Tuesday, June 10, 2008

Untitled (writer's block)

For all flesh is as grass,
and all the glory of man
as the flower of grass.
The grass withereth,
and the flower thereof falleth away.
But the word of the Lord endureth for ever
__________1 Pet. 1:24-25

a few minutes tick past.
Brahms plays on, effortlessly divine.
(i know whenever somewhere in the world someone is listening to Selig sind, die da Leid tragen that a concourse of angels is summoned to their side. Not to help, but also to listen.

(i... cannot think of anything else to write.
___(the music is too strong to compete with)


Dear V:

inadequate supply of time has hindered me from responding.
please forward complaints to the great unknown, you may perhaps try sending a letter addressed to G O D ,
whom i imagine is most often to blame for these tings.

other than that,
feel free whenever to write me interesting things that i will undoubtedly enjoy and read and occasionally, i will also push off God (or at least God's world, or at least God's life, or at least God's challenges, or at least myself) long enough to string together some few lines of words for you to read.


it is almost nocturne-time.

i really wonder if Chopin wrote them late at night, or if he wrote them midmorning and then waited till midnight to play them. Perhaps he wrote them midmorning, then walked past the kitchen table where the scores lay scattered late at night- having just brushed his teeth on his way back to bed- and thought to himself: nocturne! indeed! and cheated a few generations out of our rightly earned dreams.

(i always preferred the Etudes anyway. or the Preludes. definately the Scherzos and the Ballades. (the Ballades most)).

anyway, my favorite is Shostakovich's. (from the first violin concerto).
(i last listened to it in full in Seattle. it transformed Seattle to Transylvania. I am certain if I had listened to it in Prague I'd have relinquished myself to become a vampire, or a bat... or a shadow.

(there is hope for me yet)


player must endeavor to use various words to demonstrate how (s)he feels just at this moment.

resigned. lost. (soo) lonely. calm. satisfied (with Brahms, Part, Shostakovich). suspended. (somehow) forming (part of Shostakovich's melody line). Russian. Unstable. Humanitied. Heavy. Volcanic (alternatively: geological). Old. Cloud. Tempted (to: cry, laugh from the lungs to avoid [love. embarrassment. breath-air.], laugh from the stomach [i cannot feel good after i eat anyway], laugh from the heart [sounds empty, hope always has a hollow tinkle to it]). Formulaic. Forgotten. Not-yet-made. Transcendental. Epic. Sardonic. Inert. Volatile (as in: unstable, flying-floating-freely-faraway, explosive, spontaneously turning to gas). Lento assai.


(i feel Shostakovich in my room. i do not understand the feeling... only that in the dark corner breathing silently under a pile of clothes lives a very thin man, topless- whose ribs and vertebrae are too easily seen, whose cheekbones are concerning, under there (I can see with each breath a slight rise) lives the melody of Shostakovich's violin). (thankyou for not leaving me alone Dmitri)


i cannot_freaking_write.
(i have too much in me,
there is no easy way to resolve this-
i cannot get it out.


for three hours i sat in my ridiculous looking shoes in a pyramid scheme info session that i thought was a queer job interview. I should have been more suspicious when she insisted "oh, we're very professional, even at our info sessions we require everyone to wear ties".

how unfair to liquefy hope.


Blessed are the dead
which die in the Lord
for henceforth:
yea, saith the Spirit,
that they may rest from their labours,
and their works do follow them.
__________Rev 14:13

(i am too morbid)


Monday's Child said...

I imagine the shoes to be purple and pointy.

Anonymous said...

"Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called sons of God" (Matthew 5:9).

you know the reference...