Saturday, April 25, 2015

In a Hall Half His Age: I Apollinaire

The Museum of Fine Arts
Boston, Massachusetts


Now and then it's good to pause in our pursuit of happiness, and just be happy.” Guillaume Apollinaire

The stillness in the air is a confusion of prisons and sorrow, he lifts his eyes from the page and stayers into a heady distance. The watcher who stands looking at the pen and ink drawing realizes that he is watching not a figurine dressed in ordinary clothes, but a picture of the inner garments of the man, conjoining each manifold in a geometric structure. The old world of romantic poetry is overthrown, and the inner triumphs over the outer. 30 years before, he would assume and Impressionist form of life, for example, by Monet, or perhaps one of the other workers in that same vein. 50 years ago, he might catch the eye of romantic attachment, only vaguely whispering the insincerities of just a hint that says that this painting is not real enough, but has the hint of something beyond real. But not too much, people would not understand this.

A heady moment comes over him, because he was just outside a few minutes ago, where it was not very warm, but he had been exerting himself, because of all of the throngs of people visiting the Museum of Fine Arts, he was perhaps, the only person who was specifically going to see a few drawings on the wall which were marked within 50 years of the beginning of the last century. It was entitled something grand, something extraordinary, which no one else but Museum curators would barely notice, and would be forgotten by the masses of people, most of them looking for their favorite piece, or pieces, of art.

I hate artists were not of their time.” Apollinaire

This being the MFA, their was a large selection, some people were here for the Egyptian, some people here for the Greek and Roman, still others would be staring at the Renaissance, and a few more for the Chinese, and of course there were the people who flogged their favorite era which only they knew the meaning of. Then there were the people who want something new, and would be enthusiastic about whatever they were told to be enthusiastic about.

But the young man was virtually the only person to really look at the pieces, and to begin to form in his mind a fast detail which he only glimpsed the barest fraction of. The didn't know which pieces he would assemble, but he would gravitate to some which spoke his internal language. One which had stopped him was the angular detail of a poet, by the name of Apollinaire. What he knew about him was only from one book of his poems, and some detail from an obscure commentator, whose prose gravitated towards the abstruse, not to say clouded in his language; because that was just barely not the case. But there was far more in the single detail of a brushed stroke, then in the myriads of prose dumped on the page by the would be author between poems of Apollinaire.

When men want to make a machine that would walk he created the wheel, which does not assemble a leg.” Apollinaire

Between the seething text of the scholar, in its propped up scale of detail, there was a glimmer - the original being far superior to the translated text – that showed a man of the 20th century gliding his way after what then was called The Great War. In it he cast away many of the old lessons, though he kept a few, and looked in to the common eyes of man; there he found meaning, not in the concepts there described, because he did not think much of the common man, in sich, but in the mass of their humanity. He was struggling to put on paper that detail that was inescapable. In other words, he was trying to tell the intelligentsia, who was poor but noble, what they were trying to get the common man to believe.

Without poets, without artists, men would soon weary of nature's monotony.
The plastic virtues: purity, unity, and truth, keep major in subjection.” Apollinaire

He had not been much of a fan, except for a few poems, which he felt were fresh and new and different than the other poems that he wrote. But then, he understood that what had happened was that Apollinaire had not been given the primary necessitated of genius: that being a follower who could explain what is he was trying to say, and point out which works were important, and which works could be dispensed with, or at least, left for later.

If after this discussion you do not realize that the author was not the person who would act as intercessor for his subject, I don't know what will draw out the line. I am trying to say, delicately, that the scholar was shit. And even this expression is part of the problem, because in the interwar years, people want to express most things in deep enamored tones, and then draw out in scatological device the excrement which surrounds and encompasses them. This is because the hallways were clean, but the entry ways, and more so, the outside, was covered in what the French call “merde”.

Between the heightened and exquisite prose, and the device that contrasted them with more baser impulses was the height of expression of this new style. The older style did not recognize the baser, it divorced all aspects from its vocabulary. No hint or trace of the vocabulary of retching, shitting, or any such vestiges would remain in adult conversation. The entrance of such words, while contrasted with such fullsome interpretation that remains true to its higher purpose. Thus, it maintains a link backwards to the purest of the old, while linking forwards to an unknown world, where the raw stuff of the world at large rests, and that includes the baser reflexes. And that means shit, not excrement. Now Apollinaire was only the beginning of this process, and he did not even mention shit, but it was the expectation of engaging in a distant present which made it inevitable. There is simply no way to talk about the present, with out talking about to talk about the differences between excrement and fornication, and shiting and fucking which lies at the end point of this process.

It began with forming a picture out of words; The young man remembered one such picture as a face with a broad brimmed hat and some kind of shirt, but in fact the lines on this face were etched out of words. “Recamais-toi” piqued out of the hat, and other words draped out of the shirt. He remembered it very well as he looked at the painting in the foreground. Know and of what was to happen in 20 years would ever usher forth, and yet there was indeed something queasy about it.

Come to the edge, he said. They said: We are afraid. Come to the edge, he said. They came, and pushed them, and they flew.”

He then remembered a teapot where the mouth of the teapot could also be a man smoking a pipe, because his face was on the teapot. It was of course, Apollinaire whose face was upon the teapot. Again it hinted at all of the ways that people would use letters and pictures in a variety of context, out of half eaten memory of this act. It was a revolution, of sorts, and with each time someone combined pictures and words, it would begin again, because letters had their own obsession which would overwhelm anything else.

Words and pictures, the two are as oil and acrylic, never the twain shall meet.

While he might look as if he were standing there, in reality his minds eye had captured his brain, and loosed it images which were both word and picture both. The minds eye kaleidoscope over a tundra of images, each one called for his attention, each one different from the last. But what made the most impression was of la tour Eiffel, made up with words he could not quite grasp.

Remember at the time that the image was raised on canvas, it was only 25 years since the tower was raised, and that meant that not only was words and pictures a new thing, but the tower itself was a modern image, not something old, and established. The young man could see the Eiffel Tower from across the river, where he viewed it on the days when he lived there, going down to Avenue de New York and stared over the wall separating what he thought as North from South. He remembered all of the details, though he was sure he had filled them in, rather than remembered them. But still the same, he could picture himself staring up at the Tower, and then it faded into a melange that was of words and pictures he had seen some 10 years ago, on a magazine cover. He thought it was Pari Match, but he was not sure, except that it was French in content.

Even at the time he read several languages, that being one of the gifts from an uncle, the gift of speaking. Which was greater than every gift he could realize.

I love men, not for what unites them, but for what divides them, and I want most of all what gnaws at their hearts.” Apollinaire

But now he stares at an assemblage that is meant to represent what the drawer perceives as the core, not internally, nor externally, but hidden beneath all windows and expression getting to the deep core of the Inner Man. Thus it in no way resembles a drawing which depicts, nor does it depend only on expression has defined by the Germanic school, but instead carries with it A certain Latin clarity, Reverbertion ou lumiere of the Roman empire that France, rather obviously to them, should be the inheritor of.

Which is why there is not one respective, but several, interlining and overlapping with a collage that resembles a series of stained glass, from the Romanesque period. This is as it was as it began, the medieval guidelines with the modern, especially in the eyes, glaring out in two space, as opposed to a picture one could actually believe took place. Of course it couldn't, because there was no respect that actually represents the figure, everything being to sharp and clear. It was that way in this picture, but it was garish in the details of it, and took such flare in repeating the tawdry little details that come with a prospective wholly out of line with anything natural. In short it was a prism, capturing the inner essence without a single trace of beauty.

One can't carry one's father's corpse about everywhere.” Apollinaire

Thus it stared out at the viewers, as much as they stared back at it. And if really looked, that distortion of prospective grinds into your eyes, until you don't know whether you are staring at the canvas, or whether the candidates is staring back at you. And as people tried to mill away from it, by either turning away very suddenly, or by backing away with their face still upon the picture, it created a zone around it where the magical eyes held sway over all that truly looked at it. Of course a number of people did not look at all, only glance at it while talking of other things, either towards the Contemporary Wing, which this was temporarily a part of, or coming back and discussing which room they were going to visit, absorbing the French Baroque, or other manner of old rooms that were ahead.

But the people who had here eyes establish in the early part of the 20th century, could not look away with a straight face. Some were enamored and beguiled by a person who sat on canvas as if still alive; others were disturbed by numerous perspectives all competing for allegions with their eyes. But the man stared in two the page, letting all of the people whisk by him, trying to fathom what was he was thinking about. The man seemed very calm, indeed calmer then most of the people looking at him, he also had something on his mind. But what remained the question. It was absorbing to the man; though no trace of what it was beguiled the whisper on his face.

Joy always came after pain.” Apollinaire

Try as he might, the young man could not imagine what it was; and so slipped in to dreaming about it, fashioning himself as a spectator on the canvas, talking about what it was was on Apolloniare's mind. This though he did not know exactly what it was, but he imagined it was something intellectual and brilliant, as the poems were underling. Then he slid back out in to the vantage point of the museum, and looked down at a poem.

I realize this is the right moment to talk about the Jean Metzinger, which though in the same style, is wholly different in its partaking of the same subject. The drawing in the museum does not depict the human side that Metzinger wanted to capture under need the cold exterior, but want to capture the pure cerebral intellect. Normally the painting would have hung in Harvard, so it was a short hop to displaying it across the river in the Museum, but it was far in terms of the number of visitors which it captured. Their were more people in an hour, then in whole weeks in its permanent home.

A structure becomes architectural, and not sculptural, when it's elements no longer have there justification in nature.” Apollinaire

The problem, you see, is that when nothing is happening, just the eyes of a person communing with a painting or a print, that is the time when there is true affection, or hatred, or anything else that wants to name. When there is action, it might seem like that is what is truly important, but that is never the case. It is in that repose of quiet that the real activity is happening. Because in that arc second there is a true connection, even though nothing is happening, because it is interior forces, such as the main character in Max, a quite little film with Hitler played by not a Hitler, but someone else who has different aspects then the real one. Max, of course, is the main character – and his of sessions become ours if we want them to be.

That is also what is happening in the Museum of Fine Arts, for every moment that slips away, every second rejected and gone, is another second which everything is turning and the entire exhibit is turning into a minor key. But this is a rich minor key indeed, and no usual sounds can come out of this. It drips and wafts, and then stands upright like the Dragon in Wagner. Who is creepily in tune with the young man who is thinking about the relationship of eras which have revolution on their mind.

The main difference between German and French forms of revolution, was that the German form when you looked at it became messy and there were the kind of lumps, the kind that made everything foreboding and forbidding. Where as the Frankish form became lighter and could dance on the head of a pin. It performed as dancing music, where as the German form portrayed people who were dressed up like Vikings, and sang a great deal.

It's raining my soul, it's raining, but it's raining dead eyes.” Apollinaire

But what truly wrenched him in to the present, having wafted in an of his minds eye, was a group of people who were gaping and gawing over the whole set of works, not a very much attention to any of them. Then a little girl pointed at Apollinaire, and said very loudly, having not yet realized their was the etiquette of speaking softly in a museum, “Mama, what is that?” The adults rushed to muffle her speech, but the young man sent down on his haunches, and looked in to her blue blue eyes. Then he said:

“That is a great man, of which you have not heard. Go home, and look up Apollinaire, and begin reading about him.”

The Sorcerer's Apprentice: Ko-Ko

The Sorcerer's Apprentice: Ko-Ko: Nov 26 1945 WOR Studio New York City It cannot be said my friend that all is infatuation with the presentation of the moment as que...

Friday, April 24, 2015


Nov 26 1945
WOR Studio
New York City

It cannot be said my friend that all is infatuation with the presentation of the moment as question and answer period, instead kind takes a flow that moves over and under time passes as moments in the mist that wraps now inside it then inside of a premise in eternity that comes down to the moment, which is not the same thing as now, if you dig what I'm saying you'll understand.

It was November 26 and I was going down to Parker's apartment to bring back the man we all knew as “Bird”, for the bird he shot with a shotgun and ate in front of all the band members one day in July. More people have said they were there, and if it's true, there must be 400 people who were there when he did it. I wasn't, I'm not afraid to say, but trust me I've heard a distant different renditions from people who say they were there that day. Me, I don't even know which day it is, because renditions differ. How am I supposed to know?

So anyway, Bird was booked for a three hour session, doing four tunes in New York. It was a union contract mood at by some people the week before. It was all legal and official like. Parker, Miles Davis, Bud Powell, Curly Russell, and Max Roach were allegedly booked for the time. And I was sent down to Bird's apartment, to get full bird and Bud Powell. Anyway there was bird they are all right, but there was no Powell, because he was working on his mother. She wanted to go to Philadelphia, and look at a pad which supposedly was big enough for herself, and off she went with Bud. And well you see there was no nevermind about what she wanted to do, when she wanted to, contract or no contract she was going to have her boy with her.

Anyway, I got there and I will tell you that I was cool because I knew that Dizzy Gillespie was staying at birds apartment, and while I didn't exactly know him, I knew him by reputation, and substituting Powell for Gillespie was a no-brainer, sorry but it's true, anyone would take Gillespie, including, and probably dis-including, Powell. It was that that bad.

So I got on to the front stoop, and their was Bird, absolutely as friendly as day, and I knew that he had told Powell to get lost, that dizzy was really the person he wanted as the person tickling the keys, there was no two ways about it. “No need to worry, here is our piano player, rest assured.” who was I to judge?

So I took the two of them down to the station, I can't remember which room we were in, and there is confusion from the other people involved. And you know something? It doesn't matter. It just doesn't matter at all, but you will have 10 different opinions, and that is only from two different people. You know how it is when something small gets caught up in the details. It assumes a kind of detail that normally you wouldn't recollect anything about it if it were not part of the substance and significance of the moment. And boy was that ever a moment to paint a picture of. After all, it'd been three years since we been allowed to record, what with the war going on and all.

Anyway, first we start talking about what they were going to be playing, and I wasn't doing any talking just listening for ideas. It was of course Bird who had settled on bringing Gillespie's new rendition of “Cherokee” , because having listened to Duke Ellington's rendition from a few years ago, I checked it was 1940, he wanted that to be the marker that things were going to be different after the war. “It was a new generation.” someone said, I don't think it was Parker.
There was no warm up, new beats before, they were ready, and it started quick and ended quicker.

Well it started out with an eight part phrase, both alto and in unison octaves, each note played in unison no quirks or vibaroto. Then the trumpet goes solo, and then the sax does the same thing, each playing a different caress on the same notes but completely different in their interpretation and excitation, one could not even guess they were playing the same tune. The first take someone, not playing anything, started whistling and clapping and shouting, “You can't play that”, and so they started again, doing the 32 bar introduction piece, but then they skip the Cherokee introduction, that being the cause that started the whistling and clapping. You see, playing the piece as the piece was a big no-no.

So they got to the 64 bar solos from Parker, and what a tune it was to become. No one could believe that anyone could do such things on the sax, okay maybe it Parker believed, but no one else did. And it was fast, oh God was it fast, take the fastest piece by Beethoven, and double it, that's how fast it was. And Parker started with quavers, and went on to yet more difficult pieces, including a notoriously difficult quotation from Picou playing “High Society”. Even now, I can't believe I heard live.

I can't tell you how difficult it sounds on the recording, and how easy Parker made it look. There was a total disconnect between the eyes and the ears. It was almost as if looking at him it was easy, but if you closed your eyes, and listened, really listened, it sounded as hard as anything that you have heard played. Maybe even more so than that, if you can believe it. The people watching it were open jawed amazed, just flabbergasting. If someone tells you that they were there, don't believe them, because there were only a few of us who actually listened to it as alive as live gets. And they have all been heard from.

Anyway, as I was saying, after Parker's enormously long solo, there comes in a drum solo from Max, which in its own way takes the cake, and you'll hear plenty of people saying that was the best solo for drums that they have ever heard. I won't get in to the drum solo part, because that is really for drummers to contend with. And believe me, you can get a heated argument on which offbeat is better, let alone the whole solo.

Finally there is a 28 bar coda, somehow integrating all the main themes and sly lick from Parker and Davis, obviously they had planned this for a very long time, no one could just improvise, it was a planned improvisation. Then suspended on top was an imperfect cadence, the kind which hangs there and you think it will resolve, but it never does, even in your mind it doesn't.

That's how I remember it, other people may remember things differently. But I can hear fragments of this recording everywhere, I may just be locked in a kind of written with it, and there is nothing I can do about it. I wish I could go back to the beginning of the session, and here it through once again live, and thrill to the extreme virtuoso performance that Parker gave on that night.

I missing him, and the sounds that he made for the first time. I can go on talking and talking about this, and while talking I could just be able to touch the hem, and ride off in two the sunset, talking about Bird and the amazing days he started. It really wasn't the first bebop performance, but it was the first one recorded, and from there it slipped into a groove never before sounded out.

And that's the good thing, is it? The only thing I wish is that Hakim, that's his name now, would have recorded Ko-Ko as well, but he had to leave because he was not a member of the New York City Union.

Will I think it is, and from the number of recordings after the war, many other people were locked in that same place, and tell rock 'n roll and then just rock, took its place on the scene where jazz was once supreme.

(What Teddy doesn't say, is he was the producer of this session. He also disagrees with John Mehegan in putting Powell in the mix of things, appoint which he agrees with most people. And since he was sent to collect people, he should know. The other thing which he doesn't recall is that Dizzy was under the pseudonym “Hen Gates”. I should also mention that according to most people he was the one who said “you can't play like that” - though of course he demires to other people. - SN)

Thursday, April 23, 2015

Das Urteil part 2


It was a climax and a clatter; an anointing of despair; If the first act was of despair, quiet despair amidst the ruins of life, combining gently into a fugue in the second few measures, and becoming a cacophonous malaise in seeking a predilection of dénouement, before falling to a quiet close, the beating angry tale as it collapses and dies; the second part is rises up again with a client clasp of anguished despair, but trying to figure out who may be it's next morsel.

This tale wonders through the mist, without knowing exactly who to combat, without knowing what to do with this predilection for death. It almost is willing to kill itself, just give meaning to its mournful longing for Tristan and Isolde coprolite excrement after Wagner.

Because it was Richard on the brain to its very core, which would not do, because Schoenberg should always be the first name in the pantheon. So the back of his head played games, games that would reach a climax, with a misdirection, thinking that he was worshiping Schoenberg worshiping Wagner, when their was no reason to involve Schoenberg at all.

There was also the matter of defining numbers over and over again with reverence and celerity. He could not help it, it was just what he did. He could not help any one of these games, all played in harmony together, even though that harmony was, at times, slightly out of tune. But it was Berg's out of tune, which was one of the few consistently out of tune pieces in all of Europe. You might find Noh, in Japan, or Shanghai Opera settings which would have the same consistently broken in their wares. That rhythmic sense that is Chinese or Japanese, not really European, but European style faking Chinese instruments.

So the first movement is enraged horror, and the second movement a kind of despair. But how did it reach this and golden creation that it did?
It begin first by scribbling in this cottage room.
  • I must make it perfect, even though several times I wanted to destroy the efforts.
This was of course Berg, talking to no one in particular, since his wife was still; or perhaps again, he did not know the difference. There was no spitting, or genuflecting to the creator, which he did not believe in; only something more vague, and yet more powerful.

It was Christopher S. Wood who would write about the Vienna School Reader, about a group of, not painters, but readers writing on reading, it was called the new Vienna school, because Vienna was the place where East meets West. Little farther down the Danube, the world had tilted to the east, though still making use of the West. That was in Budapest, where everything Western was stylized and not baroque in that way. In Budapest, everything happened to be already Baroque by not being Baroque at all. As I said, they had gotten their first.

“... it is precisely his avowed desire to give the special 'understanding' of art he exactly of the natural sciences distinguishes him from the ordinary experience of the 'sciences of the spirit.'” this was Meyer Schapiro being quoted in Woods text on Cézanne, which happened to be exhibited for a very brief time. It was a secondary reference, because mountain is “Berg” in German. Everything relates to everything else if one tries hard enough to nuance enough.

- I wonder if I could convince my significant other to move out of Trauttmansdorffgasse, even though it was tree-lined and romantic in nature, there were lines which reminded him of what Theodor W. Adorno would later note were Cézanne-esque shapes of tiny rectangles, which Berg silently detested. There was no composition in the space in town, only at the Villa, which he retreated to win he wanted to compose his real work: first Lulu, and now in a fit of orgiastic despair, is violin Concerto, which he privately thought would be his last work.

- I must get perfect, not in years, but in a few short months, because I am rotting from the inside.

Indeed, by the winter, crawling, clasping, characteristically he felt he would be colder than, did Dickens say – then a dead doornail. And he felt this inside, so he composed with fury and abandonment, and with everything in between, starting each row on a specific note. Because that was the theme, start each row on a specific note, then define each set of rows by going through the notes, but off by one, and end going out from there. So diverse was the schema, but orderly in its execution, having exactly 12 notes in order, but off by one.

He invented whole new ways of introducing the first note: because each note was different in execution of the small detail, but in order in its larger conception. Thus each 12 note would be extraordinarily unique, and also with precision, the same as the note before, only very by each step. Then it would begin again, with entirely different notes, and theme.

- I must produce my best, because that is what Schoenberg once from me.

And in his mind eye, ever present, their was deeply hidden, but plain for Berg to see, a small marionette of Schoenberg, even though he was the only person to see it.

- I promise I will do better, I promise I will refine each note, each 12 note, each phrase, each compartmentalized conception, until it is all perfection.

Again it was to himself that Berg talk to, because only he could understand the Viennese German which he spoke in under his breath. It was a singsong pattern which only he had mastered, he had to modulate this for anyone else, though Mahler, Schoenburg, and Weber understood the overall grasp of the sentence, because they spoke the same clockomagnetic rhyme and reason. It was, it was as if, it was as if there was a code between the co-fraternity of the second Vienna school and their God the father.

But Mahler said his ear was not sensitive enough to really grasps what he was hearing, even in strictly tonal pieces.

This all within the cottage which had many rooms in it. But Berg never got the second Symphony of Mahler out of his head, though with time, he made notations so it was out of his pen.
Mahler was dead these 25 years, and he thought little of Schoenberg, he being a obsessed with his wife, who was already sleeping with the next man she would be marrying, and with the only composer of his day who would be heir to the Wagnerian throne: Richard Strauss.

“In those cases when such a different approach to the problem of description is adopted, out of quite different intentions, the linguistic image, the strongly, sensuously, flawed expression is always preferred.” Otto Pacht

even in the exact time, even in the exact place, there is a resonance to people talking after the same things. Thus it is in harmonious resonance that Otto Pacht is speaking of the same attachment to the object, that Berg is wrestling with in the same way. Both of them love the romantic, but have adopted the same expressionist demeanor, out of which comes there fluidity. Though Pacht write reams, while there only rights a few pieces, each one of them writes in the cold mileuax that looms above Vienna in the first half of the 20th century. It is one half 19th century, as if, as many commentators noticed, this was planted very firmly next to heart – it was Leonard Bernstein who used almost this phrasing and pace of rhythm – while the second half is breaching for the 20 century but does not know how to reach, or what foot to planned where. But it is in the which reaches a climax of both romantic feeling, in that way that romantic music does, because words had long ago ceased to mean the same thing. Romantic words were over in 1850 or so, but romantic music lived on until it was both a parody and an lielired of something long forgotten in words.

And, at this very moment, Berg's wife was the embodiment of this tremor of imagination. She was standing on this night of June, sitting and looking out over the great plains, wondering what she would do about the mess that there life was in. she knew that her husband had affairs, she was not as dumb as to think that he was spotlessly pure, even though Schoenberg and Webern both assured him she was. But yet she found endless notes, and letters, from which ever girlfriend he want or had wanted or wanted again. And once more, there were subtly defined hints that Schoenberg knew, and Webern guest. She was not the nonentity which would be ascribed to her in the textbook of the Second Vienna School.

It was a male only establishment, just as the Vienna institutions were male only. But then almost all of the worlds orchestras were. But Vienna would hold on to the last days of the century before admitting players – other than harps – to take a seat with the man. It was both endlessly progressive by being totally reactionary. Remember, Hitler was from this place. And he like most Austrians, reviled Schoenberg as well as any Jewish composers, however tonal they were, but Schoenberg he despised.

Actually Bartok – who was Christian – wrote a letter complaining that the Nazi party would not condone his writing on to the absolute ban that Schoenberg, Berg, and Webern were placed. Though Webern tried hard to get off the list, because he wanted to be both a member of the second Vienna school, and a good member of the Reich.

But as I said, it was Berg's wife who at this moment, was deep in the machinations of the power politics. The wind was blowing out of the South, As was the programming of the Salzburg Opera Festival. Josef Krips would be making his festival debut with Der Rosenkavalier, And almost all of the programming reminded one of the lateness that was the twilight of the era of Wagner. But underneath the old trappings their was a new sound, entirely tenor in its nature, which would be the ringing in the ears for a generation to come. This, it could be said, was what annoyed his wife. Why was there no mention of the second Vienna school. Mind you, that wasn't the real reason, but it was the thing she harped upon, to her husband, and anyone else that she could scrap in to a discussion.
Right now, however, she was lighting in to her husband, with details which were not really the concern on her mind, but shrieked like noise as she moved back and forth on veranda. It was not even pretty, it began from a high-pitched scream, and descended in to a low guttural growl. Berg was trying to calm it down, as the violin tried to smooth over the lumps and pickups. But the noise from the orchestra would not die down. Every day it was like this, and every night Berg noted this in his score, or notes that he took down.

Later, Berg described this part in a letter to Schoenberg, telling him only the most dry of details. But in between the details was a hammer blow of a cacophonous pounding that begins the third movement, which was divided into to parts, the first part was a prelude, labeled Andante, and a scherzo, labeled Allegretto. But then came the second act, and with it the allegro, labeled cadenza. And what a cadenza it was. Thus in two movements, there were four sections, each one of which had four blandishments, and each one of them Mrs. Berg had an opinion on, not the least of which was her complete absence from the musical substructure. Instead there were parts for other people, which enraged her, though she did not speak its name. She was worried, of course, that her husband slept with Manon, a sin that was made double because of her rivals young age. But instead she harped on Louis Krasner young age and uncertain virtuosity, because he was not the first person that either of them would have selected.

And so it went on night after night, the pitching and screaming, combined with late night tapings of the pen as he feverishly worked on a force of God cadenza.Meanwhile Berg's wife was doing her Shiva retain to Berg's Vishnu – she was hiding most of the second act of Lulu. Both destroying it from performance, but lovingly preserving to be found far and away, to reach a performance in the distant future. You see, Mdm. Berg fought the opera beyond the grave, and it was 1979 when it got its first performance, because the third movement was only in short score, and she wanted it that way. But she also knew that Lulu was glorious and the final masterpiece, from a composer which had only a few.

So from beyond the grave she thought, and had lawyers snip and lear.

But there was one problem that vexed Berg: having begun and sustained, how would he and this problem which had now enough space to become almost a concerto. Because almost is not the same thing as quite being a concerto. He was in the cottage on the second floor, talking with Willi about all the options, and reminding him to find a copy of the book on Bach, which he bought would show that the end of the most complex cantata was he seen series of notes as the last four of his tone row.

He wished it would be so, the complexities of it made orgasmic pleasure in nearly thinking about it. The ecstasies of it made him giddy and effervescent just thinking about the sublime difference between animal and plant myxomycete. He wanted, desperately, to feck them over and over until he had webs of endless gew on is luxurious velvet sleeves.

Then one day Willi returned with a book entitled 60 great canata themes, and their settled on the page was what he had hoped for: the most complex theme noted down in all of its glorious detail. He spent hours that night talking to, a rather talking at, Willi about the various exercises which he was thinking of doing, combining tonal with atonal, in a grand mass which would be a prayer for all of the dead, with Manon being tasked with leading the fallen into their grave.
The violin Concerto was finished, but had no performances yet, when Mme. came to the door of Berg.

- Are you all right, I heard some gasping when you were outside for a moment. Are you well?

She knew of course he was not well. But she didn't know what was wrong.

- Yes yes yes, I'm fine. I just turned around and a bee stung me, it was only once. Could you help me? I need only some iodine, and it will be settled.

Then he turned, and presented his buttocks, in any display that held enormous understanding, if not enormous love. Because there was little of that between them. She looked down, and for a moment stared. It was enormous and blackened, she had never seen anything like it, and touched him on his back.

- It is enormous and swollen, shouldn't we take you to a hospital?

Berg made a motion that said no, but spoke no word. Of course it was painful, more than painful, it felt like it was a gash that tour him in to. It was at this point that he thought of the violin Concerto, and its remorseless way of telling the tale. Howard struggled, and fought, as if life itself were being torn out of it. It was like a clatter, a clamor, and yet sublime release.

- it seems like I need iodine and perhaps some stitching, really that is all I need.

This was obviously a lie, told the way and told the way endless lies had come streaming out of his lips. And she knew it, but she got out a needle and thread, and set to work darning and fixing. She was fastidious, but she was postulant and new that this needle would not hold.

So she made a mess of it, knowing that Berg could not see what a messy job it was, though he could feel it.

- Are you sure that the needle has gone all the way in? And all of the morass has been cleaned out?

Even when lying dead inside his grave, Berg cast a force that towered over the various participants.


it had been assumed that Webern would conduct the first performance of the Concerto. But try as he might, he wanted it to be so quiet that no one could hear it. Then at the last minute, perhaps under pressure from the other members of the group, he resigned, and thus a much lesser member was picked out to conduct the first concerto. There was tension, inside the brain of Webern, because he was still hoping to get a position in the Reich, though it all ready was being made clear that this would not happen. He tried to get the musical members of the regime to see that the work was pure, and Germanic. But in a closed room, they would have nothing to do with such cacophonous and dissonant music.

Knowing full well that it had not been cleaned out, nor was all of it sanctimoniously cleaned out. If God's work is cleanliness in action, then this was the Devils own work itself. The ends were ghastly, and the sutures made round and round a veritable stitching fever. And what's more, there new that he was dying on table, in the blue colored room. If we were looking at the ironic juxtaposition, as an audience member, you would see a long low table cluttered with glasses, each having more or less of a drink, from small ones with aperitif, to enormous ones which contained beer. These – as I said – cluttered the table in a richness and were clearly of a different taste for the many people who had stopped by. Though they would not have said it, is a were paying respects to a dying composer. Also on the table were small bunches of flowers, though of course at this point they were dried. The table was covered with a lightly flowered coverlet which had been in the family since at least the grandfathers generation. All of it pointed to one thing: Alban Berg was entertaining, that is to say dying.

In this light Berg has created a network of emotions that anybody is major works, because each nonet is related to a given emotion which for just a moment brings true. One could capture a moment from The Lyric Suite, with its perturbations of chrysanthemum flowers drooping as they suffused fire. One could go on and on with this exercise, picking out moments from Lulu, or the thundering Piano Sonata.

Everything was symbolizing something, but it had no relationship to what it was next to. It was a jumble of ideas which Berg would put in order, but he was dying. And his eyes searched to his wife, knowing that she was killing him, by ideas. There was not any trace of murder in her frame, but her shadow was choking him, as if the bodies were lovingly embraced, and the shadows were cacophonousness engaged in and to hand combat. The loving face of Mlle. Berg, was mimicked by a shadow which choked the life.

This pretext, that they were partners, was really sotto voce, that they were partners in crime. Than Berg stiffened, and in so doing, gradually expired. The word of his death was small, and unimportant, except for those who felt lessed by his grief. These were not only of the Schoenburg school mind you, but composers as far afield as Britain and Shostakovich.

It was of course the English composer Writing to the Soviet composer; he spoke in melodic sentences that were clearly marked off, yet rounded in their presence. Words as used in conversation, where short clip staccato replies that had none of the expansiveness which filled the room with a resonance, when talking not to anybody in particular, but to everybody in a group. There was something underneath the tone which said that all are welcome to listen, but no one was allowed to speak


Klagegesang II/158 and II/177 Would seem to be a suggestion that the reading, indeed of the entire force, should be unified in a way that here's difficult to accomplish. This was sent Schenker approach. It Represents the adherence of program music and defendants of new classes and new matter-of-factness”. We find ourselves in a snowy plain in bags and tatters, a monk in disguise. “ I am the absolute, be there in fact. The fundamental abstract I eight all sensuous.” this was laid by the that was Berg.

He then wrote about his chamber Concerto: “ as an author it much easier to speak about such external matters then about internal process...” he was trying to explain why the road about the violin Concerto in abstract Doppelgaengner reaction. He was conflicting about the dual sides of one person, about how God and the devil by for inner workings which define Goethe's Faust. It was almost a personal bottle to set Strindberg Road to Damascus the father and the son battling for control of text. But as usual, the father one day. And Berg withdrew to other fields. Though he wrote in his copy of the play: “ annihilation of the God in you.” perhaps he meant Schoenberg though he would deny.

“Berg seems to me to have committed a serious error...” Pierre Boulez...

Wednesday, April 22, 2015

A Note

Work on Das Urteil, which is part 2 of a cycle:

Nocturnes - Which is a piece about to Debussy trio  of orchestras pieces.
Das Urteil -  Which is about the Violin Concerto of Berg.
Ko Ko -  Which is about Charlie Parker's three minute Bop  piece.
4 Pieces  From a Book of Lost Tales -  Which is about Newberry's Piano Trio No. 1

Now  why start with the second piece?  Because originally that was the only thing I wanted to start with,  and perhaps worked out through various pieces of Berg's work.  This was 25 years ago,  since then the piece has changed,  because I only worked about 3000 words or so.  Since then it has  lied fallow,  and what was originally about Berg's work,  became something else entirely.  First the strain of Charlie Parker's "Ko Ko" introduced itself.  So I have a fair bit of work to do,  the second piece of Das Urtiel will be out soon,  and then "Ko Ko"  will be out next.

Sunday, April 19, 2015


One would think that intelligence is God's gift to learned people,  but in fact it is largely  a trap.  This is because  people  who are very dumb think they are very smart. When enough of these people get together,  for an unimaginably large period of time,  they think they are God's  gift. That's why people with a great deal of money  run things.  but eventually,  they run to a brick wall.  Now such narcissistic people do learn certain valuable things,  which makes them smarter than narcissistic people in say,  1300,  but not very much  better.  What this means is that people,  for example Turing, die  years ignominious deaths more often than not. There are a few key things that  bright people do which are valuable,  but a large number which only are recognized when a person is dead.  this doesn't do the individual which possesses talents very much good.

The other trap of intelligence,  is IQ isn't the only part of the intelligence matrix,  but elaboration, such as done with the brain, isn't the right way. This means,  if you are intelligent,  you may think, " what do I have two do?" The reality is,  you may not have what it takes to be famous. You are there for the other people in the world to take advantage of,  but you don't achieve the results. Things have been tried to make things better,  and they have made them better,  but most of the time the narcissistic people,  that is people who are stupid but think they are smart,  consumer most of the benefits.  the rest are consumed by people who are extremely bright and don't want to share it with people who are also extremely bright,  but do not do things which are immediately useful.  There was a time,  not so long ago,  where they would give intelligent but not immediately so,  a little bit of money. Now however,  that is not  the case.

One part of this complex is that in three dimensions the Platonic solids number five,  but in four dimensions,  they number six.  So if someone sits down you,  and talks about the Platonic solids,  and does not say that in higher order dimensions there are more,  right than on your list as having a clue. there are more examples that this,  such as Goedel  realizing that "this statement is false",  will be to for any  number of finite base causes. (  So it is known, but widely ignored.

( which reminds me,  I have to do something on the Nocebo  effect )

Warrens of Undercurrent - VII


He  sat  with the last of the papers,  there were only a few left. These were not in his hand, a kinematic illusions of that fans out into the darkness.  now that there were so few pages left,  he wanted to  be more,  so he could get lost among the myriad pages.  instead,  there were only a few, and he knew what that meant.   he would  have to wake up,   gird his  teeth,  and go in to the  obelisk which once he woke up,  would be staring him into the face.  it was not attractive prospect,  to say the least.  and he could only dawdle for so long,  before his patients were thin on him.  in fact,  he could feel something in his voice, a  deep rumbling,  which wanted him to get up now.  in fact he had to fight this  urge even as he knew what it was.  that meant to him,  that his little relaxation,  and cogitation,  was nearly at an end.  and that meant he had to think very clearly about what he was to do next.  and that was a trial.

Next he felt an inscription  on the tome  of the pages he had yet to read. It was an  insolent  way of telling his characters mind, that there was something else here, which watched him very closely. To almost felt that it was not three dimensional.  He stopped and thought,  that is another  clue that this was not the and of the story.  not by a long shot.  Each of these clues pointed in one direction:  but he could not yet pointed out what. And that meant that this other was not a character,  but a presence,  an author, but all what could not say. It was it the author of a book,  or something else indeed,  such as would be written once and then stored away,  to be looked at only in case of emergency. He knew he would have to ponder this,  ponder it with out thinking about it.  and what was all of this thinking about himself,  he had done it before,  but not so extreme. Put another moiety on his list of things to ponder.

This time,  he definitely felt odd about reading these,  because staring back at him was someone very different from  himself. In fact,  even the name would not do. Thus he crossed his name, and an left just "J", so as not to be confused.  Because "J"  was not his name,  and he  would destroy any reference which was not to himself.  in other words,  "J"  would be something  entirely different from himself,  and never the twain should meet.

But even with this,  he revolted against becoming the character -  as we do in most circumstances when reading fiction -  because now he was reading fiction,  rather than taking in a real story as before. It was a  road of silence and  remembrance,  all the warriors who had fallen,  and all of civilians that had buried the dead. Even he did not have the memory to keep  all of the names that would be there.   in fact,  the amazing pen  of fate  may not have recorded many of them,  because this was a work of fiction,  thus if the writing does not record the name,  it did not happen at all.  or as FW Murnnau  said "if it is in frame it doesn't exist."  This reputable translation may not be true, because even if it is not on camera the ghost of the machine still reads its existence.

Trisynaptic spun lovingly in the distance.  a little burbling sound emanated from  the  hills -  he thought from the nandin  bushes that surrounded this interlude of green space.  He then looked around and realized he had not examined all which surrounded him.  he looked at the shrubbery and realized that it was northern Asian in context,  but  new where in his minds  view was there any such place. In fact,  what was Asian anyway?  he had never heard it as a place name,  though it clearly was so. He then thought for a moment,  and realized not only wasn't there such a place,  but the globe he sat upon in this dream was far too heavy.  It was as if a necrotic dog was binding at his sleeve and curing him down.  What this meant was,  he weighed too much to stand,  and barely enough to sit.  he looked up again,  seeing conifers which he had not seen in his life.  to most people,  there heads would be spinning,  but not Jehangir.

The seepage from his mind was almost palpable,  as if it were not an illusion at all.  It wanted to seduce him,  and end things with a macaronic ending - which he suddenly realized,  did not exist in any language he could recognize.  What was Latin anyway?  It did not exist on any one of the seven sisters.  That meant something truly terrible:  there was an outside where it did exist.

Thus he buried himself in the pages once more,  only to recognize that the story was seducing,  and he could not get out.

The going way from the known was quite a bit slower than going towards it, this is because they room in wave and when out against it.there were flash of light, getting bright faster and dimming but in a way which was not fluid, but crackling, like a spark or a ghost. It was an eerie feeling on the inside of a body. On like me thing he had felt in that, or in any other stretch of life that he had experienced here to. The experience of the which was uncommon but was less unusual, that is the ringing in his ears that he came to recognize as as whistling in his head. He counted words from many different chapters he had read before. Illuminated canvasses that took the shape of other passages that linked with other forms of communication. 
He glanced over his right and then his left, seeing what he could see, over his right saw darkness and, glens and large rivulets and waterfalls. Over his left he saw mountains and snow covered gaps. He realized that underneath was dividing line that was the boundary of this, one have snow, one half teaming wilderness. 
“What is that, that raucous mess that on one side has deep brush, and on the other side called springs?” 
The Eagle soared and said little for a few minutes and then replied: “that is the boundary between summer and winter, the summer regions are rolled by the birds and the winter regions are ruled by folk such as you. I will look out after your interests and you can go and talk to your friends if such a law.” he tilted his head and J saw the boundary error than before it ran up one side where it was dark and gloomy, and on the other side sheens and shared. 
“Why are things like this. I've ever seen anything so unique. Is it natural to this place?”
“No it was an agreement by the birds and flesh to divide the main slide into leafy and snowy. With each ruling one side. Snowy side where you will have go to sort out what the mammals will be willing to do. Their ways are strange and high do not understand them. They are different from us.” 
“What about the faith pictures, are they attached to the mammals, or are they different from them.” 
“Today are with mammals for they are your kin though was not known. They acquired some things which were not attached to them by nature. They are kin the they would not admit it.” 
“Birds different, they do not have special abilities.” Birds took their abilities in them and display them proudly, unlike mammals which want to be disguised in some way
“I see, so we want to the fey, and the side that that was the difference that would be marked, and you didn't want to know who has in who does.” 
“You can say it that way, I would not.” 
Realized that the birds, and mammals, were them separate in many more ways than they left upon, and the word truly different. 
The Eagle swooped down under is branches. “You now must go along because the mammals control this region the world and they would like to speak to you, and they don't wish to speak to me. There is a great deal that is troubling about this. If it were birds I would say great deal indeed.” 
He nodded and assumed there was bad blood, and that this was not notice because most of the planets organized themselves around humans and other animals, particularly dragons, and they have different ways of thinking about things, brutal way that is. It was only on the moons where things were different, and permanently rolled. 
One difference is that this was clearly marked. Their were dozens of pathways which he could sense, being that it senses more more tuned and the pickup several of them just by looking for the, key wondered why certain animals were under the birds rather than staying with the mammals, and he would suppose why some birds would be on the snowy side rather than with their relatives. 
Once his feet were down on the ground, there was jubilation in the tips of the fingertips said that though he was gratified at the friends with the bird he was fundamentally a minimal and grounded as way of rumbling. He was home if that was a question, he realized that home was dysfunctional and he realized that the birds way might have some advantage. 
He looked on the ground and saw tracks, to of them, that were foxes and they were chasing some mice or lemmings. It was a brutal chase in deed and he realized that the mammal population was going about its business as if nothing was happening at all. It was fang eat fang and know more than that, compare that to the birds where even the birds which were going to betray at least expected some due difference. He was seeing that the birds had a sort of consciousness which he did not see in his kin. The path was small, and it had several varying footprints the tracks of Fox's and of lemmings and hope more than that. This was not a chase but something else indeed and he would have to find what. 
He clambered up the sides and took a look around. He was on a serviceable ledge looking down and every direction and across in two the grasping space, and tell trees smothered over the darkness. He saw nothing but white snowy leaves in every direction but he knew that there were animals, both bird and mammal like, but they were hiding from him and looking out because humans were different from the other mammals that they knew of. The were watching and listening to find any sort of clue as to what he was doing. No one was going to be the first one to move in this snowy environment with all of the trees glistening and hiding the extremely it birds and mammals. Is lips were cold and you wish that someone would pop at him and start a conversation. And last one did, a small white mouse, with an inquisitive face and attended smile. He was right side up when Jay saw him, but ones upside when a bird now though not in the of one's that he knew came to collide down and seemed like he was going to smash. But he saw the mouse was to fast and too quick and flutter over and over. The owl fluttered his wings and was gone into the good night. 
“You can get all of me that way. It was home very high pitched voice, nasally and a bit flattened. Then he flipped over towards human being and said: well what do you want I've got so friends who have that down on it and they've collected me to me to judge the result. So what is the call?” This was very abrupt and also stern. As if to declare to all the world even if only this small piece, that it was going to be rough on it not on the mouse.
“I'm here to see what there is here. And take advantage of what I can do to help. And ask anyone who is here if they will help me out. Is that answer your question and then some or must I explain it more clearly than that.” 
“So you would like our help that's very strange for someone who is allied with the birds. Or may I say that to you.” 
“You consider anything he liked me.” 
“Then may hide ask for you to take me to where your people live and ask them.”
“Your very abrupt.” 
“No actually I'm not but I sense that you are and so I'm trying my best to match your pace.” 
“Thank you I think. But you just wanted to introduce my people to yours.” 
“And yes just like that because there is no time left.” 
“Well That is very interesting indeed. I unfortunately can only go up to the Barron and he can decide what to do with you.” 
“You can decide whether you want to help me or not that is the only question I am going to ask view and you are going to answer me. Because I am gathering birds and I would like together the mammals as well.” 
“You need to other things, the shadow of the outer and the shadow of the inner, and those down answer my people.” 
“One will answer your people and the other one I will seek out. Your barren role have to deliver you some earl, and he does some Duke, and he the king and he will decide whether he will decide what you people will decide. “ is was that voice again. 
“Well that's mighty fine if you, Do you have anything else that.” you realize at that point that mammals were the different, birds were different, mammals were a group of rough and tumble, wall words were more, solution, and here in the morning under control of Gods and goddesses, they had the controlled by more distant forces that control forces of gods and goddesses because they were not really to the force to be reckoned with themselves, they were usually different to anything other than their own pleasure. First things first, he needed to get this mouse to bring in to the barron and so on until was speaking to the King ,which he might remind him, would ,probably not be human.
In very likely not human, at all. 
It was a long time to convince the mouse that he had a duty, that he had a duty was the but of the one that he looked like not this human. He up had this human and it was very clear that he wanted to be in charge not the other way round. So he hemmed and he hawed and tried to get the conversation back to his referred angle of what he could do for them, not to weigh around. For one determined animal he had his mind made up about how this conversation should go and was the home to its billing not in the least. In his own mind the was the primary active and well we're rest of them all the more all important. You could read this novel, but it wouldn't make any sense. 
Across the vast hills in their, with their tight trees lined up, each One line of in case of a ticket of branches. Mostly they were coniferous standing straight towards the tallest branch that they could buy, which was decidedly different from the other trees which decidouce trees which could have branches. On many of the branches we near the top there were doves, each one of them were cozying up with another. 
“Why is it that some birds what like to be gathered here, and why do some mammals like to be there?” 
“Because , stupid, maybe stop it a bird or mammal but they are great number of slots, so viewing if there not talk dog, as it were, they can better off half way down the wrong way then all the way down the right way. If you see what I mean.” he was annoyed at him trouncing his way in to his life right now in particular. 
“Cheer up, I will emerging my way on to next thing in you can get back to whatever you were doing recently.” 
The mouse did not reply but just charging forward and in his mind And rewrote the story the zone way, was just very stupid how he did so. 
They trudged up one way and then down the other way, and the way here was denser with branches than before. It was deep night and the could not see stars, or anything else up there because it was kept Deeply hidden by the snow, which was afoot at least. And at this point there were many tracks even if hidden, tracks that told him that they were getting warmer as it were. 
The mouse signaled that they were coming into a century post and that they had to bow, their were two goals stationed on above the shaft. The Wolves were looking outside, they didn't even careWill that a man was looking authorization, there was Something more for it than they were. To appearing through other eyes than the ones. Peering for something different, to mouse shivered and shook. 
Noted about their looking for an evil eye. 
“You'll have to tell me something about this evil eye I'm afraid, it's not common in any of my books.” 
“Serves you right, everybody knows what an evil eye is if they've got any sense of the matter.” 
“Well then you'll just have to explain it to me, because I'm the dunce of the class.” 
“While I can't explain everything to you, you know what an eye is. Do you?” he asked inquisitively. It was not question for new mouse to want answered. A very strange question indeed. 
“Let's say I don't just case there's something that I've missed.” Known full well what evil eye is on other planets, but he didn't know about this one just as it. 
“In evil eye everything looks different. And everything looks different because it's all gnarled entangled. And everything looks different because the evil eye shows its true light.” if this were a mouse it would have to be very skilled in illumination indeed. 
“And what are they looking for? Why go to the amount of control if you can just peer at it? “ 
Because you can look at it, even wall it is looking around for you that means I can have it in my pocket, and no one would be the wiser, except you are looking for it with magical people high, and I don't wish to be seen with it. 
“I do not understand me. Looking at you with my evil eye, I can see anything even if it's not visible, that is also an even one that could be in your pocket.” 
At this point the mouse was standing on top of a piece of bark lecturing as if to a student. He was lecturing as if J was a student. J realized that this was not right, and the person lecturing J realized that he had gotten something mixed up. 
“Your not a mouse at all. And the people who were scanning my face were not looking out for me, they were trying to catch me.” 
As an instant past grown up from the ground was a man, he was tall and thin and black haired. He was white skinned and he was covered in ermine and furs. He was holding a ball and said “ there isn't much time to you want to say anything.” it was clearly a trap, the mouse was a delusion for the bird so it could take him and deposit him in a trap. But was it enough, there were many birds which had quite came site. He also realized that he was known from the beginning, and the evil high was the key somehow. They had no about evil eye, because that would fail plan. He looked around and saw walls in every direction, keen about getting on their business, he was not going to save place but rather a distinctly unsafe place, where awful things would be done him. Since the mouse was part and parcel of what, their was mouse someplace and they had tricked the Eagle to deliver him to their grasp. He could see many highs all of them illuminated, and they were thinking only one thought, but they weren't going to do it just yet. 
“What ability on? One minute I talking with mouse and neck the mouse is becoming a person with wolves. A bit odd the mouse having the vocabulary of someone a bit taller, but he mouse nonetheless. Now I'm talking to you, who has a distinct want of desire to know something about the eye, which I no something about but less than other people, that means that the person has one wants to know what I know.” He looked around for any escape route as he did this. There was none to be found. In fact every place that he looked was guarded by a pair deep red crushing highs, that were thinking about crushing him. But they waited for some sign. 
“This thing. Is this mouse? Who do you think? That was very very foolish, why did you think I was going to affect you leave? That would have been mercifully and I do not have such thoughts as mercy.“ The form can to closure, it was life after death, and it had been hunting for a chance, a chance to turn even in two blackness. The trees were illuminated, with bow branches and ornaments, there was going to be death upon him very soon, unless something would help him. 
He knew that he had been hunted from the beginning, and that the plan was completed when he was and are over to what seemed like a mouse but was in fact demon. And he knew something that the demon wanted and he was going to get it by hook or by crook. Unless something intervened. 
But nothing was coming even as he was booted to the ground, And started up some cold snow. He jerked his head up and saw masticated mouse thrown on to the ground, and then stopped. 
And the world stopped with him.
Now wings of the Dove called to him,  and he rested.  He didn't know whether he was going up or down or  that direction that the new had to exist,  But as yet not have a name.  Three not two.

Saturday, April 18, 2015

Why do 40 something men kill them selves?

Water in the Great Plain - 2

In the 1930s and again in the 1950s,  and exodus occurred  taking people out of the Great Plains,  and arriving them, mainly,  in California.  and with that shift,  the  droughts that had  in the great plains moved to the  West.  with several companies,  such as Nestlé,  continuing to tap  Into what should have been protected water.  but in any event,  the drought was precipitated by mankind,  who wanted structures in place,  such as property,  which did not meet the  needs of the great plains aquifer,  nor natural San Francisco bay,  nor the artificial  aquifer in the Las Vegas region.   in the 1980s and now in 2010's,  the damage has moved from  the Eastern to the Western.  and with it,  the damage has moved from Eastern,  which was actually very rich,  to a much poorer aquifer that settles in the West.  shows how water is piped in from the north and from the West to keep the Los Angeles area in water.  what it says is that water is rapidly  piped in from outside.

US geological survey publishes a series of papers on various topics, including  this one on the geo-hydrology of the central and west coasts basins around Los Angeles.  it admits  that " historical ground water development of the central and West Coast basins in Los Angeles county,  California through the first half of the 20th century caused large water decline levels,  and introduced see water intrusion."  this was before anything had occurred.  but land use was not as prevalent during this time.  after the 1930s and 1950s, however,  it became a crisis,  and nature came down with full force.

As a result,  the great plains suffered more droughts,  though they were not as severe,  and California suffered droughts which were devastating,  indeed they are in the most severe drought in a long time. it is not, again,  the water,  but mankind pillaging the water,  that is the basic question.  as a result of corporate business consuming most of the water,  California is becoming dry.

Even with regulatory benchmarks ( maximum convenience  level)  the area which is San Francisco Bay his becoming depleted.  the standard unit of inorganic constituents is transgressed in over 7% of the primary aquifer system and moderately in over 37%.  what this means is that natural sources to groundwater have enough salt water  in inordinately large amounts.  basically,  people in the bay area are drinking saltwater a quarter of the time.

Again,  this is a man made  problem.

What this means is as follows,  individual planters violate the system,  and agribusiness violates the system even more so.  and both together stack the deck to violate the system time and again,  knowing that eventually there will be a turning point.  but each individual makes the best that they will get out,  possibly by making promises that can't be kept.

With the ground water reaching critical,  and in some cases more than critical,  levels,  it may be 20 years from now when the time comes.  or it could be now.  remember that in the back room deals,  a structure is hammered out between individuals and agribusiness,  which will make it impossible to know when this turning point in his reached.

Friday, April 17, 2015

Das Urteil - Part I

-It is dawn. I think it is dawn.
I think it must or ought to have been
dawn. Perhaps the streaks of growing
light show that it could be dawn.

-But what light does not grow
stronger it its force -- which draws
not from passing time the power of
the coming of the sun.

-It is dusk, I know it to be dusk.

It was this instant that one Alban
woke from tortured reveries into the
silence of a spring. He glanced out
of the window to see the light of
the dying day pour through the
window. He realizes the sun has set
and that the first glistening of
Venus falling towards the Western
Horizon has pierced the glare of

He startles and looks towards the
door frame. It is his wife - wearing
a sour expression that said she was
disappointed that he had dozed off
on the sofa again, papers scattered
before him, notes scrawled on some -
numbers on others. He hunched
protectively over them. Even though
she could not have divined the
secrets on the pages. Even though he
knew that she already knew them.

It struck him at this instant how
much she and Maestro Schönberg were
alike - she could not have learned
the sour look from him, nor he from
her. It must be something from up
out of the unconscious of man - a
shape that reached the face - a sour
fear brought to light.

"Manon,” his wife gave a pause, “has
died. I heard it only a few minutes
ago. The sickness has claimed her.”
Alban Berg came slowly and groggily
to realization, the way people who
are used to stimulants do when they
do not have the substance of their
thought to hand. When their world
seems hazy and dark, and the blood
of thought does not flow within

He furrows his brow.

“She has gone to be among the other
angels then, first Gustav, then her.
Soon the whole world I fear. Will
there be no joy left within it?”

The wife turned.

“Not if the least and lowest spawn
of Vienna's artistic community has
much to say of it. I find it hard to
understand how Anton has such
admiration for him.”

Alban reached a standing state, his
rumpled clothes were creased from
having been sweat in and then slept
in. He pushed his steel-wool hair
back and moved up behind his wife,
grasping his arms around her.

“Do not talk of such things.
Politics passes, only the infinite
will remain. And all we do, “he
waited for an instant - a pause in a
phrase such as his mentor loved so
much, “and all that we write - will
only last in so far as it reflects
that infinite perfection.”

The last sentence brought a sigh,
and having stated as he wished to
state - he the began to cry and his
weight collapsed downward on his
wife, and his embrace became a
grasp. His sobs were short and
broken sharp by wheezing and

The light had faded and the piercing
veil of the evening star was clearly
visible. Gradually the brightness of
Orion's red eye came forth and the
arc of the end of winter stars above

Alban pulled himself to standing,
looked out the window straight at
Venus in the west.

“Goodbye my angel. For the last
time - goodbye.”

The calendar showed the date of the
22nd of April in the one thousand
nine hundred and thirty-fifth year
of the current era. The clock ticked
with its sharp slicing clicks and
showed the time to be half past

- someone must have been telling
truths about me - or else how could
she have known?

- Moments ago she came to me in a
uniform. I had drifted to sleep upon
the couch after having thought and
sketched for several hours - and
then she came and woke me. And she
was staring at me. I looked at her.

- “What do you want?” “Weren’t you
supposed to bring me some food?”
“How do you explain this?”

- Behind her where there had been
the little wall cluttered with
little books - there instead was a
vast gaping emptiness. I could see
all of Vienna that lies to the south
and east - at first I thought how
strange for all those chimneys to be
lit - for the night was not cold.
But it was no wafting, wafting smoke
- but buildings and bodies and all
of a block by burning - transformed
into soot and ash.

-The tableau it framed her face as
she looked at me.

- “I meant well.”

And then Alban awoke again. There
was tea laid out. He stood up and
went out to get a bit of air, and
smoke a cigarette in that air. He
descended down the curving steps,
down the creaking wooden boards of
tiny steps. Tiny steps.

Outside his head began to clear and
he looked out over the east - just
smoke from fires - for the air was
crisply cold. He turned his eyes to
the west, toward the country side,
which he could not really see, but
only imagine.

There in the sky, angry red Mars
glared down upon him.

He drew deeply down upon the
cigarette. His mind’s eye was a play
- he could see the movements of the
young girl Manon imitated in the way
the shadows played from lamp light.
He decided to walk quickly around
the block - to clear the head. The
head - clearing the head. He turned
the corner too quickly and was
startled when he encountered at eye
level a grey feline that stalked the
neighborhood for mice.

For a moment - super imposed upon
the soft features of the real cat -
was the scowling visage from
Schönberg's “The Happy Hand” - a
cat a cat a cat that cat that has
its fangs sunk into an artist's

He stared at the cat. The twitching
of its tail reminded him of the
movements of an arm - then of a leg.
A reverie transported him high among
the hills far from the city. Back to
places where one could still hear
folk songs woven amidst people's
speech and the old dances in their
steps. He saw Manon's sharp pointed
face and wicked grin as she had
first smoked a cigarette he had
provided for her.

Outside of view - just barely - of
so many other people - people who
were dancing, dancing, so happy, so
joyous. And he was not. He had come
to the country to be with Hanna, but
had taken Manon along as somehow of
a cover. He had wandered from the
wooden floors soaked with beer and
sweat to look out at the open air
and the stars hanging the bleak
late summer twilight.

She had stolen in upon him and
touched his shoulder. He neither
remembered her coming towards him,
nor lighting a cigarette. He turned
to look at her. With her mother’s
face and features, but her father’s
piercing architectural eyes. Eyes
that saw the shape of things. He was
never certain how much of her grace
was really just seeing faster than
everyone else.

There was a point of awkwardness. As
a girl she was never an adult -
merely a child in the company of
adults. Here she was alone. He could
not help but see her as something
other than a child. He fumbled and
pulled out a cigarette from a case
and offered it to her.

She took it out and ran her fingers
along its length - looking at it
sideways. She considered it and then
placed it in her mouth with a
nonchalance born of observation
rather than practice. He lit it and
she drew in. Not so deeply as to
cause a cough, not so long as to
make her too heady. Long enough so
that smoke was wine in the air and
the breathing of it was to make one
drunk. She touched it lightly at its
base and took it out of her mouth.

- “I had never smoked before. This is
my first.”

Alban nodded. “You’ll find that they
become your master after a very
short while. It is something that is
unbearable if not repeated.”

She blew smoke outward sharply. “Yes
I can tell that.” And placed the
cigarette back in her mouth, and
holding it between her two fingers
drew another short breath in. Her
chest pulling upwards as she did. He
watch the rise and fall, and
could feel in his throat that
dryness born of expectation. She
drew in her breath and her body
pulled in the smoke, tensing in
concentration, the expectation
growing as her lungs filled, and
then loosing out. As her mouth
smoked the cigarette, Alban's eyes
smoked her form.

He shook himself, and fell into
merely staring.

He stared at the eyes, and the mouth
that richly held the cigarette, at
the pointed small nose.

And then all of this resolved back
to the face of the cat. Suddenly he
was staring at the cat, as if the
face in the dream had been overlaid
upon it, and then vanished.

He stared and stared - only the
calling of a voice wakened him
again. A voice he barely caught the
tail end of.

“You can’t go out like this.”

His wife’s voice caught him, he
wakened from the memory. He turned
to face her. It was painful.

“Obviously you are upset at Manon's
leaving us. Everyone is. Why not
come back in. It is late and you
have much to do tomorrow.”

There was no arguing with her. He
allowed her to lead him back in tow -
all the while thinking about how her
block movements could not compare.

He looked again out on the city, a
cough - a spark from a factory smoke
stack burned upwards in an arch - a
short streak of light in the soot.
An arch, an angel, a vision of a

That night Alban stayed awake
looking at the ceiling as his wife
slept peacefully. He could not
sleep, as he feared the return of
the dreams the dreams, the dreams -
the dreams.

Instead he stayed awake with the
memory, not the memory of the girl
who was - but the memory of the
reverie remembering the girl who was.

Alban spent that night sleepless.

Paint the walls, you dawn, ending sleepless
night and fading into drowsy day. Wishing will
not end the fatigue, but concentration of
misery might well reanimate the limbs of the

She, the long suffering wife, found him seated
at the edge of the bed. his trousers drawn on,
his shirt, half pressed drawn across him, his
suspenders cast loosely over his shoulders. He
was hunched over and staring out the window at
the coming light.

“We need to pack up today, and leave for home.
I want everything to be clean, it was very
nice to be able to use this place, but the
weather is such that my breathing cannot stand
another day like yesterday.”

Alban turned to her mid-way through this
speech. It was strange to hear complaints of
health spoken of in such an energetic whine,
and laying out such a large agenda as the
ordering of a very disordered life. Merely
glancing around the room would cause the piles
of clothes, cast hither and yon, helter-skelter,
to assault the eye and create that
pressing, pressing; pressing: pressing in that
such disorder pushes in. Alban focused his
vision on the stern birdlike features of the
woman he had married and could hear the
drumbeat thought that was pounding in her mind
and marching on her face: “I shall order make,
order make, order, order, order, order.”

Which came out to him as “I shall orders give,
orders give, orders, orders, orders, orders.”

Softly up and down the tones of his voice
carved the words out:

“If that is what you wish. I will be amenable.”

She had drawn her knees up to her chest, and
in so doing sat up straight, and wrapped her
arms to embrace those legs. Her face rested on
her knees.

“I hope you won't go off driving about in your
motor car when the work must be done, you know
I hate doing it alone, and you know that we
ought not to spend the money having a girl
come in and help me. It would be a waste.”

The magpie had stolen in to the loft, and so
stealing, stole the precious hours that would
otherwise have been filled with work. How doth the
busy bee move hither thither on appointed
rounds. But bees could only hum, and not
compose. The disconnection between his mind
and his face was so much, that not a muscle
flickered to match in any noticeable way the
sour scowl that spread across his mood. He
could see in his min’s eye the face he wished
he could be making. But he did not.

And so the moment hung in silence, so locked
was he into doing nothing, that nothing was
all he could do. So active in focusing his
energies that sitting there, not moving,
became an exhausting battle. He felt his foot
start to shake and shimmer, the intensity
of maintaining languor reached into his bone and
was draining away the strength. He was waiting
for her to continue on, and thus relieve him
of saying nothing.

Since she was merely waiting for affirmation,
it cost her no great energy to wait, and wait,
and wait, and wait.

Finally the straining to maintain the
immobility collapsed and Alban with it,
hurling him onto the bed, sprawling.

“Later. I will help you later. I am too tired
at this particular moment.”

She drew her breath in and began to form an
"O" to sing out a rebuke, but it was too late

- he had fallen into sleep before the first
syllable could form itself into air.

Her mouth closed, she tousled his hair with
the remnants of affection, drew on a silken
robe frocked with floral pastel patterns and
backed with black, drew it tightly to caress
her skin as she walked down the hall intent on
performing her morning toilet. Once in the
small cramped bathroom she noted that there were
clouds, they were as grey fingers of a crone,
the crone of winter tearing at the sky. It
would be colder, and there would be a storm.

She turned back to face the sink the moment
she realized that her glance out the small
comer window had become an empty stare. She
focused her self on the mirror and checking
every blemish and wrinkle on the skin, her
eyes flicked over the curve of her cheek, and
to the flat under her eyes, and to places that
every woman knows, but men have not bothered
to give names to. The public history of men is
geography of land over time. The private
history of a woman is time over the geography
of the face. The hollows that grow up at base
of the eyes, the gradually swelling under the
lids, all carefully noted and fretted over.

She realized that she did not have so long
this morning, her offensive against the
imperfections of her face ended, she went to
the kitchen to heat up water, and heard
somewhere in the distance the soft turning of
Alban in a restless dream, and the vague
emanations of Vienna rousing itself to
activity. It was a hollow sound that echoed
inside the house, and inside herself.

A moment and then its gone, the fingers of left and right hands. Each hand striking each note exactly once, and only once. It was the discipline which Schoenberg had still in his pupils, a fixed structure which allowed them a perfect kind of freedom, which would come and go. But Schoenberg also selected a view pupils to learn the inner secrets of what he called the method of 12 tones related only to one another. In this world, which had mystical significance, each note was sounded once per 12 note. Now in this structure, once each had been sounded out, the next structure began. It might begin with the same note. Or it might be any one of the 12 notes, though once it's started, it went along and sounded out the same notes. For example, let's say the first note was C, and the second note was E. once this note had been sound out, then another would begin, but if it started on E – for example – then note C would be the last note sounded. Or it might not be if notes were being sounded in inversion, retrograde, or some combination of notes.

This discipline had rules which they were inventing as they went along. Schoenberg made many mistakes, that was his gift; Webern made no such mistakes, and is pieces reflected back on Palestrina, only with 12 notes. But with Schoenberg and Webern there was a crude high discipline; with Schoenberg it was the polar regions which bit in. in actual fact, there was a misguided allegiance to the monarchy, even though Schoenberg was Jewish; and no monarch would completely trust a Jew. It just was not done. In the case of Webern, his anllegiance was to Der Fuehrer, even though that was also forbidden, because Der Fuehrer did not like the music of the second Vienna school. This made no difference to Schoenberg or Berg, but it wrestled Webern almost frightfully. He wanted to be both artistically one of the group of men which were involved with the 12 tone revolution, and politically wanted to be accepted as a good Nazi. Unfortunately, in this world, you can't be both.

But this wasn't on Berg's mind at all. He had a “row”, as it is called in English, and wanted to fill out each possible construction of that row. There was the row, itself, then their was ordering it backwards, and reversed, and both at the same time, and each row starting on the same key. Then ordered by each key. So they are was a myriad of notes which all reflected the major row. It wasn't just repeating the row indefinitely, which if it were repeated would a tuneful experience, even by the standards of 12 tone music.

Each of the myriad of rows which reflected the primary row, were the basis of the peace. One would think that it would be monotonous. And in fact in the hands of most composers, monotonous would be a step up. In fact, many composers tried to write in this way, just to prove they could do it. And then failed, what they did not realize, is it took a special kind of composer, not just a good one, or even just a great one, but one who was bent in this way.

Sitting at his chair, and thinking about driving is Ford motorcar, a model T, up and down the hills and dales, and realizing he should make a waltz to the music, he felt the fact that he wanted to be opening up the piece, in that way that Puccini did, but was having problems. He wanted to reach the major, and then shift to the minor, and then back again. But he saw Schoenberg's face, and heard Schoenberg's voice, and listened to Schoenberg's neurotic figure; which was really his own voice superimposed on Schoenberg. This was because actually, it was up from himself; not really from Schoenberg; that the maniacal; almost frantic – exhortation to maintain the row at all cost. Even Schoenberg didn't do this. So Schoenberg was hard, and even harder then any person was; but he was not fastidious in the way that Berg thought he was. In short, he had a figure which was the worst of Schoenberg and Berg.

And he worshiped this as the God of gods, taking his gift and displaying it; knowing that it was not to be good enough, even by half. It was almost as if he had an episcopal fallow tale attached to his hindquarters. Ripping him from stem to stern; not at all giving him faitour.

I am alone, completely alone. I wonder if my wife knows what was going on between myself and the girl's mother. I certainly hope not, it would be a humiliation beyond all others.

- It so lovely here, in here the woods. With high polonaise exculpate nomenclature rushing from my eyes.

What saltarello hold did it have, with Primavera steps along a prismoid trail, which wonders fustigate along the rhododendron dream that he was in. listening very intently to the violin as it wanders through the deep edge brush. it is traditional and traducianism in its ever flowing jasper ware. An enigma would be to unreal, as speckles all aglow danced down from midday morning sun. was a trance dreaming of a dance for the memory of an angel.

- What did I do that was so wrong? what purpose does it serve, what duty does it entail? I must know if when finishing this solace, what is to become of me? the same as the angel?

He looked over at his wife, streaming and with attention paid to her fingernails, he assumed that somehow she knew. the sly look, the grimace dance about her things, would that she knew and would that she say so to his face. but in his gut she would not say so to him.

- What does this power that controls her life condemn me to know, but not see it in her face? what power does it possess when AB and HF would be so aligned, but never embrace.

Hanna, what has become of you? It was a whisper in proper tonality, before being submerged into a distant clanging, but softly, chiming chord.

Memory steals soft as he looks in to his wife's eyes, knowing what she knows about him. Without pleasure, without piteous pleasure he girds his buttocks into the seat cushion, betraying the ludicrous notion that all was new again, and that automobiles could play a part in the monopode eye that was Lulu, his unfinished work for stage.

Crunching, smashing, with purpose, and without, a slighly taken tale of his own device. Addict to emotion, and stilted by a presence that could only be a dry heave. What could the 20th century the without pictures that distorted?

He once again looked over at his wife, burning intently on what she knew, which was already decided in her mind, but she would leave him guessing as to the ornate subterfuge which rolled instead on the tremendous sticking out of the tongue.

Without further applause, without hint of desperation, imagined that tse-tse fly alighted on his significant other. Then to ravish her as he once had done, so long ago in his youth. It was encouraging, and delightful; but also disgusting, as any memory of someone he did not want any more would be.

- Why is the memory of wanting her displaced from actually wanting her?

It was just the beginning of twilight, and all the mimysgrove were rising up through the gladed would and stared at him. It was morning, it was twilight, it was anything but the sun.

- It so lovely here, in here the woods. With high polonaise exculpate nomenclature rushing from my eyes. Thinking about my wife, even though I don't love her. But Something in my fabric wants to be my wife, my lover, everything that pertains to myself. They want to her kisses in to me, and ravish her with gay abandon.

He thought the thought of how it would nestle in to him, and for just a moment, he would respond the way you used to respond. Even though on the other hand, the very thought of it repulsed him.

The reality of the situation was that he would shimmy off these pants, and with a twinkle in his eye, make the kind of advance that was proper in this Viennese standard way of the world. So he looked at his wife, and even if he did not love her, stilted way of the world, made him tip His hat in her direction. And thus a dance not of love but with affection, again to royal in his gut.

- Yes, I would have her, though her mouth discussed me, though there are plenty of women who appeal to me, though I could think of a dozen reasons, why I should want to do anything else.

So took the row and reset it, and then begin to dance the beginning, one step off, and it sounded like a waltz, in proper style, once upon a time, when the music was yet young.

- Pique hainaut, in the C cleff. A gargoyle in profile.

Das Urteil VI
- for this terrible year has passed you and your husband will be able to hear, in the form of a score which I shall dedicate to the memory of an angel, that which he words I cannot express.

He drafted a letter in his mind to the wife and the father, of Manon Gropius, who once upon a time was husband to the dearly beloved Alma, who was why of Mahler before being wife of Werfel. He was intent on the woman he desired, not to possess, but worship from afar, as Brahms had worshipped Clara Schumann.

- I must talk with someone, and confide in him, that the first part of this concerto, depicts the angelic fragments of motion, of the beloved Manon; capturing the graceful movements of a round dance; a picture of the unaffected and dreamlike quality of a Carinthian folk tune.

He noted this, to explain to Willi Reich, when next he was with him. But he did not expect it to be so soon. After the drive, in fact, he got a call. He was in the apartment with which he shared, when ringing ringing ringing came the phone.

  • Yes, may I help you?
  • Yes, Willi. what can I do for you?
  • I suppose. I could stop by the expressive shop, though I was not expecting you so soon. (actually he had welcomed this to gather his thoughts together.)
  • Willi, I have some fragments, but it is rather early to tell. Only April in fact, and you know how slowly I work on this.
  • Well you know how Beetheven says: replace days with months, comparing an Italian composer, with a Germanic composer. I think I will be done mid-August, at the latest.
  • No, I'm sure it will be done by August, or maybe September at the outside.
  • Its all jumbled up, but I have a commission from the American violinist, Louis Krasner.
  • No, he isn't very good, but that's the point of thing. It will be a fluid expression, and not the simple, but simple enough.

This was all Berg. He was talking to Willi, but Willi was indistinct, and garbled. You had to stretch your ear to its maximum, to realize that it was a male.

Soon he was at the espresso shop, and Willi was with him. The thrum of the simple folk tune was drilling into his ear, but as yet, Willi did not hear it, because, for the moment, it was in his ear alone.

But not for long, though the War that was coming would interact with the music, and interrupt the lyrical counterpoint, and crunching noise from the orchestra.

The conversation was one-sided, because in the view of the Second Vienna School, name they had come up with themselves, after the first Vienna School of the old Masters, though excluding Shubert, who did not quite fit in with their view of history. Remember, it was not the view that many people would take, but they were persistent in taking it.

Not many years afterwards, Willi would copy down what was think, remember, Berg enunciated, and he copied, such was the way of SVS word to God. It was almost, no it was, as if communication flowed exactly one way, from Schoenberg, to his disciples, from his disciples to communicants, from communicants to listeners. And not the other way around. In the view of the disciples, there were two functions: the performers, and the explainers in terms of what was written on the page. And not one word went the other way.

“At the time of this first communication, he, that is Berg, had not realized that the Cantata, “O Ewigkeit...” , would be the ending to the piece, he was still searching for fragments, and he did not realize that 'du Donnerwort' would fit in with the fragments, and properly promenades in his row.” of course was thinking of “ it is enough! Lord if it be thy will, give me rest!” he imagined that the solo violin would join the rest of the violins, and then the violas, “ audibly and visibly” 'in a just a demonstrative manner”. Willi also remembered this lesson from Berg: “ truly, I know go in peace, leaving all my troubles here below. It is enough. It is enough.” the words come from, of course, Bach.

The words were also used by another voice, in another context, describing how Bach mirrored Goedel and Escher.

It is as if Willi opined ( free from the expression and command that came with talking with a disciple) : “Groans and shrill cries for help grow in the, orchestra, to be smothered by the oppressive rhythms of impending ruin”. But then become a prayer from the Master of Harmony.

This, amissed all the clattering and clanging of little cups of espresso, who did not know that a great Violin Concerto was being born.

"In so far as transcription into words is possible at all, the town - a favorite expression of Berg's - of the whole work may be described as follows: delegate andante melodies emerge from rising and falling of the introduction." Willi Reich

But now Alban needed to make a personal connection in a very short space of time. he did so at a shot, when Manon died just after he started after some scribbling, but nothing substantial. but Alma was grieving and more than just grieving, it was almost as if she wanted, not to die, but dedicate herself to the memory of, what Alban said was her Angel. and from that moment, the angel was almost a prayer, is a macroscith, something that consumed his entire being. he knew that a personal handler would not be out of the question. so Willi Reich became such a thing. getting books, scores, and hunting down the great Bach corral which the envisioned as the pinnacle of the movement. he did not know what, exactly, he would do with this, but in his mind he knew it was special.

Only then did he Alma if he could dedicate this holy Grail to her daughter. and of course she rapidly accepted the gift. it was at this point, without question, he bashed and berated himself into and orgy of previous submission to one thing: a violin concerto, setting aside Lulu, and it's taunting gymnastics.

At night, when the light was just barely above dim, when his wife was dozing off, he made dozens of sketches of the first row and it's variance. Each one would be a specific theme in what would be a short concerto, as Mendelssohn was, as many had been. He knew that he didn't want to cast what would be a bravure gem which on the stage would be to preen highlights of a master fiddle maker, that just would not do. But neither did he want something dry and cerebral, as was the custom, for at least the feign custom of what would be called the second Vienna School. He wanted it to be tonal. He remembered the, call it fight with Schoenberg, as to stripping and striping, at least the illusion. He remembered making a suggestion of melody and tonality, and wish point Schoenberg went off on how that missed the point, that would be for the underlings to present, Berg would be a different order of composition.

- Nien! Nien! It must be new! If you must have a new sense of order and pathos! Why bring in old tonality when there are so many more vistas yet to be explored! What are you? When something new is crossed over in to the void, and you come careening back to the old tonal words as a school child would?

He went on and on in that vein, after all this was Schoenberg. And while his followers lent a certain air about his pronouncements, they were in fact quite rude and pointed.

But Berg submitted, and scratched dozens of attempts. But he also did not submit, and caressed the tonal qualities in his particular row, which he imagined was a sacred figure, like God, or the Mystery.

- I'm sure Schoenberg will like the row, and understand that this is an introduction to the ministries of the tone row. I'm sure that will like it, he has to, you must, I will argue for it, but I must press these tribulations out of my mind. It would not be sacred.

But try as he could, he could not get it quite right, each time just a bit off.
- I'm sure Schoenberg will like the row, and understand that this is an introduction to the ministries of the tone row. I'm sure that will like it, he has to, you must, I will argue for it, but I must press these tribulations out of my mind. It would not be sacred.

So he prattled, cavorted, extorted, and everything else besides. But he also wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote.

- But while I write the concerto, everything must be perfect.
Then he heard the rustic dance, and new that now he would make a great commotion, and begin the second act.

So he dropped the solo violin, and almost pianoismo gave the orchestra a ruinous figure to represent the crawling strings and then there was a shrink, but only in his mind, because he had not written yet...