The Turangalîla Symphony

The Turangalîla Symphony is very percussive. There’s a lot of pounding going on. Things get languorous and dreamy then sounds come bursting out in hectic assertion. It’s a little herky-jerky, like a roller coaster. But is anything in life as fluffy as clouds? Most things are hard and distant, like stars. The things that can go cold inside of you are quiet water shattered by rocks. Shocks to the system. Enough to keep your fingers at the ready on the keyboard to leap into scruples. I like it when all the bows are raised and then get slowly lowered. Pages turn. The conductor’s baton floats gracefully up and down. The strings start to flow longingly and lovingly toward the sublime while the piano drip drops and a clarinet enters and begins asking questions about life outside the solar system. Life, wherever you find it, is deliciously incomprehensible. The fingers spring into action and excite the moment, which is a terrain of monstrous ductility. The greatness of the canyon is due to erosion, the slow wearing away of things by time and entropy. The world can be a frustrating place to live. But is the frustration a source of learning or just a sack of yearning? Words sometimes spurt out of me and I can’t take them back or carry them to the goal of my advantage. I’ve gently carved our lives together on a bar of soap. The trombones entered through the backdoor with ominous sounds accented by thunder. It’s all tension and resolution, emptiness and form. Sandstone is the fun we do on drums. Morning gardenias write what I assume are skirmishes. Conceit pulls conceit and the thirst for autonomy moves towards carousal. Loaf where you can find it, there’s nothing wrong with wrinkles. They give a crucial look to the face. The crushed photogenic body circulates in the wash. I’ve never seen such a beautiful hedonism, every inch of it carried out with spectacular indolence and creativity. Sometimes it takes a little salt and pepper to prove the reality of eggs. The keys we carry through life open doors that we encounter many years later in a mansion of our own contrivance founded on principles of hurt and indignation. Feeding the night improbable headlights requires a special technology of fireworks and hair. There are those who mock the spontaneity of the beats, but what is their aim, exactly? Is a painter’s art crooked because he paints hunchbacks? I record symptoms as I see them. Hegel waddles by flourishing a burning brow. He looks like a fabulous giant bird. I will not bother you further with unnecessary descriptions of Neil Sedaka. I think he had a nice presence is all. At least that’s what I thought in Venice. Things are different now. I’ve gown alien to this civilization. This civilization has gown alien to me. It's on the backs of elephants that we rise to the idea of coconuts. I like nouns. Listen. How softly the rebellion explodes in the distance. Plaster is indispensable. I will engage whatever I come across and make it my viola. Hence the meticulous necessity of my being there to open the door if you deign to enter.