‘Piet-Jan van Rossum liet in zijn ‘Achtjes rennend rood hondje’ een naïef melodietje zo onverzettelijk doorgaan dat het iets krankzinnigs kreeg.’
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Section, ouverture or prologue of a larger work about phantom images and sightless staring. About a state that surfaces when one relaxes after a long day’s work. Something to do with the phantom-operations the mind performs without intervention from the will. Operations one cannot control. Memories, associations that come out of the blue and randomly regroup into something else. A train hurtling on and on, not past landscapes, but across a white sheet of paper.
Here and there, images scattered out of context. A Swiss woman reading numbers out loud. A gramophone recording of a theatre organ. Old work, fragments from the most recent pieces. Or a few sentences from an article of that day’ s newspaper. The trucks driving on the narrow road past the house.
And whistling. Because a bit of thoughtless whistling is the ultimate way to do nothing, usually with the mind elsewhere.
The piece roams around a progression of 25 chords, out of which a melodic line is distilled (of 4 x 25 notes). All this happening in the head, because I see little.
It was a dream I sometimes had as a child: driving off the landscape and the map across a silent, white paper surface further and further away. No longer trying to make sense, just observing. And only a cow appearing now and then. Not the mindless ruminant, but a mysterious sort of Godchild.
The little red dog running eight-figures is with the slanted man who stands in the garden day and night, at a 45 degree angle, as if frozen in a sideways fall. Whoever was confused had to draw eights, lemniscates, to realign the unruly pathways of the mind. The little dog isn’t confused; possibly, the man he runs around is. It is a bright red little dog.