LEGENDS OF THE BEGINNING
THE
LEGEND OF
ROOFRIDGE
(OR
HOW THE
WORLD
WENT AWRY)
There once was a
composer and
writer, by which I
mean a person who
enjoyed making
music and telling
stories: as far as
recognition matters
he might as well not
have existed at all.
In fact it’s probably
true that, as a
strategy to
maintain his
conviction in the
legitimacy of his
vocation in the face
of the world’s
indifference (a
vocation that had
come gradually to
fill his life with
purpose), this
writer adopted an
exaggerated
indifference,
scorning that fame
in advance which,
had he aspired to
it, would have
eluded him, and
cultivating the air of
a neglected
prophet.
In other words he
suffered. And in
his loneliness he
was further
afflicted by the
gap he saw
increasing between
his artistic aims
(which tended to be
daring and
unfettered – why
not, since nobody’
s listening? - ) and
his comic
ineptitude in all
matters
technological,
proficiency in which
would have aided
him immeasurably
in his work.
Then came the
Internet,and it
occurred to this
writer that, if he
were to create a
website of his own,
he would be
divested,
permanently and
utterly, of the need
for self-promotion,
which he despised
and at which he was
such a failure. His
work could simply
float “out there,”
quietly, patiently,
ready to reveal
itself to anyone
drawn to its
message.
At the same time,
our friend
recognized that this
new format invited
a drastic re-thinking
of the old, linear,
closed concepts in
which literature and
music were
encased. In place
of the logical
progressions
inherent to novels
and symphonies,
he began to
imagine
kaleidoscopic
forms of
synchronous or
interchangeable
parts, forms
without boundaries,
that grew and
changed, labyrinths
and spirals, circles
and spheres, as
well as a new way
of integrating
sounds and words
so that what he
said would be
inseparable from
the music it alluded
to, and the music
he wrote would
seem to explain the
text.
Probably as a
matter of pure
coincidence (a
term which, at that
stage in his life,
and thanks largely
to his enthusiastic
dabbling in
Chinese
philosophy, had
come to be
practically
synonymous with
destiny) his interest
had settled on the
field of German
Romanticism. So
he designated his
new creation The
Official Site of
the Ofterdingen
Gesellschaft,
Heinrich von
Ofterdingen being
his pseudonym for
a purportedly
unknown, actually
imaginary
composer of his
fancy, through
whose works and
the commentary
that arose around
them our friend was
enabled to
address, from an
unusual vantage,
issues of historical,
cultural,
philosophical,
aesthetic, ethical
and metaphysical
interest.
His first mistake
(a Felix Culpa –
happy sin, a term
Christians apply to
Adam’s primordial
transgression that
called forth a loving
savior) was to
employ in his title
the German word,
Gesellschaft,
though this is the
proper term for the
kind of scholarly
society he wished
to concoct. For in
writing
Gesellschaft he
triggered a
translation in the
computer program
that rendered his
text (at once
meticulous and
idiosyncratic) in a
very bad German.
Happening one
morning upon this
German version of
his site, our
composer made a
second mistake,
activating a link that
invited him to
“translate this.”
The German
version was
translated back
into an even worse
English that
seemed to toe a
line separating
madness from a
kind of hyper-
lucidity he’d never
consciously
intended. (For
examples of these
text –
transformations
the reader is
referred to the
Contact section of
this site, under
Letters to the
Editor.)
At the heart of this
confusion he
discovered
Roofridge.
Roofridge: a name
he never printed,
but which ran
through the new
translation, a
meaningless
proper noun that,
for our startled
writer, came to
designate a dark,
distorting
presence, a
destructive demi-
urge sprung from
the nether-regions
of cyberspace,
whose purpose it is
to twist and malign
all we carefully
design, or else
whose purpose is
to leaven our lives
with saving humor
(For more on this
interpretation see
The Fountain of
Youth under
Publications.) or
to transport us
beyond the
confines of our
tired, habitual ways.
In any case the
little world our
composer had
made didn’t turn
out according to
his expectations,
and this eventually
led him to wonder if
the same weren’t
perhaps true of the
larger world he
inhabited which, as
everybody knows
from experience, is
somewhat awry.
As for notoriety, it
came, belated and
tinged with irony:
while the original
website still
languishes
obscure, the
Roofridge version,
that translation of
a translation, has
achieved great
popular success
with German
readers, spawning
seminars and
colloquiums, tee-
shirts and caps.
Perhaps it’s better
that way.
THE
LEGEND OF
CAEDMON
(HOW A
FICTIONAL
CHARACTER
MADE THE
REAL
WORLD)
One day (the
story goes)
Heinrich von
Ofterdingen
decided to invent
a composer: first
he called him
Peter Ceniti , but
soon he came to
prefer the
pseudonym
Caedmon, he
being a
tongue-tied
shepherd from
Aglo-Saxon
legend who is
given the gift of
song in a dream.
He did this for the
pleasure of
exercising his
imagination,
although if you
were to suggest he
was in
search of
self-understanding,
or the opposite -
escape from the
self, he wouldn't
put up a fight,
since it's likely
that the pleasure
of this exercise is
hard to separate
from the
knowledge, the
liberation, that are
its results.
In any case what
really interested
him is the relation
of art to life, so,
strictly speaking,
he didn't simply
invent a
composer, but
pretended to
discover one of
his works, then
attempted to
reconstruct his
life from what he
had made.
This work he
called Wratlicu
Wyrd (that's Old
English for
Wondrously
Strange); it's a
hybrid genre, part
play, part musical,
part philosophical
dialogue, with
musicians, actors,
dancers, mimes,
and all sorts of
special effects.
(Caedmon spares
no expense.)
(A synopsis of
this work can be
found below in
Samples.
Because the
hybrid genre is
suffused with
personal history
Cenit's that is),
because it sums
up and
synthesizes so
many of the
composer's
earlier efforts, it is
possible to
present an
(admittedly
fragmentary) list
of his musical and
literary works,
along with some
samples; this
appears at the
bottom of this
page.)
Wratlicu Wyrd
begins in
Anglo-Saxon
fashion with a
riddle:
I dreamt of
Caedmon who
dreamt of Novalis
Who dreamt
of a Wanderer
dreaming of a
flower -
A flower from
whose calyx I was
formed:
Who am I?
This is,
admittedly, a little
dense, but the
answer he's
looking for is
Saiwala, which is
Old English for
soul. So
Caedmon, the
composer,
dreams of (or
thinks about, or
reads from) the
Romantic poet
Novalis, who has
created a
character,
Heinrich von
Ofterdingen, who,
in the novel of that
name, dreams of a
blue flower in
whose center a
face appears.
Now, if this face,
springing to life
from the flower, is
understood as
saiwala, the soul,
and if this same
saiwala is the
speaker of the
riddle, he who
dreams of
Caedmon in the
first place, then we
have here an
image of creation
as beginningless,
the mystery we
search being
embodied within
us.
At the work's end,
after all the action
has been
resolved,
Caedmon
wanders onto the
stage once more,
accompanied by
his lady - love,
Sophy, and
speaks , in a
casual way, about
creating "an
unknown 19th
century composer,
pretending to have
discovered his
works, but actually
composing them
myself...He then
becomes the
mask I wear to be
able to write real
love music, of such
naive
tenderness..."
"What will you call
him?" Sophy
asks. "I was
thinking Heinrich
von Ofterdingen."
On the surface
this is a rather
common twist - the
deflection from a
traditional ending,
the last-minute
surprise that
propels the work
beyond its final
curtain. But
readers of the
Geselleschaft will
find here the
crucial moment,
the crux of all we
do: the fictitious
character invents
the real one, the
fantasy world
conjures the
tangible world, so
that the riddle is
enacted, the circle
is closed, the
labyrinth is
formed. In which
we are willingly
lost.
LEGEND OF
CAEDMON
(HOW A
FICTIONAL
CHARACTER
MADE THE
REAL
WORLD)
One day (the
story goes)
Heinrich von
Ofterdingen
decided to invent
a composer: first
he called him
Peter Ceniti , but
soon he came to
prefer the
pseudonym
Caedmon, he
being a
tongue-tied
shepherd from
Aglo-Saxon
legend who is
given the gift of
song in a dream.
He did this for the
pleasure of
exercising his
imagination,
although if you
were to suggest he
was in
search of
self-understanding,
or the opposite -
escape from the
self, he wouldn't
put up a fight,
since it's likely
that the pleasure
of this exercise is
hard to separate
from the
knowledge, the
liberation, that are
its results.
In any case what
really interested
him is the relation
of art to life, so,
strictly speaking,
he didn't simply
invent a
composer, but
pretended to
discover one of
his works, then
attempted to
reconstruct his
life from what he
had made.
This work he
called Wratlicu
Wyrd (that's Old
English for
Wondrously
Strange); it's a
hybrid genre, part
play, part musical,
part philosophical
dialogue, with
musicians, actors,
dancers, mimes,
and all sorts of
special effects.
(Caedmon spares
no expense.)
(A synopsis of
this work can be
found below in
Samples.
Because the
hybrid genre is
suffused with
personal history
Cenit's that is),
because it sums
up and
synthesizes so
many of the
composer's
earlier efforts, it is
possible to
present an
(admittedly
fragmentary) list
of his musical and
literary works,
along with some
samples; this
appears at the
bottom of this
page.)
Wratlicu Wyrd
begins in
Anglo-Saxon
fashion with a
riddle:
I dreamt of
Caedmon who
dreamt of Novalis
Who dreamt
of a Wanderer
dreaming of a
flower -
A flower from
whose calyx I was
formed:
Who am I?
This is,
admittedly, a little
dense, but the
answer he's
looking for is
Saiwala, which is
Old English for
soul. So
Caedmon, the
composer,
dreams of (or
thinks about, or
reads from) the
Romantic poet
Novalis, who has
created a
character,
Heinrich von
Ofterdingen, who,
in the novel of that
name, dreams of a
blue flower in
whose center a
face appears.
Now, if this face,
springing to life
from the flower, is
understood as
saiwala, the soul,
and if this same
saiwala is the
speaker of the
riddle, he who
dreams of
Caedmon in the
first place, then we
have here an
image of creation
as beginningless,
the mystery we
search being
embodied within
us.
At the work's end,
after all the action
has been
resolved,
Caedmon
wanders onto the
stage once more,
accompanied by
his lady - love,
Sophy, and
speaks , in a
casual way, about
creating "an
unknown 19th
century composer,
pretending to have
discovered his
works, but actually
composing them
myself...He then
becomes the
mask I wear to be
able to write real
love music, of such
naive
tenderness..."
"What will you call
him?" Sophy
asks. "I was
thinking Heinrich
von Ofterdingen."
On the surface
this is a rather
common twist - the
deflection from a
traditional ending,
the last-minute
surprise that
propels the work
beyond its final
curtain. But
readers of the
Geselleschaft will
find here the
crucial moment,
the crux of all we
do: the fictitious
character invents
the real one, the
fantasy world
conjures the
tangible world, so
that the riddle is
enacted, the circle
is closed, the
labyrinth is
formed. In which
we are willingly
lost.
THE LEGEND OF
HEINRICH VON
OFTERDINGEN
(OR
THE STORY
OF A
STUBBORN
BOY)
Once upon a time
there was a little boy
who liked to play the
piano. In the
beginning, each new
piece he
encountered seemed
miraculous and
unique, but over time
he began to perceive
an affinity among the
works he loved, as if
they sprang from the
same secret source
he sensed beneath
the heavy world of
tangible things.
But as curiosity led
him to experiment
with rudimentary
compositions of his
own, be came to see
that this hidden
kingdom lay within
him, or existed as an
invisible bond
between like-minded
people. Quite
naturally, these early
essays imitated the
styles of his
favorites, as he
strove for the lyricism
of Schubert, the
voluptuousness of
Chopin, the pious
ecstasies of
Bruckner.
When the boy grew
older and decided to
show some of his
music to teachers
and other musicians,
he was informed that
such sounds were
unacceptable,
regressive, even
laughable. The
reasons for such
judgments the young
man understood only
partially – reasons
having to do with
cultural progress,
originality, and the
avoidance of
sentimentality in the
modern age. He was
inclined to trust such
pronouncements and
decided, with the
open-mindedness of
youth, to embark on
a study of
contemporary music,
a repertoire which,
though it intrigued him
intellectually, left him
cold, his hope
consisting in the
thought that, through
such study, the
unfamiliar would
become familiar, the
unemotional world
reveal its hidden
feeling, and that,
ultimately, his own
style would evolve
organically into some
kind of
acceptable modern
form.
(This was crucial,
since
without integrity an
artist lacks all
motivation.)
But the day of his
conversion never
arrived, and though
he came to
appreciate those
currents that drove
early Modernism, he
could never bring
himself in line with
their artistic
consequences. He
came to feel the
victim of a dark
inheritance, and
began to ponder
means of escape.
Turning his back on
native traditions, he
looked to eastern
sounds,
experimenting with
natural tunings and
microtonality, rhythm
and color, ritual and
chant, wedding
ancient concepts to
electronic
technology.
Now derision gave
way to
incomprehension: he
found that what
people wanted was
Schubert after all,
so long as it was truly
Schubert. And it
struck him that the
reception of a work
seemed to depend
not merely on its
inherent qualities but
on its provenance as
well. The
Impromptu, written
200 years ago, is
lovely; if it is
discovered to have
been penned last
week, it becomes
somehow a travesty.
Then, one fine day
(some years later,
our composer having
now become a
professor despite
the persistence of
much confusion in his
thoughts), being
provoked by the
intense scrutiny of
German Romantic
piano music, it
occurred to him,
merely as an exercise
in imagination, to
create a little piece
that, while utilizing the
stylistic elements of
the 19th century,
avoided the imitation
of any particular
artist.
But almost
immediately he came
to see that, for
authenticity’s sake,
such a work would
require a real human
being as author, so
he created one:
Heinrich von
Ofterdingen. But
again, he realized, for
such a figure to
possess the depth of
as living man, there
must be a world he
inhabited, though not
the fallen world of
our bygone 19th
century (which led,
after all, to the cul-
de-sac of
Modernism). No,
what was needed was
an alternate Age of
Romanticism, existing
in another universe,
parallel to ours, in
which Ofterdingen
lived and worked, his
harmonies, textures
and forms subtly
different from ours,
faithfully expressing a
world-view more
felicitous (thanks to
which his future would
come to be plagued
neither by
industrialism nor
technology,
nationalism nor
pathology).
A futile exercise,
regressive and self-
indulgent? Or an
invitation to examine
our past, as well as t
inheritance, even,
perhaps, a chance to
take another path?
As for the little boy,
he is alive and well:
having refused to
accommodate his
vision to the world as
it is, he is busy, with
the help of Heinrich
von Ofterdingen, at
trying to
accommodate the
world to his vision.
HEINRICH VON
OFTERDINGEN
(OR
THE STORY
OF A
STUBBORN
BOY)
Once upon a time
there was a little boy
who liked to play the
piano. In the
beginning, each new
piece he
encountered seemed
miraculous and
unique, but over time
he began to perceive
an affinity among the
works he loved, as if
they sprang from the
same secret source
he sensed beneath
the heavy world of
tangible things.
But as curiosity led
him to experiment
with rudimentary
compositions of his
own, be came to see
that this hidden
kingdom lay within
him, or existed as an
invisible bond
between like-minded
people. Quite
naturally, these early
essays imitated the
styles of his
favorites, as he
strove for the lyricism
of Schubert, the
voluptuousness of
Chopin, the pious
ecstasies of
Bruckner.
When the boy grew
older and decided to
show some of his
music to teachers
and other musicians,
he was informed that
such sounds were
unacceptable,
regressive, even
laughable. The
reasons for such
judgments the young
man understood only
partially – reasons
having to do with
cultural progress,
originality, and the
avoidance of
sentimentality in the
modern age. He was
inclined to trust such
pronouncements and
decided, with the
open-mindedness of
youth, to embark on
a study of
contemporary music,
a repertoire which,
though it intrigued him
intellectually, left him
cold, his hope
consisting in the
thought that, through
such study, the
unfamiliar would
become familiar, the
unemotional world
reveal its hidden
feeling, and that,
ultimately, his own
style would evolve
organically into some
kind of
acceptable modern
form.
(This was crucial,
since
without integrity an
artist lacks all
motivation.)
But the day of his
conversion never
arrived, and though
he came to
appreciate those
currents that drove
early Modernism, he
could never bring
himself in line with
their artistic
consequences. He
came to feel the
victim of a dark
inheritance, and
began to ponder
means of escape.
Turning his back on
native traditions, he
looked to eastern
sounds,
experimenting with
natural tunings and
microtonality, rhythm
and color, ritual and
chant, wedding
ancient concepts to
electronic
technology.
Now derision gave
way to
incomprehension: he
found that what
people wanted was
Schubert after all,
so long as it was truly
Schubert. And it
struck him that the
reception of a work
seemed to depend
not merely on its
inherent qualities but
on its provenance as
well. The
Impromptu, written
200 years ago, is
lovely; if it is
discovered to have
been penned last
week, it becomes
somehow a travesty.
Then, one fine day
(some years later,
our composer having
now become a
professor despite
the persistence of
much confusion in his
thoughts), being
provoked by the
intense scrutiny of
German Romantic
piano music, it
occurred to him,
merely as an exercise
in imagination, to
create a little piece
that, while utilizing the
stylistic elements of
the 19th century,
avoided the imitation
of any particular
artist.
But almost
immediately he came
to see that, for
authenticity’s sake,
such a work would
require a real human
being as author, so
he created one:
Heinrich von
Ofterdingen. But
again, he realized, for
such a figure to
possess the depth of
as living man, there
must be a world he
inhabited, though not
the fallen world of
our bygone 19th
century (which led,
after all, to the cul-
de-sac of
Modernism). No,
what was needed was
an alternate Age of
Romanticism, existing
in another universe,
parallel to ours, in
which Ofterdingen
lived and worked, his
harmonies, textures
and forms subtly
different from ours,
faithfully expressing a
world-view more
felicitous (thanks to
which his future would
come to be plagued
neither by
industrialism nor
technology,
nationalism nor
pathology).
A futile exercise,
regressive and self-
indulgent? Or an
invitation to examine
our past, as well as t
inheritance, even,
perhaps, a chance to
take another path?
As for the little boy,
he is alive and well:
having refused to
accommodate his
vision to the world as
it is, he is busy, with
the help of Heinrich
von Ofterdingen, at
trying to
accommodate the
world to his vision.
THE
LEGEND OF
THE
TUTELARY
SPIRIT
In ancient
times there
lived a
peaceful
people by the
sea,
contented for
generations
with plentiful
fish and a
smiling sun.
One day a
young
adventurer
from beyond
the hills
appeared,
curious as to
what might lay
upon the deep
sea floor, far
below the
customary
paths of the
fishermen.
So he dove
deep down,
and found
there a
treasure of
pearls,
smooth and
white. But
when he
attempted to
bring them to
the surface,
they melted in
his hands, and
dissolved into
the water.
Intrigued,
others
followed, but
the results
were always
the same. As
a result, the
happiness of
that gentle
folk was
disturbed, and
an
unappeasable
yearning took
hold of
everyone for,
though they
had gotten
along quite
well without
those pearls,
and though
they had no
clear notion
what good
their
possession
would bring,
they could not
ignore their
existence
once known to
them, nor
return to their
former, simple
ways.
Someone
had the idea
that, despite
the
impossibility
of attaining
their desire, a
simulacrum, in
the form of an
artistic
representation
, might provide
some degree
of
satisfaction.
So paintings
of the pearls
were
produced,
some
imagined in
brilliant detail,
others evoked
in dreamy
impressions.
This had the
effect, among
the people, of
diverting most
of the energy
from the quest
for the actual
pearls to the
task of
capturing their
essence
through art. (In
extreme cases
some even
dispensed with
the "coarse"
notion of
representation
, abandoning
the pearls as
models,
though it was
the pearls that
had gotten
them started n
the first place.)
Whether one
thought of the
pearls as
inaccessible
objects or as
immaterial
symbols there
was no
denying that
knowledge of
their existence
entailed a
sense of
dualism: from
now on there
would always
be two worlds,
that in which
we live, and
that of which
we dream.
Some
philosophers
devised for
this situation a
"top-down"
model,
according to
which the
material world
is the shadow
formed when
Spirit shines
on Soul.
Others
espoused a
"bottom-up"
version, which
proposes that
higher realms
are formed by
the dreams
and yearnings
of lower
forms. In
both cases
people were
led to wonder:
was the gap
unbridgeable?
Was it
narrowing?
Widening?
That was all
long ago - so
long ago
perhaps it
never
happened,
which would
qualify this as
a legend. But
then, where
did the
story-tellers
get the idea?
They hear the
voice of a
Tutelary
Spirit.
There is no
incantation,
no formula or
ritual whose
summons he
obeys. He
comes,
willy-nilly, as
you doze in
the afternoon
sun, a being
neither of the
dreamworld
nor of the
waking,
possessing
neither
objective
existence
outside the
mind nor
properly
understood as
a pure
product of the
imagination: a
voice in the
head, different
from your own,
a patient
instructor:
Those are
pearls that
were his
words! A
wisdom pure
and simple
and deep that
renders all
things
transparent,
and beside
which all the
fumblings of
science and
religion are
muck.
Alas, the
moment of
lucidity is the
end of the
visitation: one
rises toward
full
wakefulness
from those
cold, pelucid
depths, even
as the words
melt like, and
slip between
the fingers...
There is an
old,
anonymous
poem:
There, along
the path where
the Prince and
the Pauper
meet,
At the horizon
where mind
touches world,
There, where
Beauty
crumbles like
a wave,
And the
pearl-fishers
feel the
unbearable
memories melt,
There, where
all is
movement and
grace,
Does music
cease to be
of us
For we ,
triumphant,
winged, are of
it.grace,
Does music
cease to be
of us
For we,
winged,
triumphant,
are of it.
LEGEND OF
THE
TUTELARY
SPIRIT
In ancient
times there
lived a
peaceful
people by the
sea,
contented for
generations
with plentiful
fish and a
smiling sun.
One day a
young
adventurer
from beyond
the hills
appeared,
curious as to
what might lay
upon the deep
sea floor, far
below the
customary
paths of the
fishermen.
So he dove
deep down,
and found
there a
treasure of
pearls,
smooth and
white. But
when he
attempted to
bring them to
the surface,
they melted in
his hands, and
dissolved into
the water.
Intrigued,
others
followed, but
the results
were always
the same. As
a result, the
happiness of
that gentle
folk was
disturbed, and
an
unappeasable
yearning took
hold of
everyone for,
though they
had gotten
along quite
well without
those pearls,
and though
they had no
clear notion
what good
their
possession
would bring,
they could not
ignore their
existence
once known to
them, nor
return to their
former, simple
ways.
Someone
had the idea
that, despite
the
impossibility
of attaining
their desire, a
simulacrum, in
the form of an
artistic
representation
, might provide
some degree
of
satisfaction.
So paintings
of the pearls
were
produced,
some
imagined in
brilliant detail,
others evoked
in dreamy
impressions.
This had the
effect, among
the people, of
diverting most
of the energy
from the quest
for the actual
pearls to the
task of
capturing their
essence
through art. (In
extreme cases
some even
dispensed with
the "coarse"
notion of
representation
, abandoning
the pearls as
models,
though it was
the pearls that
had gotten
them started n
the first place.)
Whether one
thought of the
pearls as
inaccessible
objects or as
immaterial
symbols there
was no
denying that
knowledge of
their existence
entailed a
sense of
dualism: from
now on there
would always
be two worlds,
that in which
we live, and
that of which
we dream.
Some
philosophers
devised for
this situation a
"top-down"
model,
according to
which the
material world
is the shadow
formed when
Spirit shines
on Soul.
Others
espoused a
"bottom-up"
version, which
proposes that
higher realms
are formed by
the dreams
and yearnings
of lower
forms. In
both cases
people were
led to wonder:
was the gap
unbridgeable?
Was it
narrowing?
Widening?
That was all
long ago - so
long ago
perhaps it
never
happened,
which would
qualify this as
a legend. But
then, where
did the
story-tellers
get the idea?
They hear the
voice of a
Tutelary
Spirit.
There is no
incantation,
no formula or
ritual whose
summons he
obeys. He
comes,
willy-nilly, as
you doze in
the afternoon
sun, a being
neither of the
dreamworld
nor of the
waking,
possessing
neither
objective
existence
outside the
mind nor
properly
understood as
a pure
product of the
imagination: a
voice in the
head, different
from your own,
a patient
instructor:
Those are
pearls that
were his
words! A
wisdom pure
and simple
and deep that
renders all
things
transparent,
and beside
which all the
fumblings of
science and
religion are
muck.
Alas, the
moment of
lucidity is the
end of the
visitation: one
rises toward
full
wakefulness
from those
cold, pelucid
depths, even
as the words
melt like, and
slip between
the fingers...
There is an
old,
anonymous
poem:
There, along
the path where
the Prince and
the Pauper
meet,
At the horizon
where mind
touches world,
There, where
Beauty
crumbles like
a wave,
And the
pearl-fishers
feel the
unbearable
memories melt,
There, where
all is
movement and
grace,
Does music
cease to be
of us
For we ,
triumphant,
winged, are of
it.grace,
Does music
cease to be
of us
For we,
winged,
triumphant,
are of it.
| LIST OF MAIN MUSICAL WORKS by Caedmon (Peter Ceniti) The Apocalypse, The Last Supper, Exultet (3 oratorios) The Legend of Saint Julian (opera in two acts) Interior Castles, Light Transfigurings, Three Byzantine Mosaics (chamber music) Liturgy of Colors, Feast of Angels, Pebbles, Knights (ritual music for voices and electronics) Ceremony of Mythical Beasts (singer, dancer, percussion) Wanders in Solitude Tzhing (piano improvisation) Three Good Places (singer and piano) Memory, The Bewitchment of Dreams, A Beating of Angels’ Wings (microtonal keyboard) The Living Legend (singer, harp, percussion) The Myth-maker’s Tale (singers, microtonal keyboard, percussion) Teresa in Ecstasy (microtonal violin and electronics) The Transcendental Railroad (electronics - see musical sample with accompanying notes) Wraetlicu Wyrd: a hybrid genre (singers, actors, instrumentalists, dancer, child-mimes ( see score under “Samples of Writing”) …and then there’s the the music unearthed by the Ofterdingen Gesellschaft - the Tangerine Conerto, the Sonata for Mrs. Cardinal, the Blue Flower, The Green Grasshopper, Where Beauty Begins to Crumble, The Frozen Troubadour... (He thinks he invented us.) MUSICAL SAMPLE: " THE TRANSCENDEN TAL RAILROAD" The TRR was conceived as live electronic music for a large, open space. Music emanates simultaneously from five locations - Baiting Hollow Station, Station in the Valley of Flowers, Butterfly Junction, Romantic Station and Paradise Point. In such a setting each listener creates a personal experience by choosing to linger here or there, as well as by moving between stations. All the sounds in the TRR are made through combinations of sine waves, and reflect musical proportions found in nature's harmonic series. Listen to Baiting Hollow Station LIST OF MAIN WRITINGS The Kingdom of Beauty (three essays) A New Dialogue The Empath (short story) The Wisdom of Tzhing (Dialogues of the Unicorn and the Dreamself) Spiritual Flowers (Images of Reality as Multiple-Subjective, expressed in the Language of Wonder and Delight) Paradigms and Shadows (The Discovery and Invention of a Musical Language) Towards the Apotheosis of Duck, Beyond Myth and Ritual, Reflections on Utopia, A Response to Terrorism, The Universe as Self- Creating Genius (essays) Baiting Hollows Trilogy (three short stories: Fishers of Dreams, The Immortality Project, Captain Noaz’s Navigational Tips for Aspiring Seamen) Return from Melbourne (short story) To order CDs or literature listed above see "Contact" link... SAMPLES OF LITERATURE |
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| |
 |
THE LEGEND
OF
NOVALIS
(ABOUT
PARALLEL
UNIVERSES)
Gravely ill and
nearing death the
poet Novalis began
to dream of
unknown cities,
awakening in sleep
to other selves his
soul inhabited in
parallel lives, drawn
by the sound of a
soft, lovely music.
Each city had
something of the
sadness of the
inevitable, and
there grew in the
poet, alongside a
sense of familiarity,
the conviction that
each of these
habitations, like
ours, was fallen
from a state of
grace.
He searched each
night for the source
of that ineffable
melody, though he
knew beforehand
that, in all possible
worlds and in all
conceivable musics
his longing would
never be appeased.
Eventually he was
persuaded to
abandon the quest
for perfection (or
else he realized its
attainment would be
tantamount to
self-annihilation)
and decided
instead, before he
died, to create one
small thing that
might embody, if
not the Ideal, at
least the noble
state of longing it
engendered.
But the notes
betrayed his
intention, or else he
found himself
unworthy of the
task, and fled from
self to self among
the cities of his
dreams, though
failure was his
constant
companion.
Some say he
wanders to this day,
unaware that his
movements trace
the melody he
seeks, flawed but
lovely, unaware of
the feverish hand
that guides his
tireless steps,
driven by an endless
longing.
THE
LEGEND OF
ANDREACCHI
( ABOUT A
PAST THAT
MIGHT HAVE
BEEN)
Among the works
attributed to the
writer known
pseudonymously as
“Caedmon” there is
a most curious
short story entitled
“Fishers of
Dreams,” from the
collection “Baiting
Hollow Trilogy.”
We reproduce the
last chapter here in
full:
We stand upon the
deck of my father’s
summer house in
Greenport on a
night of a thousand
stars, facing the
quiet bay, united
after many and
memorable
journeys. My father
is speaking to us,
relating how our
family name,
instead of Ceniti,
could actually have
been Andreacchi.
Long ago, in
southern Italy, my
great-grandfather
some sort of
nobleman,
conceived a child
with a peasant
woman. Unwilling
to bestow patrician
status on the boy,
the reluctant father
gave for surname
that of the child’s
mother. From this
accident sprang the
line leading to my
own father, to me,
and to my three
sons, all gathered
at this moment on
the shores of Long
Island.
Unlikely world or
what is! Infinite
expanse of might-
have-beens! The
vast night sky seems
pregnant, like that
peasant woman,
with unrealized
possibilities, each
point of light
indicating an
alternate world…
I close my eyes and
imagine:
Io sono Pietro
Ceniti, Calabrian
fisherman. Behind
my seaside village
rough mountains
harbor
inaccessible
bandits led by my
infamous cousin,
Paolo Cucchi…
Or again:
I am Pelog the
Slendrous. My
grandfather
emigrated to the
jasmine isle of Bali
and married a
Hindu princess. I
preside over a
gamelan and dance,
in deep trance, over
burning coals…
Or yet again:
Men call me the
Petro Ranger. I
roam the seven
seas with the
bounty of nations
on my head.
open my eyes,
behold again the
world as it is, and
think of
Ouspensky. One
leisurely day many
years ago, I found
myself back in the
neighborhood of
my childhood,
browsing in the
Public Library.
And there, among
the thousands of
volumes I happened
on his New Model
of the Universe, a
collection of
esoteric essays
written in the first
decades of the
twentieth century on
philosophy and
science, and
spirituality and the
occult. There I was
introduced to the
idea of eternal
recurrence, as well
as the theory that
time, for
Ouspensky the
fourth dimension,
possesses as well a
fifth dimension, the
temporal equivalent
of what in space we
call depth. The
combination of
these ideas – the
circularity of
recurrence and the
multiplicity of
parallel,
synchronous time-
lines constituting
alternate realities,
led Ouspensky to
the image of time
as a spiral such
that, through
recurring lives, we
possess the ability
to choose
differently, to alter,
to improve the past,
to transcend the
fateful mechanism
of periodicity.
By way of analogy
my thoughts turn to
music. The distant
sound of a pair of
shawms seems to
float towards us,
borne on the
lapping tide. I
recognize with
delight the Tibetan
style, with its elusive
heterophonic
texture. As one
instrument performs
a simple, nuclear
melody, its twin
entwines it with
ornament. The two
parts never quite
achieve separate
identities, nor ever
totally merge to
unison: one seems
a variation on the
other. I smile,
recalling a scholarly
western dispute as
to whether this kind
of complex
relationship
evidences a
consciously
cultivated technique
or is simply the
result of continual
mistakes by one
player or the other,
what with the
absence of written
notation as a
means of teaching,
learning and
remembering.
Between the deck
and the water sits a
lawn where three
trees are growing.
They are similar in
size and shape, it is
the lack of rigid
symmetry that gives
meaning to the
individual and
beauty to the
group. I am
reminded of the
near-symmetries of
primitive. Can it be
that what we
celebrate both as
divine fecundity and
creative imagination
is but the perpetual
inability of god and
man to remember
the tune aright? Is
life but a great
mistake, a pre-
cosmic cataclysm
Milton described
as Fall, but that
scientists call the
Big Bang? Lao-tzu
speaks of mystery
opening into
greater mystery,
darkness into
deeper dark…
I turn from the water
and the vast sky,
and face my flesh
and blood. Shall I
speak to them now
of such things?
And is it possible
that, one day, a day
like this one, we
shall all stand here
again, rapt in silent
wonder? Or is it
enough to realize
that, in this lifetime,
there are cycles of
days and years, of
recurring situations
and opportunities?
Happy the man who
awakens in this
world so such
understanding: I
have been here
before; I need not
repeat wrong
actions until habit
become ingrained
as destiny. I freely
choose to change
my ways, to improve
self and world a
little bit, in the
blessedness of
now, in the holiness
of here.
Wordless, we re-
enter the house.
Then, bidding my
parents good-night,
we drive back
towards Baiting
Hollow where,
doubtless, new
dreams await.
THE
DICE
OF GOD
On a mid-
July evening in
1836, three
men are
playing poker
on a riverboat
that’s headed
down the
Mississippi.
They are
strangers to
one another,
as is
customary
with gamblers,
having
disdained
introductions
and inquiries
alike. Indeed,
this pure
professionalis
m, this
unmitigated
pragmatism in
their
relations,
possesses
for them a
charm, freeing
them from the
density of
quotidian
concerns to
float like
insubstantial
clouds above
the sea of
life, borne on
the
inscrutable
winds of
chance.
One of these
men is John
James
Audubon,
naturalist,
painter and
explorer.
Though down
on his fortune
and as yet
unknown, he
will achieve
international
recognition,
and history
will know him
as the father
of American
ornithology.
Another of
the gamblers
is Percy
Gottschalk,
the Louisiana-
born mulatto,
a composer
and pianist
freshly
returned from
a Parisian
education, on
the brink of
international
fame. He will
be
remembered
as the
“American
Liszt,” and as
the first to
bring to art
music the
melodies of
plantation
slaves.
For both
these men the
memory of
this night will
remain
untouched by
any
revelation:
neither will
ever say of
the other,
“Why, that’s
the gambler I
met on a
riverboat
before he was
famous.”
Each will
recollect only
how the water
lapped gently
against the
hull of the
ship, or that
the whiskey
was cheap, or
being
menaced, in
his sea-
tossed
dreams, by
voluptuous
creatures.
The third
card player is
dark-
complexioned
and unusually
tall. Despite
the humidity
of the night,
he has wound
about his
head a heavy
turban, so
that his
features are
difficult to
discern.
History bears
no record of
his name or
subsequent
fortune.
Perhaps he is
a runaway
slave, hoping
to win enough
cash to
purchase a
ticket to
Boston and
his freedom.
Or perhaps
he is one of
those oriental
monarchs,
stepped out
from a fairy
tale,
sojourning in
humble
disguise, to
appease that
appetite for
adventure,
that longing
for anonymity,
that a sultan
is ever denied.
Or perhaps
his home lies
farther away,
and he will
steal, in the
hour before
dawn, to a
waiting ship
and
comrades,
cross the
empty light
years, and
report, like
Marco Polo
to an
incredulous
Venice,
fantastic tales
of exotic
earth.
Or do all
these opening
gambits, each
of these
beginnings –
none of which
we will trace
to its
completion –
and more,
have their
places in that
multi-verse
where every
possible hand
will be dealt?
In that case
the urge to
gamble would
be, in fact, a
desire to
transcend the
vicissitudes of
chance, an
insatiable
yearning to
embrace all
permutations
of an infinite
matrix, and
gambling itself
would be
revealed as a
sacred ritual
expressing the
wish to merge
with the
cosmos,
consecrated
to the God
whose dice
have infinite
sides.
DICE
OF GOD
On a mid-
July evening in
1836, three
men are
playing poker
on a riverboat
that’s headed
down the
Mississippi.
They are
strangers to
one another,
as is
customary
with gamblers,
having
disdained
introductions
and inquiries
alike. Indeed,
this pure
professionalis
m, this
unmitigated
pragmatism in
their
relations,
possesses
for them a
charm, freeing
them from the
density of
quotidian
concerns to
float like
insubstantial
clouds above
the sea of
life, borne on
the
inscrutable
winds of
chance.
One of these
men is John
James
Audubon,
naturalist,
painter and
explorer.
Though down
on his fortune
and as yet
unknown, he
will achieve
international
recognition,
and history
will know him
as the father
of American
ornithology.
Another of
the gamblers
is Percy
Gottschalk,
the Louisiana-
born mulatto,
a composer
and pianist
freshly
returned from
a Parisian
education, on
the brink of
international
fame. He will
be
remembered
as the
“American
Liszt,” and as
the first to
bring to art
music the
melodies of
plantation
slaves.
For both
these men the
memory of
this night will
remain
untouched by
any
revelation:
neither will
ever say of
the other,
“Why, that’s
the gambler I
met on a
riverboat
before he was
famous.”
Each will
recollect only
how the water
lapped gently
against the
hull of the
ship, or that
the whiskey
was cheap, or
being
menaced, in
his sea-
tossed
dreams, by
voluptuous
creatures.
The third
card player is
dark-
complexioned
and unusually
tall. Despite
the humidity
of the night,
he has wound
about his
head a heavy
turban, so
that his
features are
difficult to
discern.
History bears
no record of
his name or
subsequent
fortune.
Perhaps he is
a runaway
slave, hoping
to win enough
cash to
purchase a
ticket to
Boston and
his freedom.
Or perhaps
he is one of
those oriental
monarchs,
stepped out
from a fairy
tale,
sojourning in
humble
disguise, to
appease that
appetite for
adventure,
that longing
for anonymity,
that a sultan
is ever denied.
Or perhaps
his home lies
farther away,
and he will
steal, in the
hour before
dawn, to a
waiting ship
and
comrades,
cross the
empty light
years, and
report, like
Marco Polo
to an
incredulous
Venice,
fantastic tales
of exotic
earth.
Or do all
these opening
gambits, each
of these
beginnings –
none of which
we will trace
to its
completion –
and more,
have their
places in that
multi-verse
where every
possible hand
will be dealt?
In that case
the urge to
gamble would
be, in fact, a
desire to
transcend the
vicissitudes of
chance, an
insatiable
yearning to
embrace all
permutations
of an infinite
matrix, and
gambling itself
would be
revealed as a
sacred ritual
expressing the
wish to merge
with the
cosmos,
consecrated
to the God
whose dice
have infinite
sides.