HERE'S THE PRECIPICE (KRUEZSPIEL)
Sometimes I can't go any farther than this : I stop at
the edge of the distance and wonder which way I
should turn. On the one side, in that direction, are
the flagellants, yelling their squamish wails. On the
other, the ruse of the silent monks, just staring.
Instead of it all, I have Stockhausen here, playing.
There's a littoral that I walk : wet sand, the tripping
of rocks along the beach, the sort of polished-to-dull
glass that gets washed up on shore. Curious, I seek
more, bending over to witness what is. The key, in
all of this life, is to accept the Now. Stop making
the categorical designations wherein reside the
failures and the avoidances of moment.
Men are walking by water, and a few paces behind them,
I figure, are their equaling-number female mates; like
apes on a beach, washed up to a newer land, they look
for boundaries here. There is a silence, even in their
noise. Why my head is boundless, I do not know.
Essential moments, my own anyway, are so few and far
between : things to be noted and checked off and marked
for cataloguing as treasures - a certain traditional learning
in an enterprise of museum-like trance, in an 'institution'
of my making. It's high, high crimes, and misdemeanors
too, in the terms of this modern world : I am a betrayer.
I watch the women; they walk together in a bunched-up
sisterhood. I hear the men, as they pass, the one saying,
'Well, mostly, now all I do is watch the porn.' Whatever
that tends to mean, I want to pull him aside and just say:
'This is your life. See what you are doing. Stop for a
moment, once each day perhaps, and listen at least for
the chatter, the marks, the sounds. To Kreuszspiel,
then, if not to anything else. It's equally
demanding a task. Too little to ask?'