Posted in A Nighttime Companion of Solitude

A Nighttime Companion of Solitude

Från Öckerö loge hörs dragspel och bas
Och fullmånen lyser som var den av glas
Där dansar Fredrik Åkare kind emot kind
Med lilla fröken Cecilia Lind

Hon dansar och blundar så nära intill
Hon följer i dansen precis vart han vill
Han för och hon följer lätt som en vind
Men säg varför rodnar Cecilia Lind?

Säg var det för det Fredrik Åkare sa?
Du doftar så gott och du dansar så bra
Din midja är smal och barmen är trind
Vad du är vacker Cecilia Lind

Men dansen tog slut och vart skulle de gå?
De bodde så nära varandra ändå
Till slut kom de fram till Cecilias grind
Nu vill jag bli kysst, sa Cecilia Lind

Vet hut, Fredrik Åkare, skäms gamle karln
Cecila Lind är ju bara ett barn
Ren som en blomma, skygg som en hind
Jag fyller snart sjutton, sa Cecilia Lind

Och stjärnorna vandra och timmarna fly
Och Fredrik är gammal men månen är ny
Ja Fredrik är gammal men kärlek är blind
Åh, kyss mig igen sa Cecilia Lind

From Öckerö barn (on a farm) sounds of accordion and base are heard and the full moon’s shining as if it was made of glass.
There Fredrik Åkare danses cheek to cheek
with little miss Cecilia Lind

She dances with closed eyes near (to him)
She follows in the dance right were he wants.
He leads and she follows light as a breeze,
but tell (me) why is Cecilia Lind blushing?

Say, was it because of what Fredrik Åkare said:
You smell so good and you dance so well.
Your waste is thin and your bosom is round
You’re so beautiful, Cecilia Lind

But the dance ended and where could they go?
They lived so close to each other anyway
Finally they ended up at Cecilias gate
Now I want to be kissed, said Cecilia Lind

(You should) know shame, Frederik Åkare, be ashamed old man!
Cecilia Lind is only a child
Pure as a flower, shy as a doe (a female deer)
I will soon turn 17, said Cecilia Lind

And the stars wander and the hours pass
And Fredrik is old, but the moon is new
Yes, Fredrik is old, but love is blind
Oh, kiss me again, said Cecilia Lind

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Posted in Abstract?, Music

Where are You

 

Where are you?
Are you hiding from me?
Are you still looking for things that no-one else can
see?

Where are you?
Are you in some place that we cannot reach?
Are you bathing in moonlight or drowned on the beach?

Where are you?
Are you surrounded by things we cannot penetrate?
Is the cage you love the home you also hate?

Your fear of death attracts such strange objects
Smothering you, hiding you, don’t let it spoil you
Show yourself so the others may see you
So the others may feed you
They want to be near you

If you can’t get enough of your hypnotic injection
Then it’s time to put an end to this invalid function
Poor little ghost boy
Let me be your human toy

Where are you?
No-one’s seen you for years
Have your wounds grown wings? Are you feasting on
fears?
I can see your dark corona is eating into you
You’re surrounded by things we cannot penetrate
Is the cage you love the home you also hate?
Life lies with the scissors inside her
The surgeon was a butcher
All of us are wounded, anaesthetised in A&E
Numbed by stuff we should not see
Each of us lies bleeding
Our rivers intermingling
Poor little ghost boy
Let me be your human toy

I’ll wrap my last kiss in a bandage
I’ll wrap my last kiss in a bandage
I’ll wrap my last kiss in a bandage
I’ll wrap my last kiss in a bandage

Posted in Unquantified fragments of numbers, Yours Truly

Will…The Valiant Tread Here No More: Piece I

In mortal need, where need begat ravenous appetite,

the valiant shall tread here no more.

The visage of betrayal,

personifies you grievous mortal,

whom dares to tread… upon terra firma no more.

Embrace the airs of nascent being.

In moment of appetite absent,

the valiant shall tread here no more.

The will to see that which is lost…

and to gain that which cannot be gained,

is the abyss to which the mortal with judas kiss,

wilst cling evermore.

In the presence of great distortion,

the valiant shall tread here no more.

Brick upon brick,

the broken castle shall shield you nevermore.

The mortars of shallow fraudulence,

bending your brittle will…

The winds of principle,

baring your drowning shell.

In the nakedness of undisguised truth,

the valiant tread here no more.

 

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Posted in GG

Glenn Gould Tribute: Piece V

 

 

 

In the best of all possible worlds, art would be unnecessary. Its offer of restorative, placative therapy would go begging a patient. … The audience would be the artist and their life would be art.

 

“Music is thus by no means like the other arts, the copy of the Ideas, but the copy of the will itself, whose objectivity these Ideas are. This is why the effect of music is much more powerful and penetrating than that of the other arts, for they speak only of shadows, but it speaks of the thing itself. Music does not express this or that particular and definite joy, this or that sorrow, or pain, or horror, or delight, or merriment, or peace of mind; but joy, sorrow, pain, horror, delight, merriment, peace of mind themselves, to a certain extent in the abstract, their essential nature, without accessories, and therefore without their motives. Yet we completely understand them in this extracted quintescence. Hence it arises that our imagination is so easily excited by music, and now seeks to give form to that invisible yet actively moved spirit world which speaks to us directly, and to clothe it with flesh and blood, i. e. to embody it in an analogous example.

“According to all this we may regard the phenomenal world, or nature, and music as two different expressions of the same thing”—will, the fundamental world-stuff, expressing itself as nature indirectly and indistinctly as through Platonic Ideas, but immediately and subtilely in music as will-in-itself. “Music, therefore, if regarded as an expression of the world, is in the highest degree a universal language, which is related indeed to the universality of concepts, much as they are related to the particular things. Its universality, however, is by no means that empty universality of abstraction, but quite of a different kind, and is united with thorough and distinct definiteness. In this respect it resembles geometrical figures and numbers, which are the universal forms of all possible objects of experience and applicable to them all à priori, and yet are not abstract but perceptible and thoroughly determined. All possible efforts, excitements, and manifestations of will, all that goes on in the heart of man and that reason includes in the wide negative concept of feeling, may be expressed by the infinite number of possible melodies, but always in the universal, in the mere form, without the material, always according to the thing-in-itself, not the phenomenon; the inmost soul, as it were, of the phenomenon, without the body. This deep relation which music has to the true nature of all things also explains the fact that suitable music played to any scene, action, event, or surrounding seems to disclose to us its most secret meaning, and appears as the most accurate and distinct commentary upon it. This is so truly the case, that whoever gives himself up entirely to the impressions of a symphony, seems to see all the possible events of the world take place in himself, yet if he neglects, he can find no likeness between the music and the things that passed before his mind. For as we have said, music is distinguished from the other arts by the fact that it is not a copy of the phenomenon, or, more accurately, the adequate objectification of the will, but is the direct copy of the will itself, and therefore exhibits itself as the metaphysical to everything physical in the world, and as the thing-in-itself to every phenomenon. We might, therefore, just as well call the world embodied music as embodied will; and this is the reason why music makes every picture, and indeed every scene of real life and of the world, at once appear with higher significance, certainly all the more as the melody is analogous to the inner spirit of the given phenomenon. It rests upon this that we are able to set a poem to music as a song, or a perceptible representation, as a pantomime, or both as an opera. Such particular pictures of human life, set to the universal language of music, are never bound to it or correspond to it with stringent necessity; but they stand to it only in the relation of an example chosen at will to a general concept. In the determinateness of the real, they represent that which music expresses in the universality of mere form, for melodies are to a considerable extent, like general concepts, an abstraction from the actual. This actual world, then, the world of particular things, affords the object of perception, the special and individual, the particular case, both to the universality of the concepts and to the universality of the melodies. But these two universalities are in a certain respect opposed to each other; for the concepts contain particulars only as the first forms abstracted from perception, as it were, the separated shell of things. This relation may be very well expressed in the language of the schoolmen by saying that concepts are the universalia post rem, but music gives the universalia ante rem, and the real world the universalia in re.”

“The unutterable depth of all music by which it floats through our consciousness as the vision of a paradise firmly believed in yet ever distant from us, and by which also it is so fully understood and yet is so inexpressible, rests on the fact that it restores to us all the emotions of our inmost nature, but entirely without reality and far removed from their pain. So also the seriousness which is essential to it, which excludes the absurd from its direct and peculiar province, is to be explained by the fact that its object is not the Idea, with reference to which alone deception and absurdity are possible; but its object is directly the will, and this is essentially the most serious of all things, for it is that on which all depends.”

~ Arthur Schopenhauer

Posted in GG

Glenn Gould Tribute: Piece IV

Magic, Stage Illusion_66 | Magic; Stage Illusions and Scient ...

The novelty for novelties sake, is a decapitation of the self…on the stage for mankind, an illusion of originality in form.

If there’s any excuse at all for making a record, it’s to do it differently, to approach the work from a totally re-creative point of view … to perform this particular work as it has never been heard before. And if one can’t do that, I would say, abandon it, forget about it, move on to something else.

Glenn Gould

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Posted in GG

Glenn Gould Tribute: Piece II

There is something about nothing to be said for those whom we admire.

I believe that the justification of art is the internal combustion it ignites in the hearts of men and not its shallow, externalized, public manifestations. The purpose of art is not the release of a momentary ejection of adrenalin but is, rather, the gradual, lifelong construction of a state of wonder and serenity.

-GG

Forever take a piece of my soul, for I shall not be needing it latter in my life.  Piece by piece, touch upon touch.  Bare into emptiness…for then shall you be full.  Forever take a piece of my heart, for I shall not be needing it in the latest of my life.  Piece by piece, vein into vein…being into being.  Breath upon breath.  Bare into emptiness…for then you shall be full.  Forever take my final actuality, for on my dying breath I will know I have given everything for the beauty  in truth .

All Rights Reserved © mmartel∞

Posted in GG

Glenn Gould Tribute: Piece I

At live concerts I feel demeaned, like a vaudevillian.

Glenn Gould

Please take your time to listen to this man of coruscating nature, this very civilized man:

 

And the true order of going, or being led by another, to the things of love, is to begin from the beauties of earth and mount upwards for the sake of that other beauty … and at last know what the essence of beauty is.

– Plato

Posted in GG

Glenn Gould Tribute : Piece III

... of nothing in particular: Por qué Bach es Dios y Glenn Gould tu papá

 

 

 

I think that if I were required to spend the rest of my life on a desert island, and to listen to or play the music of any one composer during all that time, that composer would almost certainly be Bach. I really can’t think of any other music which is so all-encompassing, which moves me so deeply and so consistently, and which, to use a rather imprecise word, is valuable beyond all of its skill and brilliance for something more meaningful than that — its humanity.