Waste Land to a Scream: A Gay Science

Novel 009

9. “Without music, life would be a mistake!” Nietzsche

29 May 1913 Paris

A sinuous call on the fagotte snaking it's tumbling vapid sinew chant with chorused aroused turn to climax collision.

Rest.

A full rest and then some.

Shimmering aghast gone the light brass all plastered find the thread roaring fine Inferno phased moribundly interred.

The seats are grating as the fundamentals decay into woodwinds made by the pounding of the flesh. Still, the rolling sealing remains, as on one side and then on the other, the tree grows up from the floor boards to herald touring splendor. Gurgling pickups, from the audience to the players, stomp and feud with an uproarious clatter.

And then all at once the velvet sheen of the tapestries expound on each note that is played from the fagotte on its pristine rephrase. Is it a riot? It might be when looked at subjectively, even if the tension calls differently objectively—Riotous, Théâtre des Champs-Élysées entertainment near where the river Siene discourages the revelers who had wanted extreme redemption. And then there was silence over silence and the music started to grip the flesh in an incontenennza disponizion rimembra.O sol cha sani la divina vedrai.

And the fagotte wails mournfully as the grandchild of God and Lilith.

One sound one: note one grasping shriek that members up from the contrabass to the Piccolo in spattering unison in timbre in both sight and sound and even in echoing as a dove that loosens the Gordian knot all the court in the shaft. And down to the howling depths

A man, trust in the tales all aflutter, sullies his bald spot in a kind of rhythm that shafts the sponge all over his wet head growling crest. everywhere patrons act as if they were nude scowling for protection from the night sun. seeping sweat comes off of the orchestra trying to keep time to the meter of the irregularly seized notes even if it overturns the order of the maker who is seated nearby in the first row laughing with delight.

Pin down low from the depths of the deepest bass came a rush that almost spoke its words even though there was no grunt that could be identified. But then an order marched in tune and a solemn sweat came over the military players and their helpless onlookers. It was a form from deep under the clavichord’s almost a tune without a key in the devil's own hand - Les Augures printaniers.

But follow me now, for it pleases me to go: the fishes are quivering on the horizon and the dissent is on the cliff. Cercles mystérieux.

Danse sacrale - Évocation des ancêtres.

In the milling about of the mob, some would say there was a riot even though none was seen or heard. Ravel talked with Debussy and both of them cleaned it a work of genius but they did not know whether it was music or something more hideous instead. Outside on the street, there was a hubbub of every description because one thing was sure: the music of the age had changed though it could not be said to what. all of the composers cacophonize but there was new consensus as to what they had heard

And in the cast light, a man could desperately recall that it was a dream of another age which only in collective consciousness could be straddled In the newly won Art Nouveau gloss almost felt for the premiere of Le Sacre du Printemps. He scribbled, he crossed out, he scribbled again. he looked to the edifice knowing that the world had come to an end.

Stravinsky was confined to bed the next day. Remember Genesis at the beginning and take your precious life down by the river.

And drop it in the water as a grave significance for atonement.