Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow for ever and for ever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
(Alfred Tennyson)
The departed one in blue
(For Georg Trakl)
O mein Bruder
long lost! in decaying dusk
be with me now
in the endless
golden-red autumns
perhaps silent and sullen
yet to wander with me
a momentary stillness
O mein Bruder
fellow stranger ringing bells
summoning harmonies
as faint as modesty
but nearer than an unfound itch
haunting night chimes
of poignance and uncertainty
that seem to lead to a homecoming
I’ve never known
and at which I never arrive
that whisper reminders I am alive
but so very far from everything
further than the starry silence
O mein Bruder
my escape from myself
back to myself
Is this dreamy romanticism, at the fringe of the technically-economically oriented world of modern mass existence? Or—is it the clear knowledge of the “madman” who sees and senses other things than the reporters of the latest news who spend themselves chronicling the current happening, whose future is never more than a prolongation of today’s events, a future that is forever without the advent of a destiny which concerns man for once at the source of his being?
Daily events begin to look like an ugly, 24-7, all-directions tug-of-war wherein participants pull blindly at the inch of rope peeking out between their own hands and the hands of the person in front of them—and wherein participants scream phrases across the muck to one another, phrases whose superficial differences hide one and the same subtextual command: “Conform to my morals!” with each side all the while hoping that enough people join them so that they don’t end up face-down in the muck we are all eventually destined for anyway.
Mind you, I am not claiming that there is much alternative to this deplorable tug-of-war. This is merely the business of human beings inevitably going about their various self-important activities. The notion of world peace is laughably naive and is indicative of a failure to understand human behavior or the human situation in the world. Difficulties among human beings will cease only at the cost of human freedom or consciousness. There is no limit to the sorts of dire situations humans may find themselves in nor to the things humans may discover or invent over which to argue and fight. However, if we admit to ourselves that this is indeed the situation we are in, we begin to give ourselves options. We may make decisions about whether now is a good moment to tug as hard as possible upon our portion of the rope or to let go of the rope, walk to the other side and see what things look like from over there or else to momentarily retire to the sidelines for some perspective—or, in some instances, to retire to the sidelines permanently.
All that Georg Trakl‘s poetry says remains gathered and focused on the wandering stranger. He is, and is called, “he who is apart.” Through him and around him Trakl’s poetic saying is tuned to one unique song. And since this poet’s poems are gathered into the song of him who is apart, we shall call the site of Trakl’s poetic work apartness.
The prerequisite of universally binding law is the spirit of self-sacrifice. This was clearly seen by Hegel. The “strange,” modern, “educated people without metaphysics” have given up “this science” (metaphysics)
…in exchange for emotions, for the practical and popular, and for the erudite historical. Corresponding to this change is the fact that elsewhere those solitary individuals who were sacrificed by their people and shut off from the world in order that contemplation of the eternal and a life dedicated solely to that contemplation might exist—not for the sake of deriving a profit, but for the sake of the blessing—disappeared; a disappearance that, in another context, can be considered as virtually the same phenomenon as the one mentioned previously.
That is, the “disappearance” of the “solitary individuals … shut off from the world” is “the same phenomenon” as the “loss of the center,” so much lamented today, the same as the loss of metaphysics, and as the present-day victory of the “emotions,” of the “practical and popular,” and of the “erudite historical.” The “center” can be found again when the “solitary individuals who were sacrificed by their people and shut off from the world” reappear “not for the sake of deriving a profit, but for the sake of the blessing.” Kafka’s “solitude,” his seclusion from the world, is the pre-monition [sic], the lived example of a possible new “law.” It is not the endorsement of “modern nihilism” but the victory over it.
To be clear, this is not the solitude nor the apartness of loneliness (though loneliness and/or depression can often accompany these states)—it is not woe-is-me dismay at not being invited to social gatherings or a lack of closeness to another person—it is an apartness, a solitude, a sorrow that is not capable of being assuaged by social activity or a closeness with certain others—indeed, it is the recognition that social activity and closeness are, at worst, methods of avoiding, ignoring, covering over this sorrow in fear and denial while at their best they can be necessary methods of momentarily coping with this inevitable sorrow—inevitable because this sorrow is the honest recognition of the Nothingness that is always lurking, casting shadow and doubt upon all meaning and activity.
But why, if at all, should these sorrowful wandering strangers and solitary individuals be of any importance to civilization? When the very thought of aiming to be a healthy civilization is seen as dependent upon the pursuit of normalized useful activity and production (a turning away from the very thought of Nothingness), when the prevalent public notion of worthwhile art is (and when hasn’t it been?) that it must point to our present social and cultural situation (seen as either negatively dire or positively optimistic) or else represent some ideal social and cultural circumstances that we are supposed to see ourselves collectively striving for, what use does this public have for an artist who genuinely believes that “(a)rt teaches nothing about life, just as life teaches us nothing about art?” (Feldman 14)
What can art created by such solitary individuals, art that “teaches nothing about life” do for us? Why are such things even made and why do some of us find it so very compelling?
Morton Feldman wrote that Mark Rothko’s paintings take us to that “other place that’s not a metaphor for something else.” They, as well as Feldman’s music, are nothing but themselves—to be enjoyed for the way that they look, the way that they sound, the way that they make us feel, and the endless directions they might prompt us to dream. Feldman has said that he was more interested in the decaying of each sound than in the attack of a sound—more attuned to their “leaving us rather than coming towards us.” (Feldman 25)
There is a melancholy, an ephemerality in the music and in these thoughts about the music—this mysterious space that speaks and yet retains a solemn silence could be the soundtrack to reading Kafka or Trakl—brothers in their closeness to uncertainty, apartness, otherness—unpretentious masters of departing.
Thus what we have here is the story of a sort of journey, each stage of which is meant not so much to reveal the composer’s soul as to bring us gradually closer to that essential source from which all these musical compositions draw their kinship and to which they owe their inner unity.
It is this clear, yet ever vague and uncertain, “inner unity” that seems to me to connect so many disparate solitary individuals, these unique wandering strangers.
And what is this “inner unity” but that which seeks a site that is an “other place”—a departing from the everyday world we might otherwise believe to be the only one available—an “other place” that must always remain vague and uncertain because of the limitless possibilities of its nature—an “other place” that will often feel in a way like nothing (even to its creators) because of its essential apartness from everyday life—an “other place” that is, however, something more substantial than mere escapism or a vacation from the grind of life because of its vital connection to us (if we allow ourselves to receive it) at the source of our being?
I have nothing to say / and I am saying it / and that is poetry / as I need it /
…
If one is making / something / which is to be nothing / , / the one making must / love / and be patient / with the material / he chooses. / Otherwise / he calls attention to the material, / which is precisely something / , / whereas it was nothing / that was being made; / or / he calls attention to himself, / whereas / nothing is anonymous / . / The technique / of handling materials / is, on the sense level / what structure as a / discipline is / on the rational level / : / a means of experiencing nothing / . /
Making something which is to be something places immediate limitations upon what that something may be whereas making something (via certain limitations, a structure) which is to be nothing encourages and promotes a sort of freedom and offers a site which should endure far longer than something created as something, a site which yearns back toward the source of our being. Some of these solitary individuals create their unnecessary works so that we may abandon our worn out somethings and see what else is possible, see what other places our hearts might find to love, other places that seek that “other place.”
Works that are “a means of experiencing nothing” do not always succeed—but when they do, they are the unique product of a set of circumstances that would otherwise not have been. Without Feldman, who would have created Triadic Memories? Without Kafka, we wouldn’t have The Trial. Without David Lynch and his various collaborators, an entire oeuvre of contemporary visionary art disappears. We need people willing to create art that does something more daring than superficially describe where we are or where we have been or where we feel we should be; we need people to create new, strange worlds that are as endlessly interpretable as life itself. That is not to suggest that representational art should disappear entirely—only that there is never a shortage of it, whereas visionary art seems always in need of being saved from drowning when it can be found at all.
Morton Feldman takes us to that “other place” with an unconventional music of uncertain patterns and tempos emerging out of the fullness of empty space. But it should be noted that creative work need not be unconventional in order to successfully bring us closer to that ineffable “essential source” that is “not a metaphor for something else.”
With Matthew Caws/Nada Surf, it is more difficult to put a finger on what it is about the music that might bring us there. It could be immediately written off (and, given that they have never really risen above a certain level of popularity—tsk, tsk—nor gained the degree of critical acclaim they might deserve, it would seem that many people do thusly write them off) as superficially banal indie rock. But there is something more here (and their longevity would indicate a dedicated fan base that recognizes this)—there is a careful subtlety to the lyrics and to the way that the vocal melodies nestle those lyrics into the music—there is a gentle wistfulness just as there is in Feldman’s music that, though its forms and structures are of a more straightforward or conventional nature than Feldman’s, pulls me toward that “essential source”—a feat that just might be all the more difficult to pull off (or to convince certain others that it has indeed been pulled off) when one works with a conventional form rather than working in some way outside of convention—but a feat that nonetheless shares that “inner unity”—a particular manner of approach to one’s chosen forms/structures/limitations/conventions/deviations—a relinquishing of control, perhaps, a comfortable embrace with uncertainty, a self-effacement, a preference to search in music for who-knows-what rather than for something precise. Perhaps it is that the music manages, despite an engagement with a well-worn aesthetic, to sound out a rhythm of life that resonates for me just as a certain vocal timbre can sometimes make a potentially banal phrase feel more meaningful than you had ever imagined. But there is something, something inherently troubling yet reassuring, in both Feldman and Caws and all those known and unknown others (and perhaps everyone—anyone who finds some genuine moments to turn inwards) that provoke feelings in us of that “other place”—that “other place” that cannot be a metaphor for something else because it is itself Nothingness, the all-engulfing Nought, the boundless field of unrealized possibilities, the teeming abyss of what has yet to be—themselves metaphors but metaphors that, like Kafka’s parables, retain an endless openness rather than attempting to restrict, contain, or close discussion.
There is something in Caws’ body of work, his overall demeanor, his very being (and indeed it also seems in the very being of bandmates Ira and Daniel and Doug), his casual kindness and genuine appreciation for fans and people in general, an obvious modesty about what it is that he achieves, seemingly an important awareness that such creations are unnecessary, ephemeral, of no productive use in the world of progress, of professional careers (mostly), of human attempts to be masters of their world—and yet a recognition, a feeling that such creations are of the utmost importance for keeping that “other place” firmly in our hearts and for keeping our everyday world in reasonable perspective in its relation to that “other place”—songs that sadly, joyfully, resignedly, and defiantly sing their nothingness—more music for melancholy wandering strangers who cannot simply brush aside their feelings regarding the source of all Being—and who perhaps, despite their feelings of apartness, feel a strange but compelling kinship with one another.
I was once told about a woman living in Paris – a descendant of Scriabin – who spent her entire life writing music not meant to be heard. What it is, and how she does it, is not very clear; but I have always envied this woman. I envy her insanity, her impracticality.
If not for this Feldman quote, we likely wouldn’t know of this woman at all. And the mind boggles at the countless unknowns we will never hear about, at the lost creations we shall never experience. Neither Von Kriege nor the Ekleipsists seem to have intended or been overly concerned that the public at large should ever see their works. As Feldman envied this descendant of Scriabin, I envy Von Kriege and Kessel and the Ekleipsists and their seemingly egoless lack of concern for recognition—appearing as it does that each one did no more than place creations into the trunk that inspired and informed them—that’s all, just like that.
I feel an incredible sort of guilt about seeming to reach for recognition by writing such things as this in the hope that others will see it despite my genuine hope that others will see it and feel a closeness to that “essential source.” Of course, that others might feel something genuine could then imply that they feel a kinship, a closeness with me—and what is this but the hope that others will join me for a moment on the sidelines even as I feel a sort of unease with those who hope that others will join them in pulling on their side of the rope? I feel ingenuine, hypocritical, inauthentic, uneasy in my own skin, genuinely envying this woman who made music never to be heard and envying Von Kriege and the Ekleipsists who locked their works up in a trunk while I am apparently without their strength of egolessness. How much easier it must be to live when you think that you have something to say, something important to pass on to other people! Whereas, when you know that you have nothing to say, that there is nothing to say, and yet feel compelled to say it, you feel again the proof that “it’s impossible to live” (Kafka 20). How much closer to that “essential source” I should feel myself if only I could write words never meant to be read!
And yet… AND YET!!!! Where would I be now—how could I still be!?— if Feldman had acted like this woman and never had his work recorded so it could be listened to (never mind also writing equally eloquently)—if Caws found his songs not worth recording—if Max Brod had burned Kafka’s writings—if Trakl had not found encouragement and support for his poetry—if I did not happen upon Von Kriege and the Ekleipsists so that it might become a pursuit—if all these wandering strangers and (at least occasionally) solitary individuals remained unseen, undiscovered—what would be left? What would there be for me to love and to yearn for? What would there be for me to appreciate and admire? What would there be to support and nourish and sustain me? With whom would I feel a closeness, a kinship? What would there then be for me in this life at all? Of what use are these victories over endlessly recurring nihilism (that threatens to paralyze us in our encounter with Nothingness) if they are not shared and appreciated and loved?
We can crumble and fall beyond recovery into despair, into the abyss, into a Nothingness of nothing—or we may confront meaninglessness, uselessness—acknowledge it, accept it, and choose to see ourselves face-to-face instead with the fullness of Nothingness, with endless possibilities of meaning and use—and to allow this equally daunting predicament to be an impetus for a genuine reaching out, first into that fullness and turning some naturally mysterious portion of it into an unnecessary, ephemeral something—something that itself becomes a reaching out to others, perhaps everyone—an offering of a site in which we might find a moment of relief, a moment where, together, we cope with and in our sorrow, with our inevitable situation-in-the-world. It is this being honest with ourselves and our situation, this confrontation with our universal fears and anxieties, this choice to take uncertain steps in unknown directions—this is the real use and importance of the wandering strangers and solitary individuals—the self-sacrificing souls who must remain apart for their own sake and for the sake of anyone wishing to live in a truly healthy civilization. Their work may not teach us anything about life, but their creations offer us new and different opportunities for feeling alive.
There can be a wondrous beauty in singing our nothingness aloud as poetry, in finding a way to put something forward that does not attack as a presence but that merely exists as a presence and that acknowledges its uselessness in the everyday world, its transience, its mere existence as its ever-decaying self, as an “other place that’s not a metaphor for something else.” Pure beauty is to suddenly and simply reach out and touch what before seemed like the impossible, nothing at all, even as it slips quickly through brute fingers—one can anyway hope and strive for this. This, I suppose, is my hope. This, I suppose, is my House of Songs, my useless, hidden-in-plain-sight trunk of nothing at all.
Absent Friend
Drifting in from a haunted black night, waking me from slumber:
a poor, miserable creature sounding its death throes.
Do others lie awake in terrified, futile sympathy?
Or are you erased with cringe and pillow?
O where has this wretched world brought you my distant, trembling companion?
On a patch of green grass in the churchyard down the street?
Upon the unforgiving hardness of rough and rocky pavement?
Are you scarred? crumpled? broken? exhausted?
Your caterwauling night chimes sting the vast stillness, lonely one—
but their only result will be an inevitable and abrupt conclusion.
Yet I hear you! I feel you! I am with you now who has never been with you before.
Always too late and far too far away—but with you in your crucial moment.
Who shall hear my useless wailing come my time to chase you going under?
Will any listen intently? Or will burning ears singe sinister eyes of disinterest?
A soft breeze from the window sounds God’s evening bells—
a silent greeting brings us as close as we could ever be.
{ } VK Arkiv 