Utopian Turtletop. Monsieur Croche's BĂȘte Noire. Contact: turtletop [at] hotmail [dot] com

Tuesday, November 28, 2006

Music is truth. The yearning, the consolation, the jubilation, ecstasy. The body in space as articulated by the rhythms. The multiplicitous hubbub of competing, co-operative voices. The continuum of individual voices enhancing the communal voice by maximizing each voice's individuality within the parameters of the given piece. The emotional complexity and nuance thereof.

"Piece" of music: no mere random bit of language: Music is whole, we can hear it only in pieces.

Every society has music: for consolation and celebration, for ups and downs, hello and good-bye, grief and joy -- the nitty-gritty real deal of life. And: the universe vibrates, everything vibrates, everything got rhythm. Who could ask for anything more? Well, all of us could. And we do, we do. But that doesn't mean -- well, you know what that doesn't mean.

Words, yeah, words -- well, words, you know, words -- yeah, they can get part of truth, you know, or maybe more than part, I don't know. They're cool. I'm cool with words. But music . . . music . . . Mmmph!

(Image: The Garden of Music by Bob Thompson.)
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