For Bent Sørensen

The mountains that I want to climb, and the tightrope that I want to walk, and the silence that I want to listen to – I’ve done it all. I go preaching in the valley: “the very condition of existence is nothingness. No-thing-ness.” “Whatever,” the crowd says. But this is not the same crowd as the one in Monty Python’s Life of Brian shouting: “we are all individuals, oh, master, give us a sign, we ARE all individuals, just as you say.” And Brian goes: “really?” And I go, “oy!” This is the global crowd charging me with Maxwell’s equations. I have no unconditional love. I have no sons to give it to me. In reverence or hatred. And Maxwell goes, “It doesn’t matter.” The internet is here, the lovers are here, Die Zauberflöte is here, Wagner is here. Some Vivaldi, some Schubert, a shit load of Bach, and then more Bach, and yes, always and of course above all Bach – we are all individuals – yes, we never search for ourselves on google, and we never stumble on lines that insist on popping up in connection with our names, even though there’s no connection. The daughters of Israel shout at me in the link: “point of no return: and you shall tell your children about Egypt.” I go counting, "what are the odds?" – but probability theory has never heard of the fullness of being. And my being has been zapped. And Mozart goes, “but that’s a very good thing, to be zauber’ed, meine liebe.” And the lover goes, “whatever it is that you want, it’s never gonna happen,” but what does he know, the schmuck. And then Keats goes: “I must confess, - and cut my throat, today? Tomorrow? Ho, some wine!” and Die Walküre goes: “Ho-jo-to-ho!” “and evenings steep’ed in honeyed indolence…” Such are the times when thoughts go electrical, and I can’t find my mineral water.



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