Dream Music and the Creative Breath

Hear my beginnings on Xaphoon, a modern woodwind instrument.

Also, listen to Vi An's ambient, new single, "Souls of Flightless Birds" to hear my initial touches on Shakuhachi

To hear my more percussive beginnings see my earlier posts Busker's Gamble 1 & 2

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My elementary school music teacher begins the session with an arcane eye, emitting positively unintelligible sentiment into the classroom. The entirety of the students’ awareness is razed in a moment of ineluctable meditation at the front of the room. The teacher is absorbed in trance, unable to begin the lesson. Then, she takes up an oboe, and begins a hypnotic hum, playing without her fingers. She bends her lips to the visionary yonder, bespeaking a ghostly insight into the sonic membrane of harmonious mystery. 

Three Black Women (1912) by Nicholas Kalamakoff 

As the hum begins to rise, a crack in the doorway spells fear in the eyes of my fellow students, watching as a three nude black women gracefully dance their way to the front of the room. Their light steps are unmatched in delicate beauty. The warmth of their presence is charming as the teacher begins to lather up and down immense, powerful scales. The dance heats with inner vivacity. Without fully recognizing, I have been completely entranced, alone in another room, seduced by the mad eyes of the superhuman subtleties emerging of the dance of sprites. The unity of music and dance is embodied in the untouchable, ebony enigmas. 

________

Sculpting our Music

to empathize with space,
emptied learning
devoid of causality,

to exist in nonsense happily,
with or without means to find the light to continue
and realize that meaning prevails in the ability to emancipate need into desire
and transform desire into being,

to see you,
in the flap of a wave thickening
in a sky filled with stars aglow
in the insect's wing,
eaten then,
raw in the toothless humanity
forming on the tip and base of the tongue
with each word-stopped breath of compassion

stating,
"subsist without things,
yet do not merge one with sheer being,
there is no escape from right,
take time to see,
play aloud to the soft distance
in each touch
on the eternal book
resting coolly
on the back of every pulse
moving through fingertips pressed over reality."

simply unlearn doing
by giving into the peace already;
know your surroundings,
truth does not move,
yet there is mystery in sound's effortless becoming
around and within the hand that pulls time into the heart
and plays breath
in tune to the sun's round birth canal of thoughtless entry
into an orbital law,

a return to archaic wisdom
in ancient instruments
and the rare music of inward listening
that shares all in the act of creative wondering

to explore the mind without friction
against the beat of our one heart,
drained now by love's unknown pleasures
offered to the inescapable friend,
who appears as death at the beginning of night,
freezing time
for a moment's celebration of temporal freedoms
grinning out of sight