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A crude new voice is brought to his attention, his sixth sense for equilibrium is irked, the harmony he is working so hard to refine is being punctured. He intuitively swivels to home in on his culprit. Without needing to see the bird he points his stick in the direction of what he instinctively knows is a wren.

With a forefinger raised to his lips as a school teacher might and with his stick stroking the air downwards he employs a quiet authority to quell the misplaced eagerness of this song. Watch and wait for my cues. Applause ripples over him as the wind shakes the canopy. He looks to sit down and survey this eden in rest, but the woodland floor looks dirty.

The birds sing on 3rd Dawn He wakes. My chorus is waiting. Listening with anticipation. He moves on, towards a place where he expects the songs to be more intense. When at last he finds an adequate sound a flock of rooks fly over, circle and shambolically occupy the trees overhead. He resents having to walk so far. As the light and heat are turned up, more songs start up. The long tangled song of a blackcap in the distance hooks him.

But it has already left without telling him. He forgives its elusiveness, seeing it as part of its artistry, the uncompromising temperament of a wonderful warbler. The songs he most values are the rarest and the most complex. He has reserved a place in his mind for these truly talented singers, but they are not showing up. The birds sing on Amongst the many birds singing around him now, a robin sings especially close. Popular, prosaic and abundant. He moves on, away from the usual suspects, seeking greener grass.

Where are the songs that will take me beyond myself? They make him feel more alone somehow. He steps out earlier than before, hoping to beat them at their game. He acknowledges to himself the endeavour of these birds, for this he almost admires them. Although their efforts now have a desperation about them. Indiscriminate, hopeful, futile and lonely, signalling out across the dark of dawn to no-one in particular and everyone at once. There is a pathos to it. He feels in reflection diminished by it, as if this singing were just a functional and artless strategy.

He remembers being a teenager, dancing at a disco, watching his friends showing off and hoping a girl would notice him, but never really believing that was possible. They are pulling away from his beautiful vision of them, indifferent to him and his desire for oneness. All this attention he was giving to them, this was clearly undeserved. He stands, calm and motionless, for some time.

It takes flight, a blue tit does the same, just far enough to be outside his field of influence, which he notes they have the measure of. They continue with their business as if nothing had happened, mocking his wasted energy. Evidence, however fleeting, that he exists beyond the trampled path behind him.

The birds sing on Still stewing, he feeds his feelings of abandonment enough to summon up another roar. It is less impressive this time, more self-conscious. He tries to reconcile himself to the passive role forced upon him. He has given them his adoration, he has worshipped their ritual, now he looks foolish for believing in these songs.

Has he developed a tolerance to this dawn chorus drug, whose first effects were so ecstatic? The tireder he gets, the stronger, louder and more oppressive their songs become. As he steps out they invite themselves in, setting up their stalls in his head.

His own mind is feeding the birds against his will. Each song comes with a different claim for territory in his mind. Stuck in there, along with his thoughts and nowhere to go, issuing and repeating their proclamations, insisting on their importance. There is less and less room for himself in there.

The birds sing on Overhead, like the leaves, the songs are closing in, a green mass of sound. With their sharp batons they prod and goad him. Their persistence is draining. Even before he reached centre stage this morning he knew he had lost the class. All shouting at once with their different grudges and bones to pick, each with their own technique of tormenting the teacher. As he feeds this image he can see the faces of kids he once knew, but whose names he has long forgotten.

They are turning on him. He remembers how the birds must have seen him rise above them on that first day, he can hear their sarcastic encouragement to try that again. The birds sing on Exposed and surrounded, there is no place for him, not even in his own mind. He wills the sun to rise faster. Distinct and individual, each song punishes in its own way. Each note and phrase has its way of cutting through. He is defenceless against their tactics and guises. The endurance grinds him down, the repetition maddens him, the melodies nauseate him, the complexity frustrates him and the mimicry deceives him.

All of them supremely confident in their own potency. The birds sing on They fill every cavity. So familiar and embedded they sound like his thoughts. He is more them than him. Thoughts, now notes, detached from their source, roll into and over each other.

Still no quarter is given, grinding him down, downwards to the ground, away from the songs. Kneeling, he finds his face drawn to and eventually pressed against the ground, into the detritus, with a longing for the silence of a world of worms below. A respite of sorts, he leaves himself there.

The birds sing on 6th Dawn Their intent, their stress and urgency are the only things he recognizes of himself. The possessed outpouring of so many small throats shows no mercy. They sing as though their lives depend on it. He has no doubt now that they do. He knows the failures that await him: to find a mate, to build a nest, to find food, to raise young. He feels the ever-present threat of predation, of starvation, of exposure to the cold and wet. He scratches at his ticks, or are they lice, tormented by these phantom parasites.

The songs work together, tirelessly. The last remnants of him are herded into pockets of pressure that build upon themselves. With nowhere to go they begin erupting from him as bursts of vocal noise. Sporadically at first and then as a steady flow; guttural shrieks, clipped yelps, coughs, snorts, groans, chaks and ticks, all with their own will and alive in their own right, some subtle and some violent, some otherworldly, all without his design.

And the ease and reliability with which, after this general pause, life begins to resume its rhythm and the bird chorus envelops you again. The sudden onset of silence casts the individual song and its resonances with others into sharp relief. Sometimes the excited mating call of a nuthatch, the hammering of a woodpecker, or the screech of a raptor circling above the canopy rupture our solipsism.

They do not interfere with the chorus, but it sounds as if the entire forest had imperceptibly shifted key. Birdsongs are part of our sensory embeddedness in the world that we rarely notice, a tightly woven web that cradles us. Yet, quickly we filter it out as white noise—and hastily we return into the echo-chambers of our own minds. Birds leave no one untouched.

They appear as angelic messengers between the chthonic and celestial realms; they are envisioned as envoys between humans and spirits of the dead; their flight embodies ideals of freedom with unrivalled grace; and their songs speak to a deep-seated utopian hope that the creaturely and the creative dimensions of human life may have the same root. Many cultures have thus assigned birds particular symbolical or allegorical roles in their folklore, mythology and literature, perhaps most prominently in the twelfth-century Persian mystical poem The Conference of the Birds by Farid ud-Din Attar.

In German medieval poetry, for example, birds are often imagined as mystagogues. Parzival develops a particular bond with songbirds. He had no care in the world save the singing of the birds overhead. Its sweetness pierced him to the heart and brought a tightness to his breast. All in tears he ran to the Queen. In order to protect him from future heartache, Herzeloyde orders her knights to kill all the birds in the forests around their hermitage.

Unsurprisingly, this absurd enterprise deeply alienates Parzival from his mother. His ability to listen to birds and allow their songs to touch his heart, shows his emotional depth and his receptiveness for music—aspects of the human personality cherished by medieval courtly civilization. The songbirds in the forest guide Parzival towards his destiny: becoming a heroic knight and redeeming his uncle Amfortas, the ailing guardian of the Holy Grail.

Throughout European courtly traditions, birds often feature as witnesses of a love secret. Here, a little bird is enlisted as confidant of the lovers and vouchsafes for the truthfulness of their feelings. In the idyllic vein in European poetry, birds often serve as messengers connecting humans with realms beyond the human. As over hilltops birds of the forest fly, Across the river gleaming past you the bridge Vaults over, sturdily and lightly, Loud with the traffic of feet and coachwheels.

I wandered among the trees, Alone with my own grief, But then old dreams returned once more And stole into my heart. Schweigt still! Who taught you this little word, You birds up there in the breeze? Be silent! If my heart hears it, My pain will return once more. The final stanza adds an ironic twist: it turns out the poet does not, in fact, scold the birds for mocking him, but rather for disturbing his melancholic self-affectation. The birds that traverse the leaves of German letters draw attention to the cultural, anthropological and biological conditions of aesthetic expression.

In doing so, they expose a paradox at the heart of modern selfhood: defined by creativity, it is being expropriated in the very act of creation. Birds in modern literature and music are not so much transcendent but rather transcendental agents: they extend an invitation to contemplate the conditions for the possibility of our self-expression.

Their songs teach us that life is ultimately not at our disposal and defies the individual sovereignty we have constructed for ourselves. For Adorno, by contrast, the poem is a chamber play about how easily humans become victims of their own delusions and how carelessly they project their imaginings onto the natural world. If you have a fawn you favour, Do not let her graze alone, Hunters sound their horns through the forest, Voices wander to and fro.

That which wearily sets today, Will rise tomorrow, newly born. Much can go lost in the night— Be wary, watchful, on your guard! Dusk is about to spread its wings, The trees now shudder and stir, Clouds drift by like oppressive dreams— What can this dusk and dread imply?

Adorno dismisses the common facile identification of Eichendorff with a nostalgic or even revisionist political agenda, enlists him in his intellectual battle against instrumental reason, and claims his poetry as the codification of a quintessentially modern experience: the concurrent irretrievable loss of and irrepressible yearning for home Heimweh. Language is always already an expression of life beyond human life rather than the congelation of fixed meanings serving exclusively human let alone individual ends.

The act in which the human being becomes language, the flesh becomes word, incorporates the expression of nature into language and transfigures the movement of language so that it becomes life again. Incarnation, inspiration and incantation thus become indistinguishable.

It is this experience of the inextricable intertwining of flesh, breath and song that transgresses the distinction between a somatic and a cognitive sense of the self. A utopian hope resides in that transgression as an agent of keeping language malleable and resonant—and thus a democratic force rather than a tool of hegemony.

His music dramatizes the bird both as singer and as creature: it sings a song without words that nevertheless speaks a language. Its dotted rhythmic structure with the demisemiquaver triplet renders the movement of a bird skipping from branch to branch or frisking the undergrowth and the iridescent reflections of its plumage in the chequered light under the forest canopy.

The theme combines sharp dissonances with euphonic triads, an ambiguous and chromatic right hand with a bassline that holds its own diatonic autonomy. Example of a tritone The second theme is set apart from the first one, but seems to draw energy from the tonal exposition of the first theme G minor ; after all, it is written in the tonic major G major and starts with root-position G chords. It is a chorale-like surging melody that harks back to Lutheran church music and the Baroque tradition, even hinting at contrapuntal polyphony between the left and the right hands on the keyboard.

The fugal potential of the chorale theme, however, is quickly abandoned; during the first tonal variation from G major to Eb major in bars 23— 24, the chorale theme seamlessly morphs back into the original tritonal figure in G minor bar 25 , which envelops it organically and resumes its Rauschen without the need for any further thematic development—as if nothing had happened see figure 4 : 71 The piece ends as it began: both enigmatic and evocative, disturbing and soothing, uncanny and familiar.

Schumann here seems to invert the conventional idea that it is human form that transcends the supposedly inarticulate murmuring of nature. Ironically, he uses the quintessential symbol of poetry, the bird, for this inversion. Apart from the harmonic unity established by the parallel tonic keys, the two sections are also related by rhythmical and modal similarities. Both parts are marked by a tension between the composed off-beat rhythm and the tendency to slide into the downbeat—a tension that is only temporarily resolved in bars 11—12 and 21—22, respectively.

Generally, the phrase marks throughout the piece go across the main beats of the music, Figure 4. What is more, the two sections also resonate with each other through inversive constellations, for example when the appoggiatura figure at the beginning of many of the basic dotted phrases of part A is inverted in part B from an upward to a downward resolution of the appoggiatura.

Because of these parallels, it seems that the chorale is subcutaneously but organically interwoven with the voices in which it is embedded. It is both of the same cloth and substantially different. The initial theme, a middle voice between recitative and dance, is still present as an echo in the chorale and gestures towards an alien element at the very core of what is perceived as the epitome of western sacred music.

When the chorale recedes back into the initial tonality through a breathtaking chromatic manoeuvre, Schumann takes pain to instruct the pianist to use the soft pedal Verschiebung and thus soften the sound fabric. Human self-expression, as Schumann explores it in his music, encompasses an awareness of its creaturely basis—and an awareness that this creaturely basis eludes total human control and, ultimately, complete aesthetic appropriation.

Phrasing parallelism between parts A and B 73 exception mentioned above. This creates an ambiguity between what we see and what we hear, between representation and articulation, between compositional conception and somatic practice—and it runs counter to the nineteenth-century apotheosis of music as the most eidetic art. This impression is exacerbated by deliberate modes of harmonic ambiguity: bars 18 last beat to 20—implicit canon-like figures highlighted in red Figure 6.

Although the tritone had lost its negative associations and had even become fashionable as a mode of exploring the unexplored by the Baroque Age, it continued to carry ominous associations, in particular in nineteenth-century opera.

Tell us who we are, dear Father. Tell us, Father, in what place? We are happy, all together, Life to us is such mild grace. It is, of course, ironic that Goethe chose an anchorite to point to the bodily, sensual and environmental basis of human life from which Faust, through his striving and the various embodiments of the modern spirit he encounters on his way, is increasingly dissociated.

Sink into my eyes, employ them Fit at world and earth to peer, As your own you may enjoy them, Gaze at these environs here. Yet, this invitation falls onto deaf ears: the Blessed Boys remain unable to feel physical resonances, a sense of shared sensual perceptions or cohabitation with their surroundings. The answer to that question—Who are we? In what place? Francis, but by a bird—arguably one of the birds he talked to.

In this context, the return of the chorale from G major through Eb major to the G minor of the first theme can be perceived as a gesture referring to the irrepressible, yet ultimately inappropriable, creaturely sources of human creativity, for which the tritone becomes an arcane gesture: the abundance of life and the mortality of life.

Without these sources, art is stillborn. In his uncompromising homilies on the parables of 75 Figure 7. For of course the wish provides momentary consolation, but upon closer inspection it can be seen that it does not in fact console. In his homilies they become mystagogues into the artless art of keeping silence. For him, keeping silent means becoming a listener; becoming a listener finds its expression in praying; and praying is the origin of poetic language.

Silence, as emphasized in some of the most lyrical passages of these homilies, is not at all the absence of sound. It is rather the ability to create and tune into resonances with the world around us. For the trees, even when they stand most closely together, keep their word to one another … The sea keeps silent; even when it rages loudly, it is nonetheless silent.

It thus calls into doubt the modern ethos of rooting a sense of the self exclusively in acts of creation and innovation. And it calls for the inner strength to let go of the narcissistic pretensions inherent in this ethos. Only once we have mastered this artless art of waiting, Kierkegaard suggests, are we ready for the right moment kairos —a moment of recognition in which we become aware of our ethical call to be in the world.

Kierkegaard is ruthless in his psychological penetration of the postEnlightenment aesthetic investment in perpetual innovation. Schumann is deeply engrained in that cultural milieu. Here, he often espouses a perceptual aesthetics of attuning oneself to environs akin to the artless art of keeping silent in Kierkegaard—as opposed to a production aesthetics of originality.

And yet, o you profound teachers, could it really be possible to find security anywhere else than in the unconditioned, since in itself the conditioned is of course insecurity. Det vilda har inga ord. From March Weary of all who come with words, words but no language I make my way to the snow-covered island. The untamed has no words.

The unwritten pages spread out on every side! I come upon the tracks of deer in the snow. Language but no words. The owner of the quarry stumbled across the bones, thought they belonged to a cave bear skeleton and consulted the local fossil hunter Johann Carl Fuhlrott. The naturalist immediately recognized the find from the Neander Valley as belonging to hominoids.

The English translation is by A T Hatto; see p Keats, , p Stokes, , p This is a witty play at the expense of the classicist notion of mimesis and, at the same time, an ironic meta-reflection on the wunderschlaue nature of art that replaces resonances with the real world by projections onto the world.

The final variation of the latter features a tritone Eb—A that obsessively infiltrates the original chorale motif, creating rich resonances with Bird as Prophet. There is also a strong political dimension that has often been overlooked in this context.

The bird gestures at the unsustainability of escapism into an aesthetic realm at a time of frequent street battles in the wake of the — revolution in the German states. Uhde and Wieland, , p Ibid, p 82, translation adjusted. In it the ego no longer becomes callous and entrenched within itself. It wants to make amends for some of the primordial injustice of being ego at all.

See extensively Hammerstein, Adorno, , p Ibid, p The role of the literary mottos for the composition process remains unclear, since the mottos only occur in the second of three extant autographs; see Jensen, , pp 80— See on this context Seiffert, Lines — See Harwell Celenza, , pp 8— Kierkegaard, , pp 11— Ibid, pp 22— Ibid, pp 33, See eg Schumann, , pp 24—33; 97—; — See Perrey, , pp 40— Tunbridge, , p Kierkegaard, , p We need to look to each other for strength and hope, and recommit ourselves to our shared goals of making the world a better place for all, especially black and brown people.

Now is the time for us to come together as we serve together. Our work has never been more critical. Our concern for each other has never been more important. We saw a young woman at a recent protest holding a sign with a quote from Angela Davis. These words beg people and organizations to change this unacceptable and systemic racism.

The Springfield Library Commission cherishes the work that library staff perform to address literacy challenges, the digital divide, to provide a place where everyone can share ideas and gain knowledge. We believe the incredible mission of the Springfield City Library serves as a powerful force to counter many inequities including racism.

Creating and maintaining an environment of diversity , inclusion and respect both in our library system and in all aspects of our community role. Ensuring that we are reaching and engaging disenfranchised people in the community and helping them express their voice. Serving as a convener and facilitator of conversations and partnerships to address community challenges.

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June 20th, 9 replies Release Date: Tracklist Review Summary: "If you're lucky to have a lover, let your walls dissipate. Whilst the band are not part of "the wave" - a regional scene of post-hardcore - they would fit perfectly alongside bands like Defeater, La Dispute and Pianos Become The Teeth.

Gatherer seamlessly manage to mix together influences of all these bands and many more, resulting in an incredibly accessible and unique twelve tracks. Whilst the ten tracks presented here are a continuation of their debut EP, 's Postcards, everything is improved this time around. The main flaw of Postcards was the song lengths - many ideas the band presented showed potential, but with every track falling just short of two minutes, there was never a chance for the ideas to flourish into something beautiful.

One look at the song lengths on Caught Between This track is also the best example of the lyrical direction of the album - Singer Christian Berrigan's brutally honest lyrics deal with the fear of death and trying failing? Let this fade into memory; wash up ashore on the sands of my sleep. At least I have a sense of self, and I'm not afraid of change.

I've seen the strangest places and they're crying out my name. I have a sense of self, so there's no one else to blame. I've seen the kindest faces and remember all their names. I've felt just how you feel, close if not the same. If you're lucky to have a lover, let your walls dissipate. I have a sense of self, and I'm not afraid of pain.

These ambitions on my shoulders will put me in my grave when I'm spent. Pulsing through my veins like the salt in the sea. Neither promises nor broken dreams are repaired during sleep or sex or somewhere in between. With you I slow dance underneath the sea. What if I fail you? Can't live up to expectations that you want me to?

Not that I could, I don't doubt you wouldn't stay. My voice isn't strong enough to keep the wolves away. So when push comes to shove, you will crush all my bones. I can't shake this feeling when I'm sleeping all alone. This world will never be good enough for me. There's no company or clarity, to ease my mind like the soft of your skin. All the worshiping, songs of praise, never led me to an answer. One that seems to matter.

Dreaming of days to come, seen miles away from here. I've been so caught up with those ups and downs. I'm so tired, my eyes won't shut. But a heart that's gold don't mean a thing, awake or sleeping. I'm constantly reminded days are fleeting. Whether I bleed or am breathing, the limits life set remain defeating. Do we make the most of our time spent together, so at the end we don't regret what we've done with our short time? I don't want to be the shadow of a person I am. I don't want to say.

You hear me? Am I making a sound? I'm so tired but I can't sleep. Cause a heart that's gold don't mean a thing, awake or sleeping. I dreamt all the friends I had had died. So don't take long when it comes now. Not everybody's gone and your sympathy for me is running dry.

And you swore to christ you found god, in the love we made before you lie dead on your lawn. This is where I'm supposed to be with you. So when you get back, I'll be home. We can have our love. It's like feeding a dog his bone, so he never leaves his home for the rest of his days.

All that I feel drains out of me, everything is tangible but still so out of reach. Do you regret the time you've spent looking for words to save? All the days I've spent with you, you know I need them more than anything. I know the day will start and sun will set with or without you here. That is not an excuse I want to hear. Old, and in my arms you'll always be. I'm a bed for your bones; chariot for your broken dreams.

No, you're more than life should offer me. I am trapped in myself, prisoner to what this world brings for me. Old; in my arms you'll always be. When you're on your death bed, who will be there? All the words you sang to me linger through eternity. All the words you say. All the words about fate that may come and sweep you away. Are you listening?

I hope one day you will meet me halfway. When you're here, those thoughts become real. Will you always come and go? The last couple of weeks I drank till I was blind. There's a whole lot of catching up you left behind. Don't expect for this to be alright. I did a whole lot of growing up, you were taking your time.

You said we'd grow old, I could rest in your bones. I need you more than ever when I feel this alone.

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