Thursday, November 3, 2016
Listen to, because the clouds and the festivals were told as a dream, each one reimagined as the way it would have been done had he known that he was going to finish it. Time has just another dimension, rather than time has not quite another dimension, because you cannot move backwards through time. Thus the first two sections were just a dream, reimagining what could have been in the dream. Even in dreams there are dreams, even if only imagined as dreams.So “Nuage” and “Fetes” was a dream, which he then woke up and copied out the musical substance, which he had dreamt about dreaming about. In each instance, he was sure he was standing in the dream misting his eyes over the possibility of dreaming this dream that dreamt he was making.
But then he realized that there needed to be a third movement to the structure, imagining it as slow fast slow in his imagination. But try as he might, nothing caught his fancy in day, and nothing in his dreams woke in up to orgy through the night. He dreamt that the East the city streets were paved with muck – not luck, not marked, not any other sound that would be heard – he thought he heard in the distance some men crashing and looting, before the regular dull meal of the official officers to empty the trash.He saw nothing, but he was sure only around the corner - with wisps of smoke blowing into the cold down clattered sky – what would be a delicate, almost delectable, tramping through what he, and other people, called les desmages, the waste of a week piling up the stench which came from the core out of what used to be separate scatterings – food here, wastepaper there - all being discreetly decomposed in the stories.
So he, was not just dreaming, as any mortal does in this orb of mortal soil, which from time to time sends us forth - only to deliver us from that tinge of earth that we sprang from – nor even dreaming of a dream – which the brilliant of us to like Caro – but in that way that even the brilliant acknowledge is something beyond their kin. It was as if the merely talented among us, told us to hush and whisper, for a genius was among us – and would not be recognized until the drones of normalcy did wake and tremble for their lives, screaming that they will not be shown for what they are – that is say, brilliant monkeys amidst the crowd. But what they do not understand, is while they are brilliant monkeys, the people that they are lording over have some glimmer, because they are humanity, just misguided until they hear the light from what could be called: God, or some other facsimile, that human beings declare.
Debussy was going over every bar, especially of the Sirens – he could not get the orchestra, or indeed the conductor – to play it as he dreamed he dreamed of it. The ears that it was written for were not yet born on this earth - and even Debussy would tremble at what would happen to the world for it to be so. It would take a world war, and then another – for such ears to the the happenstance of genetics, and thus multiplying into infinity – there claim to be heard. But as I said, monkeys - but brilliant ones – could not read what was written on the page. Just as they would not for Scriabin, or Berg, or Charlie Parker. Or as a fictional person said – or this place. “Siam is going to be the witness to a cerebral test of no ordinary fitness.”
But Debussy never wavered in his belief that this was a path, to what he did not know how, so he recited Haruki, such as 1Q84.