On my 42nd anniversary, I celebrate my mother. I always thought it appropriate, to celebrate your mother on your birthday. I thus give myself a book of fragments which celebrates my mother’s formal genius. I took some advice and collected here some of my texts that have been circulating in virtual space. The Logician begins with what my mother liked and it ends with what I like, materially speaking. What lies beyond that, who’s to say?
My mother is dead, and has been dead for a while, but one of her repeated questions, posed in her mysterious metaphysical moments, still haunts me: “formally speaking, how can we determine what everything is? How can we determine what nothing is?” Kafka writes in his notebooks: “Nothing came of it… just residues of light traversing the words.” But light in itself, surely, it is everything already, isn’t it?” My mother didn’t want to write. She thought that knowledge should be shared not sold. She was a good Marxist and a good logician. I hear her saying, as I did some 20 times a day while she was still around, "logically speaking, when writing is no good," or as in my case right now, it has run its course, "then surely music is a good interval?" Indeed it is. So, on my 42nd birthday I return to what I wanted to do for some time now, making music. Perhaps. Who’s to decide? Meanwhile, today, I’ll create some sounds in special places at request. Perhaps making music can beat the light, or nothingness. Though not in the sense of winning over it. For what would be the point of that? What would be the point of that? Enjoy!