She and I together, side by side in the geat hall. Norse Goddess and I. Knowing each other, sensing each other, understanding...
She sits in regal calm, engaged by Shostakovich, taken up by him. She says 'this experience has broken me since ... and I am waiting to rebuild myself'. The music gets into her, makes her work on herself, makes her suspend it all and put it back together afterwards.
I am jealous. Or I think I am (or ought to be) - obviously this music hurts her and puts her in danger. I want to help, I want to be the balm that heals, but she wants that burning - it nourishes in ways I cannot imagine.
Music leaves me always just weaker (what is the status of that just? and why do I listen?). It murders something within. Shostkovich is particulaly deadly for me. I never listen to it, but I know it, and it knows me - it always finds me...
I wish the hurt that it worked on me were more, were real, were something beyond my failure to feel what it is or might be. She is so real, so vital: she feels in ways I can only imagine. If I could only have one part of that, one part of that intensity, that mind that refuses to leave its body alone, that refuses to give in to the pressure to reason in a vacuum, that seeks out the most dark and beautiful questions. What she feels is what I have always failed to feel.
Norse Goddess and I together, side by side, in the Great Hall, having ourselves brutalised by him.
For both of us, I can only guess, it is the weakness of those materials, their glorious failure, that is so deadly. For her it seems to undo, disolve, disturb and damage. For me it brings me one day closer to the inevitable end when I achieve complete ideological compromise
Death and I and she and he.
To be replete as she... that would be to be