Part of an Ode to Simon Warren of Tring, England


solfage scale


Is this graphic more akin to lectio devina or ocular devina? If I hadn’t notated it here would the ghost-anticipation of the notes have ever played in our heads? Is it both [lectio devina and ocular devina] or is there some juncture of transference from one to the other? Is it determinable on some sort of scale? Is there a scale of this scale? Let’s start at the very beginning (a very good place to start). Is there a beginning if there is no conductor to provide a downbeat?


The sun just went down over the mountain ridge near Middle Town Springs… and I just cried a little. But like Plato’s cave, there are still several minutes left of glowing sunlight reflecting off the taller mountains—of Mendon, of Sherburne—of the east side of the valley. In recent weeks past, these mountains in these scant few minutes would turn into rainbows as the sugar maples—famous to this state and this territory—became emblazoned orange, reds, and gold in their autumnal death throes… the death throes of deciduous tree leaves in the death throes of the day’s sun beam waves… Or are they particles? Is there a juncture of transference from one to the other? Is there some sort of scale upon which elides between being a particle or being a wave? Or is it that the sunlight is always receding, always drawing away, always diminishing, leaving the air, this continent, the earth, to wither, turning tepid, falling dark and plunging into bitter frostiness like the end of a fermata… if we could see it?


I forget how much I like music.

I forget how much I like

I forget how much

I forget how

I forget




Sunset against Killington Mountain





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