Friday, December 9, 2016
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.