Where is there a more insistent form than rhythm? O we strive to keep with it, weave our dance steps into it or around it, but nonetheless in concert with it, we have people with batons who mark it for us and who yell themselves red in the face if the rhythm is in any way disregarded or not observed; we have both fascinatingly manual and electronic machines that keep it for us, since we cannot count upon ourselves to keep rhythm properly. Man is an inexact creature. We strive within reason to be on the beat. We even get happy feet. Or happy anything else, if we can't get to our feet just at the right moment.
A highly-regarded work of lyric poetry flawlessly imitates a set rhythm while extolling the virtues of the unspeakable.
The universe was said to be constructed of flawless rhythmic intervals. Rhythm is unforgiving, it plows on without you, will not wait for you to understand or follow, it is a Golem perpetual motion machine in theory, once started ever forward, its only goal to maintain itself, its reason its own existence.
To find rhythm requires thought.
To follow it requires abandon.
It is weirdly freeing, in that it replaces some sense of consciousness, and in that abandon when the rhythm really carries you, you cease to think. That is, one can suddenly find oneself looking at oneself from the outside; or, conversely one can find oneself lost in the rhythm, a more internal release. In either case, it seems that the rhythm replaces or even displaces the consciousness of you; you exceed your form. "Freed" by the music, which both accentuates and masks the rhythm, to dance or to float, to sense a formlessness divorcing you from the banal. Through the most insistent form, formlessness.
I know this O I know this yes, and when I cannot exceed my form--which is my consciousness--I replace it with Corelli's baseline; I replace it with "Runnin up that Hill;" I replace it with the musical representation of the rhythm of a washing machine, or a commercial jingle; I replace it with ancient airs and dances. I cease to be Jayne proper and am released into Jayne's instinct, for I suppose that form of name never dissolves entirely; but in fact there is a set of regulated appeals that means "Jayne" and so in that formless moment I become more like Jayne than I ever am otherwise, and no one will ever see that side of me.
It is nevertheless an administered abandon, or I could never write about it.
I live in fear of my own mind.