The Gods Beside Us (and in Our Mirrors)

[Image above depicts a representation of The Parthenon as it appears at a location in the Second Life virtual world/alternative universe/simulation/etc. Click the image for more information, including a link to the location itself.]

From whiskey river:

We find comfort only in
another beauty, in others’
music, in the poetry of others.
Salvation lies with others,
though solitude may taste like
opium. Other people aren’t hell
if you glimpse them at dawn, when
their brows are clean, rinsed by dreams.

(Adam Zagajewski, from Another Beauty)

…and:

This is what I believe: That I am I. That my soul is a dark forest. That my known self will never be more than a little clearing in the forest. That gods, strange gods, come forth from the forest into the clearing of my known self, and then go back. That I must have the courage to let them come and go. That I will never let mankind put anything over me, but that I will try always to recognize and submit to the gods in me and the gods in other men and women.

There is my creed.

(D.H. Lawrence)

Not from whiskey river:

For a Moment

For a moment, at evening, tired, as he stepped off the tram-car,
— the young tram-conductor in a blue uniform, to himself
forgotten, —
and lifted his face up, with blue eyes looking at the electric rod
which he was going to turn round,
for a moment, pure in the yellow evening light, he was Hyacinthus.

In the green garden darkened the shadow of coming rain
and a girl ran swiftly, laughing breathless, taking in her
white washing
in rapid armfuls from the line, tossing it in the basket,
and so rapidly, and so flashing, fleeing before the rain,
for a moment she was Io, Io, who fled from Zeus, or the Danae.

When I was waiting and not thinking, sitting at a table on the
hotel terrace,
I saw suddenly coming towards me, lit up and uplifted with
pleasure,
advancing with the slow-swiftness of a ship backing her
white sails into port,
the woman who looks for me in the world
and for the moment she was Isis, gleaming, having found
her Osiris.

For a moment, as he looked at me through his spectacles,
pondering, yet eager, the broad and thick-set Italian who works in
with me,
for a moment he was the Centaur, the wise yet horse-hoofed
Centaur
in whom I can trust.

(D.H. Lawrence [source])

…and (courtesy of The Writer’s Almanac):

Grecian Temples

Because I’m getting pretty gray at the temples,
which negatively impacts my earning potential
and does not necessarily attract vibrant young women
with their perfumed bosoms to dally with me
on the green hillside,
I go out and buy some Grecian Hair Formula.

And after the whole process, which involves
rubber gloves, a tiny chemistry set,
and perfect timing, I look great.
I look very fresh and virile, full of earning potential.
But when I take my fifteen-year-old beagle
out for his evening walk, the contrast is unfortunate.
Next to me he doesn’t look all that great,
with his graying snout, his sort of faded,
worn-out-dog look. It makes me feel old,
walking around with a dog like that.

It’s not something a potential employer,
much less a vibrant young woman with a perfumed bosom
would necessarily go for. So I go out
and get some more Grecian Hair Formula —
Light Brown, my beagle’s original color.
And after all the rigmarole he looks terrific.
I mean, he’s not going to win any friskiness contests,
not at fifteen. But there’s a definite visual improvement.
The two of us walk virilely around the block.

The next day a striking young woman at the bookstore
happens to ask me about my parents,
who are, in fact, long dead, due to the effects of age.
They were very old, which causes death.
But having dead old parents does not go
with my virile, intensely fresh new look.

So I say to the woman, my parents are fine.
They love their active lifestyle in San Diego.
You know, windsurfing, jai alai, a still-vibrant sex life.
And while this does not necessarily cause her
to come dally with me on the green hillside, I can tell
it doesn’t hurt my chances.

I can see her imagining dinner
with my sparkly, young-seeming mom and dad
at some beachside restaurant
where we would announce our engagement.

Your son has great earning potential,
she’d say to dad, who would take
a gander at her perfumed bosom
and give me a wink, like he used to do
back when he was alive, and vibrant.

(George Bilgere)

I’ve always had mixed feelings about the Canadian singer-songwriter Loreena McKennitt (a favorite of The Missus, as it happens). She has an undeniably exquisite voice, and I like many of the subjects she tackles (and the way she tackles them: the evocations of ancient music, poetry, Shakespeare, sensibilities). But for some reason it’s hard for me to listen to her music for more than one album at a time, or in rewind/replay mode. But the first time I heard her, it was on her 1994 album The Mask and the Mirror, which opens with a song called “The Mystic’s Dream.”

The song is in two parts, the first almost entirely vocal, and the second a mixture of voice (that voice!) and rhythm instruments which I’m pretty sure I’d never heard before (oud, udu drum, esraj, huhsaywhat?). At the first hanging vocal note, my mind said, Whoa. Who is that? But I’d almost lost interest by the point when the second part begins (about three minutes into the seven-plus-minute song) — and for me, redeemed the wait.

From McKennitt’s liner notes for the song:

January 24, 1993 – Granada, Spain…evening…lights across the city embrace the body of the Alhambra; the smells of woodsmoke and food hang in the narrow streets. Rambled around the Moorish section of the city; picked up a little gold mirror, an incense burner, a tiny bottle of perfume…

Yeah. That’s the feel of it.

Here’s “The Mystic’s Dream”; lyrics, per usual, are below.

Lyrics:

The Mystic’s Dream
(music/lyrics/performance by Loreena McKennitt)

A clouded dream on an earthly night
Hangs upon the crescent moon
A voiceless song in an ageless light
Sings at the coming dawn
Birds in flight are calling there
Where the heart moves the stones
It’s there that my heart is longing
All for the love of you

A painting hangs on an ivy wall
Nestled in the emerald moss
The eyes declare a truce of trust
Then it draws me far away
Where deep in the desert twilight
Sand melts in pools of the sky
Darkness lays her crimson cloak
Your lamps will call me home

And so it’s there my homage’s due
Clutched by the still of the night
Now I feel you move
And every breath is full
So it’s there my homage’s due
Clutched by the still of the night
Even the distance feels so near
All for the love of you

A clouded dream on an earthly night
Hangs upon the crescent moon
A voiceless song in an ageless light
Sings at the coming dawn
Birds in flight are calling there
Where the heart moves the stones
It’s there that my heart is longing
All for the love of you