the fallen sky

Divine impulse, divine harvest, there is no need for any of these objects, placemarkers for the theodolite memory, sitting stationary and waiting for the winking of light in blackness. Let me tell you that the brief sonata that recurs, seems to disintegrate with time, has immediately resurfaced a memory, a little segment of clear texture, of the canvas unprimed, without any motif of brushstroke upon it; music is not to be lived within but the flight that takes us from this body, this thread of ligaments and ligatures, sewn together with sultifying matter. Matter, the thickening of, is the sheath that time discards, the consistency of a song loosened from time’s ethereal shoulders like some cloud of rain, dissolving into the free flowing water in the atmosphere. Somehow, in our bodies, in the painful waking moment we retreat into caricatures, certainties, the flowering of spirit inside the refrain, inside the gentle hum and sob of the orchestra, O Nietzsche, the hollow fascist how he declares Wagner impossible to fathom, and yet Parsifal merely recalls something even more mysterious from its somber tones. Do not weep for the loss of structure, but rather see that the hollowing out is a flight, a timeless zone of indiscernability. Watch as the language of the world speaks through mysterious facial and vocal recognitions, the way a scent will balance out all the uncertainty of a decade, will recall to you a whole frame of being which you did not notice was there, but was everything, that loose, limber self that is not material but essential; call for your lightness, loosen off the certainty, and you will find the real substance of being.