Ich könnte mir ein anderes Schloß denken

Paul Klee
Grenzen des Verstandes, 1927
Ich könnte....

Unter dem Kronleuchter tanzen die Parzen,
drehend im Kreis des unbegabten Überflusses.
Die eine Kerze oben zuckt,
wird dadurch ausgelöscht;
Und die ganze Krone --
ihr Gleichgewicht schon längst verloren --
fällt ins Dunkel nieder.
Die Parzen tanzen weiter:
blind und toll und frei in ihrem Wahn.
Rund um die dunkle Krone
tanzen die Parzen im Kreis
der ungesagten Töne.

the frustrated ego:

If it is the simplest of things that fill our lives with poetry, why does this lamp not speak to me? Its threaded shade is true enough, capable, illuminated, and yet its shine falls short, is flat, is melted in the air before me, before I could have seen it. And if I swim in these my thoughts, if JOYCE was right, if FREUD was right, if this stream should lead me somewhere fruitful (paradise? presumption!), how could I know? How, how, how could I know?
This reflection of light in the window (there are no mirrors here) seems scoffing, seems dark and doubtful. Even the reflection of the light looks unsure of itself, doubled again because of the double glass panes.
No: rather, it is instead
the secretive green
of the bottle beside it
that glistens,
content in its elegance,
truer to its subtle nature,
holding its complement,
the red.

notes

Seltsame Dinge in den letzten Tagen. Ich sollte anfangen, jeden Tag eine Liste aufzuschreiben.

telephone ghosts
double encounters (the jazz-like spontaneity of strangers' conversation)
lacrimosa through the pipes, the walls, the floor?
mythos
Odysseus
Even this: Ich bin der Welt abhanden gekommen
green crystal waves (Eichendorff, Novalis -- nicht so seltsam, vielleicht): je vois Vernet, toujours Vernet, bien que je ne particulièrement aime ses peintures. Mais ses vagues sont émeraudes.

The singer's trained and assured voice delivered the notes from a century and half ago, and with a sweeping gesture, she tried to negotiate that distance, summoning the retired muse here in the space before us. The other hand clasped the case of the Steinway. The muse would not come. And who could blame her; for the most part unwanted or unacknowledged, she nevertheless held fast to her dignity.
And this art, it seems, has been dying for generations. The sapphire bracelet and the gown are thrown over her, though they cannot diffuse the staleness of the air, the hollowness of the tones, the cold toll of bells in an abandoned parish church.

let us consent to the irony of the universe.

Burnt almonds and currants
Schoenberg's Verklärte Nacht
sounding through Takemitsu's gardens:
this is the air one breathes
hear

then

Bischiwo Schel Malo Uwischiwo Schel Mato