The past nine years in San Diego have represented such a period of questioning.
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If the work of art is to continue pursuing the vision of both being in and of the world but nevertheless in some fashion being more than just one more object to the mounting clutter, this is the specific point, I think, where this must be assured.
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By reason of weird translation, many such sets of instructions read like poems anyhow.
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I frequently compose out the entire metric structure of a piece in modified cyclic form, where each cyclic revolution undergoes some form of 'variation' much as if measure lengths were concrete musical 'material.'
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This was possible only by dint of extended periods of frequently quite painful reflection and digestion.
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If nothing is at risk, nothing is established.
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There would seem to be a limit, even for an art preoccupied with boundaries and transgressions, beyond which a work reaches its breaking point and becomes an actual failure, a mere experimentation.
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It is still true that it is easier to compose a poem in the form of a manual for adjusting a VCR than it is to write a piece using just tuning as a symphony.
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So: we're all tired. Now what? Manuscripts written in Club Med?