Three Silences

In another moment we will ascend into heaven... just another moment... Ah, it never happens as expected. Why should it? My mind which tosses up desires, thoughts, fantasies, fears, promises, all impartially, all spontaneously, is really a vast empty space, not even articulated as prairie, ocean-floor, or outer space, just emptiness, but so vast it can pretend to be the mind of a god. It is a god's prerogative to fully inhabit his spaces, as if no boundaries exist. Wherever he sets his eyes, boundaries stretch thin, then vanish, that's life in such heavenly space we aspire to reach in another moment, in just another moment, we will... ascend... another... *** For decades your confidence certain things have passed is complete... You can't even call them to mind. You don't believe me? Then try: First clear a stage in your mind, then populate it with a dozen or so of the hoi polloi - they are your witnesses, they're the essential context. Now give the one in front a shove. No, a bigger shove! That's it! Now she starts another moving, then they start more, soon it's a swirling motion. An orbit forms, and circles until it falters the way orbits everywhere decay and matter compressed explodes, fragments now released to wander... And so your mind-dwellers, your witnesses, your hoi polloi scatter, having lost their center they flap awhile, fade, then vanish. And you forget... forever. ********* The composer steps tentatively in front of the musicians who will play his new string quartet. There is a scattering of applause. He bows, and then speaks: 'This piece is about Silence.' He pauses, as if he wants people to absorb his words prior to his music. 'Not literal Silence, ' he continues, glancing down at his notes. 'Rather I'm referring to that deliberate absence at the center of the musical experience which exists in order that the listening self may encounter itself there.' He pauses for a moment, lowering his notes as if new thoughts have intruded on his carefully conceived introduction. 'You must believe me when I say, that center is an elusive feature of the work in progress. Sometimes it seems to vanish entirely, only to reappear at the very end. You see, we composers walk, tread rather, a labyrinthine path, searching for the coherence we can just barely hear, but must somehow grasp to complete the - the process, well, it is a kind of journey, and it is time for me to withdraw so you can begin.' He makes a gesture toward the first violinist, who immediately raises his long bow. Three more are poised, and suddenly sound and silence begin their contention.