Strange, to think of you, far from the desperation of our home town, established in your second city. Your PhD in cryptology, an amusing extension of the games we used to play.
Now, resigned to the human team, we are much crueler and hide behind excuses, fears. Every interaction coded in human deception – at times unintentional, but painfully near.
And of course, I wonder about this longing, this desperate need to connect.
Perhaps, if I find a way to articulate the hours I spend wondering, you in turn can find the cipher and unlock the obsession that is haunting me.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Telephone call, Columbus Ohio, January 28, 2010
Over the last months, slowly, almost imperceptibly, your voice has begun to change…or rather the something behind your voice, the something that I used to hear, and although in disagreement with the content, comforted by the tenor….now it seems as though that something has been replaced by a detached, feigned interest. The new voice deals with the superficial and lacks the range to pose the probing, important, obvious questions…..where did your other voice go….can it be reclaimed??
In the grey light of an overcast dusk, as darkness enters the world, I sit and wonder.
Perhaps, if only I had the courage to articulate my internal despair, you would find your voice and boldly proclaim:
“Son of Mine, I see you from afar – now a grown man – I am uncertain where you are headed, surprised as you wander and struggle; where once I was certain that you had found your way. How can I reach out to you when you are wiser, kinder, and absolutely more lost than I have ever been. And my despair has robbed me of the voice which used to be mine.”
In the grey light of an overcast dusk, as darkness enters the world, I sit and wonder.
Perhaps, if only I had the courage to articulate my internal despair, you would find your voice and boldly proclaim:
“Son of Mine, I see you from afar – now a grown man – I am uncertain where you are headed, surprised as you wander and struggle; where once I was certain that you had found your way. How can I reach out to you when you are wiser, kinder, and absolutely more lost than I have ever been. And my despair has robbed me of the voice which used to be mine.”
I am Me
I want to walk near the sound of the incessant sea
Anxiously marking my numbered days
Constantly cataloguing each failure
Until the tide lovingly overcomes whatever is “me”
I want to withdraw into the folds of the mighty mountains
Aloofly defining the scale of my mortality
Towering over my feeble (human) attempts
Until gravity tenderly destroys whatever is “me”
I want to wander in the isolated endless desert
Abstaining from comment whatsoever
Declining even to recognize my desperation
Until time kindly puts an end to whatever is “me”
Nonetheless:
I am landlocked, far from the fretting sea
I am under siege, unable to flee even to the foothills
I am encompassed about by humanity, incapable of escape
I am still me
Anxiously marking my numbered days
Constantly cataloguing each failure
Until the tide lovingly overcomes whatever is “me”
I want to withdraw into the folds of the mighty mountains
Aloofly defining the scale of my mortality
Towering over my feeble (human) attempts
Until gravity tenderly destroys whatever is “me”
I want to wander in the isolated endless desert
Abstaining from comment whatsoever
Declining even to recognize my desperation
Until time kindly puts an end to whatever is “me”
Nonetheless:
I am landlocked, far from the fretting sea
I am under siege, unable to flee even to the foothills
I am encompassed about by humanity, incapable of escape
I am still me
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
On to Art.....Yes
And so yes, on to art.
“To create art is to define experience.” If you will excuse my ramblings, I would like to explore the idea a little more, along with the beautiful opening line of your poem, which I believe reads “Ya no te amo, queridísimo.” I cannot fathom an English translation that would capture the paradox quite so completely. Well done!
I appreciate your definition of art. It implies that one must, from time to time, “go over the wall”, and then struggle to define what occurred, which then allows for the creation of art from the experience. By discomfiting our lives, we actually live.
One of my favorite poems is Alastair Reid’s Curiosity, where he explores the same idea. He actually termed “going over the wall” as “paying the cat price”, which I think is brilliant. “Pay the cat price, which is to die and die again and again, each time with no less pain.” After we return from over the wall, after we have died, and still hope yet to die again, then we can assess, and make bold proclamations such as “Te quiero, ya soltero, mucho mas que juntos.” And the whole world (or at least those who have paid the cat price) understands your definition of the experience.
But of course, each death, each time we die, is not really a death, but rather, an opportunity to create art. By that I mean, if we gain experience, and then struggle to find the medium through which we will define the event and hopefully convey the experience to others, art is the result. In the struggle to connect what is internal with that which is external, we craft a narrative, an approximation, of what it is to live, to experience, and if done well, the end result is art.
In closing I leave you with Neruda. I am particularly moved by the last stanza, and the idea that love is really selfish and self centered and egotistical, and we humans (or maybe just human me) find it easier to love someone who isn't there, (or is present but, unmoving and quiet), because we (I) can then project into the quiet space what we (I) want the lover to be feeling. “Yo quiero escuchar tu adios.” Yes, that is it, exactly…..And so, somewhere in all of our messy human existence, we struggle to give definition to what is happening, and from time to time we come across something that captures and conveys this peculiar existence back to us in a way that we recognize as life defined – in other words Art.
"Me gustas cuando callas porque estás como ausente,
y me oyes desde lejos, y mi voz no te toca.
Parece que los ojos se te hubieran volado
y parece que un beso te cerrara la boca.
Como todas las cosas están llenas de mi alma
emerges de las cosas, llena del alma mía.
Mariposa de sueño, te pareces a mi alma,
y te pareces a la palabra melancolía.
Me gustas cuando callas y estás como distante.
Y estás como quejándote, mariposa en arrullo.
Y me oyes desde lejos, y mi voz no te alcanza:
Déjame que me calle con el silencio tuyo.
Déjame que te hable también con tu silencio
claro como una lámpara, simple como un anillo.
Eres como la noche, callada y constelada.
Tu silencio es de estrella, tan lejano y sencillo.
Me gustas cuando callas porque estás como ausente.
Distante y dolorosa como si hubieras muerto.
Una palabra entonces, una sonrisa bastan.
Y estoy alegre, alegre de que no sea cierto."
Your thoughts?
“To create art is to define experience.” If you will excuse my ramblings, I would like to explore the idea a little more, along with the beautiful opening line of your poem, which I believe reads “Ya no te amo, queridísimo.” I cannot fathom an English translation that would capture the paradox quite so completely. Well done!
I appreciate your definition of art. It implies that one must, from time to time, “go over the wall”, and then struggle to define what occurred, which then allows for the creation of art from the experience. By discomfiting our lives, we actually live.
One of my favorite poems is Alastair Reid’s Curiosity, where he explores the same idea. He actually termed “going over the wall” as “paying the cat price”, which I think is brilliant. “Pay the cat price, which is to die and die again and again, each time with no less pain.” After we return from over the wall, after we have died, and still hope yet to die again, then we can assess, and make bold proclamations such as “Te quiero, ya soltero, mucho mas que juntos.” And the whole world (or at least those who have paid the cat price) understands your definition of the experience.
But of course, each death, each time we die, is not really a death, but rather, an opportunity to create art. By that I mean, if we gain experience, and then struggle to find the medium through which we will define the event and hopefully convey the experience to others, art is the result. In the struggle to connect what is internal with that which is external, we craft a narrative, an approximation, of what it is to live, to experience, and if done well, the end result is art.
In closing I leave you with Neruda. I am particularly moved by the last stanza, and the idea that love is really selfish and self centered and egotistical, and we humans (or maybe just human me) find it easier to love someone who isn't there, (or is present but, unmoving and quiet), because we (I) can then project into the quiet space what we (I) want the lover to be feeling. “Yo quiero escuchar tu adios.” Yes, that is it, exactly…..And so, somewhere in all of our messy human existence, we struggle to give definition to what is happening, and from time to time we come across something that captures and conveys this peculiar existence back to us in a way that we recognize as life defined – in other words Art.
"Me gustas cuando callas porque estás como ausente,
y me oyes desde lejos, y mi voz no te toca.
Parece que los ojos se te hubieran volado
y parece que un beso te cerrara la boca.
Como todas las cosas están llenas de mi alma
emerges de las cosas, llena del alma mía.
Mariposa de sueño, te pareces a mi alma,
y te pareces a la palabra melancolía.
Me gustas cuando callas y estás como distante.
Y estás como quejándote, mariposa en arrullo.
Y me oyes desde lejos, y mi voz no te alcanza:
Déjame que me calle con el silencio tuyo.
Déjame que te hable también con tu silencio
claro como una lámpara, simple como un anillo.
Eres como la noche, callada y constelada.
Tu silencio es de estrella, tan lejano y sencillo.
Me gustas cuando callas porque estás como ausente.
Distante y dolorosa como si hubieras muerto.
Una palabra entonces, una sonrisa bastan.
Y estoy alegre, alegre de que no sea cierto."
Your thoughts?
Certainty
The cosmos doesn’t consider my insignificant condition.
Nevertheless, I am unable to return the favor.
I can’t help but hurl thoughts, dreams, concerns –
Continually bothering the heavens with agitated inquires,
Sending again and again and again my mundane missives
Out into the vast something that seems to surround this perplexing existence.
Of course,
Whitman’s patient spider explored the same space, but with much greater dignity.
And yet, the desperation – the act of casting, projecting, hoping,
Hasn’t diminished in the noisy century that separates the silent spider and me.
Nevertheless, I am unable to return the favor.
I can’t help but hurl thoughts, dreams, concerns –
Continually bothering the heavens with agitated inquires,
Sending again and again and again my mundane missives
Out into the vast something that seems to surround this perplexing existence.
Of course,
Whitman’s patient spider explored the same space, but with much greater dignity.
And yet, the desperation – the act of casting, projecting, hoping,
Hasn’t diminished in the noisy century that separates the silent spider and me.
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