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Such an art has risen up; it was founded by Steiner; my basis is -- physiology: it is -- a primitive log cabin of meaning; Steiner bore this art from the land, where it sparkles, in his arms, like a baby; and he placed it before souls brave, pure. |
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The introduction of all the foundations of the art of mimical sounds can lead us off on a tangent/to the side. A tiny dash (Strich) from all of the conclusions of Steiner -- here -- our body is penetrated by the trembling of rhythms and harmonic pulses; this is -- delicate flesh; and it is -- the fourth dimension (time); everything, that was, that is and that will be in matter is eternal here -- existing; the expansion in all manifestations of life are -- precisely here: in rhythm, in harmony, in the dance of the ether body; everything, what was, and what will be is-- with me, right now, it comes alive, like the memory in memory; a photograph, a moment of this memory, our concept and the screech of a sound; remembrance of the mimicry of the old world is the rhythm of life of thought and the rhythm of sound-words; to think is -- to carry on a conversation with a being, the remembrance of whom is -- a concept; in the beginning there was the word and the thought for us; but even before the beginning there was already -- our memory. |
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We do not think: we -- remember; and we -- name things with a certain term; beyond the term -- there is murkiness, emptiness, Ding an sich or res (with all due respect to Ontology, about which we don't have a sensible word to say). |
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So shall we remember? And the memory of memory sleeps; our memory is short: we will remember the term; and -- only that. |
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Eurythmy -- it is: a tale in gestures about, that which is in us, but which we ourselves can not recognize without the opening of the depth/abyss, illuminated by rhythms of the body; of the ether body; it is -- the calligraphy of us all; and the "nesting place" of memory; the reflection of eurythmic dances, of the land of the life of rhythm, are -- a movement of the brain: and -- rhinoceri of concepts arise; and -- with their heavy hoofed walk they pass by all twelve categories. |
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The fallout of the rhythm of blood, the breathing out of harmony of the play of the elements is the fall of fire-thought onto congealing sounds and dull countenances of concepts; and we think, and walk, and breathe the wrong way: we think with pitchforks instead of with a paint brush; we begin to breathe -- and it is as if heavybeating, gnashing-bashing [skrezhetolil'nye] -- |
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(V. Ivanov) -- "blacksmiths" blow up the bellows (for V. Ivanov -- sounds are cicadas, but for me sounds are pick-axes against the cobble stones); our attention is focused on the material process; sound has long since settled like ashes [pepelitsya] amidst the armchairs, wine, amidst the tomes of a library and cigar-smoked mindset); if we would transfer our attention away from the material designations of the sounds of thought to different, fire-sounding ones, we would summon by a certain culture within us a harmony, which inflames our blood and sweetens our breathing; the body would melt in the wafting of wings, washing over us; with eyes, movement, and a smile we would speak of the fan of waving wings, washing over us. |
