Leonhardt Conspiguous

Leonhardt Conspiguous would have known the difference.  Between, say, BWV 161 and BWV 173; or a trunk or tail if he’d been born a blind mouse.  LC always knew the differences.  But he found similarities difficult to trace.

In conversation Leonhardt once encountered a man who’d read the entirety of his library, (the titles so resembling his own as to appear indistinguishable), drawing the same conclusions as LC in the shared vocabulary.  LC was unable to devise a category or designation for this phenomenon.  It was like looking in Leona’s eyes.

A concave lens forms a sphere of reflection, and hers – of grey of green of blue – mimicked Leonhardt’s so completely both in color and tone, that he’d instantly felt something farther back, back behind, any place he’d ever felt before.  In himself or another.  As time went on and her desire gained in details…

A Letter to Friends (far and near, now and future):

On Friendship, Dialogue and Conversation

(even those “silenced to pieces” – Paul Celan)

Addressing an interminable oath, a perhaps-always, perhaps-never, but surely an “only.”  Friendship.

Either there runs an essential conversation, in the realm of the impossible, that is, the meaningless, or there does not.  Meaningless, like infinity, like being, like love – each lying somewhere beyond rationality, or knots of multiplicity, that is, items we are capable of naming, or calling (calling-out toward) but which do not, ever, add up.

Things that are, that are unable to be explained.  At times we call out to them as “paradoxes,” “mysteries,” “ideas,” “sensations,” “beliefs,” and so on, these “entities”(?) “concepts” (?) – “observable creations” that require one another to be, but cannot be identified in themselves (e.g. “same”/”different”; “self”/”other”; “silence”/”noise”; “presence”/”absence”; and so on).  “Things” (?? – but what to…