The Coziness of Delusion

     Recently, I had a reunion with a person who has known me for over half my life. In fact, we were in love, or something like it, for many years. But all that ended a long time ago, and both of us have changed—in my case, pretty radically. During our recent reunion chatting over coffee, I realized that we now have very little in common. The interests we shared years ago are no longer a viable part of my life, and the things that now absorb my time and mind are not a viable part of his. Still, there are friendships that can exist and even flourish despite big differences in interests and philosophies. It was this hope that prompted me to ask him if he ever reads this blog. Though I certainly don't tell the whole truth in these posts, I tell a lot of the truth, and if anyone cared to know who I am now and how I got to be who I am now, this blog is a great place to start. His answer saddened me.

     "No, I haven't read it. And I really don't think I ever will. Because that  'you' has nothing to do with me, and I want to remember you the way I knew you." A second passed before he added, "I know that isn't real."

     And I know now that he and I can never be complete friends. We can only be nostalgic friends. Like the "love" we once had, it's only friendship of a sort; there are too many things missing, essential things.

     A few years ago, I wrote a sonnet about this sort of delusion and how we cling to it. It wasn't written with this particular person in mind; it was written for someone else, of whom I myself had, admittedly, created a certain image, an image that is idealized—though I have, since writing the sonnet, come to know him better and more realistically.

Simulacrum

I couldn't bear it if the photograph
I took of you so long ago should fade.
Inside my journal, like an epitaph,
between the last two pages, it is laid
with care. From time to time I take it out,
to see if all the colors are still true,
make certain that the sentiment I wrote
is still defined, that time has not subdued
the spirit radiating from your eyes.
And if I can preserve it through the years,
perhaps the dream of you will never die
but flourish, ever luminous and clear.
I know you now just as I knew you then.
My captured image brings you back again.

© Leticia Austria 2009
First published in Dreamcatcher  (under the title "The Likeness")

The Bond of True Friendship

When I left "the world" to enter the cloister, my deepest sorrow was not, as one would think, leaving my family, but leaving my friends. My family, I knew, would always be there for me and I would be always in their hearts, and they would certainly visit as often as was permitted; but how many of my friendships would survive what could have been a lifelong separation? If I had remained in the cloister, taken solemn vows, it was quite possible that I would never again see any of them, unless they made the trip to Lufkin to visit, or to witness my Solemn Profession.

 

I did receive letters from some of my friends, and one of them did come for a brief visit. One, however, wrote to me far more often than the others. Oddly enough, it was a friend I hardly ever saw in person (and still see only rarely). I was so very grateful whenever my novice directress handed me an envelope scrawled with his familiar handwriting! It was during those two and a half years, enclosed in the monastery walls, that I learned how true a friend he was and is.

Forgetting

Forgetting is the thing I fear the most.
I can't forbid the fading of the day,
nor can I draw the curtains of your heart
against the void of predatory night.
The music we have shared, the scattered days,
are feeble beams of light across the sea
of separation, circumstance, and time.
That there may only be what there
has been, I won't regret. The one thing I
could never bear is that you would forget.


Assurance

"How could I forget you? Be sure of my eternal friendship,
     as I am sure of yours." ~ from a letter

There is a passacaglia in my mind
That plays its stately rhythm on those days
When faith becomes a nebulous, gray haze
And all bright hope lies languishing behind.
Its harmonies are simple, yet refined;
Its tune develops at a solemn pace;
There is comfort in its persistent bass,
A steady beat, dependable and kind.
Above all, its composer is most dear,
For it is you, who wrote it for my heart
When cloister walls had once kept me apart
From things familiar, things I held as mine.
It is my talisman against all fear
Of distance, and its thieving ally, time.


Definition of "passacaglia"
© Leticia Austria 2008, 2011

With a Little Help from My Friends

     I love my Facebook friends. Many of them are poets, teachers, lovers of poetry, or people who simply love words and their evocative power. Quite a few of them are people I've never met face to face; we've become comrades of the written word through a social network. I'm not afraid to ask their advice or to solicit constructive criticism when working on a poem, and they always come through for me. I've done this a couple of times just in this past month, and the result is that new poems are flowing out of me after an unusually long period of writer's block. My friends help me when I need them, and they help me even when I don't think I need them.

     Contrastingly, I recently "met" a fellow poet through the internet whose opposition to advice and constructive criticism frankly confounds me. It has been my experience that when a poet reaches out to a colleague and sends him some of his work, it is because he wants feedback—but in this particular case, I assumed wrongly. Not only did this poet reject my well-meaning suggestions, but wrote me quite bluntly that they were not appreciated—nor were the suggestions of yet another colleague, who apparently made the same assumption I did about well-meaning, supportive collaboration.

     To say that I was bewildered, even shaken, by this reaction is an understatement. But we all have different ways of working, different ways of growing; and perhaps, contrary to what Donne wrote, being an island has its good points. For me, though, I need the eyes, ears, and objectivity of others to help me grow as a poet and as a person. I am truly grateful for any help that my friends so kindly give me.

Music Monday: The Memory of Music

     In an earlier post I wrote, "Music buddies are the BEST." In an even earlier post I explain why, so I won't go into it again now, except to say by way of preface to today's musical selection, that shared musical experiences not only make for lasting memories, but can also be the stuff that keeps a friendship going -- even if that friendship exists mainly by overseas communication.

     I have many such long-distance friends, but one in particular shares my love of the piano, pianists, and piano repertoire. Though not himself a professional pianist, he does play, and his knowledge of piano playing is sufficient to enable him to listen with ears as discerning and critical as my own. Our letters almost always mention some pianist or other, a particular recording, and strong recommendations thereof. In those very rare times when we actually see each other in person, our conversation inevitably turns to music in general and pianists in particular, and if possible, we like to listen to something together.

     One afternoon during one of our rare in-person visits, my friend introduced me to a live recording of Arturo Benedetti Michelangeli playing Beethoven's "Emperor" Concerto. Though I knew Benedetti Michelangeli's work, I'd never heard his interpretation of the "Emperor," live or otherwise. Listening to it that rainy afternoon, I was much impressed by the sheer arc of his performance, its cohesiveness, and the logic of his pacing which gives this interpretation its power. That, plus a very good lunch prepared by my friend, made for an unforgettable afternoon indeed, one that years later I commemorated in a poem.

 

         The Memory of Music

 

          Listen with me.

          I'll stretch a lifetime from a single afternoon

          of Benedetti Michelangeli.  Each note

          of Ludwig's "Emperor" will drop in memory's pool

          and ring on ring go rippling through the silent years

          without you.  All the sounds we share will resonate

          on friendship's timeless stream, and when at night I lie

          asleep, the waves will carry me to where you lie

          awakening in ochre light.  In music's craft,

          oceans are crossed.

 

          (01/11, first published in WestWard Quarterly )

 

     Note in this video (which, thankfully, gives us the concerto in its entirety) how Benedetti Michelangeli paces the opening flourishes, how he manages to sustain the chord progression and direction of the whole section, which can sometimes seem, in lesser hands, very fragmented. In the second movement, note his beautiful use of portato (not staccato, but a lifting of the hand between notes that are, at the same time, connected with the damper pedal) which makes every note of those downward passages sound like gentle raindrops (or perhaps teardrops); note also the lack of that sentimentality so prevalent in contemporary interpretations. He simply lets the plaintive beauty of Beethoven's melody shine in and of itself. Personally, I'd like a bit more brashness and exuberance in the third movement; nevertheless, there is a certain élan and a not unwelcome elegance in this reading.