I think I need shambles.
I think I need to be surrounded by a disarray that will drive me to derangement, to despise myself for the confusion I've made and to love what it is becoming; because somehow without all of this I won't play I can't write and I don't dream, and no it doesn't make sense to me either, but I think that is the point. It just might be that without the clutter I am bored. very dangerously bored.
It simply will not do to have tidiness anymore, even if it was ever possible. Which it wasn't, as you could tell by looking in on my spinetarium. You would see there's music all over the place again, a metronome hanging askance, a faithful pencil, a holy mess. And I am happy, when I am fenced in it and working and playing, when I can't remember if I ate or drank and that doesn't matter, when it follows me to my pillow and my thoughts before sleeping are not sad but are beautifully troubled with d minor sonatas seventeen beethoven beethoven beethoven.
There are three of his sonatas on my piano now, the Pathetique the Moonlight and since last night the Tempest. I got the third movement in my hands and sat and played it all the way through and then again and then again. Before last night I hadn't played in days. This was the piece I heard Wilhelm Kempff play, when I had just heard of him and saw a recording of him for the first time. I remember I sat in unbreathing stillness and wondered at his haunted eyes, what they saw and if I had ever seen it. Still I don't know if I know, but it will be always just enough if there is only to believe music, and to know that some music this music fits in my hands and gives at least the smallest voice to a toneless ache. Why do you keep falling in love with them one after the other? Because I am.