Hugh Steinberg



These Exactitudes

Have been like a diary.
Unguarded here, and so, too, the impulse to go.

Heard as an unhappy life, in music, these three songs, but
listening to them we get separated from their predecessors, in mood, in spirit,
less a summing up than an addition,

addition to
music that leaves the world behind; when it is heard
that's what happens, the world calls you.

But you can't do that night after night.
It's too draining. You can live with fake emotions
if they're based on musical principles: rhythm, tempo,
upbeats, downbeats, harmonies. You can be happy.
You can say this is happiness, this is what it sounds like.
You can play a note and you can say, this is what I mean,
this is exactly what I feel. Now you can feel it and it's great,
you're yanked out of the meat of your body, you get to live
in the heart of another, you get to think this is so,
you can trust it.

A start. The shy voice, speaking to itself.
The ink in the book. A diary, or to listen to the tapes....

It is not a reading; it is not a play. No one is pretending.
Instead, we are attempting to meditate on him,
understanding that the 'him' will be present when we
say his words, when we play his songs.