思緒 stream of consciousness...

The choleric ochreous Svetlana, the sanguine ruby Natalia, the electrical violet Yekaterina, and the longing in the lines of her voice, and the arresting agitation in the disquiet curves of the violin's singing... leading to a resolution of all that is unresolved in the angelic white of (again) Svetlana - a soft sign of 'hush.'

If everything has already been done, why do we even bother to play our roles in this world, following the plot that has already been written, and already been known? Such is the greatest mystery, and the question asked millions of times (and perhaps answered) in the Gita.
Arjuna: "I do not wish to lead this fight. I do not want to kill all these people."
Lord Krishna: "What do you mean you do not wish to kill all these people? They are already dead. I have already killed them all."

So why do we go through this all over again?
(Too profound for a jet-lagged night in London...)


The Bolshoi Ballet in the premiere of Alexei Ratmansky's Russian Seasons, 15.11.2008. 
Cast ---
Couple in Orange (then in White): Svetlana Zakharova and Andrei Merkuriev 
Couple in Red: Natalia Osipova and Denis Savin 
Couple in Green: Yekaterina Shipulina and Pavel Dmitrichenko 
Couple in Violet: Yekaterina Krysanova and Igor Tsvirko 
Couple in Blue: Anna Rebetskaya and Vladislav Lantratov 
Couple in Claret Red: Anna Nikulina and Vyacheslav Lopatin

Trees, light, green, sun, leaves, life -- a dreamland absent of questions and answers; a hypnotised land of silent truth. One does not even have to realise that one has already realised.

*          *          *

dew evaporates 
and all our world 
is dew ... so dear, 
so fresh, so fleeting 

 (kobayashi issa)

... if only the world could be more fleeting than what we are experiencing...

*          *          *

Enter the kingdom of words as if you were deaf.
Poems are there that want to be written.
They are dormant, but don't be let down,
their virginal surfaces are fresh and serene.
They are alone and mute, in dictionary condition.
Live with your poems before you write them.
If they're vague, be patient. If they offend, be calm.
Wait until each one comes into its own and demolishes
with its command of words
and its command of silence.
Don't force poems to let go of limbo.
Don't pick up lost poems from the ground.
Don't fawn over poems. Accept them
as you would their final and definitive form,
distilled in space.
[...]
Take note:
words hide in the night
in caves of music and image.
Still humid and pregnant with sleep
they turn in a winding river and by neglect are transformed.

-- "Looking for Poetry" by Carlos Drummond de Andrade, trans. into English by Mark Strand.