Soon I will list and publish some of my immortal musical yearnings of 2016 , also a rich harvest .
( Dissemination , multiplication, sing along and rejoice with the composer – THERE lies the dead
dog buried. )
Ruminating freely now on the American composer’s death, John(ny) Eaton, he of early Synket and his
great ( Old Greek libretti, also by my dead friend, Anglo-Irish poet from where I loved, Radda-in-Chianti, Patrick Creagh ) microtonal operas, vast Indiana
kind-of-thing. Nothing new on a brain haemorrhage, Johnny. Ave atque vale once again.
Basho says it
more, much more elegantly:
In the cicada’s cry
No sign can foretell
How soon it must die.