Life deals us things we didn’t choose — chance, opportunity, disruption. In this piece, I use that same wild randomness to create music. Cards with music notes on them are shuffled. Notes are drawn. A piece is spontaneously created. No editing, no safety net—only the present moment answering the call. What emerges is part ritual, part experiment, part meditation on how we meet the unknown. This is the Musical Oracle: where chance becomes a voice, and response becomes art.
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william
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Introducing the Musical Oracle —
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The Voice and the Ink
Once, in a quiet part of the world
where rivers ran backwards
and the stars could be heard humming in the dark,
there lived two souls
who loved each other
but often could not understand one another.One spoke in Voice,
strong and alive.She could speak truths on the wind,
shape feeling with tone,
charm birds down from trees
just by the way she laughed.Her words danced like fireflies—
bright, quick,
full of life.The other spoke in Ink.
His truths came slowly,
like spring water from stone.He needed silence to gather them,
space to find the shape of what he truly meant.But when he wrote,
it was as if the page became a mirror
that showed the soul itself—
honest, aching, luminous.They loved each other
as best they could.But when the days were heavy
or the heart was full,
their difference became a wall.“Speak to me!” said Voice.
“Say what you feel. Right here. Right now.”“I’m trying,” said Ink,
“but I lose it when I speak.
My words run away like startled deer.If you’ll let me write—
just for a little—
I can give you something truer.”It wasn’t from fear.
He would have spoken fire if he could.
But for him, words took time—
like stars forming slowly in the dark.“That’s not real,” she said.
“Real is what’s spoken.”And so the deeper truths remained unsaid.
The Voice felt abandoned.
The Ink felt unseen.
And silence grew between them—
not the good kind.One night, in despair,
Ink wandered into the forest,
asking no one in particular:“What do you do
when the way you can speak
is not the way you’re allowed to?”The wind answered.
Or maybe it was the firelight.
It said:
“Some are born to speak aloud.
Some are born to speak in silence.
The true miracle is not in the speaking.
The miracle is in the hearing.”The next morning, Ink returned.
He handed her a story—
not long,
but heavy with truth.“This is not to replace our voices,” he said.
“Only to open the door to them.”She read it.
When she finished, her voice was quiet—
not angry, not cold.
Just tired.“I don’t know how to get through to you,” she said.
“I don’t, either,” he said.
And that was all.They sat together in the hush that followed—
not holding hands,
not looking away,
just breathing in the stillness between them,
where something was missing
and something was real.Outside, the wind moved gently through the branches,
stirring nothing but the fading leaves of autumn. -
The Atlas of the Human Heart
A cartographer mapped the heart with perfect precision.
Then a visitor arrived — full of feelings that didn’t fit on her page.
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The Shepherd of Souls
Once upon a time there was a shepherd named Lior,
who lived happily in the mountains
with his wife and young son.Their life was simple and hard.
Yet they had each other,
and their sheep,
and the mountains and valleys were so beautiful —
beautiful beyond words.
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The Wayward Gift
A tale of mercy, betrayal, and the mysterious ways grace unfolds.
A young woman’s kindness is repaid with treachery… yet what she loses becomes a blessing in unseen hands.
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The Luminous Moon
This video is an experiment in piano four-hands. Normally, for piano four-hands, two players sit at one piano, with one playing the high part and the other the low.
Instead, here I video myself playing each part — one at a time — and then combine them.
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The Quirky Blacksmith
A GrailHeart story.
The village blacksmith was
a man of steady heat and hand.
With a few quirks no one quite understood.
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As Above, So Also Below — A Musical Ambigram
Music, like the cosmos, has its hidden symmetries.
Turn it over, and it tells you the same truth – yet not the same.
Right becomes left, above becomes below,
but the song still breathes.
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Branches Longing for Birds
(Poem & Music)
There is a kind of longing that does not chase.
It does not run or reach.
It simply stretches — quietly, openly
— toward the possibility of something unseen.Like branches.
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The Listening Light
I stepped into the old stone chapel,
its door half-swallowed by ivy,
its windows dusted in the hush of years.
A single beam of afternoon
cut through the dusk like a blessing.
Dust floated like memory,
and the stones exhaled
a silence older than prayer.
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