Moving About, Humming,
essay no. 1
Our love for the vegetables is natural and uncontrived and without any reason; there's no answer to why we do love. What we love, though, is transformed into an abstraction -- for instance, we love their stasis. ``Still, our flowers are blooming...'' the emphasis is on stillness. ``Moving'' is us animals, the plants are still. ``Humming'' = music: the intermediary, the Intercessor.
``Our flowers...'' -- ``our'' being what? whose? Gardeners? Or plants, with flowers?
``Blooming under...'' -- being beneath and underneath and blooming; under an ``Old Portcullis.'' A portcullis belongs to a castle, a castle to a kingdom. The castle is old, perhaps abandoned and neglected and unknown (deep beneath consciousness), the portcullis no longer in use? Or: ``blooming under'' as in: getting under the portcullis into the castle (the unknown Kafka-esque un-enterable Castle) by the process of blooming under: growing the blooms right under the iron bars. Or: is ``blooming'' used Britishly as a generalized intensive, a euphemism for ``bloody?'' (Referring onward to ``God's blood.'')
Additional keywords: divinity and lack thereof, division, blood unisons,
``No,'' the Intercessor said. ``You will be free; you will die and be reborn.
I will guide you to what you want, and to what is fitting and proper for
The composition unites the two Kingdoms, the mutual penetration of one another's castles through the closed gates is a rather long process. It involves a certain amount of one-ness and long-form, and even more, about my friends getting together to play this music. It's about community, friendship, and that kind of stuff, all of which generate the rough sort of unisons which aren't, quite. And there in the melodies and accompaniment figures is all that we try to leave behind when we move, only to find it waiting for us when we get to wherever we've gotten to.
Additional keywords: wistfulness, kingdoms, the love of one for another
There had been a girl and an enchanted valley they had walked in, a springtime
valley, he remembered, with the pink of wild crab apple blossoms flaming on
the hills and the song of the bluebird and of lark soaring in the sky, and
there had been a wild spring breeze that ruffled the water and blew along the
grass so that the meadow seemed to flow and become a lake with whitecaps
rolling on it.