Photo taken on December 23, 2017 at 04:37PM

Photo taken on December 23, 2017 at 04:37PM http://ift.tt/2C29Kow

the late night buskers

Gabriel


I was sitting in the woods one day with the idea in mind of writing up a little something. Perhaps something like a story, a narrative of sorts. The sky was a deep dark hue fading from the slowly lowering Sun, full of small wisps of cloud dancing over the cover of starlight just breaking through. It was a mild evening in June. At the beginning of a long journey, and I was content. The thing is though, I don’t write in a very linear fashion. I tend to be all over the place,. But I didn’t care. It was just for fun anyway. And hey if it’s not fun why do it right? As soon as I moved my hand over the page I thought of a million reasons to do something that isn’t fun. This is the story that came to me on that hot day for freedom. “Complicated isn’t it”, I thought .“This thing “life…”.

Anyway, lets get to it. The deal is there is this thing in my head. Some might call it a “character”. But the thing has no name that I know of so it is strange to label it as such. The thing is more of an idea. Yes An idea, as are all things nothing but ideas. Consider the soplopist’s argument that nothing but the self exists. There may be a world separate from the self but it is irrelevant. Our only knowledge of the outside world is gained through the senses, so blah blah blah blah blah and so on and so on and so forth etc etc etc. yakidee yak, don’t talk back right? Of course that would mean that all this shit your reading is actually in your head to begin with and what you’re doing now is making one of your own ideas manifest itself in the world (your world) in such a way that you can approach it objectively, like reading it on a page.. are you certain your not dreaming right now?… Anyway the point is, a world inside your head is just as valid, if not more so, than the world outside your head. And a character is an idea that helps to make up that inner world. For the moment you may consider this character I speak of to be called “Gabriel”. Why Gabriel? Because I like that name and I believe that it suits the nature of the idea., Angelic., Pure. It is in and of itself perfect.

Gabriel was a young boy of about nine or ten years. He had long dark brown hair tied back and somewhat knotted together. His eyes a dark piercing blue, that either saw straight into your soul or straight through you. I saw him in my mind’s eye looking at me, his face wondering but at the same time knowing. The boy has inherent wisdom revealed through the eyes to the keen observer. He’s a handsome boy with a wild look about him, but a steady gaze. He will grow to be a sorcerer, one who strives for the “source”. Many will call him the Magician of the Mountain. I got the impression that he had a gift with what many call “magic” from an early age.

It has been said that despite all evidence to the contrary, the universe is composed of entirely two substances: magic and bullshit. That is to say that from the perspective of the individual, any process sufficiently advanced is indistinguishable from magic. Since at root all things and all processes are infinitely advanced and complex, all things are therefor for all tense and purposes, magic.

Gabriel had another interesting quality. He seamed to have in him a vivid “memory” of things that seamed to have happened years before his birth. The nuns at the orphanage attributed it to an over active imagination. But sometimes his imagination was difficult to explain , considering his lack of worldly experience. He could describe real existing landscapes on the far side of the world with staggering detail. He seemed to know about historical figures before ever hearing about them, claiming to know them personally as he would a close friend or playmate.

The nuns at the orphanage first encountered Gabriel in the year 1995, he had been with them now for 3 years yet he looked exactly the same age as when he had first arived.





My apartment in Camrose was on 10th street, a five minute walk from downtown, next to the park. I often wandered up and down the paths of the giant open park smoking weed. I never went to the local tavern to get drunk. I drank at home. The locals wanted no part of me. I was always a bit of a loner., by my own design. I just don’t gel with most people. A bit too much of a different beat going on in my head.

I can remember the first time I smoked the sweet grass. Its was September 2000, my first year of college. I was heading our to the local dance bar in a desperate attempt to meet people. On the way I bumped into a guy I had just met by the name of Jason Hewitt. A tall lanky looking fella, a northern hick at first account. But he played the guitar, about as well as me, which wasn’t very well at all. We hit it off right away. Anyway, on the way to this bar we ran into each other. He asked me if I smoked, I said I didn’t. “no no” he said “do you smoke the ganj?” I said I did even though I never had before although was up to it. We walked behind the bar and sparked up the joint, at the same time sealing what would prove to be a long friendship. Both loners,. outcasts of sorts. People thought we we’re cool for some reason even though we both new we weren’t..

I had just moved to Camrose from my home town of Wetaskiwin, 30 minutes to the west. Believe me, it was a step up in the world. Wetaskiwin is a godforsaken hole no denying it. Camrose by comparison was like Venice Italy. The streets were clean, you didn’t feel as though you had to look over your shoulder every thirty seconds for fear of being randomly lynched by some crazy drunk gang.. No no, Camrose was a college town. Civilised, or at least innocent. That was what I thought when I first moved there, fresh from the nest.. I was there in the fall after graduating from high school. Lacking, as so many others did, any ambition of my own. Nothing to live or die for, no religion too. We had become the ironic fulfillment of the prophecy of our times. So I decided to stick with my spoon fed way of. life. I went to college! A year later some friends and I are moving into what will become known as “the house”.

Ahh the house. Probably the single greatest tangible testament to our time in Camrose. It was the closest house to the college. Literally one minute away. It was built in the forties, war time architecture. Two levels, the main floor and the basement. It had three bedrooms, one upstairs and two downstairs. I lived

I live in a detached world for the most part, I’m only really connected to one other person, Ashley. How did this happen? I can remember feeling attached or connected to lots of things, too many things. Things I loathed. Now as I grow closer to only one, the rest of the world fades, And I love it.

Steve lived in a basement under his buddy’s mom’s house. He had two pitbulls, one male and one female. Mates. Fine dogs, an intimidating sight, the two of them together. Each was on the end of a big long chainlink leash, and we’re talkin heavy chain. The male leash had a bitting collar, in that it drove nail like spikes into the neck of the creature, should it get hard to handle. I first met Steve the dealer through Jason Metcalf, An old An old old old friend of mine. I mean we were friends in fuckin kindergarten. And we maintained a friendship through the years. Even after I left my first school for some dumb reason. I moved through a fair number of schools in my youth. Hell, I’m still going through schools. It may in fact turn out to be one of the defining aspects of my life. You see I’m a Philosopher by trade. Teaching is my occupation, my “professional life”.
Anyway, back to Steve and his dogs. It was may 13 2002.. We were at the local Air cadets Annual Inspection. I had been an ex-cadet, or ex-pigeon, for just short of a year. Hell I was even still an air cadet in first year college. Even then the only thing I was still in it for was because I wanted to teach. Flying, Aeronautics, Navigation, Principles of Flight, Meteorology, and whatever other flying related courses I could dream up.


January 19th 2004 3:45am Golden BC

Here I am walking around on this strange night. Memories of home, eerie memories of home. Things done, things for good things forgotten Jason is the one who comes to mind. I remember specifically our easy friendship. It was always an easy friendship. It was a real friendship. There’s nothing that’ll happen or can happen that’ll really change that I don’t think. It’s a basic belief that once was, what once was, is eternal. Essentially every moment stretches into infinity.. our memory is our living manifestation of the past, in our minds where it counts the most.. where it influences what we’ve done. Its as though our experience, our total experiences is translated into a form that we can reflect upon into eternity. Since each moment is wandering



July 31st, 2003
Victoria British Columbia

The Late Night Buskers

Rousseau's Platonic Point...

 

Rousseau's point, in his Discourse on Inequality, is that the desire of amor propio, the desire the be esteemed and recognized and have your values respected and esteemed by those around you, is in fact a violent and uncontrollable passion. This passion is much like Plato's use of the Greek thumos, or anger; the passion that makes us burn with anger over perceived slights, and which drives us to sometimes risk our lives and even those of others to rectify what we perceive to be acts of injustice. And like Plato, Rousseau is interested in whether this passion may be redirected to the service of the public good by bringing it under the control of reason and compassion, or love, or perhaps empathy; to make Pride the servant of Virtue. Yet, despite such noble motives, we must remember history, and the consequences of righteuous pride. We must remember why wise men and women warn against its seduction, and the name which they have given it: deadly sin.

Raw material

How ought one approach life? From what stance should we face the world and everything in it? What is our goal?

For Epicureans, the end goal, the summum bonum, the good life, is happiness. Not justice, nor wisdom. Happiness is the first and final purpose of all our philosophy. The good life, the happy life, consists in the presence of pleasure and the absence of pain. But pleasure ought not be confused with the mere gratification of appetites. No, pleasure and absence of pain must be cultivated. The labour of care for the garden of our lives, cultivating the soil from which we ourselves are made - the raw material stuff of the universe.

"How do we care for others?" asked the young boy to his grandmother.
"By caring for ourselves" the old woman replied.
"But," said the boy, "How do we care for ourselves?"
Replied the old woman, "By caring for others, my child."

Hydrogen future

Hydrogen. The most abundant element in the universe and also the simplest, consisting of only one proton and one electron. I think everyone needs to know about this so check out this link:

The National Hyrdogen Association Frequently Asked Questions

We can move toward a hydrogen economy right now, with existing technologies. I really don't understand why this is not at the forefront of energy policy in Canada and the rest of the world.

Reasons why we ought to move to a hydrogen economy:

1.
It is realistically possible to meet all of our chemical fuel needs, which are currently supplied by oil, with hydrogen produced with electricity, which can in turn be produced with ZERO CO2 EMISSIONS. This means that if we completely implement a hydrogen based economy to replace the current oil based economy, then there will be no more pollution (unless you count pure clean water as pollution).

2.
A hydrogen economy would entail far greater stability than the current centralized grid system. electricity will be produced in a variety of ways locally and it will be used to produce hydrogen that can be piped nationally or even internationally. No more worrying about blackouts affecting entire regions or natural disasters affecting energy supply.

3.
Because electricity can be produced in a wide variety of ways and is not restricted to one source (like oil), energy will be freed from regional disparity. Energy will be much more equally available and abundant. This will in turn result in greater prosperity all over the globe, it may even be the key to overcoming poverty.

So we have a choice. Do we want:
clean, safe, and universal energy?
or
dirty, dangerous, regional energy?

Learning to Play in Wittgenstein's Tractatus Logico Philosophicus

Transcendence, Elucidation, and the Music of Wittgenstein’s Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus

6.54:

My propositions serve as elucidations in the following way: anyone who understands me eventually recognizes them as nonsensical, when he has used them – as steps – to climb up beyond them. (He must, so to speak, throw away the ladder after he has climbed up it.)

He must transcend these propositions, and then he will see the world aright.

A book on music theory could say something very similar: These passage serve as elucidations in the following way: anyone who understands them eventually recognizes that they are not musical scores, when s/he has used them – as steps – to climb up beyond them. (S/he must, so to speak, throw away the ladder after s/he has climbed up it.)

S/he must transcend/overcome/rise-up-through/learn-the-use-of music theory, and then s/he will be able to read/play music aright.

3.263:

The meanings of primitive signs can be explained by means of elucidations. Elucidations are propositions that contain the primitive signs. So they can only be understood if the meanings of those signs are already known.

The meanings of notes on a score can be explained by means of elucidations. Elucidations are propositions that show how the notation of the notes are used. But, the notation of the notes can only be understood if those notes are already known (and this can be done by playing the note on an instrument).

3.26:

A name cannot be dissected any further by means of a definition: it is a primitive sign.

A musical notation of a note cannot be dissected any further by means of a definition: it is a primitive sign.

3.3:

Only propositions have sense; only in the nexus of a proposition does a name have meaning.

Only scores can be played; only in the nexus of a score does the notation of a note have meaning.

3.221:

Objects can only be named. Signs are their representatives. I can only speak about them: I cannot put them into words. Propositions can only say how things are, not what they are.

Only aspects of music can be named. Musical notations are their representatives. I can only speak about them: I cannot put them into words. Scores can only say how a piece of music is played, not what piece of music is played.

3.22:

In a proposition a name is the representative of an object.

In a score a musical notation is the representative of an aspect of a piece of music.

3.144:

Situations can be described but not given names. (Names are like points; propositions like arrows – they have a sense.)

Pieces of music can be scored, but cannot themselves be musical notations. (musical notations of notes indicate keys on the keyboard; scores are like arrows insofar as they show the dirrection of a piece of music).

3.141:

A Proposition is not a blend of words. – (Just as a theme in music is not a blend of notes.)

A Proposition is articulate

A Score is not a blend of notes. – (Just as a sentence is not a blend of words.)

A Score is articulates the music, but it is not itself the music.

4.011:

At first sight a proposition – one set out on the printed page. For example – does not seem to be a picture of the reality with which it is concerned. But neither do written notes seem at first sight to be a picture of a piece of music, nor our phonetic notation (the alphabet) to be a picture of our speech.

And yet these sign-languages prove to be pictures, even in the ordinary sense, of what they represent.

4.013:

And if we penetrate to the essence of this pictorial character, we see that it is not impaired by apparent irregularities (such as the use of ♯ and♭ in musical notation).

For even these irregularities depict what they are intended to express; only they do it in a different way.

4.014:

A gramophone record, the musical idea, the written notes, and the sound-waves, all stand to one another in the same internal relation of depicting that holds between language and the world.

They are all constructed according to a common logical pattern.

(Like the two youths in the fairy-tale, their two horses, and their lilies. They are all in a certain sense one.)

4.0141:

There is a general rule by means of which the musician can obtain the symphony from the score, and which makes it possible to derive the symphony from the groove on the gramophone record, and, using the first rule, to derive the score again. That is what constitutes the inner similarity between these things which seem to be constructed in such entirely different ways. And that rule is the law of projection which projects the symphony into the language of musical notation. It is the rule for translating this language into the language of gramophone records.

The Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus is like a book on music theory. A Book on music theory tells you how to read and write music, employ and understand how to make use of musical notation, and sets out the basic rules of harmony. But a book on music theory is not itself a book of music, and it certainly is not itself music. It is about music. By analogy, the logic of the Tractatus is like the logic of music theory. And since only actual sheet music can be understood as reflecting actual music, so too only actual proper propositions can be understood as reflecting an actual state of affairs, that is, have sense. Propositions about the rules of propositions do not reflect actual states of affairs, they simply show one how to go about making propositions that in fact do actually reflect actual states of affairs. Back to the music analogy, music theory does not reflect any actual music; rather, it shows how one can go about writing music (by musical notation) that in fact does actually reflect actual music. Let me put it this way: If I ask a pianist to play me a piece of music, and I put in front of him a book on music theory, the pianist will respond that my request of him to play the book of music theory is nonsensical. But if I put in front of him a piece of sheet music of say Beethoven’s Fur Elise, then there is no confusion. It makes sense to play the sheet music, but it doesn’t make sense to play the book of music theory.

In the analogy, the book on music theory is the Tractatus (or any philosophical work) because it simply elucidates how to use musical notation in order to play music. The propositions of natural science on the other hand are sheet music; they have sense. But one cannot play the music depicted by the sheet music if one has no grasp of musical theory (if one does not know the meaning/use of the musical notation). Therefore, the pianist must first learn the music theory, s/he must learn to read the music learn what it means in practice (i.e. the note ‘middle C’ means push the C key in the middle of the keyboard).

Furthermore, one must throw away the ladder that is the book of music theory before one can ever really get down to playing the music. The pianist must first learn the theory, but to play the actual music s/he must transcend the theory, must let it recede to the background, in order to play the music aright.

The world is a musical phenomenon. It is all rhythm and melody, pitch and timbre, and above all feeling. Everything is vibrations of the self, the out-flowing of consciousness in a grand creative joyful jam session.

What Wittgenstein fails to account for, to push the music analogy, is jazz. That is; on the fly riding the wave group music, the energy that is the essence of truly great music that arises by virtue of the positive feedback effect between performer(s) and audience. This is something that no musical notation can capture, and cannot be adequately explained; it must be experienced. This is the mystical. Of course knowledge of the logic of music and musical notation/theory is likely a necessary condition for even getting to the point where such a mystical musical experience is possible, but nevertheless it cannot be expressed. I guess that means we must be silent about it. But we must point to it, since it is the very core of true music. True music can be felt in the silence that follows it. The silence is deafening. It is the silence not only of the notes, but of the audience; nay of the entire universe. It is the mystical silence of reverence. When we come together to play music and to have a good time and all that entails, we are playmates with God, creating out of creation.

windows

DJ.SPOCK

my logic is sound. my codes are flawless.

don't you realize?

that

you

,

right here

,

and right now

,

are sitting smack in 

the middle of the beatific vision?

computer analysis of the network of citations in a university library

The most contemptible thing

The most contemptible thing about dreams is that everyone has them. The delivery boy who dozes against the lamppost in between deliveries is thinking about something in his darkened mind. I know what he's thinking about: the very same things into which I plummet, between one and another ledger entry, in the summer tedium of the stock-still office.

-Bernardo Soares

Strange, indeed, that you should not have suspected...

For as much as a year Satan continued these visits, but at last he came less often, and then for a long time he did not come at all. This always made me lonely and melancholy. I felt that he was losing interest in our tiny world and might at any time abandon his visits entirely. When one day he finally came to me I was overjoyed, but only for a little while. He had come to say good-by, he told me, and for the last time. He had investigations and undertakings in other corners of the universe, he said, that would keep him busy for a longer period than I could wait for his return.

"And you are going away, and will not come back any more?"

"Yes," he said. "We have comraded long together, and it has been pleasant – pleasant for both; but I must go now, and we shall not see each other any more."

"In this life, Satan, but in another? We shall meet in another, surely?"

Then, all tranquilly and soberly, he made the strange answer, "There is no other."

 

A subtle influence blew upon my spirit from his, bringing with it a vague, dim, but blessed and hopeful feeling that the incredible words might be true – even must be true.

"Have you never suspected this, Theodor?"

"No. How could I? But if it can only be true – "

"It is true."

A gust of thankfulness rose in my breast, but a doubt checked it before it could issue in words, and I said, "But – but – we have seen that future life  seen it in its actuality, and so – "

  

"It was a vision  it had no existence."

I could hardly breathe for the great hope that was struggling in me. "A vision? – a vi – "

"Life itself is only a vision, a dream."

It was electrical. By God! I had had that very thought a thousand times in my musings!

"Nothing exists; all is a dream. God  man  the world  the sun, the moon, the wilderness of stars – a dream, all a dream; they have no existence. Nothing exists save empty space – and you!"

  

"I!"

"And you are not you  you have no body, no blood, no bones, you are but a thought. I myself have no existence; I am but a dream -- your dream, creature of your imagination. In a moment you will have realized this, then you will banish me from your visions and I shall dissolve into the nothingness out of which you made me....

"I am perishing already  I am failing  I am passing away. In a little while you will be alone in shoreless space, to wander its limitless solitudes without friend or comrade forever – for you will remain a thought, the only existent thought, and by your nature inextinguishable, indestructible. But I, your poor servant, have revealed you to yourself and set you free. Dream other dreams, and better!

"Strange! that you should not have suspected years ago  centuries, ages, eons, ago! – for you have existed, companionless, through all the eternities. Strange, indeed, that you should not have suspected that your universe and its contents were only dreams, visions, fiction! Strange, because they are so frankly and hysterically insane – like all dreams: a God who could make good children as easily as bad, yet preferred to make bad ones; who could have made every one of them happy, yet never made a single happy one; who made them prize their bitter life, yet stingily cut it short; who gave his angels eternal happiness unearned, yet required his other children to earn it; who gave his angels painless lives, yet cursed his other children with biting miseries and maladies of mind and body; who mouths justice and invented hell – mouths mercy and invented hell – mouths Golden Rules, and forgiveness multiplied by seventy times seven, and invented hell; who mouths morals to other people and has none himself; who frowns upon crimes, yet commits them all; who created man without invitation, then tries to shuffle the responsibility for man's acts upon man, instead of honorably placing it where it belongs, upon himself; and finally, with altogether divine obtuseness, invites this poor, abused slave to worship him!...

"You perceive, now, that these things are all impossible except in a dream. You perceive that they are pure and puerile insanities, the silly creations of an imagination that is not conscious of its freaks -- in a word, that they are a dream, and you the maker of it. The dream-marks are all present; you should have recognized them earlier.

"It is true, that which I have revealed to you; there is no God, no universe, no human race, no earthly life, no heaven, no hell. It is all a dream  a grotesque and foolish dream. Nothing exists but you. And you are but a thought – a vagrant thought, a useless thought, a homeless thought, wandering forlorn among the empty eternities!"

He vanished, and left me appalled; for I knew, and realized, that all he had said was true.

Honour is a gift a man gives himself

Father, will McGregors ever be kings again?

All men with honour are kings, but not all kings have honour.

What is honour?

Honour is what no man can give you and none can take away. Honour is a gift man gives himself.

Do women have it?

Women are the heart of honour, and we cherish and protect it in them. You must never mistreat a woman or malign a man, nor stand by and see another do so.

How do you know if you have it?

Never worry on the getting of it. It grows in you and speaks to you. All you need do is listen.

-Raibeart Ruadh MacGregor

Homer in the moonlight

Since I have nothing to do and nothing to think about doing, I'm going to describe my ideal on this sheet of paper -

The sensibility of Mallarme in the style of Vieira; to dream like Verlaine in the body of Horace; to be Homer in the moonlight.

To feel everything in every way; to be able to think with the emotions and feel with the mind; not to desire much except with the imagination; to suffer with haughtiness; to see clearly so as to write accurately; to know oneself through diplomacy and dissimulation; to become naturalized as a different person, with all the necessary documents; in short, to use all sensations but only on the inside, peeling them all down to God and then wrapping everything up again and putting it back in the shop window like the sales assistant I can see from here with the small tins of a new brand of shoe polish.

All these ideals, possible or impossible, now end. Now I face reality, which isn't even the sales assistant (whom I don't see), only his hand, the absurd tentacle of a soul with a family and a fate, and it twists like a spider without a web putting back tins of polish in the window.

And one of the tins fell, like the Fate of us all.

- Bernardo Soares

What is Grass?

Nosce Te Ipsum

The old woman gives you a cookie and points to the cross-stiched sign that hangs above the kitchen door.

"It means, 'Know Thyself'", she says, drawing a cigarette from the pack she pulls from her apron pocket.

"The thing is," she pauses to strike a match, lighting her cigarette, inhaling slowly, "you never know, do you?". She exhales, the smoke casting a blue aura over the kitchen table at which she has seated herself heavily.

You blink, look away, out the open kitchen window. The sunlight casting slight shadows on the old sink and floor through the whisps of smoke. "Why am I here?"

"Ahh, yes well. If I told you that, you'd already know, wouldn't you?"

You look at her, a confused line crossing your face.

She leans back in her chair and looks up at you. "So why are you here?"

"I don't know. I don't remember. I was walking down the street, walking home. Then I opened the door and....I.....uh......."

"Go on, eat your cookie. Maybe it'll help."

"It's weird. I don't really remember getting here. Am I in the wrong place? Oh god, I'm sorry, I must have been completely lost in thought or something and wandered in, oh I'm so sorry. I should go..."

"No, no. Stay. It's alright. I like the company."

"But I'm not supposed to be here."

"Then where are you supposed to be?"

"I.....I.....can't seem to......", you look around, behind you through the kitchen door. It leads out into a living room. "I just can't seem to remem.......sorry I just....I"

"Hey there, don't worry about it. The only place to be right now is where you are, right now. And don't worry about that old sign, I just like the way it looks over the door there. Don't take it seriously."

"Who are you?"

"Well, that depends I suppose, on who you are."

You feel a bit dizzy, keep looking around, over your shoulder, out the window, back to the old woman smoking her cigarette at the kitchen table. "But I....I should be...."

"Look hon, don't worry about it. Why don't you sit down and eat your cookie. We'll talk awhile and get you all straightened out. I promise."

You look around again, then move to the chair opposite her, pull it out and sit, awkwardly.

"Go on, take a bite. I promise you'll like it, and by the time your done you'll feel right as rain."

You look at the cookie in your hand, raise it to your mouth, and take a bite.

Willy Wonka quotes poetry

One of my favorite lines comes from a nineteenth century poet named O'Shaughnessy. The poem is an Ode from O'Shaughnessy's Music and Moonlight. In the movie Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, with Gene Wilder, Wonka quotes the first two lines.

 . , . , . , . , . , . , . , . , . , .

We are the music makers,

And we are the dreamers of dreams,

Wandering by lone sea-breakers,

And sitting by desolate streams;

World-losers and world-forsakers,

On whom the pale moon gleams:

Yet we are the movers and shakers

Of the world for ever, it seems

We, in the ages lying,

In the buried past of the earth,

Built Nineveh with our sighing,

And Babel itself in our mirth;

And o'erthrew them with prophesying,

To the old of the new world's worth

One man with a dream, at pleasure,

Shall go forth and conquer a crown;

And three with a new song's measure,

Can trample a kingdom down

Great hail! we cry to the comers

From the dazzling unknown shore;

Bring us hither your sun and your summers;

And renew our world as of yore;

You shall teach us your song's new numbers,

And things that we dreamed not before:

Yea, in spite of a dreamer who slumbers,

And a singer who sings no more