)
It was quaint, no more than that, the emblems of leaden strangeness were deeper and darker then richness they unfold were deeper than that. The homophonic rhythm with piloplume paucities were transparent to the ear, and lucent to touch, as hagiographs littered the floor. It was evening by the immense Seine, which rippled though no sound action place. It was languid, fluid, and even the water was green, as it should be, because this was fresh water. Though call it fresh was as much a euphemism as any word could be, because even the brickness was part and parcel of the lagoon like waterfall that called this elaborate.place.
Off to one side of one of the few boat that turned the water, a man looked into the deep place and saw his face. In the reflection there were spires, aping upwards. They were, of course, deciduous trees gracing the deeply marroon sky, with touches that could be colored mauve and perhaps even scarlett, had with salmon. He lounged looking down into the water, and believed that his reflection was not just a happenstance reflection, but a copy which had its own will. He watched its face, and where he saw himself as resolute, the reflection was like chervil - that is to say, it was irresolute with one half being calm, and the other half enigmatic. He watched his double, and then looked up in to young men across from him.
“I did not know, and still do not, what it is about this place, which draws me still, as if to another world.” That was to be seen talking almost to and self. He was almost reflecting his inner anger, and phrasing it so it would capture the way and historian selected the bonbon of words out of half the evening which they would conspire. Only to be seen what each word to be the same: an aperitif washed down by a dream that was like, and yet not like, champagne. The richness of his elliptical conversation was not lost on his companion, who was munch away The words of Nadezhda von Meck. She had hired him to teach one of her children, on an extravaganza to points in Russia, and everyplace in between. He could not quite place words, but in effect she had said that this was the most beautiful - and she meant that in the effeminine way, but with a trace of delight. At the time he was working on L'Enfant prodigue, which he intended to enter in to the Prix de Rome - and when the highest honors for his achievement.
She felt he had excellent chances, because most of the other students, with one exception, were deadly dull. This was a point of agreement that they both shared. It was not the only one, and the companion listened to Debussy stories with rapt attention, though he had only been with her once. But once was enough to see that Debussy was going someplace, where as his companion merely was going to listen. But listening was better than nothing, think of all people who were not doing great things, nor receiving wisdom, nor listening to the stories ( that would be Debussy to listen, von Meek's daughter learning the strokes of his pen, von Meek listening in rapture, and the companion - this was fourth hand - quietly cavorting to all of the synopsis unfolding).
If this seems ornate, that is because Claude - more appropriately Achille-Claude - wanted it to be that way. Everything was a reflection scattered to light that bounced off of the stray shimmering light, until you did not know what was casting which shadows on to what. This was intended.
“The is a marvelous - something marvelous and unique, they were Javanese and they were playing something wonderful, their were gongs and other forms of clattering and clanging, which overlaid each other in sounds that were not of the West, but partook of some music unknown to our ears.”
“I think I have heard them - they believe the word is gamelan.”
It was obvious that “yes” would have been the acceptable reply, which meant that Debussy was of course not going to say it, or anything like it. But is face reminded him of the subsequent sounds that echoed, as much as the bangs collapsed in motion. It was if he was feeling this way through the music, and only then extracted chords with a eye for how it looked. It was a parade of emotion and motion, playing over the reeds and lilly pads which floated effervescent over the murky spiral. Awaiting the early evening, when the sky starts to shimmer with glistening light of passing day, a day that is passed, but for an hour, not wholly forgotten by the ravages of forget-me-not of time.
The companion stared in to the heavy magnanimous face of the Debussy, if he had been more observant, he would've recognized the furrowed brow, heavily set but quite petite in some have forgotten way. But his companion shimmered and shaped in between the sexuality of hetero and Homo, neither one quite grabbing the upper hand. So he stroked his chin, and Debussy gazed back into the river. There was something about it that fascinated and disturbed, both and neither. And his companion, though he did not know what it was, could sense it on to Debussy's face. That divided face shone through again.
There seemed no reason to look for tremors and rising wood, because Debussy would see them first, and point them out to his companion. And his companion would be amazed, at each little thing that Debussy skimmed from the black geen of the water. In this way they spent their time, until they knew that it came to the point where they had to go in, for their was just enough light.
On to light shadows of forest that transformed almost immediately into dusk and an oblivious sleep that wrapped inside a group of buildings, looking there as if they were but tomorrow. Rusty doorframes, and cause systemic window frames, which captured the light in an eerie crescent way. And urging them to sleep.
Debussy, as Shaw want to send in Pygmalion - though a different action verb accompanied it - was willing to sleep, was wanting to sleep, was waiting to sleep - but he could not actually do it. The problem you see, was in his left hand, which had derived a rhythm, completely separate from what his mind was doing. It was not the noisy, boisterous, insane, atrocious, almost cascading sound which would peak out in his thoughs, but instead it was a noiseless rhythm, perhaps from gamelon.
The companion only straight have a step, and then, bolted back, with a look of concern on his face. But Debussy waved him off, though he was tilted forward, and for all the world looked sick. Of course, his companion was concerned, though he knew not to show it, at least when his face could be seen. He did not want to be the man whose face was imposed on the musical structure, which from time to time had happened. So his face went back and forwards, looking happy when observed, and unhappy as Debussy retched on the ground, spackling away the pebbles in the cause of retching. It was quite a scene, like looking at a movie, or more properly, a cinescope. The device which had just been invented, which all the world's composers looked at the silent film, and imagined what could be the music that would fill in the details.
Again remember, Debussy wanted to stand back on himself, and try and fit himself into the frame. And now he would imagine a picture frame. So he saw himself both through his eyes, and stepped back a bit, and saw himself react.
This was not an uncommon experience with Debussy, both living in the present, and, in turn, reacting to someone seeing a film in the future. He imagined it, he loomed it, he washed over it.
Then he, in the present, stood up and righted himself, as if the retching never happened. Then he turned to his companion, and cleared his throat.
“We must get inside, it is almost quite dark, and you should not be out.”
What he meant was the sky had imprinted itself on his mind, and he needed to compose the particular way that it had.
His companion understood that his time with Debussy was completed on that day, and wall it was only an hour away from friends, they should secure lodging.
And look at the leavings over of the night, with its speckled stars, gleaming in the vastness of space. It was only 10 years and tell the Eiffel Tower would stand, so they looked at what might have been the reminiscence of the past sky.
Justice Department Obtains Warrant to Review Clinton Aide’s Emails - The New York Times
The other shoe drops.
The other shoe drops.