The cold sun hanging in the sky descends behind the glass buildings. The hills are near, green-gold as the day approaches solitude. An ending, free of worry. The essential clutter of existence. It is a certain burden this Americanness. To raise the question more intently, more intimately. To process the image, which is inaccurate. One shape suggested a screaming mouth. He described it as a door, a way to leave. Exile and longing. Writing himself into the text of the times.
I wanted to write about the tools and the wood. We establish the horizons of expectation. Finding oneself again in movement. The condition of possibility. How then will it be possible to speak? Within the sphere I perceive bodies, yet appearing in person. My father appeared to me in a dream, angrily insisting that it was he who held the cure to memory loss. On the way to the bus small pieces of paper tumble, mix together and are lost, unrecognizable. Small feet ascend the stairs. What is the function of writing. What is direction, interiority. The heart of language. At the heart of the writing is a dream. The father speaks. That I am exposed.
[from Beethoven’s Dream, ‘Sketches’]
Our procedure has, in a sense, been circular. It is this future word. Impersonal, yet occurring just where we hear it, and where there is music. A little path that goes off into the woods, like an illustration in a children’s book. It is most near to us. How the objects form a set of overly heavy, discolored ensembles. They are set out in the room as if on a great plain in the desert of another country. They are broken or perhaps a bit offset. There is no straight line. I draw a path through the woods along the crest of a hill. I add some color, but abruptly stop. The sounds migrating toward the mouth like sediments. To recompose the image. The imagined self.
I am trying to come to a point. To maintain a single form. The tragic collision. To the extent that it becomes appearance. The real gift is time. Where we are again confronted with great complexity. The machinery begins, and the night begins, restless, interweaving. Thus the path followed by the electron turns out to be a parabola. The deflection of the electron from its initial path. He required the closeness of memory. An object moves from a point in space. Thus potential. Action or loss. Short, fragmented sounds are complete in themselves. To the degree of which the possible is approached. It’s a matter of the choices made.
To strip down the thing so as to retain only its naked reality.
The first invisible forces are those of isolation. There is the force of changing time. The existence of a substance. The intersection of two black sides of a square. Most profoundly they have influenced me in ways that have never met with the page. It is characteristic to pass through different levels. Like a series of awakenings. Grasping, taking hold. The text itself betrays the rhythm of the relation. Reveals a surface where the deeper wounds gradually emerge and become visible in the unpacked boxes, the old furniture and oriental curios. A sense of place. But would I have the courage to speak? In that context, they are all present. What we have to define.
[from Beethoven’s Dream, ‘Beethoven’s Dream’]
It bears witness to neither one nor the other. What cannot be stated, what cannot be archived, is the language in which the author succeeds in bearing witness to his incapacity to speak. But what does it mean to speak in a remaining language? Often it seems as though one were like another. They have always been there. I do not look at them. The passage between the outside and the inside. Now the twentieth century will be emptied. I do not exclude machines. Machines mean complexity. And then there are the advanced processes. Thus the higher terms in the equation diminish more rapidly than if there were no obstacle, but the beginning terms are unaffected. Accordingly, the terms in the summation diminish on both ends. Everything is already broken off
Outside the sentence
Rain is falling
As if a porous film
Set between waking and sleep.
The parched mouth and
Uneasiness of night remain.
It dissolves. The sickness does not dissolve.
Always the expected visit
The order to awaken
The water mark
Mirror in my sleep
Measuring the presence of light.
So in shame we are consigned to something from which we cannot in any way distance ourselves.
The slipper Artaud held in his mouth at the moment just before his death.
What remains is physical sensation
Connection to natural landscape
The priority of the whole
It is as if we are being told that it is only through the distortion of normative reality that we are capable of reaching its underlying truth.
[from Arc Tangent, ‘Arc Tangent’]
All I have ever done is move back and forth. Narrow streets of the old city cluttered with used bookstores and cafés, sleep pressing on the body, and thirst, cumbersome volumes of Chinese classics stacked on end. She orders sweet bean paste and green tea, and opens her book. The book she had not planned on buying. The book that came to her. Experience means to obtain something along the way.
Orientation of the lattice
Concept of diffusion
The distance takes place
This too demands an explanation
The pattern repeated.
Much in the spoken statements has a purely musical value. The process repeated till the end of the line then snap; drum snare, the accentuated note. As if I were a part of the rock. And I remember Queequeg and the little rooming house. All the intricate markings on the body. Swirls in the driftwood. Twisting, turning back. Thinkin’, not talkin’. At first he depended on the use of mathematical models of disorder. The two beams hitting the mark. Phase difference. To have experienced the street was like reading a text. You could go where you wanted and hear all this great shit. The form of distinction.
The force of these objects. That there is a strange kind of beauty in the steel frame construction bringing form to a building, the hills beyond visible through the skeletal shape. The sad beauty of the afternoon, and the automobiles, providing motion, endless motion. That we call it time and no matter how we try cannot understand.
Up till 2:00 a.m. listening
To the caller’s voice
First angry, now desperate
Then out for a breath
Of fresh air to see
Three deer in the city street
Come down from the hills
In this almost sacred quiet
The distances are more varied
First order of light
Trying to clarify what the questions are
[from Arc Tangent, ‘Table of Primaries’]
Finally to reach a single sound, as possible as its confrontation with silence. Outside intelligibility, there is a point of no return. I see a design drawn in a series. I see a distinctive character drawn into it, only nothing written. What does it mean, a straight line continuing its movement. The production of the line, but I don't know what. To end the project is to distance oneself from the machinery. Night walking on its own, away from a city, into a forest of ice. Forest of the human, where writing is discovered in the deterioration of speech. To have found ones home in despair, and then leave. What does it mean to understand? A stage nearer to the words. To live not with despair, but with complexity. Character is simply difference. A peculiar suspendedness. It is only the disappearance in continuation. The inner life of the note.
[from The Condition of Music, ‘The Condition of Music’]
The variety of workable means by which to manipulate objects. An empirical problem. For instance, how to drop numerous balls of a silicon based material, microscopic in size, onto a bed of film in perfectly straight rows equidistant from one another, perfect in form and functionality. Not a mystery, just infinitely complex. The material is often all we have.
The cost of bringing into history, of historical association. Writing in which pain is finally found and accepted. The recognition of pain embedded in the meanings.
I conceived the wreck and its landing. Not the beginning. The book laid open in the dream. Stairs to the rickety apartment building. The pain of history imbedded in the meanings.
The problem of where to begin when there is no beginning or ending, only writing.
There seems to be a desire to disappear completely, leaving only the work behind. In any form, completely, America which ignores him, sequentially as it suits. Here, self and landscape coincide.
Brahms Quintet for Two Violins, Two Violas and Cello in F Major, second movement: blue light for a moment, the world opens up. Depth at which it seeks to cohere. The burden of its meanings. A world which is harsh and abrupt. Voice which speaks in complete inwardness.
[from The Condition of Music, ‘Other Orders’]
And then the whole is flooded with light. Different types of brush strokes applied to surface; notions of piling and gathering up. Doubling, looped through the framing. Is this an internal light which momentarily opens within him, only to leave a larger question behind as he proceeds toward the undefined, indeed the indefinable. Perhaps the answer is only in form, in musical prelude.
A reading that consists of an entirety
That he had always been well dressed (properly dressed) or so it was said
What happens is, first of all, one enters
A memory of things
Outside of meaning
[from The Condition of Music, ‘Call’]