just hair, bones, sinew, muscles and skin
tightly bound, a compactly wound-up package of potential energy. you see the tension on its seams, barely holding on, if you take the time to do so. all you have to do is, well, add a drop of pulse, and bam ! it uncurls, grabs the ground with pure momentum, stretches itself out as this long, lean, projectile, a silver arc across the stillness. then, out of sight! gone. what could i be possibly talking about? well, i was thinking about stravinsky . specifically the pulcinella suite and piatgorasky's trascription , now known as the suite italienne . and cage, esp. his chamber ensemble pieces, such as credo in us, constructions and bacchanale for prepped solo piano . the bookbomber and monkey agreed on one thing in middle of a snow flurry in the middle of nowhere mountains of banff recently, not that it ever started as an argument. it really was a specific problem (well, not a problem, but per say, a troublesome sight) that started from the idea of 'dead' music. ya, am...