white
is filling up, red leaves and wind are lifting snow
across the sky, along the lake the smell of cold
is stirring up an air of blackandwhite outside
but in, Satie is misaligning time, his Gnossienne,
his No 1 a cinnamon spill along the floor,
a walk with fingers down the keys
that follow Newman's Any Other Name
into another room where coffee drips a honeyed steam
from cup to spoon where Vincent's blue
is like an open palm across a kiss
"Only we monks of the period know the truth,
but saying it can lead to the stake."
(Umberto Eco)
posted by name of the rose at 2:49 p.m.
3 Comments:
not so obvious to find these tracks you reference, but I can see the gnossienne setting a mood, or complementing one already established, especially in late fall
"I don't know a single psychiatrist who would be able to scrutinize a man's face with such crushing power and to serve up its irrefutable psychology as though on a plate. Van Gogh's eye is that of a great genius, but in the way I see him desegregating me myself from the depths of the canvas where he has appeared, it is no longer the genius of a painter I sense alive in him at that moment but that of a certain philosopher whom I have never met in actual life. Socrates hadn't such an eye, perhaps the only one before him to possess this glance which can lay bare the spirit, deliver the body from the spirit, to lay bare man's body and remove it from the subtefuges of the mind, was poor Nietzsche."
(Artaud)
...just that it snowed today, first snow, and that there are things that I can't yet know...Satie
[and that there are things that I can't yet know]
this creates a series of question marks ...
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