history is now

by pieces of moments

An room empty but for a piano. A blank journal and a pen. This is what I love: unlocking latent possible worlds, one through sound and one through words.

A cup of tea and a porcelain pitcher of cream. This is what I love: layers of silently portrayed sentiments steeped in tradition juxtaposed with contemporary consumption.

Counterpoint connecting its dots by way of the structure of fugue. This is what I love: frameworks, boundaries, pitted against the hunt for creative freedom – the way the effort squeezes out the most amazing new nectar.

Time is not a never ending string of “now.” Time is like an heirloom charm bracelet pieced together on an antique chain. We wear it constantly, hanging fragments of ourselves that clash, or blend, in music or in silence, with those who have come before, and then pass it along to the next, and to the next, and to the next on down the line.

Everyone comes from a history. Would one want to deny it? Why? To deny history is to deny the redemption of it. Redemption being the sweetest thing.

This is why I disapprove when people decline being a student before taking on the role of a teacher. In other words: artists should learn their histories, first, for if they do not confront it they will be doomed to repeat it out of sheer ignorance. Omission.

You should not write new music without knowing what was written in the the old. You should not create new buildings without confronting the ruins. You should not splatter fresh paint on a canvas without knowledge of the cracks in the worn.

An room empty but for a piano. A blank journal and a pen. Those are now. You bring your history and the history of a thousand, and a thousand, and a thousand, years.

Together they become complete, for every moment is a triune of past, present, and future all in one.

History is now.

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