Philadelphia Pride

As anyone who reads the small print of national newspapers would know, the Phillies have won the World Series! I had the enormously great fortune of being present in the stadium for Game 5 - and then walked an hour up Broad street from the stadiums to center city, where a spontaneous parade exploded as Philadelphians took to the streets and collectively went nuts. I heard there were some moments of vandalism somewhere, but of the thousands and thousands of people I saw, there was nothing but running, jumping, climbing, hugging, slapping five, and occasional disrobing. What a scene - glad to have been part of such a real spectacle.

thought and the joy of toil

What can I say? I like this stuff.

Thought which is only thought, the work of art which is only conceived, the poem which is no more than a dream, as yet cost nothing in toil; it is the material realization of the poem in words, of the artistic conception in statue or picture, which demands effort. The effort is toilsome, but also it is precious, more precious even than the work which it produces, because, thanks to it, one has drawn out from the self more than it had already, we are raised above ourselves. This effort was impossible without matter. By resistance matter offers and by the docility with which we endow it, is at one and the same time obstacle, instrument and stimulus. It experiences our force, keeps the imprint of it, calls for its intensification.

Philosophers who have speculated on the meaning of life and on the destiny of man have failed to take sufficient notice of an indication which nature itself has given us. Nature warns us by a clear sign that our destination is attained. That sign is joy. I mean joy, not pleasure. Pleasure is only a contrivance devised by nature to obtain for the creature the preservation of its life, it does not indicate the direction in which life is thrusting. But joy always announces that life has succeeded, gained ground, conquered. All great joy has a triumphant note. Now, if we take this indication into account and follow this new line of facts, we find that wherever there is joy, there is creation; the richer the creation, the deeper the joy. The mother beholding her child is joyous, because she is conscious of having created it, physically and morally.

...Take exceptional joys,-- the joy of the artist who has realized his thought, the joy of the thinker who has made a discovery or invention. You may hear it said that these men work for glory and get their highest joy from the admiration they win. Profound error! We cling to praise and honours in the exact degree in which we are not sure of having succeeded. There is a touch of modesty in vanity. It is to reassure ourselves that we seek approbation; and just as we wrap the prematurely born child in cotton wool, so we gather round our work the warm admiration of mankind in case there should be insufficient vitality. But he who is sure, absolutely sure, of having produced a work which will endure and live, cares no more for praise and feels above glory, because he is a creator, because he knows it, because the joy he feels it the joy of a god. If, then, in every domain the triumph of life is creation, must we not suppose that human life has its goal in a creation which, unlike that of the artist and philosopher, can be pursued always by all men -- creation of self by self, the growing of the personality by an effort which draws much from little, something from nothing, and adds unceasingly to whatever wealth the world contains?

= Henri Bergson, Mind Energy - Life and Consciousness

Vita vita

Reading up on all the vitalist theories of the early 20th century doesn't leave much time for blogging. That and I'm finally COMPOSING again.

A few friends have asked me why I bother with the Bergson, the "intuition" and "duration" and all of that non-quantifiable gibby gabby. "Well," i say, i say, "well, first and foremost, I find that in order to maintain a creative outlook in the world today, I needs me some inspiration. Best kinds'a inspiration comes from the kinds that just makes sense - ya know?"

What's all of this missing the forest for the trees? I like 'em both. So here's whatcha do. When I see a tree, I think of a forest. When I see a forest, I think of a tree. That simple.

So this brings me to the music. I've decided to take on an ambitious task: Write and record (with an excellent engineer using excellent equipment from both the analog and digital worlds) a piece that dips me into the undulating river of time, and then pulls me out slowly, without hardly enough trouble to notice it. In the meanwhile, a moment or two of full out recognition, recollection, and head nodding.

This little post comes on the heels of a comment about joining the ranks of qualitative charlatans of the next generation. Yeah, that's me too.

I've been writing for a month now. Scheduled to be recorded right before thanksgiving (crazy deadline). Whenever I think of the instruments I've chosen, I just wanna get right back to it. It's kinda secret, but here's a bit:

2 organs
voices
bass clarinet
bari sax
lots of percussion (including custom made awesomeness)
and more...

what a seed to blossom. can't wait can't wait can't wait.