But he had always treasured one particular idea drawn from the philosophy of Indian music above all — its thinking about silence. According to Indian theory, silence – anhad – lies at the heart of music, and anhad made audible is the primordial, indivisible sound, nad, or Nad Brahma, nad as the supreme reality made audible. It is only through experiencing Nad Brahma that we can lose ourselves in the eternal silent ocean of anhad. An echo of nad is to be heard in the endless dhran drones of the tanpura that underpin Indian music – and surely, then, it was also to be heard in the drones of his pipes. Finally he learned that it is only through the striking of two objects together – aghat, from the verb 'to wound' – that nad can be produced out of anhad. So — vulnerability, the piercing of the senses and of the heart, the pain of wounded silence: only from this can music be born. It was a beautiful, humble way of thinking about sound, and it always reminded him of his responsibility as a musician: to make sound I must destroy silence — is what I am playing worthy of this?
— I posted this on Facebook some years ago, but do not now remember the source at all, at all.
With all our family basically trying to feel better from this onerous flu-like ailment, it is some weeks since I’ve felt I had any steam for composing, and when I have reflected on that, I’ve found it mildly vexatious. Today, methought I would make a go at applying a little discipline (ma non troppo) and I made good progress on the Opus 209. Perhaps two weeks have passed since I composed the first four-ish measure of The Dance at Ruin’s Edge, the new trio for piccolo, bass flute and bassoon for the April program. One peculiarity is: m. 29 ff. feels like the genuine ending for the piece, so there will be creative insertion, but not today.
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