As one imagines the good exerted into an abstract form, so it bends, warps and coagulates into multitudinous dimensions. It sets, quivers and becomes a coherent structure. The medium however does not matter as beauty – the projection of the good – is solidified. Thus, when it enters one’s ears, that most noble of openings, it allows itself to press its fingers into the mind, bracketed off by the skull of impertinence. It reaches and tugs away at the transgressions one affirms through the reality of discord – because noise is nothing but notes that have yet to be notated. Thus, gathered up, the different noises of the world are set to a horizon of beauty and the dawn of comprehension sets their shadows racing. This is the pleasure of harmonies, chord-progressions, off-beats, time-signatures. If the ultimate place of beauty, some Utopia in an abstract domain, had gates it surely would have to be opened by singing into its locks; if the grounds were paved, they would be covered the most beautiful sound in the world: the harmonised, human voice. As the hands of music close our eyes and touch our lips and enter our veins to pump the heart of the good, so it begins to let our feet walk on a path toward the numinous. A path and never a destination. The pleasure of music is that it might be our universe squeezed into a fist of comprehension, sifted into the auditory nerves, and thus made manifest in the smile and tears that creep across our face as the final chord rings.
The idols of our self-assurance are made of the bones of dead ideas and tightened by the skin of irrationality. Kneeling before it, we mumble mantras in “a defense of custom” as Tom Paine highlighted. Sharp, new, edged weapons of reason must not touch the flammable wooden god before whom we bow. His shadow falls over us and we defend him, even while the light swings and his shadow flies away. The acquisition of knowledge and the usage of cool reason is almost unheard of to many – instead of embracing the open landscape, leading into unknown avenues in their own imagination, most would cling to the idol, who is tethered by fraying ropes to their own fading dreams.
A grand miasma of powerful thought that is emptied by the vacuum of the inexplicable. God is used when nothing greater will serve or can be thought of. More often, the latter is the case, since we can now contemplate more compassionate, more beautiful and more beneficent entities than the god of the bible. “God” – A large word, often used by the juvenile mind, when it attempts and thus fails to convey wonder by cohering with the juvenile explanations of the juvenile years of our species.
Those who say “life is beautiful” are as fearful as those men who admire a lovely woman from afar, whilst music plays and the dance floor is clear. Instead, it is necessary to take her by the hand, lead her deftly on to the floor, surround yourself with the silence of an audience, and prepare a dance toward an unknowable end. This is the only way to lead ones life and it should serve to remind us that other suitors would sooner have our life in their hands, rather than see it foisted pragmatically within our own.