from Mozart’s Third Brain

CV Not-Orpheus is singing   He sings his nothing   He sings his night He sings all the names   The name of nothing   The only name    Since long ago   He didn’t know it   And knew it in his night All things sing   All names sing   Every tonal difference, every sound   All music in its destruction   In its sublation   Toward which point? The mountain of nothing hovers   Before it crushes us   With its night   With its song In the evening I walked through town with you, Dearest, along the river A clear cold spring evening, the half-moon shone   As if walking in a foreign city Though I recognized parts of it   You said it was almost like walking in Prague, where we would have been if my mother hadn’t fallen ill When we stood by one corner of the Hotel Svea, where I played in a dance band in 1957, the huge flock of jackdaws, in the trees by the bastion near the castle, flew out over the river, in micropolyphonic conversation    As in a piece by Ligeti That night I dreamed I crossed a bridge spanning the river, now very broad The long bridge was swaying, huge ocean swells entering the river from the sea I walked with a girl, kissed her on the mouth, on the opposite bank In the morning you came into my bed, Dear, we slinked like teenagers, so my mother wouldn’t hear us, where she slept, in the room outside ours   She’s already much better I look at my face in the bathroom mirror   Will I manage to go out into the Brain Trucks pass   Traffic goes on, in the great exchange of goods Gulls, trees, people   The degree of virtuality in different goods, the phantasms also in what we eat, conceptions of origin, contents, effects Fear    Cultivated tastes    We are in the immediacy of memory    Only in a flash of astonishment can memory be broken   But even lightning is informed    I look at the magical diagrams of Giordano Bruno, read his texts   See that all this is exactly as in Jung, fundamental magical forms, for guiding the divine, the unknown within the soul   Also the similarity with tantric forms Yes, that’s how it is, I think, both Freud and Jung are magicians, the difference in rationality is only marginal, Jung’s a little older, Freud’s more modern, a continuation of Descartes, developed later in Spinoza’s pneumatic model for the passions, and yet both are found, subsumed in Bruno’s love-flow, the lineage backward, the tantric flow, also Plato’s Diotima, her flow . . . Hölderlin saw the stream of people in dark water, streaming over the ledges in the human-geological world, the levels of the abyss,   Para- dise’s various degrees of stasis What use can I make of these magical forms? I’m no magician    And yet I acknowledge their power, also within my self   If they prevail, sovereignty is crushed   Libero arbitrio   There the forms also break down The stream of love breaks down    Fluid lightning    The flash of vibrating being But also the flash of darkness   The light of Beatrice’s eyes, their lightning flash   How am I to understand this? How to understand unknowing   That I do not!