A compendium of thoughts and images inspired by one particular solo performance from free-jazz pianist Cecil Taylor.
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Notes to Cecil
when sun comes into season
I feel like I’ve been looking forever at shadows,at borders, at the reason some sounds rustle, and others are gentle.
To be in my ears with a slender glad particle of darkness
the attention turned to sensation which turned to hum and I wanted to stay there
what I’ve been hearing: small shapes
—levels, muscles and inversions— you thought, so I thought / played, so I heard
^^^^^^^^ when a chord hit & when blue ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ when there was around us hooked up sound
you kept straight every day and then you stopped~
I am looking because he says look and what I see is sound splayed out into shadow
or crammed into shadow— the world ongoing, too big to be heard.
what if he stops counting? blurs something? falls off?
the left the left the white the box the right the left the scratch the all of it happening
However close you can get, that’s what you’ll hear.
……………………….One day, no sound was long enough. Another day, too brittle. Another day……….. stacked, crammed, hopeful.
I have been unable to look at people lately without seeing their wide frustrating interiors.
This is the way I want to see the world, the lines and rust, the slight gaps
I want to hear quiet slide s-l-o-w-l-y down a long old roof. Do you know what I mean — about such complex sounds?
After 6, chords dislike counting. In light, notes are patient.