Dear Friend of my Heart,
Rhythm and melody are not exclusive. At the moment I come from a feeling that to go for this separation is an antiquated pedagogical practice, and it would be better for you and me to start over from another place. Movement seems to be a good place to start and it is also quite the in-thing, especially among thinkers of art. It would be quite misleading to make claims about movement as a new ideal or a new temperament. As long has there been thought and practice, there has been an orientation towards movement. There have been those who have found the flow of the river and her softer tempers to be more agreeable than the hard being of the rock. There were also those who looked at the rocks long enough to see that they were not static or non-fluid entities. To these instances of ideation and speech I raise both my arms in salutation. I would love to have tea with the rock-watching kind. Maybe you could introduce me to someone.
What catches my fancy is the dance of the guitarists fingers (my own earlier today)… the other dance is that of the writers fingers. I wonder why we don’t call them typers now. The typers of poetry and the typers of prose, and the typers who just wouldn’t subscribe to either of those.
Why would the professor say that a story is a lie? I do not, in my questioning, come from the postmodern fever that overcame me not too long ago. When I say that a story isn’t a truth or a lie, or that fiction is neither of those, I, admittedly, might still be burning with the oh so enchanting nietzschen spirit, but I also happen to have put my faith on dreams and on beauty, rather than on the good old fact of the matter. Dreams. Not as nietzschen as the intoxicated fervor of music, another Nietzsche-kenner might wish to remind me. Forgive me dear friend, but I am too intoxicated by music to tell the difference. Apollo no longer appalls me as much, and Dionysus no longer… well… maybe… let’s keep that line of thought unfinished…
In my mind I had wanted to write you about the problem of self… myself… my self… I felt a very strong attachment there today. Is the self the enemy of all that is clear and true? My self is still on the top shelf. It is boastful in its own way. I am boastful in my own way.
Are you with you today as I am with me today?
Eager to hear from you.
Yours in curiosity,