I went to a meeting at 8 which was actually scheduled for tomorrow. Now I’m sitting in the Bruegger’s Bagel shop adjacent to Syracuse University. I have retreated to this place (with its ersatz bagels and third rate coffee) because there’s no “here” here—by which I mean, Syracuse University has no decent local coffee places; no “Indie” bookstore; no worthwhile hangout. Its “life without Mozart” just now.
Which gets me to thinking that even Mozart’s life was life without Mozart—every moment he was composing he was “out of himself” living in the vaporous clouds of illumined mathematics that comprised his private entry way to the universal unconscious. Strictly speaking there was no Mozart. And the music we call “Mozart” isn’t Mozart either—its the numerological impersonation of Mozart.
Meanwhile, here in the phony bagel joint, no muzak and no Mozart and for that we are grateful.
Planet of the Blind 