I knew a girl once, a childhood friend. She was watchful and censorious. She was deep and narrow as an ocean vent. She was pale, her long flat hair like a continuation of her face. It ran from the top of her head down to her fingertips. She was not old but she had learned very early to tighten the spigots inside herself. She watched and found life wanting. At the most it could make her faint with fury, or love. She had the measure of all of us.
The journey of the performance becomes novelistic. It takes on an inevitability and an inner life that is all-consuming...
“…let him assimilate whatever he finds highest…so that he can use it…fervently, transcendentally, inevitably, furiously”
-Essays before a Sonata, Charles Ives