Frank Corcoran

Certainly, I am ” the insect which waits” ( Stravinsky). Wait for impetus, for impulses, for nod and jog, the agglutinative tic. For the next opus,
straining to be born. And all of this in a world with ever less chances ( or sympathy ) for composed new music. The faith is gone; it was never strong…. Faith in crafty art-works sounding in shaped time. It´s no longer there or here in “the West”. Have not illusions.
So pare that quill. Spare not the five-lined paper. Seeing is hearing. Sigh, Twombly is dead. Ars est celare artem.