On a jade terrace, in an unbounded garden, from a rainless, moonlit pond: the melody of frogs.
The mix begins.
To grasp the sound closes the name of reopening its essential doubleness.
Sounds like hands — a hand, open, inexplicably, w/o a sound.
The role of music is not to overrule difficulty, as in a court of law, but to sustain it—to recognize the ways that resistance to easy assimilation might sustain our engagement with the sound and in the process provide aesthetic pleasure and intellectual challenge.
An impregnable unearthing wasps up the strains and lets them head down the same river, together. The wounds fit, the norms disturb. Lucky for these unearthed fangs, as they finally have flesh to sink into.
The flesh of our ears.
On a jade terrace, in an unbounded garden, from a rainless, moonlit computer screen:
The mix begins.
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