O bless us.
Neither alienation nor apartness need be clothed in uncouth misanthropy. Nor met with a drunken, drug-addled stupor. Art sometimes needs to vulgarly remind us of the drool and excrement smeared upon our bodies, but sometimes it puts before us an unreserved spiritual splendor that allows us to look past life’s repulsive aspects for a little while.
Sometimes there is an image of striking, simple beauty that entrances us into its world.
Sometimes there is a wandering, solitary Walser whose prose briefly lifts us from the ground like a gentle breeze then leaves us behind to wonder and dream about where it might have gone.
Sometimes there is a song that strikes just the right key, a song whose texture, tone, overall atmosphere, lyrics, vocal delivery, and mix could not possibly have melded together any better, a song that is itself a world—a world that makes you dream and wish that you could live inside that dream-world if only it were possible for just a little while.
But such a song, like the world, is impenetrably there. It is an exhibit, an unapologetic expression of loving hopefulness at the silent wonderful being of the world and, at the same time, an expression of that depressing, melancholy apartness we often feel at not knowing what to do with it or within it and our feeling of inadequacy in the face of it. But for all our not knowing, these four minutes and twenty-four seconds are alone worth having lived at all thanks to the song at once being a frustrating despair at our overwhelming uncertainty, a joyful affirmation of the beauty of that same uncertainty, and an interesting and enjoyable layer of musical movements and tones even whilst the song begins to fade out and abandon us.
“Where is color this hour?
Where is music this hour?
Are they still going on somewhere?
But where now, in this hush?
Where are words in this hush?
And what am I?”
I remember a particular trip to a cabin in Vermont. Autumn: a splendid time to visit as there are no skiers and no snow to contend with—only lovely yellows, oranges, and reds to behold and nearly empty restaurants in which to dine. I read books and Oecile makes collages while the grandfather clock behind me pushes the day along its course. Periodically one of us brings snacks in from the kitchen that happily remind me of my living body and the simple delights it enjoys. We sit out on the porch for half an hour to feel the breeze, listen to the leaves rustle, smell the wood burning from other nearby lodges, become engrossed by a bird or squirrel engaged in some activity or other, watch in between the trees—whose names we don’t care to know—the occasional car pass by carrying persons with unknown purpose. I bring some wood inside to start our own fire. Afternoon feels as though it’s only begun when darkness slowly sneaks necessarily into its gaps. Though there are plenty of hours left in the day for enjoyment and production, I sense the dark chiding me for letting the daylight slip by with so little accomplished.
I imagine my parents or my grandparents enjoying a vacation here in some nostalgic past I’ve only seen in old photographs. Weren’t they here? I can see them cozy in this little cabin appreciating the fall colors outside every window, playing cribbage and drinking Southern Comfort at the kitchen table, having conversations of mundane significance over lunch, laughing about some small matter or an odd coincidence. Probably there are two dogs there as well—one curled up near the fireplace enjoying the warm glow, the other intent to note the progress of dinner in the kitchen. But why should I always imagine others enjoying this time more than I ever could, that they get more pleasure out of life than I ever will?
Perhaps tomorrow we will venture out to Ye Olde Tavern or to the Scottish pub—but tonight Oecile and I play word games in front of the fire while sipping the Armenian brandy found in a cupboard until it is empty. Umbrella remains on repeat all night spinning its mysterious loveliness. Now the darkness is enchanting and the evening feels as though it will go on forever and ever but eventually disintegrates into cool, gray ash and reaches its end in sleep until the sudden daylight requires you to forget about last evening and yesterday and all yesterdays and to replace them with what’s next. Fortunately, what’s immediately next is breakfast—eggs, sausage, orange juice and coffee provide all the reason I need to begin to appreciate this new day before me now which I have the utmost privilege to spend with one of my favorite people in the world.
You begin to wonder what else we could ever possibly want or expect from this world. All of it, the whole thing, is in here. The full, lovely, glorious, breathtaking, unreachable, unfathomable world is right there before you. And for a little over four minutes or eighteen hours or for an evening or perhaps over breakfast it seems so simple and you can pretend that it’s yours. But then it ends and the world empties of all it was ever worth.
{ } VK Arkiv 