I am , in a way, banjaxed; back to square one:
The birthday ( May 1, ) came and went. So I existed. But he who had last Sunday his birthday is no longer he who writes this lofty codswallop, hoofing it again backwards ( – me as a film- ) at great speed or hurtling forward with even greater speed ( ? ) in the time remaining to me ( – me as spaceship- ).
Can I grasp me as existing in time ? Not really. So use the time . Make a few more musical constructions of instinct and emotions and , yes, intellect and , well, musical crafting . eg. Suppose I want to write a new work for 13 strings and clarinet – to whom should I turn ? What’ll I listen to and marvel at ? Not so much bend or weld/ wield which particular tones to shape my melodic lines and accompanying string masses but why ? At what end aim ? Then there’ll have to be aura in it, composed breathlessness, catastrophe, ecstasy or, indeed, serenit’a .
So how’ll I do all this ? And listen to intervallic stuff surfacing from, say, sleep or dreams or chance ? Melodic bits of youthful flotsam ? Add play, crafty fun ?
I’ll have enough to do this hot summer. Bygum. Without even considering yet the stochastic , macrocounterpoint, the whole rhythmic thing.