July 25
Alone in the dark bamboo grove I sit and play the lute. No one knows of it — only the moon comes and shines.
Poems (freely rendered)
Listening mode
Alone in the dark bamboo grove I sit and play the lute. No one knows of it — only the moon comes and shines.
Some things you do only as long as no one is listening. While cooking you sing a tune whose words you don't know, or you write sentences you will never send. As soon as someone comes into the room, your voice drops. That isn't only shame. The thing changes direction: a moment ago it was aimed at nothing in particular, now it is meant to please someone.
Still, this doing is not entirely without a counterpart. You hear yourself, but not like an examiner. More the way you follow a noise in the house without wanting to judge it. Something answers you: the room, the sound, the next idea that grows out of the one before.
It gets difficult when something really comes off. Then all at once you want to show it after all. The wish is understandable, and it spoils nothing. Only, the passage that worked can hardly be repeated once someone is waiting for it.
You can tell about it later. Then you are telling of a moment in which you missed no one.
