spuytenduyvil

Dear ____,

 

You might remember this book I’m sending, A World of Nothing But Nations, published in 1999. Or parts and pieces, choices from the tiny notebook entries. The time, or duration of time was captured not by the movement within each entry but by the many entries thrown against one another so that thinking would lengthen and darken the white page without a formulaic and tidy package of sound … as if to enter the page which thinking found at its end ... as if to leave the musical quality of composing behind and enter something made and un-made at the exact same

time ... came into thinking’s existing on the page and into its composing.

      So I discovered a way of working, a mode that harnessed the movement of the moment alongside a stillness of the thought of the lyric ... residing intention, at the heart of composition.

      And then I blew my brains out.