.:Free Range Lashy:.

Okay, we talked about this in Music Appreciation class, and I totally love it, so I'm going to post it on here. This is Sinfonia, by Luciano Berio. It's epic win. GO LISTEN TO IT NOW.

((I apologize for any typos right now, this is long, and I'm not looking at the screen, I'm looking at the paper I'm copying. :P ))





SINFONIA
This represents at least a thousand words I was not counting on. I may well be glad of them but seeing Daphne and Chloe written in red, counting the seconds while nothing has happened but the obsession with the with the chromatic and the chromatic again.

I am in the air, the walls, everything yields, opens, ebbs, flows like the play fo waves--

Yes, I feel the moment has come for us to look back, if we can and take our bearings if we are to go on. Yes, I feel the moment has come for me to look back. I must not forget this, I have not forgotten it. But I must have said it before, since I say it now. They think I am alice, not in a womb either... Well so there is an audience it's a fantastic public performance-- and the curtian comes down for the ninth time. You never noticed you were waiting. You were waiting alone, that is the show. Keep going.

I shall say my old lessons now, if I can remember it then I shall have lived they think I am alive, not in a womb, either, even that takes time.

It is as if we were rooted, that's bonds if you like- the earth would have to quake. It isn't the earth, one doesn't know what it is-- But you all know that they will bring me to the surface one day or another and there will be a brief dialoge in the dunes-- maybe a kind of competition on the stage, with just eight remale dancers and words falling. You don't know where, where now-- under the sun-- who now? but now I shall say my old lessons if I can remember it. I must not forget this. But I must have said it before, since I say it now.

I am listening. Well, I frefer, that, I must say I prefer that, Oh you know, oh you, oh I suppose the audience, well well, so there is an audience, it's a public show, you buy your seat and you wait, perhaps it's free, a free show, you take your seat and you wait for it to befin, or perhas it's compulsory, a compulsory show...

You wait for the compulsory show to being, it takes time, you hear a voice, perhaps it is a recitation, that is the show, someone reciting, selected passages, old favourites, or someone improvising, you can barely hear him, that's the show, you can't leave, you are afraid to leave, you make the best of it, you try to be reasonable, you came too early, here we'd need latin, it's only the beginning, it hasn't begun, he'll appear any moment, he'll begin any moment

He is only preluding, clearing his throat, alone in his dressing room, or it's the stage manager giccing his instrucctions, his last recommendations before the curtain rises-- that is the show-- thatt's the show waiting for hte show, to the sound of a murmer, you try to be reasonable, perhaps it is not a voice at al, perhaps it's the air, ascending, descending, flowing, eddying, seeking exit, finding none, and the spectators, where are they, you didn't notice, in the anguish of waiting, you never noticed you were waiting alone, that this is the show, for the fools, in the palace waiting-- the brightest star-- waiting alone that is the show waiting alone inthe restless air, for it to begin, while every now and then a familiar passacglia filters through the other noises wiating, for something to befin, for there to be something else but you, for the power to rie, the courage to rise, the courage to leave, picking your way through the crossed colours, seeking the cause, losing it again, seeking no longer. We shall overcome the incessant noised, for as Henri says, if this noise would stop there'd be nothing more to say. You try and be reasonable, perhaps you are blind, probably deaf, the show is over, all is over, but where then is thhe hand, the helping hand, or merely charitable, or the hired hand, it's a long time coming, to take yours and draw you way, that is the show, free, frati, and for nothing, waiting alone, blind, deaf, you don't know where, you don't know for what, for a hand to come and draw you away, somewhere else, where perhaps it's worse. It's a real pleasure upon my word it is to be unable to drown under such conditions in a lake full of colours far from my walls

((HOLY COW THAT PARAGRAPH WAS LONG. >.>))

I am here so little, I see it, I feel it round me it enfolds me , it covers me, if onely this voice would stop, for a second, it would seem long to me, a second of silence I would listen, I'd know if it was going to start again or if it was stilled for ever what would I wknow it with, I'd know. And I'd keep on listening I'd know if iit was going to start again it's late now, and he is still talking incessantly, any old thing, repitition after repetition, talking unceasingly, in yourself, outside yourself

It's late now, he shall never hear again the lowing cattle, the rush of the stream. In a chamber, dimensions unknown, I do not move and never shall again on long road or short. But the fact is I trouble no one. But I did. And after each group disintegration, the name of Majakowsky hangs in the clean air.

And when they ask, why all this, is it not easy to find an answerr. For when we find ourselves, face to face, now, here, and they remind us all this can't stop the wars, cant make the old younger or lower the price of bread. --Say it again louder!-- IT CAN'T STOP THE WARS, CAN'T MAKE THE OLD YOUNGER, OR LOWER THE PRICE OF BREAD, can't erase solitude or dul lthe tread outside the door, we can only nod, yes, it's true, but no need to remind, to point, for it is all with us, always, except, perhaps at certian moments, here among these rows of balconies, in a crowd or out of it, perhaps waiting to enter, watching. And tomorrow we'll read that Stravinsky's Firebird made tulips grow in my garden and altered the flow of the ocean currents. We must believe it's true. THere must be something else. Otherwise it would be quite hopeless. But it is quite hopeless. Unquestioning.But it can't go on. It, say it, not knowing what. It's getting late. Where now? When now? I have a present for you. Keep going, page after page. Keep going, going on, call that going, call that on. But wait. He is barely moving now, almost still. Should I make my introductions?

((-At this point he lists all vocalists etc....-))

But now it's done, it's over, we've had our chance. THere was even, for a second, hope of resurrection, or almost, mein junges leben hat ein end. We must collect our thoughts, for the unexpected is always upon us, in our rooms, in the street, at the door, on a stage, Thank you, Mr. David Robertson.




There's that. I love it; At first when we read it, it made no sense to me whatsoever. We then listened to the peice and it all made sense. It fits so well with the music and the random voices and such. In the background, it has Mahler's Resurrection symphony movement three, and it just fits so well. The entire time it was playing, I was just thinking of Alice in Wonderland, when she is floating down the tunnel and things are randomly around her, some coming at her, some slipping away, while she is still falling without control.

If you haven't heard it, go listen to it right now. Just go look it up on YouTube or something, I don't care.