Η έναστρη φωτεινότητα του Νίκου Καρούζου

Ο άνθρωπος που εισόρμησε πια στην απώτερη θλίψη
με δίχως έστω ένα τριαντάφυλλο
μ' εκείνα τ' ακατέργαστα στην ώχρα μεινεσμένα μάτια
στο μισοσκέπαστο ερημόκκλησο σέρνοντας
τη μεγάλη ανάπηρη σιωπή στο καροτσάκι της ομιλίας
ανέκαθεν ήξερε την άσωστη κατάσταση-: πως είμαστε
καθημαγμένοι ερασιτέχνες του Πραγματικού
μ' ένα μυστήριο που βεβηλώνει τη διάνοια διχάζοντας
πριν η δορά της θάλασσας σηκώσει το ανάστημα του Άδη.

Πολύκρουνη η θύελλα σπάζει τα ματογυάλια της κι ο μέγας
τρόμος αδράχνει τα μελλούμενα
σχηματίζοντας αποστήματα στη μνήμη.
Κατάχαμα της ασίγαστης σιγής ένα κινούμενο
κειμήλιο-σκουλήκι.

Η ζωή που μικραίνει: η μεγάλη αλήθεια.
Στον οπού πιάνει το τσαπί γίνεται τσάπισμα
στον οπού πίνει το νερό γίνεται πιόμα.
Έρχεται έαρ αειπάρθενο προφέροντας αρώματα
κρατεί μια κατάμαυρη λεπτότατη κλωστή
στα ύπαιθρα της νύχτας
το σημείο του γκιώνη που είν' άγνωστο πέρα...

Araby By James Joyce

North Richmond Street, being blind, was a quiet street except at the hour when the Christian Brothers' School set the boys free. An uninhabited house of two storeys stood at the blind end, detached from its neighbours in a square ground. The other houses of the street, conscious of decent lives within them, gazed at one another with brown imperturbable faces.

The former tenant of our house, a priest, had died in the back drawing-room. Air, musty from having been long enclosed, hung in all the rooms, and the waste room behind the kitchen was littered with old useless papers. Among these I found a few paper-covered books, the pages of which were curled and damp: The Abbot, by Walter Scott, The Devout Communicant, and The Memoirs of Vidocq. I liked the last best because its leaves were yellow. The wild garden behind the house contained a central apple-tree and a few straggling bushes, under one of which I found the late tenant's rusty bicycle-pump. He had been a very charitable priest; in his will he had left all his money to institutions and the furniture of his house to his sister.

When the short days of winter came, dusk fell before we had well eaten our dinners. When we met in the street the houses had grown sombre. The space of sky above us was the colour of ever-changing violet and towards it the lamps of the street lifted their feeble lanterns. The cold air stung us and we played till our bodies glowed. Our shouts echoed in the silent street. The career of our play brought us through the dark muddy lanes behind the houses, where we ran the gauntlet of the rough tribes from the cottages, to the back doors of the dark dripping gardens where odours arose from the ashpits, to the dark odorous stables where a coachman smoothed and combed the horse or shook music from the buckled harness. When we returned to the street, light from the kitchen windows had filled the areas. If my uncle was seen turning the corner, we hid in the shadow until we had seen him safely housed. Or if Mangan's sister came out on the doorstep to call her brother in to his tea, we watched her from our shadow peer up and down the street. We waited to see whether she would remain or go in and, if she remained, we left our shadow and walked up to Mangan's steps resignedly. She was waiting for us, her figure defined by the light from the half-opened door. Her brother always teased her before he obeyed, and I stood by the railings looking at her. Her dress swung as she moved her body, and the soft rope of her hair tossed from side to side.

Every morning I lay on the floor in the front parlour watching her door. The blind was pulled down to within an inch of the sash so that I could not be seen. When she came out on the doorstep my heart leaped. I ran to the hall, seized my books and followed her. I kept her brown figure always in my eye and, when we came near the point at which our ways diverged, I quickened my pace and passed her. This happened morning after morning. I had never spoken to her, except for a few casual words, and yet her name was like a summons to all my foolish blood.

Her image accompanied me even in places the most hostile to romance. On Saturday evenings when my aunt went marketing I had to go to carry some of the parcels. We walked through the flaring streets, jostled by drunken men and bargaining women, amid the curses of labourers, the shrill litanies of shop-boys who stood on guard by the barrels of pigs' cheeks, the nasal chanting of street-singers, who sang a come-all-you about O'Donovan Rossa, or a ballad about the troubles in our native land. These noises converged in a single sensation of life for me: I imagined that I bore my chalice safely through a throng of foes. Her name sprang to my lips at moments in strange prayers and praises which I myself did not understand. My eyes were often full of tears (I could not tell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to pour itself out into my bosom. I thought little of the future. I did not know whether I would ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke to her, how I could tell her of my confused adoration. But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires.

One evening I went into the back drawing-room in which the priest had died. It was a dark rainy evening and there was no sound in the house. Through one of the broken panes I heard the rain impinge upon the earth, the fine incessant needles of water playing in the sodden beds. Some distant lamp or lighted window gleamed below me. I was thankful that I could see so little. All my senses seemed to desire to veil themselves and, feeling that I was about to slip from them, I pressed the palms of my hands together until they trembled, murmuring: 'O love! O love!' many times.

At last she spoke to me. When she addressed the first words to me I was so confused that I did not know what to answer. She asked me was I going toAraby. I forgot whether I answered yes or no. It would be a splendid bazaar; she said she would love to go.

'And why can't you?' I asked.

While she spoke she turned a silver bracelet round and round her wrist. She could not go, she said, because there would be a retreat that week in her convent. Her brother and two other boys were fighting for their caps, and I was alone at the railings. She held one of the spikes, bowing her head towards me. The light from the lamp opposite our door caught the white curve of her neck, lit up her hair that rested there and, falling, lit up the hand upon the railing. It fell over one side of her dress and caught the white border of a petticoat, just visible as she stood at ease.

'It's well for you,' she said.

'If I go,' I said, 'I will bring you something.'

What innumerable follies laid waste my waking and sleeping thoughts after that evening! I wished to annihilate the tedious intervening days. I chafed against the work of school. At night in my bedroom and by day in the classroom her image came between me and the page I strove to read. The syllables of the word Araby were called to me through the silence in which my soul luxuriated and cast an Eastern enchantment over me. I asked for leave to go to the bazaar on Saturday night. My aunt was surprised, and hoped it was not some Freemason affair. I answered few questions in class. I watched my master's face pass from amiability to sternness; he hoped I was not beginning to idle. I could not call my wandering thoughts together. I had hardly any patience with the serious work of life which, now that it stood between me and my desire, seemed to me child's play, ugly monotonous child's play.

On Saturday morning I reminded my uncle that I wished to go to the bazaar in the evening. He was fussing at the hallstand, looking for the hat-brush, and answered me curtly:

'Yes, boy, I know.'

As he was in the hall I could not go into the front parlour and lie at the window. I felt the house in bad humour and walked slowly towards the school. The air was pitilessly raw and already my heart misgave me.

When I came home to dinner my uncle had not yet been home. Still it was early. I sat staring at the clock for some time and, when its ticking began to irritate me, I left the room. I mounted the staircase and gained the upper part of the house. The high, cold, empty, gloomy rooms liberated me and I went from room to room singing. From the front window I saw my companions playing below in the street. Their cries reached me weakened and indistinct and, leaning my forehead against the cool glass, I looked over at the dark house where she lived. I may have stood there for an hour, seeing nothing but the brown-clad figure cast by my imagination, touched discreetly by the lamplight at the curved neck, at the hand upon the railings and at the border below the dress.

When I came downstairs again I found Mrs Mercer sitting at the fire. She was an old, garrulous woman, a pawnbroker's widow, who collected used stamps for some pious purpose. I had to endure the gossip of the tea-table. The meal was prolonged beyond an hour and still my uncle did not come. Mrs Mercer stood up to go: she was sorry she couldn't wait any longer, but it was after eight o'clock and she did not like to be out late, as the night air was bad for her. When she had gone I began to walk up and down the room, clenching my fists. My aunt said:

'I'm afraid you may put off your bazaar for this night of Our Lord.'

At nine o'clock I heard my uncle's latchkey in the hall door. I heard him talking to himself and heard the hallstand rocking when it had received the weight of his overcoat. I could interpret these signs. When he was midway through his dinner I asked him to give me the money to go to the bazaar. He had forgotten.

'The people are in bed and after their first sleep now,' he said.

I did not smile. My aunt said to him energetically:

'Can't you give him the money and let him go? You've kept him late enough as it is.'

My uncle said he was very sorry he had forgotten. He said he believed in the old saying: 'All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.' He asked me where I was going and, when I told him a second time, he asked me did I know The Arab's Farewell to his Steed. When I left the kitchen he was about to recite the opening lines of the piece to my aunt.

I held a florin tightly in my hand as I strode down Buckingham Street towards the station. The sight of the streets thronged with buyers and glaring with gas recalled to me the purpose of my journey. I took my seat in a third-class carriage of a deserted train. After an intolerable delay the train moved out of the station slowly. It crept onward among ruinous houses and over the twinkling river. At Westland Row Station a crowd of people pressed to the carriage doors; but the porters moved them back, saying that it was a special train for the bazaar. I remained alone in the bare carriage. In a few minutes the train drew up beside an improvised wooden platform. I passed out on to the road and saw by the lighted dial of a clock that it was ten minutes to ten. In front of me was a large building which displayed the magical name.

I could not find any sixpenny entrance and, fearing that the bazaar would be closed, I passed in quickly through a turnstile, handing a shilling to a weary-looking man. I found myself in a big hall girded at half its height by a gallery. Nearly all the stalls were closed and the greater part of the hall was in darkness. I recognized a silence like that which pervades a church after a service. I walked into the centre of the bazaar timidly. A few people were gathered about the stalls which were still open. Before a curtain, over which the words Café Chantant were written in coloured lamps, two men were counting money on a salver. I listened to the fall of the coins.

Remembering with difficulty why I had come, I went over to one of the stalls and examined porcelain vases and flowered tea-sets. At the door of the stall a young lady was talking and laughing with two young gentlemen. I remarked their English accents and listened vaguely to their conversation.

'O, I never said such a thing!'

'O, but you did!'

'O, but I didn't!'

'Didn't she say that?'

'Yes. I heard her.'

'O, there's a... fib!'

Observing me, the young lady came over and asked me did I wish to buy anything. The tone of her voice was not encouraging; she seemed to have spoken to me out of a sense of duty. I looked humbly at the great jars that stood like eastern guards at either side of the dark entrance to the stall and murmured:

'No, thank you.'

The young lady changed the position of one of the vases and went back to the two young men. They began to talk of the same subject. Once or twice the young lady glanced at me over her shoulder.

I lingered before her stall, though I knew my stay was useless, to make my interest in her wares seem the more real. Then I turned away slowly and walked down the middle of the bazaar. I allowed the two pennies to fall against the sixpence in my pocket. I heard a voice call from one end of the gallery that the light was out. The upper part of the hall was now completely dark.

Gazing up into the darkness I saw myself as a creature driven and derided by vanity; and my eyes burned with anguish and anger.


From "Dubliners", a collection of short stories by James Joyce published in 1914.

The three states of being as filmed by Satyajit Ray

The following scenes are from the film Pather Panchali (1955) of Satyajit Ray that was the first film of the Apu trilogy. I have selected the following scenes because to my mind they emerge as almost archetypes or states of the human evolution and development. Watching these scenes almost feels as if one tastes Proust’s madeleine of remembrance of beauty past. Long lost memories of essential, distilled, pure moments in time transcend the film and somehow create a certain undefined nostalgia. Captured on film is the poetry of a world in balance and the seeds of change that will gradually lead to a transformation of this world and our way of life in it.

The three states of being are:

Rain

I see this scene as a depiction of the first state of being. A life in harmony with nature. A pure life. A balanced perception of man’s place as part of the whole and not the dominating force behind all. A storm is coming. The leaves shake in anticipation of the first drops of water carried by the wind. The clothes left out to dry have to be taken in and the children are called back home but they are far away running in the fields towards the water. A drop falls on the head of a man sitting by the river who opens an umbrella. A dog seeks dry shelter and the rain begins to pour down. Apu is cold and calls to his sister. But she is there, out in the open, in the rain, feeling every drop falling on her body and face. She is experiencing a deep feeling of blissful exhilaration and makes fun of Apu shivering in the cold wind. She dances and then feeling also cold runs under the tree hugging her brother. “Rain, rain…go away” 

Link to the scene "Rain" in youtube     

Joy

The second state has to do with human nature. The emotional complexity of the human being is the dominant drive of this scene. The instant change of an emotion from sadness into joy transforms also our perception of nature. The dice are cast and nature now follows. A woman is sitting in sad contemplation thinking of a loved one that is far away. She has been crying. Her train of thought is interrupted by the cries of “letter, letter”. Wiping her eyes and almost trembling in anticipation she grabs the letter from the boy and reads that all is well and that news is good. Everything falls into place, tranquility and beauty are reflected in the insect-hoping dance on the water. The water has become the mirror of the feelings of the woman and her thoughts jump from one thing to another like insects. The dog plays peacefully with the cat, the bird sings and the woman exhausted from this emotional journey feels the heat for the first time and slowly drifts into sweet oblivion.  

Link to the scene "Joy" in youtube

Train

There is something wrong in this vast field of agricultural land. Metal constructions and cables divide the screen, the earth and the sky. At first you think that it’s birds sitting on a wire, but it’s not. The girl listens to the constant drone noise coming from the live wires. She walks in water. The two sounds make an uneasy coupling. She puts her ear on a metal column and listens. Apu mimics his sister and then looks for her as she walks in the field. The sound of wind has now drowned the drone noise of the cables. Everything sways as the wind dictates. Apu has lost his sister and calls for her. Hidden, she throws him sugarcane. He sees her sitting down and asks her “Where are we? What are those?” pointing at the cables. She can’t be bothered to explain. And then she stops him because she hears something. A different noise from far away blends with the wind. A train can be seen dividing the scene between sky and land, puffing black smoke. The children run through the fields to meet the train. The sound of the locomotive is now very loud. The children are close. The train runs through the celluloid and becomes the filter that blackens our vision separating us from the children. The train passes and Apu is left in the thick dark smoke. Man's creations have taken center stage.

Link to the scene "Train" in youtube

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry au village d'étoiles

"...En avion, quand la nuit est trop belle, on se laisse aller, on ne pilote plus guère, et l’avion peu à peu s’incline sur la gauche. On le croit encore horizontal quand on découvre sous l’aile droite un village. Dans le désert il n’est point de village. Alors une flottille de pêche en mer. Mais au large du Sahara, il n’est point de flottille de pèche. Alors ? Alors on sourit de l’erreur. Doucement, on redresse l’avion. Et le village reprend sa place. On raccroche à la panoplie la constellation que l’on avait laissée tomber. Village ? Oui. Village d’étoiles..." 


Extrait du roman "Terre des Hommes" d' Antoine de Saint-Exupéry paru en février 1939.

Was Elizabeth Bishop listening to the Residents?

I Am in Need of Music

I am in need of music that would flow

Over my fretful, feeling fingertips,

Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips,

With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow.

Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low,

Of some song sung to rest the tired dead,

A song to fall like water on my head,

And over quivering limbs, dream flushed to glow!

There is a magic made by melody:

A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool

Heart, that sinks through fading colors deep

To the subaqueous stillness of the sea,

And floats forever in a moon-green pool,

Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep.

Listen to

The Residents - Jambalaya (On the bayou) 

... combien l'homme s'est éloigné de la nature

Dans un entretien qui s'est déroulé le 15 mars 2011 au Radialsystem de Berlin, quelques jours après l'épouvantable tremblement de terre sur la côte du Japon, le compositeur Toshio Hosokawa a parlé de son dernier oeuvre, l'opera "Matsukaze". Dans ce contexte, il a dit le suivant par rapport à la catastrophe causé par le tsunami...

"Question: Quelles sont les questions qui se posent à vous face à la catastrophe au Japon?

Toshio Hosokawa: Ce tsunami nous a expressément montré combien l'homme s'est éloigné de la nature. Tous ces débris de voitures et autres produits industriels. Un paysage hideux qui devrait nous faire réfléchir. Autrefois, les tsunamis ne laissaient pas ces débris artificiels. Les hommes vivaient dans des maisons de bois et de papier. Ce qui avait été détruit était absorbé par le cycle de la nature. Notre vie est étroitement liée à la nature qui, au Japon, est imprévisible. Nous admirons sa beauté mais en même temps nous la craignons profondément. Il se peut que cela vienne du shintoïsme: cette religion trés ancienne nous enseigne que nous sommes qu'une partie de la nature - une partie de l'arbre, une partie de l'eau, et ainsi de suite. Il va de soi que nous devons vivre en harmonie avec la nature, mais il est difficile de résister à notre environnement. Nous pensons davantage dans l'optique de la communauté, que dans celle de notre "moi" individuel. Cependant, pour nous, japonais, il devrait être évident que l'energie nucléaire ne relève pas de la nature..."
   

A performance by Lady Day

In her interesting and informative book "With Billie", Julia Blackburn talks about the song "Strange Fruit". A song that will be forever associated with Billie Holiday even though artists of the stature of Nina Simone have also sung it. This song is almost solely responsible of imprinting the horror of racism and segregation in the hearts and minds of people who though that music was only for entertainment. The civil rights movement would take over from there later on and bring to an end this dark period of American history.


But in February 1959, all was still to be won, when Lady Day, in the sunset of her career, made this filmed live appearance in London, accompanied only by a sparsely played piano. She is there, in front of the audience, having fought her demons and addictions, having lived a hard life and bearing the scars to show it.    


Here is what Julia Blackburn says in her book:   


"... There is a film sequence of Billie singing "Strange Fruit" at the Chelsea Palace Studios in London in February 1959. By then she has become painfully thin and the dress she wears is stretched over the angular scaffolding of her bones. Her hair is pulled back from her face and tied in a long pony tail. she looks austere and beautiful and her face has taken on the abstract iconography of a mask. Even though she is performing in front of an audience, you have the impression that she is lost in her own thoughts and oblivious of her surroundings. She sings very slowly, giving full weight to the power of each word, allowing the images to grow in their terrible intensity..."


Lady Day turned into night five months after the filming of this performance.
  
      

And then the real thing comes along

I was driving home, for some time now, desperately searching on the radio for something interesting to listen to. After ten minutes of zapping through audio lobotomizing radio stations, I had almost given up. The tediousness of computer listed commercial filler songs nearly made me reach out and turn off the radio… But then it happened… and the real thing came along. Oh... the beautiful chaos of the Band Of Holy Joy! And what a joy it is to listen to this song once again… A lot more than a simple love song, it’s a musical interrogation of the life we live in. A life full of cultivated, artificial needs (…that flower from bad seeds), a life spent buying each day the same old lies and chasing the glittering prize. We have all been brought up conditioned to love all the things in this world that are wrong. And one day, hopefully, the real thing comes along. Take a few minutes and enjoy it.    

“ Faith rules forever and a day

Here comes fun-time, ok?

All my life I’ve dipped between the lines

Hoping everything would turn out fine

I’ve been conditioned to love

All the things in this world that are wrong

And then the real thing,

And then the real thing comes along

The kind of angel you’d die to impress

Turns out to be a devil, couldn’t care less

All my life I’ve cultivated needs

The needs that flower from bad seeds

I’ve been conditioned to love

All the things in this world that are wrong

And then the real thing,

And then the real thing comes along

All your life you’ve prayed for something heaven sent

Here it comes you mess up of course you repent

All my life I’ve bought the sad lies

But still I chase the glittering prize

I’ve been conditioned to love

All the things in this world that are wrong

And then the real thing,

And then the real thing comes along”

Listen to

The Band Of Holy Joy - And Then The Real Thing Comes Along