4/8/95
The gap is closing
Less and less time for lies
understanding them disposing
unheeded color of the skies
undescended manner in such care
unregarded fortunes can beware
*
I have to force myself. There is still
an aspect I have difficulty with-
this probably has to do with the fact
that most of the things I do so much
by rote that they seem effortless-
and this feeling of effortlessness is
like a floating feeling I closely
associate with revery, Debussy,
poetry. But it *isn't*
poetry. I know that every single step
in the writing is necessary in
order to have the maximum freedom
& flexibility and sense of movement.
This is a very frustrating feeling-
all the time realizing that an
important aspect is the whole
question of patience & effort. I
rarely have to worry about supplies
of those 2 factors- it's mostly
when I write.
Most poetry feels hackneyed &
cliched to me now- also, a
lot of what I write. This is a good
thing in that it increases my
awareness of what
something new might *not* be like.
It is energizing to turn away from
unsatisfying attempts- this increases
hopes for real success.
On the other hand- it is equally
important to remember that this new
construct (when de-constructed) will be
found to mostly consist of already familiar
aspects. But the whole will be different.
It will contain everything that the
earlier construct contained
carried to a different outcome.
We will have found that earlier we had lost
our way in time, when suddenly the
overall direction we had been heading
towards became clearly evident.
Moments can now connect with each
other again. Perhaps we have only
discovered a new mode of making transitions.
For clearly, movement never stops.
But, like a driver, we are
periodically & constantly looking into the rear
view mirror.
True, although we have been listening, no
one has actually said anything quite
clear. Silence had taken over so
much that the slightest routine
sounds had become greatly
magnified (planes, birds, cars
and the rain & wind). Each car going
by took on significance, a loud
voice, some laughter; because
such interruptions proved that
duration, as such, still exists.
Soon, however, our interest turns
away from such small proofs. They
do not, after all, constitute
events in the real world of meanings.
Although we are unhealthily addicted
to it, time is measured in meanings,
not moments. It is neither
qualitative nor quantitative- it is
transformative. Like Orpheus, we must
learn not to watch it too closely
because, dizzying into the whirlpool,
we may drown in the multiple voices
of the future.
"Soon, soon," it seems to say
to us constantly, "very soon," to any
question we might put to it. Soon,
you will sit down at the piano,
soon your great quartet will have
taken form, soon it will be played &
soon it will be heard, understood
and blended into
other recent textures
of sound & soul.
It seems I've learned to collect
such hopes like shells on a beach. They
are evidences, but only meager ones
like those passing sounds.
With their bleached & muted colors, such objects
hold the attention in such a
way that you picked them up & later placed
them in & on special drawers & shelves,
thinking they can later be more
completely deciphered.
I examine some for awhile & then sit down
to play.
Once again, I've combined the
possible & the impossible in harmonies
that, very elusively, hold these two
opposites together for a brief period
of time. Over & over, I listen to the
recording, trying to ascertain the
spot when past, present & future
seemed to combine. Of course I
wanted to stay there for as long
as possible. I wondered how long
I would suspend the afternoon
in this way. The more multiple I
could shape the transitions, the
more quickly I seemed to be able to
move inside the hour. Having its
own characteristics, I could
characterize a series of moments
by its exterior markings, instead of
reverting to the metronome, or some
other kind of mechanical conductor,
like a tapping foot, or the sounds
of the old woman upstairs walking
round & round & round & creaking
the floor.
