Pieces in keys have themes and motives, predictable transitions. They modulate themselves toward conclusions that satisfy the questions raised. Pieces in keys function within their ranges of forces, textures, movement, with vocabulary affixed to an alphabet. They set up housekeeping, feed the pets, pay the bills, make friends with the neighbors. Pieces in keys have anniversaries. There are other musics not crafted or constructed or conceived; That grow themselves, inventing not only glossary, but also glyph; That catalyse visible elastic strands from fluid transparencies; That flare spontaneously with a subtle popping sound, consuming their own heat and leaving a only residue of fine white ash; That precipitate from vapors and fogs, accrete in fantastic impossibilities, evanesce into immateriality. Other musics own nothing and sleep under bridges. They serve no obvious purposes, meet their own needs. Other musics grow quietly up through cracks in the sidewalk and spout dream-inspired sermons on street corners. They keep time in overlapping layers of irregular increments. Other musics never know what age to act. How like these other musics is this, between us!— anxious of life, reckless of consequence, compelling in urgency, and drawing from pieces in keys a self-confuting question: How does any music know what itself is?
Say, there's something new at the bottom of the posts: a reaction vote! So if you don't have time to leave a comment, or don't know exactly what you'd like to say, you can just click "cool" or "not cool."
It helps me know what readers want to read when I can see your reaction—thanks!