Another phantom rule – it is unknown who invented it – that can embitter the act of writing, and who knows if something else, to people of obedient nature, is that idea that circulates around that repeating words is bad. Repeating words is a crucial tool, a life-giving hammer. Repeating words is the heartbeat, of course, the metric of breathing, the simple act of walking as long as the body endures. Repetition, as everyone knows, is a natural resource of human speech or the song of birds that it would be foolish to waste, to submit to the rules of perverse minds, cooked in their cranial cavern. How much individualized resentment, what loneliness, poor guy, whoever invented, one bad afternoon, that intimidating pseudo-norm against repetition. The ditty that perhaps corrodes the spirit of a beardless young writer, who faces blank paper, and buries a trembling thread -perhaps her own voice- under pompous synonyms, for the eagerness to obey this vague principle of authority . Be careful – echoes in her head – repeating words is a bad writer.
What would this very night be, if Keith Jarrett had controlled himself when he improvised the mythical The Köln concert on the piano and his hands found this deep chord like the sea, this soft and penetrating sound that he still repeats feverishly, once and again and thirty more, whatever, like merged with the cosmos or something, to connect with this kind of oceanic emotion that helps us breathe.