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Only he who is silent will amount to anything. (...) He who knows how to keep silent discovers an alphabet that has just as many letters as the ordinary one; thus he can express everything in his jargon, and no sigh is so deep that he does not have the laughter that corresponds to it in his jargon, and no request so obtrusive that he does not have the witticism to fulfill the demand. For him there will come a moment when he will feel as if he were losing his mind, but even though the experience is appaling, it is for just an instant. (...) If one last out that madness, one will surely triumph. ---S. Kierkegaards, in "Repetition" |
Where does
sound go when a song fades out? The alarm
sounds, question and dream dissipate. Ten minutes to stop.
Blink…yawn…stretch. Blink, blink. A gap in the window makes the wind
blow high pitched, invading her space of travel and dreams. She
approaches the window. The air blows, high pitched and cold. Blink,
blink.
Adélie awaits her at the train station. "You are my guest", she says, at the first vision of Numina. They have been writing letters to each other for at least four years, but have only met a couple of times; Numina was then just “the promising and odd little daughter of Lys”, while Adélie and Lys had been very close friends since school time. “Mother Lys”, as Numina used to call her mother, passed away during her sleep, five weeks ago.
“You look just like your handwriting”, says Adélie in her deep-voiced-Franco-Danish accent.
In an elegant grayed-hair-middle-aged-former-dancer posture, she leads Numina to the car. Numina experiences her hostess with the eyes; she always wondered about this split second, when physicality and imagination would reconcile. Adélie talks with the whole body, even while she drives––which makes Numina slightly uneasy. During a short drive on a charming road, she animatedly tells Numina about the inspiring week they have just had, hosting a young and talented string quartet, her dear friend and composer Dågrøn, and a small film crew. “C'etait merveilleux!!!”, says Adélie.
After leaving the luggage at Numina’s chalet, they prepare a meal at the manor house: marinated herring, green beans, sugar beets, bread, cheese and sparkling wine. Nearly a banquet! Amid smiles, stories, reminiscences, music and poetry, they clean up the kitchen––the heart of a house–– and go for a slow-pace walk in the park, stopping at the teahouse to witness the subtle approach of spring. They talk about life, death, grief, fears, change. And art, as the possible ultimate answer, the true panacea. Along the shore, the wait of dusk; crepuscules are Numina’s most awaited hours.
Though this is such an anticipated meeting after so many years in state of handwriting, they soon have to say good-bye; Adélie has an urgent matter to take care of in another island, and might stay away for two or three days. The rest of the family left for a weekend trip, the employees are on vacation. Numina will stay alone in the manor for at least a couple of days. “A cadenza!”, she thinks.
“It is such a delight and discovery to meet you again. Thank you so much for having me here”.
“My house is your palace”, answers Adélie, with no exaggeration. “You can stay here in the chalet or in any of the rooms in the manor house, but I thought you would prefer to stay here. I am sure you will eventually go by our library”, she says, winking. “Enjoy yourself. Oh, and please don’t be disturbed by Stilhed; he is a close friend of ours, always wandering around. He can be a little inconvenient sometimes”. She winks again. “See you in a couple of days”.
Numina smiles gratitude and amusement. She has no idea of who Stilhed is, but finds his a peculiar name. Following Adélie’s prediction, just a couple of hours are past when Numina leaves the chalet and marches eagerly towards the manor house…and the library. She glances at La Nausée, Gjentagelsen, Le Mythe de Sisyphe and Sein und Zeit (1). Not having the skillfulness to comprehend the subtleties of the Scandinavian languages, she chooses Camus—but not before caressing a couple more books, smelling their pages furtively, as if the walls could make any judgment of her actions.
From the library, she sees a cello in the music room. “The most sensual of the instruments”, she thinks; “like a woman who enjoys being embraced from her back, positioned between her man’s legs, and kissed slowly on the neck”. On a chair, under a violin, a score. Intricate writing, almost hieroglyphic. One of the instructions calls for her attention: “Please, remain ‘frozen’ in the last movement until any sound that might interrupt the silence!” (2). She picks up the violin (a miniature of the cello’s sex appeal), places the score on a stand, and sits gracefully on the very tip of the velour chair. As if in a choreography, her back straightens up, and her legs—slightly open, moving backwards—slowly touch the legs of the chair, as a woman trying to seduce a man by slightly touching his legs with her naked calves. She is now well-adjusted in the chair, and the muses sound. Sound, sound. Where does sound go when a song fades out? No possible answer comes to her mind; at the sudden vision of a militia of tiny, shiny, green, scary frogs, she rushes out of the room and runs out of the house. On a corner near her chalet, out of mystery, a voice:
”What are you afraid of?”.
She recoils, startled.
“I am sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you. May I introduce myself: my name is Stilhed, I am your neighbor”.
She cries, in a mix of fear and shame. Stilhed asks no question whatsoever. He helps her into the chalet and makes some tea. She cries. The tea is ready and they drink. She cries. Their eyes meet, but they remain wordless. She cries not. Stilhed has a smell of orange, purple, and Egyptian blue, with a zest of alchemy. Strangely, Numina feels as if she knows him from before; that brotherhood which The Woman suspected does exist (3). Their eyes meet again.
“Frogs…I don’t like them”, says Numina, almost childishly.
“Hmm, this is an understatement, I suppose? I also don’t like rainy days, but I won’t really run desperately at the feeling of a droplet on my shoulders”.
“Well, I can’t tolerate the view of them, that’s all. It is disgusting. That shape, brightness, the way they will jump on you, quite unexpectedly, and stick to your skin as a piece of raw liver”.
“Do you run when a piece of raw liver stick to your skin?”
“No!”.
“So what is the difference?”.
“It is a frog! What do you mean what is the difference? It is a F-R-O-G!”. She sounds exasperated.
“Yes, it is a F-R-O-G! You are R-I-G-H-T! I’ve heard that frogs can cause S-T-R-O-K-E-S”, says Stilhed, in a tone of irony that escapes Numina.
“Can they?”
“Yes”.
“But how come?”.
“I don’t know, I’ve heard”.
“It sounds unreasonable”.
“Sure it does. But one could certainly have a stroke caused by running…fear…disgust…”
“You are joking, you just don’t understand”.
“I certainly don’t. Do you?”.
“I don’t like frogs, period”.
“Question mark.”
“Mr. Stilhed, you are being quite inconvenient”. She is now quite exasperated.
“I beg your pardon. I might as well say good night. Hope you have frogless dreams…”
Adélie awaits her at the train station. "You are my guest", she says, at the first vision of Numina. They have been writing letters to each other for at least four years, but have only met a couple of times; Numina was then just “the promising and odd little daughter of Lys”, while Adélie and Lys had been very close friends since school time. “Mother Lys”, as Numina used to call her mother, passed away during her sleep, five weeks ago.
“You look just like your handwriting”, says Adélie in her deep-voiced-Franco-Danish accent.
In an elegant grayed-hair-middle-aged-former-dancer posture, she leads Numina to the car. Numina experiences her hostess with the eyes; she always wondered about this split second, when physicality and imagination would reconcile. Adélie talks with the whole body, even while she drives––which makes Numina slightly uneasy. During a short drive on a charming road, she animatedly tells Numina about the inspiring week they have just had, hosting a young and talented string quartet, her dear friend and composer Dågrøn, and a small film crew. “C'etait merveilleux!!!”, says Adélie.
After leaving the luggage at Numina’s chalet, they prepare a meal at the manor house: marinated herring, green beans, sugar beets, bread, cheese and sparkling wine. Nearly a banquet! Amid smiles, stories, reminiscences, music and poetry, they clean up the kitchen––the heart of a house–– and go for a slow-pace walk in the park, stopping at the teahouse to witness the subtle approach of spring. They talk about life, death, grief, fears, change. And art, as the possible ultimate answer, the true panacea. Along the shore, the wait of dusk; crepuscules are Numina’s most awaited hours.
Though this is such an anticipated meeting after so many years in state of handwriting, they soon have to say good-bye; Adélie has an urgent matter to take care of in another island, and might stay away for two or three days. The rest of the family left for a weekend trip, the employees are on vacation. Numina will stay alone in the manor for at least a couple of days. “A cadenza!”, she thinks.
“It is such a delight and discovery to meet you again. Thank you so much for having me here”.
“My house is your palace”, answers Adélie, with no exaggeration. “You can stay here in the chalet or in any of the rooms in the manor house, but I thought you would prefer to stay here. I am sure you will eventually go by our library”, she says, winking. “Enjoy yourself. Oh, and please don’t be disturbed by Stilhed; he is a close friend of ours, always wandering around. He can be a little inconvenient sometimes”. She winks again. “See you in a couple of days”.
Numina smiles gratitude and amusement. She has no idea of who Stilhed is, but finds his a peculiar name. Following Adélie’s prediction, just a couple of hours are past when Numina leaves the chalet and marches eagerly towards the manor house…and the library. She glances at La Nausée, Gjentagelsen, Le Mythe de Sisyphe and Sein und Zeit (1). Not having the skillfulness to comprehend the subtleties of the Scandinavian languages, she chooses Camus—but not before caressing a couple more books, smelling their pages furtively, as if the walls could make any judgment of her actions.
From the library, she sees a cello in the music room. “The most sensual of the instruments”, she thinks; “like a woman who enjoys being embraced from her back, positioned between her man’s legs, and kissed slowly on the neck”. On a chair, under a violin, a score. Intricate writing, almost hieroglyphic. One of the instructions calls for her attention: “Please, remain ‘frozen’ in the last movement until any sound that might interrupt the silence!” (2). She picks up the violin (a miniature of the cello’s sex appeal), places the score on a stand, and sits gracefully on the very tip of the velour chair. As if in a choreography, her back straightens up, and her legs—slightly open, moving backwards—slowly touch the legs of the chair, as a woman trying to seduce a man by slightly touching his legs with her naked calves. She is now well-adjusted in the chair, and the muses sound. Sound, sound. Where does sound go when a song fades out? No possible answer comes to her mind; at the sudden vision of a militia of tiny, shiny, green, scary frogs, she rushes out of the room and runs out of the house. On a corner near her chalet, out of mystery, a voice:
”What are you afraid of?”.
She recoils, startled.
“I am sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you. May I introduce myself: my name is Stilhed, I am your neighbor”.
She cries, in a mix of fear and shame. Stilhed asks no question whatsoever. He helps her into the chalet and makes some tea. She cries. The tea is ready and they drink. She cries. Their eyes meet, but they remain wordless. She cries not. Stilhed has a smell of orange, purple, and Egyptian blue, with a zest of alchemy. Strangely, Numina feels as if she knows him from before; that brotherhood which The Woman suspected does exist (3). Their eyes meet again.
“Frogs…I don’t like them”, says Numina, almost childishly.
“Hmm, this is an understatement, I suppose? I also don’t like rainy days, but I won’t really run desperately at the feeling of a droplet on my shoulders”.
“Well, I can’t tolerate the view of them, that’s all. It is disgusting. That shape, brightness, the way they will jump on you, quite unexpectedly, and stick to your skin as a piece of raw liver”.
“Do you run when a piece of raw liver stick to your skin?”
“No!”.
“So what is the difference?”.
“It is a frog! What do you mean what is the difference? It is a F-R-O-G!”. She sounds exasperated.
“Yes, it is a F-R-O-G! You are R-I-G-H-T! I’ve heard that frogs can cause S-T-R-O-K-E-S”, says Stilhed, in a tone of irony that escapes Numina.
“Can they?”
“Yes”.
“But how come?”.
“I don’t know, I’ve heard”.
“It sounds unreasonable”.
“Sure it does. But one could certainly have a stroke caused by running…fear…disgust…”
“You are joking, you just don’t understand”.
“I certainly don’t. Do you?”.
“I don’t like frogs, period”.
“Question mark.”
“Mr. Stilhed, you are being quite inconvenient”. She is now quite exasperated.
“I beg your pardon. I might as well say good night. Hope you have frogless dreams…”
He leaves swiftly. Despite Stilhed’s
so-called
inconvenience, Numina feels the urge to ask him not to leave, yet
remains motionless and silent. After digesting the raw
tête-à-tête, she prepares a “macho” coffee, sits by
a fire that smells like the promise of aurora, and starts Le Mythe de
Sisyphe. Although excited by Camus’s argumentations, she is tired,
drowsing. She takes a shower, braids her hair, writes notes in a
journal, and goes to bed. Lying on top of the pillow, she finds an
envelope left by Adélie, and a note stuck to it:
What a treasure! Numina trembles,
apprehensive. She never keeps a copy
of her sent letters; it now feels like finding an old childhood diary,
hidden in the bottom of a drawer.
“Where does it come from?”.
“What? What is ‘it’?”— Numina complicates.
“Sound. You asked where does sound go…To know about its destiny, shouldn’t you inquire about its origin as well?”.
“That’s a good point. What if it is always there, in potential, even when we don’t hear it?”.
“What is ‘it’?”.
“The soul…err, song...I mean, the sound. Ooooyyyy! I am getting confused”.
“Interesting that you would say that. I was recently called a mystic. In the past I would take it as a compliment, but when I heard it recently it sounded as a sort of insult. The fact is that I never ‘tried’ to be a mystic, not in the way that some people think about mysticism. My relation with the so-called ‘divine’ is a quest to understand humanity and nature. There is really nothing mystical about either. Anyone with a little skill to observe will come to see the relations, the laws and the ways of dealing with them. I am delighted and profoundly excited by seeking, observing, thinking, elaborating and re-elaborating. People sometimes see this as mysticism; I see it purely as the realization of my humanity and the quest to understand life. I never wanted to have the aura of a witch; my quest was never to be eccentric. I AM eccentric, indeed – but only because so many people hide their own idiosyncrasies, merely adjusting and fitting. I am marginal only because somebody built limits. I am limitless. I is limitless”.
“But Numina, my dear, you are…”
NOTES
(1) Reference to the books Nausea (by Jean-Paul Sarte); Repetition (by Søren Kierkegaard); The Myth of Sisyphus (by Albert Camus); and Being and Time (by Martin Heidegger).
(2) Actual phrase that I noticed in one of Per Nørgård’s music scores, while watching his rehearsal with The Kroger Quartet in Frederiksdal (Lolland island, Denmark) on February 2007.
(3) Reference to a quote by Clarice Lispector, from the novel An Apprenticeship or The Book of Pleasures. It says: “There’s a brotherhood of silence which consists of not talking about it and worshipping it silently”. The original in Portuguese says: “Há uma maçonaria do silêncio que consiste em não falar dele e de adorá-lo sem palavras” .
(4) A novel by Albert Camus.
(5) Reference to a quote by Clarice Lispector, from the novel An Apprenticeship or The Book of Pleasures. It says: “(…) one of the things I’ve learned is that we must live despite of. Despite of, we must eat. Despite of, we must love. Despite of, we must die. As a matter of fact, sometimes is the despite of that pushes one forward. It was the despite of that gave me an anguish that, not satisfied, was the creator of my own life”. The original in Portuguese says: “(…) uma das coisas que aprendi é que se deve viver apesar de . Apesar de, se deve comer. Apesar de, se deve amar. Apesar de, se deve morrer. Inclusive, muitas vezes é o próprio apesar de que nos empurra para a frente. Foi o apesar de que me deu uma angústia que insatisfeita foi a criadora de minha própria vida” .
Exhausted because of the
trip, run, emotion and memories, Numina falls
in deep asleep—half of the letter resting on her hands and the other
half inhabiting her dreams. Soon the aurora occupies the room, with
shades of sun, spring and hope.
The day seems promising. She wakes up, mind and body set to trim her hair; today is a new moon and the first point of Aries will soon be reached. Once, in a new moon of June, she used a sharp razor and turned into an egg. Now, as delicately and precisely as she deals with bushes, flowers, and trees, she prunes. At the vision of the hair on the floor, she is new. Vivat crescat floreat!
A knock on the door. Unexpectedly, but not quite, it is Stilhed—who else could be? He invites her for a wake-up swim in the ocean. She is reluctant; it feels cold for such endeavor. He insists. She invites him for breakfast. He insists, she insists. He gives in. Adélie had left bread, cheese, yogurt and grapes. They eat. They talk. They silence.
The day seems promising. She wakes up, mind and body set to trim her hair; today is a new moon and the first point of Aries will soon be reached. Once, in a new moon of June, she used a sharp razor and turned into an egg. Now, as delicately and precisely as she deals with bushes, flowers, and trees, she prunes. At the vision of the hair on the floor, she is new. Vivat crescat floreat!
A knock on the door. Unexpectedly, but not quite, it is Stilhed—who else could be? He invites her for a wake-up swim in the ocean. She is reluctant; it feels cold for such endeavor. He insists. She invites him for breakfast. He insists, she insists. He gives in. Adélie had left bread, cheese, yogurt and grapes. They eat. They talk. They silence.
“Where
does sound go when
a song fades out?”, Numina asks.
“Where does it come from?”.
“What? What is ‘it’?”— Numina complicates.
“Sound. You asked where does sound go…To know about its destiny, shouldn’t you inquire about its origin as well?”.
“That’s a good point. What if it is always there, in potential, even when we don’t hear it?”.
“What is ‘it’?”.
“The soul…err, song...I mean, the sound. Ooooyyyy! I am getting confused”.
Stilhed leaves. Once
more, Numina feels like asking him to
stay, but remains in state of quietude. After some trivialities in
the chalet, she plays her violin, hoping that this time no frog militia
will scare her away. She plays for a good amount of time, with no
questions about origins or destinies. She sounds. And, eventually, she
silences. Stilhed, wet and salty, knocks on the door again.
“The
music you were
playing had a very mystical sound to it”, he remarks.
“Interesting that you would say that. I was recently called a mystic. In the past I would take it as a compliment, but when I heard it recently it sounded as a sort of insult. The fact is that I never ‘tried’ to be a mystic, not in the way that some people think about mysticism. My relation with the so-called ‘divine’ is a quest to understand humanity and nature. There is really nothing mystical about either. Anyone with a little skill to observe will come to see the relations, the laws and the ways of dealing with them. I am delighted and profoundly excited by seeking, observing, thinking, elaborating and re-elaborating. People sometimes see this as mysticism; I see it purely as the realization of my humanity and the quest to understand life. I never wanted to have the aura of a witch; my quest was never to be eccentric. I AM eccentric, indeed – but only because so many people hide their own idiosyncrasies, merely adjusting and fitting. I am marginal only because somebody built limits. I am limitless. I is limitless”.
Stilhed
interrupts: “But
your fears give you
limits”.
Numina remains
quiet,
struck by his sharpness and truth.
Annoyed, and without knowing how to respond, she continues: “Anyway…I
am not a mystic.
I am…”
Stilhed interrupts
again: “Yes, stop there. Oh, the
promise and fire of an ellipsis”.
“Leave
me alone!!!” –
shouts Numina, in state of comprehension.
“But Numina, my dear, you are…”
She stands speechless,
hearing a voice but seeing no man.
And
the men which journeyed with him stood
speechless, hearing a voice, but seeing no man.
––Act 9:7
Words come from silence, and to silence return.
––Bruno Barsanti
––Act 9:7
Words come from silence, and to silence return.
––Bruno Barsanti
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
For their inspiration, collaboration and information, my most sincere acknowledgment to Ângela Chaves, Bruno Barsanti, Márcia Guimarães, Mike McGibbon, Steve Coleman, The Kroger Quartet and Tiago Machado.
Special thanks to Fabrizio Bellomo, Jen Shyu and Xan Mello.
In loving memory of Adélia Magalhães...
For their inspiration, collaboration and information, my most sincere acknowledgment to Ângela Chaves, Bruno Barsanti, Márcia Guimarães, Mike McGibbon, Steve Coleman, The Kroger Quartet and Tiago Machado.
Special thanks to Fabrizio Bellomo, Jen Shyu and Xan Mello.
In loving memory of Adélia Magalhães...
NOTES
(1) Reference to the books Nausea (by Jean-Paul Sarte); Repetition (by Søren Kierkegaard); The Myth of Sisyphus (by Albert Camus); and Being and Time (by Martin Heidegger).
(2) Actual phrase that I noticed in one of Per Nørgård’s music scores, while watching his rehearsal with The Kroger Quartet in Frederiksdal (Lolland island, Denmark) on February 2007.
(3) Reference to a quote by Clarice Lispector, from the novel An Apprenticeship or The Book of Pleasures. It says: “There’s a brotherhood of silence which consists of not talking about it and worshipping it silently”. The original in Portuguese says: “Há uma maçonaria do silêncio que consiste em não falar dele e de adorá-lo sem palavras” .
(4) A novel by Albert Camus.
(5) Reference to a quote by Clarice Lispector, from the novel An Apprenticeship or The Book of Pleasures. It says: “(…) one of the things I’ve learned is that we must live despite of. Despite of, we must eat. Despite of, we must love. Despite of, we must die. As a matter of fact, sometimes is the despite of that pushes one forward. It was the despite of that gave me an anguish that, not satisfied, was the creator of my own life”. The original in Portuguese says: “(…) uma das coisas que aprendi é que se deve viver apesar de . Apesar de, se deve comer. Apesar de, se deve amar. Apesar de, se deve morrer. Inclusive, muitas vezes é o próprio apesar de que nos empurra para a frente. Foi o apesar de que me deu uma angústia que insatisfeita foi a criadora de minha própria vida” .