Something about Earth and imagination
Earths, to be exact and vague, for these two qualities blend through time
You were all wrong it seems, harmony has never been vertical, and so has melody never neither been horizontal. Progression, in harmony, relationship between two or one harmony , is horizontal, and perception, proportion in melody is only found in verticality.
Bach 1005 Adagio : this is it, crossing the river sideways. Mouths and blue skies of dreams of the beyond in the west – on the other side of the mountain.
Fugue: once more, oblique, ubiquitous strength of flow and plenitude, doesn’t seek anything other than itself and air (divertissement is air here)
Silences in third movement, and the b flat in the cadenza
Allegro assai: the image of a windmill and the dance of people washing and working around.
Bartok: Buona Fortuna / rota e filigrani / saluti a le sapienze
containing energy, swelling it up and down. Sorry, philosophy, the chill and the wind, the ice is taking over ideas now. Once frozen, it cracks like an egg (the idea does), slowly evolving, kept alive like fire in the dry plant. Skimming textures of the ciaconna, which it is a shadow of. arêtes du ciel and things outside of time, or its run down the riverbed, bed on the
jewels scintilliating among nights and lakes
breeze or chill? What do you feel : is nature at ease, or you? Is the adagio outloud?
So I got in touch with…. with this Menuhin and asked him, you know, point blank: “Have you been authorized by Bartók to publish the piece in this way?” He said: No
deep in basements of New England Conservatory might lie more treasures than meets the ear
“… one day to be here, where there are no days (wheels one finds in the piece), which is no place (exiled folklore), born of the impossible voice the unmakable (microtones), and a gleam of light, still all would be silent and empty and dark, and dark, as now, as soon now, when all will be ended, all said, it says, it murmurs. (hence length of pp sections of the Presto: their hauch goes on after the last crash)”
-XIII, Texts For Nothing, Samuel Beckett