Monday, July 17, 2017
Hallelujah!
Happy the one who can leave in due time
Death makes life unforgettablehttp://www.slideshare.net/JacquesCoulardeau/death-makes-life-unforgettable
In
1974, I knew Pierre Boulez indirectly since I was reading the music treatises
of Pierre Schaeffer and some other books on the subject of modern music,
concrete music, noise if you want, but also plain music from classical to jazz,
from negro spiritual to Black and Soul, from the Beatles to The Who and AC/DC
or vice versa. I was ranting and raving on David Bowie the non-bipolar fluid
gender hermaphrodite. I was already waxing sentimental and dazzled by the
genius of Leonard Cohen, and yet I was trying to enter another world, the world
of a distorted stressed psyche that has managed to survive a couple of traumas
including the one of extreme eyesight impairment from birth to the age of six
without any medical assistance. You know: “Don’t Pass Me by!” And I had enjoyed
in all the twenty-nine years already behind me all that was sound, music,
languages, talk, drama, radio, and so many other things to listen to and to
hear even if seeing was not exactly the cup of tea in which I could rinse my
“spectacles” or glasses if you prefer.
Here
was my mind then (never ever published since 1974 and only read once to a small
audience)
DAVIS, CALIFORNIA, 1974
And
he looked right and he saw Lawrence
And
he looked left and he saw Terence
And
in front of him he saw Stephens
And
there and here someone else
Someone more
A
Face anonymous and placid
Amorphous and tacit
A
face with a nose and two eyes
With a pose and two lies
One
for him and one for the world
And
the pose of the comfort
Of the mind
We
had tried hard to break the lurid front-lights
To jump into the
dark pit
Of
the tender-footed neophytes
The
vertigo of a mosquito
Attracted by the bite
The fervid taste of blood
And the pounding grind of the slap
That
will forever stop the flight
Of
the buzzing nuisance
To
a sad inacceptance
The clown
was standing in front of his audience
And
then all of a sudden
The
bright imagination beam
Takes
in its tight spot the face
Of
what among others that is more
And yet nothing
more
That is for an instant
And already no
more
Of
him he flippantly likes
And he recreates in his mind
In his flesh
Recreates with his quivering eyelids
Good morning but don’t touch
me
I love you but don’t touch me
I want you but don’t touch me
I have you but don’t touch me
And
phantasy phantasizes the phantasmic phantasms
Of his desire
He
plays his stringy show
On
a stringent note of maybe I can
Maybe I could
Maybe
I might
Make him understand
The turn of my covetousness
The counterturn of my ravenousness
The stand of my desirousness
The clown
was standing in front of his audience
And got
no answer not even a clap
He
relapsed in his voyeurism
He
traced the fine of an ankle
The line of a leg
The mine of a
thigh
That
shivers at his breath
The
lip brushes the softness of the hairs
The
tongue waters the skin of his flesh
The
fingers meet into the width of a palm
Cupping
to retain the wine of the crotch
The milk of the breast
That
mango juice he pines for
And
lift it to his mouth
Furnishing
his palate
With the sultry caressing lime
Green like the never ripe passion of his
heart
Acid
like the never-moored
Overflying Dutchman
Of his dearth
Coating
his throat with the reviving paste
That springs high
That digs deep
That will never
germinate
And yet will
carry more fruit
Than the carob tree of yon
savannah
Dead-like and lifeless
Like a bug dried in the
moonshine
Silent
Dark
And fatefully
immobile
There
the cross of the long-legged roads
There
were the east and the west meet
In
the climax of their zenith
In
the apex of their noon
The
south emerges
Soothing and simmering
The
flames in the eyes
The
thirst in the mind
With
a taste of roundness
With
a flavor of boldness
A
bouquet and a fragrance
Heady
and exhilarating
Like
the foreplay of the skin
Over the sharp edge of the
blade
Of the brit milah
of fervid tradition
Ready
to penetrate
The soft sweet bread of the
flesh
The clown
was standing in front of his audience
And got
no answer not even a clap
From the
unreachable posse of indifferent masks
Coulardeau Jacques
Davis June 1974
– Pierre Boulez –
David Bowie –
– Leonard Cohen –
Blissful Recollection
of the Future
Music
wind of the mind
Crawling
creeping sliding
In out
through
Ears
eyes skin
Music
tempo of the soul
Beating
dancing swinging
Up down
gone
Hands
feet head
Music
tempest of the heart
Loving
hugging cuddling
Back
forth
All around
Chest
breasts
Elbows and arms
Sitting
in the dark gloom of the abbey church I listen to the opening of some symphony
that reverberates under the vault and among the columns.
A
butterfly flutters gracefully in the sunshine and perches itself on my knee in
some green meadow behind the summer house of the vacation.
Snowflakes
hover in the air and lightly cover the sidewalk of the still benighted street
of my city just one week before Christmas in the cold morning air.
On the
big square on a bench my street homeless friend wakes up every morning when I
come and every morning I give him half my ten thirty snack.
And all
the time some music resonates in my brain and tells me in a whisper between the
notes, among the keys and codas, a message that I will remember.
Ever!
“Go
your way and keep in your fists the acorn you saved last September, keep it for
the forlorn forgotten forsaken squirrel of an alley urchin that has no shelter
and that longs for love.”
An
acorn
A walnut
An apple
A pear
Shared
and split in half
Bestowed
and received
With a hungry smile
With two eager lips
With many ravenous teeth
Flat
sharp pure tonic C
The
schoolboy offers in one hand
The
sidewalk wanderer gathers with both hands
Raises
his eyes and locks them
On the blue
irises pierced with a dark question
Why?
A voice
from on high then vibrates like a tuning fork
“I
won’t pass you by, I promise!
“But
don’t vanish and go, ever!”
Jacques
COULARDEAU
Olliergues,
February 9, 2017
Boulez-Bowie-Cohen @Academia.edu & SlideShare.net (74)
Happy the one who can leave in due time
Abstract:
Three living stars
have just died in the field of music. Three supernovas that were a galaxy of
their own. Leonard Cohen, David Bowie and Pierre Boulez, the whole western
world in a nutshell, Canada, Great Britain and France, and the last one
directed and recorded Wagner as well as Frank Zappa. A whole world is leaving
and we are left alone in the orphanage our world has become.
And yet they leave in,
our hands, in our ears and in our eyes a whole world of illumination,
hallucination, inspiration and exquisite frustration. We have to build
tomorrow’s world with what they have just granted us as their heritage, as our
inheritance. Let’s take care of it for ever and ever.
Dr. Jacques Coulardeau
Research Interests:
Music, Musicology, Popular
Music, Death, Musicians, and Pop
Singers
# posted by Dr. Jacques COULARDEAU @ 1:23 PM 
