Dickinson College Humanities Program in Norwich

The beauty hit us.

Like waves against

the stones of the shore upon which the fiddler, the architect, played.

It gave way to

                  whimsical

      terror

                  and with each turn

of a page or corner,

we discovered that

only a new anguished horror awaited us.

Variably, precision melted,

moaned away

into            l     e        g          a             t                o                       s      l       u           r             s

of

terse

vibrations

and

amorphous design. The crashing dissonance           hit us,

poured over us and into our eyes and ears,

unwinding         the         tendrils

of muscle which control

                                          perception and jamming

the cogs

       which regulate a finely-tuned, mechanical reality.

                                   Amidst the breakdown stood a man.        He stood

alone, crazed and removed

and moving

       erratically, creating

buildings and music and life in the midst of chaos.

This sound, this place, is chaos.

Can sound not be

[a place]

? We were told that art is. How can you argue that

this is not art?