Preface: Cage's journal was recovered in his place of residence following his death in 1992. Despite some destruction and wear of the notes, many of the entries were still legible and have been transcribed below.
Another day, another moment of my life gone but for these damned compositions. I can't figure it out, at a precipice. I think I'm losing sight of my own interests in the music, the passion. The notes and the silences together in harmony. I reminisce to a point where I once avoided the egotistical nature of popular music, the repetition, the stagnancy. Not to mention a little horror of the void.
Still, my pieces seem to be drifting toward the main, that rhythm of ego, hackneyed and useless. I have no feeling for this harmony. I remember when Schönberg said that to make great compositions, you must have the harmony. He didn't think I had it in me. He said, 'You'll come to a wall you won't be able to get through.' So I said to him, 'I'll dedicate my life to beating my head against that wall.'
Yet, where am I now? Maybe I will succumb to that barrier and stay on this side, forever. I think must look for harmony elsewhere. Not the harmony of the ego. Something else. The harmony of nature, perhaps?
[The next thirty-four pages involve handwritten music notation, most of which have been crossed out or unfinished. The following page bears a sketch of a nautilus shell.]
I think I've got it. It's in the math. The mathematics of the universe, truly the greatest harmony. Intrinsic, ubiquitous language spoken in rhythms of equations and axioms. I will find my sound, and my comfort, among these numbers, like reveries, veins in the leaves around us. Branching off into infinity. Why must I meet so much resistance from my peers? I never understood man's fear of new ideas. Still, they'll see. I just need to find the material, that essence from which I can extract my sounds and silences and put them to patterns.
A man I knew from long ago spoke in passing to me, after I relented to him my burdens of finding sound in the patterns of nature. He mentioned something of hexagrams, which I know nothing of. Looked into it further—it's a six-pointed star. Not sure what that means. Maybe I will roll a die a hundred thousand times. The almost-randomness would be a comfort to me. Not as much as true randomness, should it exist; I'd prefer to remain in fluxus. Not everything needs a purpose. To have purpose in this universe would be—is arduous.
[Fourteen pages of music notation, some abandoned, some torn out or damaged from time. Several drawings of Platonic solids occupy the space in the corners of the pages.]
There is power in the numbers. It's hazy, but I'm getting there. It intrigues me. Surely something in the math, something in the shapes, perhaps? Those shapes… make up everything? These are the core tenets of the physical universe, yes? This most basic of structures. It has to be what makes up the infinite nature of everything. That true chaos, with beautiful, screaming quiet and random things that dot an ocean of endlessness. Novel, forever.
But—is this truly it? Are the building blocks of the universe the most intrinsically chaotic harmony? Solids are solids, but nature is unpredictable, flowing, eroding. After all, what are we but just entropic forces? We will all slowly unwind into our own still randomness. Chaos. Beautiful, beautiful chaos. And then silence.
I think—I think I am just cracking my skull against that wall once more. It certainly feels like I am. Something is still missing.
I've composed a new piece, Music of Changes. I tried the randomness, and the math. What happens may come. I am saying nothing more on the subject. That is how poetry works.
Christian showed me the I Ching today, it is brilliant! Absolutely brilliant. How ignorant I was, for this book is filled with hexagrams as well, of a different variety. The numbers and the shapes. This is the language of sound, of Everything.
I asked a local woodworker, this nondescript man whose time spent molding trees into treens left his hands a mass of bloodied calluses, to craft me a keepsake from one of those shapes I was researching. His shop was modest, reeked of lacquer and something I couldn't put my finger on. Still, the tchotchkes and figurines that littered the shelves captivated me, even more so that the man simply nodded at my request and held up five fingers. No greater than five minutes later he dropped a wooden dodecahedron in my hand, roughly the size of a cherry, perfect for carrying in my pocket. The vertices and faces of the totem were sharp and straight, clearly the result of expert craftsmanship. It was warm to the touch, and even hours later I could swear it persists. In my palm, the shape feels right. Nearly perfect. Nearly.
[A number of other recursive sketches are seen in the next six pages, with very little focus on compositions themselves. A few failed attempts at highly detailed fractal patterns are present, some religious iconography and geometry, particularly Metatron's Cube is seen several times, drawn with varying accuracy.]
Silence is not acoustic. It is simply a change of mind.
But what lies between the gaps in the silence? Quieter silence? Does the quiet not have its own sound? Like white noise, things and spaces, filled in with smaller things and spaces, extending outward, forever. Yet never truly progressing. Going nowhere. Is that where I am going? Changes did nothing for me, in the end. I felt close. So close. But not close enough.
This aural experiment, this maddening labyrinth of passable cacophony. I feel more in tune with where I want to go, but I am too confused to know how to get there.
The backlash I've been receiving was expected. Unconventional does not imply a lack of talent. Still, it hurts a bit. My totem brings me comfort, though it does not bring me inspiration through shapes. It feels like something else. Like it isn't futile. Only sleep for now, worry about tomorrow, tomorrow.
[EXTRANEOUS ENTRIES REMOVED]
An strange thing happened to me today. A man I have never met approached me on the street and commended my work. I'm not new to having fans—even if they are few and far between at the moment. This fellow seemed different, eclectic. Odd attire, but a comforting gaze. Green eyes. I don't remember his face.
He said something to the effect of 'Music should continue to evolve towards the composer's vision, not the audience's. Wouldn't you agree?' His tone was odd and unreadable, but the next phrase rang out with purpose.
'You have the power to create great things. Your music will beckon worlds.'
It isn't my purpose to be the best. I have no purpose. I like it that way. Yet, the words are etched into my memory. What did he mean by beckoning worlds? I only know of one.
I expressed my frustrations at the lack of new ideas, new experiments. He laughed and said that 'When all is lost, look to the stars'. I looked away for a second and he was gone, like leaves in the breeze. That's okay, they usually don't ask for autographs.
A side note—he had this pendant on his neck. I remember it quite well. It too was of a star, made of a glimmering green stone. Darker than the man's eyes, but a strangely enthralling piece in contrast to his blank stares. I would guess it to be jade, probably more valuable than my career itself.
His presence put me in a funk. My head has been cloudy. Once the clouds clear, maybe I will take a look at the night sky. Can't hurt, right?
[EXTRANEOUS/DAMAGED ENTRIES REMOVED]
It is in the stars. It has to be. I spent a month pondering, researching into constellations, on the brink, I began to notice the connections. I am ecstatic. My excitement was not diminished, despite my colleagues' inability to perceive patterns, hah!
I look at the night sky and all I see are infinite possibilities in infinite directions. As the world turns I see more and more. 'When all is lost, look to the stars'. It reverberates within me. Between those points of light lie vast silence. Points, like notes on a canvas, painted by an artist using light and dark alone.
I'll take a map of the night sky, derive notes from the placement of these stars. That'll do it. An atlas of the sky will lead me home.
[The next four pages involve attempts at matching star systems with notes. Many are scratched out, but the last two pages have legible sheet notation.]
I've done it. I've cracked the code, so to speak. The stars speak to me in a way I cannot form into words, and my notation flows without effort. I know what to write, when to write it. I hear the notes in my head, I don't even need to touch the piano. Everything has clicked into place.
I've barricaded myself in here aside from trips for food. I need to finish this. Thank you, atlas. I'll dedicate this composition to you.
[The next eighty-six pages involve odd notations and sketches of constellations.]
Atlas Eclipticalis is finished. I had dedicated parts of it to some friends, colleagues, and the stars themselves. Despite my efforts, my work was not well received, again and I haven't even heard back from ████ or ██████ ████████ with their usual unconstructive criticisms. I hope my oddities did not scare them off, hah!
oh, I ran into that strange fellow I had encountered last year on my way to the market. He applauded me on my work and said something or other that I didn't quite catch. I heard no words, but it probably had to do with purpose. I ignored it. My eyes kept being drawn to the glint of the stone on his neck. A perfect five points encased in deep, deep green. Staring at it made my head spin, so I thanked him and went on my way. Didn't see much of his face again, although I remember that his lips were wry for a moment, or two, before he left my presence. That bothered me. It wasn't what bothered me the most though.
Those five points still puncture my mind, their hooks or tendrils are wound deep within my psyche.
[EXTRANEOUS ENTRIES REMOVED]
████ is dead. They said he was found cold at his piano. Cardiac arrest, they think. At least he died where he loved most. He was a good man.
They said he had my notes on the stand. Poor fellow. Probably took one look at my debauchery and keeled over.
Well, I'm still at it, ████. Sorry, my late friend, my music must go on.
[The next thirty-three pages involve more of the same notation, as well as what appears to be constellations that coincide to no known systems in our observable universe.]
Years ago I said the notes of the stars flowed freely, like a river. I said I never had to touch the piano because I felt an almost symbiotic relationship with my muse. It doesn't feel that way anymore. The notes surge through my brain, faster than I can catch sometimes. They come in like orders. I'm tired. I'm trying. I'm sorry.
Freeman Études? Why on Earth would I name it that? Who is the free one here? What is your plan, for this, for me? No, I shouldn't ask questions. This purpose is bigger than me. Bigger than everyone.
And I hate purpose.
[The next one hundred and twelve pages are comprised of complex notations and a series of cognitohazardous symbols. Exposure to these symbols causes extreme production of dopamine within the brain, as well as increased comprehension of astronomy and a profound fascination with the lifecycle of celestial objects. This effect dissipates over the course of a few hours unless subjects are exposed again.]
I don't know why I was so worried. The sky makes sense again. And you know my woodworking friend, the one that made me the dodecahedron? Turns out he was the fellow I met at the market. Or, rather, knew for years! I knew he seemed so familiar. He's become a quieter fellow than I remember, but I'm sure our kinship is still re-ignitable. There are only coincidences in this world, never fates, and that is good. Made it all the more special.
It was confirmed today when he dropped by and gave me another wooden shape. It almost caught my eye more than the jade, but it wasn't until he left that I could actually take a good look at it.
It's perfect. Similar to mine, but with these lovely points protruding from where the pentagonal faces of the former lay. I think he called it stelated[sic]? It doesn't matter. The shape filled the space in my palm my old totem created, and more. The points were sharper than I was expecting, and when my hand squeezed around the thing, I felt something… Strange. Strange but good. Confident. I like the pentagon, five is a good number. Five.
[Twenty pages of the notebook are torn or damaged to the point of illegibility]
Please. My fingers hurt. My hands are tired. My flllllrrrr
[Eighteen more pages have been removed haphazardly. Flecks of blood appear on what remains. Notations are indecipherable. The remaining entry is almost illegible.]
Boreales was more than just music. I can't beflrbelieve what a fool I've been. Thli The notes flow no more. My head is hollow. I thought I was making my own, but it was [indecipherable]. I was being fed. My plrPURPOSE. All I did was take a bunch of random dots and connect them. But I wasn't using the map, I was mki plr making the map. The mapS. The music made the roads. And now it knows how to get here. All that is left is the tlei obr fl rei plr tlei myr. And itss all my flaut.