It’s all yours.

Invalids–not corpses. My divining capacities cease at raising the dead. ;)

The problem is not the form. By this I mean I find no “inherent flaw” in either poetry or philosophy. Limitations: maybe. But it would be an appeal to ignorance for me to assume said limitations, though I’m not afraid to name them. However, most flaws, limitations, and barriers we come up against in the creation and interpretation of art are almost always contingent; while “the limits of language” for instance “are the limits of our world”–it is up to us, the inventors of the word and beings in the world, to push said limits–or contrarily, shy away from them.

My experience with art, and perhaps you will relate, is that the more one can conceive of “the uncharted” or unlimited possibilites, the more susceptible one becomes to the trend of “shying away.” One doubts, another is overwhelmed–states potentially conducive to progress, but in equal part, to severe debilitation. My suggestion is that, as a whole, the arts have trended toward the latter–here enters the misuse (abuse) of tradition, postmodern reactions thereto, west-coast-esque shamelessly postmodern “pursuits,” in essence, the drive to either flee or to hibernate.

Whence did we learn this atomic split? What became of the other half of that survival mechanism–the impulse to fight, that is…? Philosophy, as it relates to the current age–where the capacity to “know thyself” and ask the hardest questions has collapsed in, has surrendered–is decadent. But do notice that it’s decadence has occurred in relation to the age, the decay undergone by a sermon when preached toward the choir. And this, giving the benefit of the doubt to the isolated preacher.

Assuming, then, that poetry and philosophy are legitimate forms of creative (qua creation) expression, with undefinable limits–the only valid “corrective” that can be made must exist within the dialectic of the Mind in society. And as this relates to your comment, I believe the two “invalids”–or watered-down attempts to indoctrinate, while either ignoring or conforming to, a highly-unconscious society– can work as a team. The grand because: the currently dominant method in one form–the analytic, in philosophy; the passive-reflective, poetry–suffers via deficiency of the other, which the form itself affords, but which has been sacrificed–to epitomize one function it knows how to perform. Or is now expected to perform. Or is most comfortable performing.

On that note, I just arrived at my “real job,” where a supremely pleasant surprise was awaiting me. Though something seems to be missing. Yes, something’s definitely amiss.

Of “classical movements” vs. Berlioz-esque spontanaity, well, the poet to some extent must “go where the poem goes” and then attempt to harness and craft whatever pattern emerges. Regarding Berlioz in particular, more than his composership I’m interested in his personal response to romanticism–and how he later fled the music scene to (ironically) write about the art. (See: Treatise on Instrumentation.)

Which leads me to question of the pieces as “movements.” Let X, for a moment, be Berlioz–the person. Let music, and its specialized constructs of time: be the poetic line, the landscape, the highway, he treads across.

We know music has the greatest capacity of all art forms to immediately access and express raw emotion–beyond those that are to some degree “rooted in space”–a notion which I don’t seek to disprove, but rather newly portray. Let time stand for space. Thus opens the discussion of our given dimensions: their limits, and possibilities.

For the perespective the book seeks to capture: with music serving as the physical “framework” of the page, and then used as a point of reference throughout–we’ll call “the limits of language” the temporal “music of our world.”

I’m interested to hear how you are planning this out. The Tonic is in a playful prose. So, how does language play a role in keeping or straying from tempo?

Are you following a more classical sense of movements? Or is it more of a Berlioz-esque, it goes where it goes kinda of thing?

Sorry for the list of questions, just sounds like an amazing project.

–Chris

Thanks for the comment.

A bit of context:

The tonic is the first note of a musical scale, and in the tonal method of music composition, the tonic is the pitch upon which all other pitches of a piece are hierarchically centered.

A secret. Can you keep it? ;) This particular piece is part of a larger body–a book, if you will. Structurally speaking, the work as a whole will be based upon principles in music theory–or time; and thematically speaking, on migration, exile, & geography–or space. It will consist of an estimated eighty poems, the first of which (and this is key) is Tonic.

With regard to your final query: by all means. Link away.

A

Although, I’m questioning the “Tonic” and how that relates to the clockwork theme running throughout. Also, I find myself unable to anchor onto any central character as there seems to be a story being told. How do eighty lost letters, tonic, moving, and circular time interconnect?

Just some questions/comments, off the cuff. To note, I liked the idea of a narrator being introduced at the end (beginning).

Do you mind if I link your site to my blog (http://lingerlit.blogspot.com)?

Peace,

Chris