Bliss

Over the years I've become increasingly lazier over trying to explain, even to myself, the nature of my experiences, particularly what might be termed mental experiences in relation to art and ideas generally. (See what I mean: basically I gave up on that last sentence.) I'm also vaguely aware that as well as the very real laziness there's a sort of superstitiously magical way of thinking involved, that somehow if I over-analyse those experiences I'll prevent them.

So I'm not going to say too much about what happened to me late last night, on the very edge of sleep, listening to L'Alouette Lulu (The Woodlark) from Book 3 of Messiaen's Catalogue D'Oiseaux, as performed by Peter Hill, or why it happened. I'm just very glad indeed it did.

(It's the bit at the end that's the killer, which sort of recaps the beginning. Deep, slow, rich chords - or is it just individual notes? - for the left hand, then these gorgeous sort of trills high up for the right hand, fading away. And then just nothing, silence, like stepping across the normal boundary of time into...) (Gave up again.)