I suddenly realized that in the language, or at any rate in the spirit of the Glass Bead Game, everything actually was all-meaningful, that every symbol and combination of symbol led not hither and yon, not to single examples, experiments, and proofs, but into the center, the mystery and innermost heart of the world, into primal knowledge. Every transition from major to minor in a sonata, every transformation of a myth or a religious cult, every classical or artistic formulation was, I realized in that flashing moment, if seen with truly a meditative mind, nothing but a direct route into the interior of the cosmic mystery, where in the alternation between inhaling and exhaling, between heaven and earth, between Yin and Yang holiness is forever being created.
Beyond the window, some kind of small, black thing shot across the sky. A bird, possibly. Or it might have been someone’s soul being blown to the far side of the world.
The Balanescu Quartet - To The Hills (Variation 1)
music from the dance theatre of Pina Bausch
August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.
Only she who attempts the absurd can achieve the impossible.
When the child was a child,
it didn’t know that it was a child,
everything was soulful,
and all souls were one.