I.

i really don’t know what he means by that isn’t that a starastronomy thing i can’t make up my mind                                                      he said it again what would he mean in fact that’s like a set of stars or something isn’t it but why are they put altogether if there isn’t anything that holds them together do they work somehow together i would say they rather not although i really have no clue to be honest but then                                                           16.XI.2022

“Dialectics develops the difference of the particular from the generality, which is dictated by the generality. While it is inescapable to the subject, as the break between subject and object drilled into the consciousness, furrowing everything which it thinks, even that which is objective, it would have an end in reconciliation.”

“The un-naïve thinker knows how far he remains from the object of his thinking, and yet he must always talk as if he had it entirely. This brings him to the point of clowning. He must not deny his clownish traits, least of all since they alone can give him hope for what is denied him.”

Adorno

I gathered up those quotes the other day after the topic came up. Really interesting indeed. By the way, it seems that I’m starting to feel better. My arms hurt less. At the end, maybe all of this has some kind of psychological ingredient, who knows. I’m so happy here, it seems as if time and tribulations have stopped for a while.

Today X has been speaking for a good amount of time about the piece that Z plays. Never thought about some of those things. I need to take some notes, otherwise I will most likely forget. I always thought I wouldn’t like Z so much, but in fact we are getting along quite well. why the fuck are they called constellations i don’t get it are they like a whole thing i mean a thing it itself                                                                            in fact google says that they don’t work as a whole and each one of them has their own system like the sun of course if you look at it that way                            two messages i’ll check them later

                                          what makes them keep together?                   something makes them keep together                           but in fact nothing makes them keep together        i mean yes i see those little strips they draw when they draw pictures Sometimes, I think that I judge people, because I judge myself so much. Maybe I should talk about that to David.

But I still have doubts. Is it worth to live with constant pain? Is it worth to spend your life with something that you love but at the same time your body doesn’t wish to accept and carry on? All of them are so talented… And sometimes I just feel like an impostor…

In any case, I’m really doing better. I’ll take that as a small glimmer of hope to keep going. of constellations but those strips don’t link anything in fact so then what keeps them together for what what sense does it have to call them constellations               i don’t get it                     i don’t know it should be well it looks like it is only our perception as if to be able to observe the stars one should organize them in groups to be able to recognize them or something isn’t it i’m not really sure to be honest                         it is the link what makes the constellation the madeupbyuslink yeah it seems so i suppose             it is like with friends and stuff isn’t it is a group of friends a constellation       

II. The Honorable Sayings of Kapellmeister A.S.

I didn’t want to say it
but I wanted to show this to Mr. Wollny,
she’s not the cleaning lady,
in fact, he was quite famous already
when he published op. 500,
so I don’t see how he wanted to attach his name to Beethoven’s.
Anyway.
 
-How’s the situation in Catalonia?
-This is such a beautiful movement.
-I don’t agree with your approach,
but don’t do it in front of the audience
and keep the pedal throughout, please!
-But my Wiener Schnitzel was dry last night!
-I think you are really overlooking at the thing
and you both did it wrongly!
-Are you sure?
-Ja…
Not like that
Not really
No
No
No
Give me a break.             
 

III.

Abrió la caja y un olor intenso me golpeó de repente. No sé si era de verdad o si quería agarrarme a cada detalle como una última voluntad. Aquel olor me untaba como un aceite de extremaunción. De hecho, veía mi vida pasar ante mis ojos. Toda ella. Aquel era un olor a madera de abeto, añeja y resiliente. Quizás la del cuerpo de un piano antiguo. De ese piano antiguo. O quizás fuera madera de abedul, del alféizar sobre el que pendían retahílas de libros. Quién sabe. Sin embargo, era una madera perfumada. Me vi, de repente, rodeado de terciopelo y carmín. Un olor dulce, afrutado. Adictivo. Podría haberme pasado horas oliéndolo, todas las horas que le había dedicado a él durante mi vida, de hecho. Aunque no mentiré, me sorprendió verme apegado a un olor que otrora creí pestilente e insoportable. Algo chirriaba dentro de mí. De nuevo, me vi confrontado con el poder de una realidad que creíamos inexistente, una realidad de dioses y ambrosía. Sin embargo, aquel era un buen olor, un olor a vida, como si nos quisiera recordar frente a qué nos encontrábamos y que sí, existía, olía, se podía tocar, estaba ahí. Pero poco a poco me fui acostumbrando a él y desapareció de mi percepción. Curiosamente, no era capaz de volverlo a encontrar, de aferrarme a él incondicionalmente de nuevo. Tuve que seguir adelante.

El papel, sin embargo, parecía robusto. Su anchura doblaría, por lo menos, a la de los papeles actuales. Parecía un papel de calidad, como si estuviera hecho para sobrevivir a los tiempos, como si el mismo papel supiera qué había escrito sobre él. Sin embargo, su color era difuso. De un color blanco primordial, cuasi de textura acartonada, iban apareciendo pequeñas manchas grises, en todas sus posibles tonalidades, que hacían acopio de ese tiempo que tratábamos de burlar. A veces, los bordes de la hoja aparecían carcomidos e incompletos y, para ser sincero, cada vez que se volteaba la hoja, me invadía un miedo profundamente irracional a que todo aquello se deshiciera en pequeños fragmentos que nadie más pudiera volver a descifrar nunca jamás. A pesar de ello, en vez de deshacerse en mil pedazos, sobre el papel empezaron a asomarse trazos difusos, en todas direcciones, como zarandeados por un viento que ora era levantino, ora huracanado. Y el trazo discurría impacientemente, tropezándose unos con otros, distribuyendo el espacio de la peor manera posible, fruto del ímpetu del momento irremplazable. De hecho, aquí y allá aparecían pequeños anexos que nos hacían partícipes del difícil parto de aquellos trazos abigarrados. Un parto doloroso, en el que un cuchillo esgrimía sin piedad el papel de inquisidor, en el que las mismas ideas se repetían una y otra vez en los márgenes del papel, en el que, al fin y al cabo, nos alejábamos de lo ideal para inmiscuirnos en el arduo trabajo de un hombre de carne y hueso.

 Alguien preguntó algo, pero estaba tan absorto exprimiendo aquel instante que ni siquiera me percaté de qué estaban hablando. Aquel era un tiempo denso, como hecho de aceite y néctar, que no querría dejarlo deslizarse bajo mis dedos, un instante digno de Aión. Pero la profecía se cumplió. Llegó la última hoja y creció en mí el mismo vacío que al poner fin a aquellas cartas interminables que escribía íntimamente a mi difunta madre. Ya sabía que cerrar la caja significaba soltar la mano que había tenido agarrada durante ese instante, significada volver a las coordenadas de tiempo y espacio que habían desaparecido y, con ellas, el dolor, la angustia y el sufrimiento de la materia. Y la caja, inexorablemente, se cerró, Y se marchó de la estancia por detrás del escenario, como finalizando un último concierto ante el público. Me quedé quieto, inmóvil, incapaz de reaccionar. Después de todo, él había sido un hombre que escribía en el papel como lo hago yo ahora mismo. La realidad se había convertido en un enorme agujero de gusano en el cual todo era confuso e inevitablemente evidente a la vez.

 Y recordé aquel olor, Añejo y afrutado. Adictivo. Real. Porque, ante todo, aquel olor sí que había existido, estaba seguro. Había existido como el hombre que dibujaba trazos sobre el papel y del que había sostenido sus manos a través de los siglos durante aquellos minutos tan dichosamente largos. Había existido como existía yo y mis incesantes lágrimas de emoción.

IV.

a word is a word and this word is a word and a word can be this word but a word is a sound and the sounds make a word and this sound is a word and also this sound makes this word and this sound makes this my word and my word makes this my sound and sound and word are mine and they are mine because they mean and when they mean regardless of what people say they are still my sound and my word

but what does sound really do?

a sound is a sound ma or sh or fl and a sound can be a word or a sound can’t be a word it doesn’t matter but a sound is a sound and a sound will be a sound on air and on space and it will travel and it will be carried over but a sound is still a sound and it can be around or far away but it will be still a sound therefore a sound which is my sound will be a sound carried over to become your sound therefore my sound will be your sound

a word is a word and a sound can be a word my word is my word and my sound is your sound and my word is your sound and my word is your word

V.

Imagine a place that lies far away from here. Imagine a place where time and space unfold in a different way, or even they do not unfold at all.

Imagine a place where all is nothing and nothing is the door to all possibilities.

Imagine a place where songs are being sung, a place where dances are danced. A place where words still retain a meaning, therefore one should better use them carefully.

Imagine a place where water flows unceasingly, where motion becomes a thing in itself. A place where calls will always resonate at the other end of the valley.

Imagine a place where cracks made by time are peepholes to look through. A place where touching means travelling, where smelling makes you cry, where opening a page is a revolutionary act.

Imagine a place where one can shout freely and whisper intimately. A place where boundaries are being sewed and a silkworm weaves between two trees.

Imagine a place where a dead heart is food for sounds and walls. A place where we are believers, where we are eternally reborn.

A place where you would never starve.

A place for life.

Imagine that place.

I came back from there.

26/XI/2022