John Cage as Imagined

“And what is the purpose of writing music? One is, or course, not dealing with purposes but dealing with sounds. Or the answer must take the form of paradox: a purposeful purposelessness or purposeless play. This play, however, is an affirmation of life – not an attempt to bring order out of chaos nor to suggest improvements in creation, but simply a way of waking up to the very life we’re living, which is so excellent once one gets one’s mind and one’s desires out of its way and lets it act of its own accord.” –John Cage

"John Cage as Imagined" by Fletcher Tucker

First there was his voice, clear and gentle like that of a glacial stream. The voice, of course, intones the mind, which was even more clear, more gentle, perhaps more like a wind lightly pushing us this way and that way. His fingers were long, a gift not just for playing the piano, but also for pointing. He kept his fingernails overgrown so he could not clench a fist, nor clutch anything too tightly. He had ears that could rotate around (like a coyote) which he would also point with. Pointing was his favorite… with riddles and performances he would point to sounds, to symbols, to waves… to deep oceans. At parties he would entertain fifty conversations all at once, and answer every question he was asked with another question. He always brought guacamole, or a three-bean salad. John Cage was the Roshi of the New School. The subtle broom of western music. Your black-sheep uncle who never forgot your birthday. His only instrument was his mind, which he learned to let play itself. On his 433rd birthday John Cage was eaten by a shark while surfing. With his last breath, he was heard (only by the shark) to say: “How lovely to be eaten by such a great composer, one who can finally teach me about silence.”

photo notes: from the inter-net... further note: thanks are due to my friend Spencer Owen for showing me John Cage in a tangible way.