10.31.98 A Four-Part Symphony
10.31.98: Set I
In. We’re in. We’re very in. The ritual is in progress and the ceilinged sky awash with manic stars. The music! How could I ever doubt that music is the ground of all higher being? Like stepping into a wind tunnel of rarefied air. The music sits thick and dominant in the air. The music is the air. We are swimming through the rim of the bodysea breathing the shimmering sounds as a voice says “I keep forgetting to turn the earth so both sides get their share of darkness and of light.” If every human being in America was in one of these temples tonight, world history would sing better the next day. The networks should decide the next season’s lineup in the hour after a dip in such a sonic wash. Likewise for Hollywood producers and Group of Eighth Notes meetings.
Begin, begin, begun. Be gin, be gun. Ogive in chamber...cock, fire, twirl your piece. Ready
And in a flash: Ana!
Ana went! She is here! Somewhere between the temple door and the cella here where she stretches like a caryatid peeling off the column out of which she’d been carved back in La Canada, as she reconfigures her ANAtomy. Ana to my eyes jars with Ana to my mind. She is in control. She is stretching her arms out, chin up, eyes intent, committed to the scene here in Act I. Her outstretched hand accidentally brushes young red hair. Affectionate pat and onward, eyes up. Up to where? Posture is different—usually her shoulders hunch and belly is thrust forward. Now her chest is thrust up and out and her hips roll down and around, recalling her belly and presenting her understudy, pelvis. The music descends from overhead in waves, as the guitar winds its way downstream over and over guitar winds its way downstream winds its way down stream way down stream down and Ana up, strong salmon eyes, stronger than before. What has happened?
“What has happened to you?”
“The circus is the place for me,” she announces to me (to me? Is the addressee somewhere beyond me?) Now I feel at home.”
Strange, her response relaxed me and I think it’s because my mind tenses expecting, by now, a hesitant reply, a measured one. Something like “what do you mean?”, sullied with trepidation. But Hark! The cherry reply, not the chary one! Now the guitar has found a sweet note in the upper realms and slow dances around it for an eternity, her hair sonified.
“You really look beautiful,” I stammer.
She lowers her chin now for the first time at me, focus momentarily broken by blush, happy, but then the smile shapes itself again into the poised roomready one. “I think I just might be,” is her reply to my compliment. “Or becoming…”
I know what it is! What the beautiful people do. They are like Vincent: they stare intently. Ugliness is darty eyes. Beauty is fascination. Rapture. Intent. Not boredom, sighs, eyes imagining what they must look like looking out. Vincent stares all the time. Complete disregard for the laws of Been Around the Block Hip. Vincent hasn’t been around any block—every square inch of earth is a new block every time he turns his head. Look at him there, slackjawed stageward smile, eyes riveted on something up in the lighting apparatus, hands to his side as usual, posture irrelevant.
But the radical news—Ana has learned rapture! Her once solipsistic eyes fixed, now that they fix on things.
I hope this happens once again…
The Sacred Dice - A Revolutionary Salon
The Sacred Dice is a salon of musicians, scholars, poets, sound sculptors, activists and artists of all kinds committed to art that is committed. That could get us committed (to an asylum). That disdain's art for art's sake and artists who have no idea why they do what they do. We know why we do what we do--to create and celebrate community in a country still stuck in capitalist fantasies of individualism. If you want in, you're in. If you want out, don't worry--you already are.