in time of daffodils (who know
the goal of living is to grow)
forgetting why, remember how

in time of lilacs who proclaim
the aim of waking is to dream,
remember so (forgetting seem)

in time of roses(who amaze
our now and here with paradise)
forgetting if, remember yes

in time of all sweet things beyond
whatever mind may comprehend
remember seek (forgetting find)

and in a mystery to be
(when time from time shall set us free)
forgetting me, remember me          (ee cummings)

The Hybrid Genre,  Wraetlicu Wyrd, or Wondrously Strange, that most ambitious ruin, lies sprawled across my past, testament to a time when every chance encounter seemed significant, when life and art were wound in a magic braid.  The result is a work  spun out of control that I could neither satisfactorily complete nor dismiss.

                                                Synopsis

Caedmon, a composer and pianist, has been awakened to the existence of his immortal soul. In Act One, by various means, he strives to coax it from hiding and strengthen it.  Sophy aids him in his quest, providing practical wisdom.  She is also a storehouse of legends on the subject of immortality, and functions as story-teller.  Child-mimes enact her tales with the assistance of the shadowy Stage-hand.  Caedmon is also assisted by Calliope, his Tutelary Spirit, a visionary who expresses herself mainly through poetry and song. 

In Act Two Caedmonˈs dreams pull the action out of his control.  and the hybrid genre breaks loose from its formal bounds.  Unforseen but fortuitous events conspire to bring about an apparition of that which was sought - but at a price the artist had never imagined.

**********************************************************************************************************************

It is my hope, in the time to come, to add more excerpts - songs, snippets of dialogue, ensemble pieces, and Anglo-Saxon riddles (such as the one whose opening line forms the basis of our title) - so as gradually to give a fuller sense of this work.  But it seems somehow fitting that this asymptotic extravaganza should remain unperformed and incomplete, like the Mysterium of Alexander Scriabin which it invokes.