Echoing String

Emptiness ?

2011-09-06T01:24:00.012-04:00

I once stumbled upon an eldery woman, a pianist in starbucks with whom I had been sitting adjacently. For some misunderstanding, we had begun to speak, and she had related to me that she used to be a performer, and that she and her husband are now teachers of music. It striked me as unusual, in that a performer experiences a fusion between composer and audience through his art, a surely gratifying - if it could be described at all - experience. Upon further discussion, she confided to me the following: "After the curtain falls, it is lonely. "

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I'm often confronted by a question - many people ask of alterior pathways to spirituality, to G-dliness, the transcendent Ein sof - infinite light. In a relationship, one cannot but appeal to the partner but through that which one relates to - through that which was related to oneself. As a certain philosopher oneself, an intelligent person is one who does not impose oneself upon another. The same applies, and much moreso, to the Infinite being, to infinitude which is completely beyond our whole conception of reality, creation, and conception itself.

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When one pursues one's art for long enough, one begins to believe that one blends with the Divine, and his actions being an irrevocable expression of that Divinity...

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Can one insist on the return of another's love?

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Without this sensitivity, one is left with emptiness...

true, there's passion, there's pursuit, delusional fantasy, poesia, but what is one left with?

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A story is told of two elder chassidim who were visiting the cemetary in Tsfat, Israel where the revered 16th century Kabbalistic - Rabbi Isaac Luria OBM is buried. The spiritual aura of the place is intimately grasping, and one of the two was spending hours praying to Hashem, - reading Psalms by the gravesite of the Tsaddik. The second chossid, already standing outside of the gate, called his friend to remind me that it is time for the afternoon prayers (Mincha) - "Itshak! Mincha!". Minutes went by but sunset was approaching , and he called again but to no avail. Realizing that this was falling on unattentive ears, he said "Itshak! Dos iz gilluim! Mincha iz atsmus!". (Translation: This is revelations [of G-dliness], Mincha (afternoon prayer) is Essence [of G-dliness]).

So what does this leave us with?

And this brings me back to the initial question...

Cannot a flourish of emotion to cling to the infinite creator not constitute as some sort of Spirituality? of a grasping of G-dliness?

Does the metaphysical gesture of a piano's rays not penetrate beyond the pale of this lowest world? Don't the deepest excersions of oneself not produce such a relevation? such an intensity?

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A class by the Renowned lecturer Rabbi Yosef Jacobson discussed Chapter 5 of the Tanya by the Alter Rebbe, where the discussion posed a question - How could a finite creation ever relate to an infinite being? How could there be any relationship, any communication whatsoever? How could one feel fulfilled and truly connected? And he answered - the truth is - one can't. Why's that? Because by definition - connection, and self assertion/self consciousness are two contradictory things. If one truly connects to the desires, the will of another, then one does not notice their own benefit, one is lost within the complete union, grasp, of that other being, in total epitemy of oneness.

In contrast, one can feel the most uplifted, and passionate, and all the feiry emotions in the world, and yet it have no impact whatsoever upon the other being.

If this is so with regards to another person, how much moreso towards the inifnitude of the Divine reality...

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Beyond any curtain of all the gratifying, pleasuring entetites and arts of this world, captivating the hearts and minds of us all for years on in, lies only one thing in the end - emptiness.

Yet through searching for a reality more real then ourselves, this all doesn't have to be so.

Search for essence. "I do not want your Gan Eden (Heaven), all I want is you yourself!" - Alter Rebbe

Inspired by This Article.

thundering

2011-07-14T01:02:00.010-04:00

It's raining by the Castle, orchestrated dripping of hidden tears falling, leaves imitating school ground flagpoles hitting against the wind on an empty day, the rose line leading quietly along the flooded paths, a tiny window from the forest out onto the water, wooden benches, awaiting newspapers or daring jeans and furry squirrels, everywhere dripping, dropping, echoing, splatting, a blind rain.. by a luminous cliff, observed by the few stars, and a horizon of curious lights.

wind makes for good accompaniment. or maybe it's just someone's inner chatter

sandy shivers, the warming ocean smell. bridges and oceans everywhere - leading ahead onward. leaning on another shore. sempre legato, con fuoco, con cuore, piu piano... piu piano

after the triumphant introduction of grandious drama in Brahm's 1st piano concerto, the piano whirls out a gleaming harmony spinning beneath a gasping array of emotions ... much like :

the Beauty of

2011-06-14T00:11:00.013-04:00

the beautiful summer breeze
how can it truly be written?
the swept down with sprinkled water rains - boardwalk
so quiet - the air is so fulfilling, the sea murmers off to the side
and you stroll
you walk, you breathe, you blink with a halfhearted shnazziness owed to the tire.. but
what sleep can truly be recalled in this epitome of delicious air, of caressed sand by the gentle wind,
where each step is another taste of a shore
a shore on the verge of this city

..this city

our city of noise

sometimes beautiful noise, sometimes babushkas reminding you you can't drive for your life while running across the walkway in front of your car.. of french tourists asking you if you speak yiddish! of a u-haul truck driving by you whilst your usual philosophical strolls along these "little odessa?!?!?!" streets is interrupted by a loud "AAACHHUUU", only to take a step further and see handful of water flying towards you from the truck.

...i hope it was a water gun...

and you walk and you walk
and the buildings follow you
and even the sand in your socks...

*

I can picture Mahler leaning by his window, staring at the ocean of cars and people, probably off of park avenue or 5th avenue, just looking on, in a new world, such an outpouring of people, of jazz, money, concerts, philosophies, revolutions, noise, cars, dirt, joy, ... so far from home... such a fascination, rediscovery...

"wherever I am, the longing for this blue sky, this sun, this pulsating activity goes with me." - Gustav Mahler

"I see everything in such a new light--am in such a state of flux, sometimes I should hardly be surpriesd suddnely to find myself in a new body. I am thirstier for life than ever before..." - Gutsav Mahler

*

"The point is not to take the world's opinion as a guiding star but to go one's way in life and working unerringly, neither depressed by failure nor seduced by applause." - Gustav Mahler

what is a musicians life?

the word nusach means ambiguous, indeterminate

each person's life is like an empty vesel being poured in
each sound wave absorbing itself into each limb and each heart beat
those strings pull your heart with that east wind
behind those heartfelt libations layed a hallow twig, a lonely gust

when a musician reaches in... when these harmonies surround you... suffocate you... pull you along this road of no real return until the last vibrato is sung out, the last harp chord sprung out

the last smile given...

Rubinstein once remarked that when he goes out on stage, he finds a most beautiful woman in the audience, and pretends that he only plays to her

*

but what about all the time away from the stage?

the composer's ink seeps into one's hands, into one's bow, or spine, and together it forms a product

like a boardwalk atop a sandy oasis,

must the musician walk it alone?

who would have known that Mahler was saying good bye?

Sparkling Diamond

2011-05-03T15:34:00.001-04:00

There once was a man who searched for diamonds. He made a stingy profit and was never successful in his feats, however he thought himself to be overall, happy. One day he received a letter. He was given two choices, either look for diamonds in a heavily mountainous range where the diamonds were ample, and practically covered every inch of the terrain. He was offered equipment to assist him and a medical team to ensure his total and complete safety. The next choice included a sandy beach where he was totally safe, but the diamonds were all buried under the white sand in random patterns. Out of his own personal convenience and contempt he waived the more strenuous but indispensable opportunity of working in the mountains for the peaceful digging on the beach. As he started his work, he exclaimed to his peers, what is wrong with what I am doing? I dig and dig, and here and there I find diamonds, more so than I ever have before! He did not realize his profits were still very low, and he was loosing out on ample wealth compared to the options presented to him. The man who found his way to the mountains of the diamonds was hard at work, and his profits were so much greater than that of the sand diggers, that if he were to take his wealth and divide it into one thousand pieces, the sand digger would not even come close to one of them. The sand digger sat and sighed, and decided never to waive such an opportunity again. He went on to gather for himself many diamonds in the mountains, and lived a happy, long, and fulfilling life where all his children, and his childrens children worked in the mountains gathering diamonds for generations to come.

The moral of this story is not wealth, but rather truth. Sometimes we find ourselves out of convenience looking outside of our own terrain as Jews, for something new and fresh. A way to connect to G-d that is easy. A way that does not contain the strains of Mitzvah observance that has lasted spans of the centuries. By doing this, we become by definition, sand diggers. Every diamond is a morsel of truth. In exploring other faiths and philosophies, we do pick up here and there some truth, however there are huge gaps of sand between them. By working harder in the Mountains of G-d's presence, we have an endless amount of diamonds to pick up. An endless amount of truths. This makes us want to waste not a minute in gathering them.

The Lubavitcher Rebbe would stand every Sunday in Brooklyn for hours giving out dollars for people to place in the charities of their choice. One woman came over to the Rebbe and broke out saying "Rebbe, how do you do it? How do you stand here during these long days every single week?!" The Rebbe kindly and wisely responded, "Every soul is a diamond. Could one ever grow tired of counting diamonds?" The Rebbe saw the truth in each Jewish soul. The blessing is being born the way we are, with such Holy potential. The challenge is using our good traits to reach the best that G-d can offer us over the course of our lives.

Post written by Asher Elbaz

Mikhail Pais - Chopin Ballada No.1 Op.23

2011-03-17T01:49:00.000-04:00

Soaring Ashes

2011-03-06T00:37:00.010-05:00

Gasp for breath.

In between phrases; in between consciences.

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Ravel served for the French army in WWI. Oftentimes, he would walk through abandoned, war-torn reflections of former cities, and merely wander. Once, a story is related that he walked into an abandoned house, found a piano, and sat down to play Chopin.

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Crushing humbles a person. Seeing others lacking, or seeing it in oneself, it's a blessing to have every bit of my existence, every scent of air to use for another moment's triumph,

- the weather was beautiful today, escorting the sun down my street, with the apple crisp winter smell of air, When i stop looking at people, the trees reappear, their shapes and personalities hovering over and posing for one another. they also shiver at the wind, it also carries that sand from the beach, that stepped on leaf down the road, with a gum wrapper joining the parade, sitting in for the ant's kite.

;

In the distant fireplace, borrowed from that cabin, it lights up a darkening canvas with trees shrugging about, mosquitos blinking or winking, a plastic screen of air tightened around it as a string lies within a violin, only moving as a unit, as a whole painting rotated by an artist's tuning fork, or sometimes brush. The leaves flare up hissingly, following the newspapers and the stubborn branches, the fire dances about

and the rest just dissolves

into a different realm, into a different hand

it slipped through the fingers of this reality

i didn't even manage to catch it with my camera

-

the night follows those sparks

sound lures oneself beyond the pale superficial
a hole into depth
of those skies and those campfires
and the crushes leaves under one's sneaker
and the gum wrapper too
you hear more than what your eyes draw for you

what then is corporeality, if not an illusion?

it's not even the ideas that exist,
but complete, transcendent, nothingness, unexistence

and only at the notice, at that revelation of what that fire is singing - does the curtain raise itself - and a person scratches one shed off from the rusted globe, from that imprisoned soul, and that frozen heart

Whithering Curtain

2011-01-12T01:31:00.008-05:00

An unbalancing twilight

Dwindle, looking past the right shoulder

The foot steps plopping neatly by your shore line,

A composer's breath through the key strokes and wrist waltzes, or polonaises, or preludes
a prelude to what? of whom?

every doorway is a glimpse
every letter is a mystery
every phrase a world

what is a detail to the one who relives? who reads the letter?

every passage is a connection twined
every line is an aria

"B'chawl l'va-v'cha, u-v'chawl naf-sh'cha, u-v'chawl m'o-de-cha."
With all your heart, all your soul, and with all your heart

those waves sound so familiar...

there comes a moment in a piece of music, where one is no longer starting, where one is no longer breathing, where one is no longer moving, or playing, or projecting

an outlined arched piano
shadowing a frock
like a candle holding onto that flame
letting it glow,

where one is no longer busy being,

what does it mean to read your letters?
to think your thoughts,
to be your extension, to be your expression where you are not?

the One who created this World
who breathes my soul into me

Meditation

2010-10-28T04:17:00.003-04:00

Where could you go?

Where do you need to go?

...Where are you actually going?

Prancing Droplets

2010-10-05T00:06:00.013-04:00

If one wishes to learn about the life of a composer, one can see it all from his compositions. - Rachmaninoff

Splendor, bliss

Warmth,

Worry.

It is coming, I am going.

But not alone, and I reach there, but not alone
no,

and they are here to, idly hidden,
with horns that pierce and tear as a frontier awakens me.

A frontier in free fall, is nevertheless a fall.
A humorous Chopin heartily described his bore of England,
but they were there with him to. Quite there.

Much less hidden from himself then he had hoped.

He was lonely, but they reminded him of it, every embrace of his room with endless spiral,
resting aside the leaves with their tree trumps,

the ground is heavy, pulling one's heart along its engraved path, as a canal of fluid realization, of fluid time, of fluid memory

still here, and them too

prancing around behind the paint of the walls

and evaporating through dry paint

oh such paint, such delicate fantasy along with its delicate invite, housing a
host of flourish and beauty, with a pulse of comfort, of trust, or blood rushing to the heart, or trembling hands, of unblinking eyes, whence the moon stares patiently beside the window into a nearby lake, into a deep tranquil lake where turtles sleep,
and owls guard.

yet

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the paint rustles.

and here they come.

Prancing about. Taunting.

Crystal Cold.
It is also seen clearer.

Crystallization sheds excesses. The core is revealed, the life, the future's precedent.

"I Tell my piano the things that I used to tell you" - Chopin

What is communication? Music? Art? Speech? What do I give to you, and you to me?

In its counter balance, the emotion of melody takes place of those whispers and jokes. The sigh is different, there an eternally elating quality sits, where a sigh is not heard, or written, but felt. a soul speaks, a soul whimpers,

a refinement, or for some unprivileged, it is a daunting confinement. a mask of concealment and limitation.

in truth, the imperceptibility fails those of its possession, those who do not know what is means to give over a harmony, to sense a poem of acoustic shapes

Why does one limit the voice? Confine a paper to its musical fate, set an essence into exile, till its spirit comes to life with ears and waves? Why the people, the chairs and seats, with tickets and reservations, with bowties and curtains, why the curtains, where is the idea, the expression, the vision?

Through this , it is there. Through exile, it attains redemption.

Why does one limit the heart?

HourGlass (cont.)

2010-09-14T00:37:00.005-04:00

It isn't too long ago that a chord resounded
a tile was pulled from the granite finish
and our oozed a scent of Rachmaninoff's harmony

Where a few leaves fell out as well,
And through surroundings - ironic - a deeper scent was smelled
a deeper crack between those two keys
sometimes a sound that one just can only feel
leading into a palace of copper,
whose sound chimes and ephemeral rays squeak through to a string,
or sometimes a portrait,
or sometimes

its dim outside

but our perception is what deceives us

it's really bright, but the colors just absorbed it, and what we see is only a reflection of a ray, a tiny beautiful expression of a source, of a composer, of the composer.

then what am i?
and what are you,

piano?

Introspection

2010-07-13T00:23:00.007-04:00

Elusive.

Overly dramatized, squeezed, dried, yet never fails to make one squint from its supplement to that morning earl grey, although personally I prefer tea and chopin by night fall.

Transient? I suppose, like the taste of a bubble gum bitten in effort of preserving the flavored sugar, coated violet delusions, and impish jokes on the gum wrapper.

- - - -

It so happens that writing leads into strange caverns, ice glazzed paintings,

i do not know where it leads, whence an idea or a state of being, or an out of place obscurity of abstract thought lands in humane revelation, or rather - registration. It registers, through words, through shapes and patterns on a page, much like music, but supremely solid and confined. On a piece of music, all letters are the same, only the placement is different, and crucially significant. Where it is seen, is already a different message behind a different emotion, behind a different passion or thought.

.. "a foolish king", a pseudonim of the yezter hora, - the animalistic nature of a person. the "king" isn't foolish, only that it leads one to foolishness, and by no means is one's egocentricity, selfishness, and narrow pursuit of self indulgence not another garment worn by him. Even hiding behind a cloak of an ideal, of a setting not yet lost to his influence...

--

Recently my professor was showing me his rendition of Debussy's Suite Bergemasque. In my opinion, it was completely justified that a certain counter melody (hidden counter point within the texture of the music) should be brought out, having an especially aesthetic, lyrical, and catalyzing quality to it. However, this was me. As my professor says, "don't do something to the music, let the music do something to you"...

This reminds me of something lehavdil similar,

"When a person signs his name Rav underneath a ruling... and this brings about argument and disunity between two Jews, hundreds of Jews, this is not a Rav"

In Judaism, Unity is above everything, as is shown in cosmology, everything is One with itself. As elaborated in Chassidic Teachings, "G-d is everything, everything is G-d.", and the whole world shares a core, an essence, a connection to every aspect of it. Negligence of this, of its implications is similar to idol worship, because it denies that which vivifies all of creation ex nihilo every moment, giving it life and existence. We are all connected, and even more so, this whole world is holy, the only thing left is for us to tune its string, to polish its buttons, although the buttons are already polished, and there is no excuse left, no reason for the delay, and Moshiach should be revealed, in gashmius, Immediately.

True introspection.

breeze

2010-05-10T21:35:00.001-04:00

it simmers through from somewhere long gone from its reach.

nostalgia is treif.

Hourglass (as listed under synonyms for "contraction" on dictionary.com)

2010-05-04T01:50:00.004-04:00

I am writing this post because I am hungry, and decided to revivify my blog, in response to therealshliach's claim to a somewhat idle nature of the recently named entity.

Naturally, nothing can be distanter from the truth.

-............-.................-..............-.......-
Rest.

The 88 columns of movement, upon which I glance, reveal before me an array of mountains, a wide plain desert surrounded by sky scratching mountains, their beauty, the whole desert calm in awe. I see this path of widening sound, of untamed expression, all colliding in one big storm where the animals aren't fastened down, nor are the clouds, either.

Encompassing? 88 streams, brightly still, Gently tugging.

From within, to without, under water, through the desk, hanging atop from an eight note, oh yes, the lovely fermata, the staple point of the nighttime picnic.

But enough gibberish.

Have you ever observed a child? A small, young child in his or her perception of the world. It is usually hard for us to identify oneself with a certain perception, or people with their ideals, but this rift isn't present in the life of a small child. There is clarity, simplicity.

We run to lose ourselves, but from what if not from ourselves? A child has no need to run, to search. These challenges that we ridicule our minds with, that our instincts attack us with... such meagreness, it is truly darkening.

As the child reaches for the incredibly interesting toy that we call "cell phone", and is taken away by the sudden urge to cry when we save the item from imminent beheading (only applies for slide/flip open phones)the baby cries. But all that one must do, is distract, is offer a new course, is show an example of activity, providing the key answer that illuminates the playroom in an ever so sweetening manner.

And where are we to do this for ourselves, when we get in the way of our G-dly spark, and innermost essence?

Where is the pedal, which in the words of Frederyk Chopin, is the soul of the instrument?

Where is our clarity? Our clarity, which we seldom rediscover.

Rain Drops

2010-02-24T00:38:00.001-05:00

There is a story told about a chossid by the name of Shmuel Munkes, Well known for his avid sense of humor, he is also the proud honoree of my outlook - earning the title of my favorite chossidish character. No arrogance intended.

so it goes, that on a certain shabbas morning, right after Shacharis and before the meal, they whole shul went to hear kiddush and have some chulent! (for more information on chulent, please visit your local chabad house). Suddenly, Shmuel Munkes grabs the whole pot and begins running away with it. The others pursue him, demanding and indeed - pleading that he hand it over! Without hesitation, he takes it, and pours the steamy mashed potatoes, surrounding by smoldering beans and reassuring chicken - right out onto the ground.

An electric awe filled the audience, a paralyzing disbelief of the intense drama that unfolded before their eyes!

Moments later, the shochcet runs into the shul and screams "Don't eat the chulent! It is not kosher!!1"

The shul people rejoiced and put Reb Shmuel Munkes on the table - overwhelmed by the Ruach HaKodesh (Divine Inspiration) that lay unrevealed within this Jew!

But he silenced this, and explained that when he saw the chulent - he had a sudden urge to eat it, and since he had trained his body not to react to permitted pleasures with impulse, he knew that the chulent had to be treif (not kosher), because when he looked at it he had felt a sudden desire to devour it.

-

Rain drops

i walked out from the conservatory building today, hands still warm from the discussion I had with the piano. It was raining. Innocentely, relentlessly, I happily wakled fourth. No umbrella, just my book bags with precious music notes and precious tephillin inside, chossidish cap (what are they called?) covvering my head, I felt like a Jew walking through this world alone, but not really alone, alone the way one walks when he knows that his friends are around the corner, his family is watching not far off, alone, but not lonely. After all, the rain was with me , and in my mind raced the passages of Chopin's ballad with a layer of the distant light dampening that this kind of rainy night brings with it. A night that easily could take me far back, to that far off gaze, seeking fulfillment through a window on the 5th floor, seeking another pair of eyes, or another understanding mind, or perhaps it was just the darkness itself, that really I didn't search for, but found and peered into. sometimes the discomfort is the comfort...

and then the car driving by decided to race towards a certain red light, spreading generously the street water (thank you) onto myself. I had missed the bus, chased it for a block, and decided to wait for the next one. Somehow trees make the rain seem much more severe.

it is comforting seeing this rain now. to my mind sprung a thought, of how rain is blessing, of how rain reminds us of how G-d is everywhere, and that not a single part of ourselves, or of anything - anywhere around us is not covered by attention, by comfort. like a warm blanket that shields one from the mourning cold, aided by the mere fact that I was awakening from peace, from warmth. the rain covers everything, connects me to that mysterious leaf in riverside park.

and neither one of us brought our umbrella today.

-

And now to my main topic.

The Dynamics of No

All to often are we lured into this trap of negativity. A controversy led by emotion, by waves into directions void of intellect. In life, it is the ChaBaD - Chocmoh, Binah, and Daas - the intellectual faculties of a person that should drive one to action, to fulfilment, towards decision, but in today's world, it is not so. It is not the intellect that leads one to search through another's text messages, to devour a piece of food like an animal, to denounce others with whom one disagrees with on the basis of an emotional notion, or minute knowledge of what one is disagreeing with.

Despite the vagueness of the aforementioned examples, I wish to bring an insight into the dynamic of choice. In reality - in my opinion, everything can be divided in two. There are reasons for why yes, and why no, and seldom do we strive to analyze ourselves, to delve into our own default responses, our own instincts.

A piece of music by itself is lifeless, is solely instinctive. It is devoid of meaning, and hence, or relativity to the sensative individual. Only through the gestures of melody and harmony, through the history of its creation, and through the studiness of its potential and actual intent in its nuances does it find a medium, does it find life.

But in our attitudes towards some things, we do not analyze, we do not think. We feel, as a lehavdil blind person would feel through a dark room. And even he has a logical direction, some intellectual string of direction.

As G-d does not demand more from man then man can do, every individual can control this impulse, be it emotional, physical, or even intellectual. Morality, philosophy, all of these have their root, their place of truth, and an emotion alone cannot drive one towards these, towards emes.

But striving for ChabaD does not stop here. Intellect is also alive, is also active. The pages of chassidus speak and discuss. Vessels each carry their own. And when each vessel realizes where they all come from, and where they are all going, suddenly the impulse disappears, and what really surfaces it the real existance, the only existence - G-d.
Shema Yisroel followed by Ahavat Isroel were the last words of Martin Grossman. May No Jew have to wait until such dire circumstances in order to see the world around him for it really is, and the Jews around him for what he really is.

An Onion one may be...

2010-01-17T01:28:00.000-05:00

My friend used to admonish me for reflecting too often on the past - back in my *darker* days, Although we aren't as close any more, it seems to me like I needed to hear him more. Its funny - how back then, I'd complain that I haven't seen him in 2 weeks, or another compannion of mine I havent spoken to in a month.

Today, years later, I feel a need to call them with a huge smile, nevermind the long silence, where are you?

Just like the halacha that when a person see's a close friend after a long time, one should say "Shehechiyanu", - the prayer upon hearing good news!

""Friends" meant friends back then" my Rabbi says, "today it's not the same."

---

it was a master class, and the teacher of our music division chairperson's teacher was performing Frederik Chopin's 24 Preludes. It wasn't too impressive, especially since what one went on mostly in those days was a hinge of emotion, groove, and understanding that wasn't of a particularrefined nature, [or so to the older musician it seems]

Music was so clear, so pure, that I had just dove myself wholly into it, into the beautiful, mysterious city of towers and lights, where the gregarious elite melted into the atrium for crispy salads under the coat of ringing strings that beset the hearts, ears, and forks of the unexpecting audience.

I was sitting in the auditorium of LaGuardia High School, and I felt as I was before a tower of opportunity, a tower of my dreams before me, where I too had found the cove for my essence, and nearby, listened keenly, beautifuly, the frigid chamber, as a lost soul in a solid glacier, where my heart lay ungrudginly.

and blindly.

Oh the sweet air that I inhaled, with vibrant promise and energy it beheld and kept secret. How much I enjoyed staring at that stage, sitting lost within the concert hall of my life, looking on, and looking forward, and looking at the presence at my distant right.

---

I had a dream recently, where I saw best friends along with a select few of those to whom my heart had shared a cappucino with, all sitting together in one room without realizing it. Kind of ironic, not all of them would get along due to allegiences and what not, but in the dream they did, until I introduced each of them >:)

But these are those, with whom I have shared so much.
Kind of like a desk, which you sit at every day (really to just hold up your laptop or computer).
In this case, the support it gives, is often who we are to our friends, without it being on the surface. Or tangibly substantial for that matter.

But hey, let's farbreng. And use the past not as an example, but as a point of reference to leap from :) And land far, far, further - at a point when your atsmus and my atsmus are revealed, and to love the food in your plate would be even more natural.

(Russian saying* not withstanding.)

*V'chuzhoe torelki fsegda vkusneyo. - In a stranger's plate, it always taste's better.

...it wouldn't be a stranger's plate!

Old Reflections

2010-01-11T19:58:00.000-05:00

an echo is what I heard, encircling this cloud of moisture, this bubble of nothing but what appears
tis a drifting state from here, looking down, with those figures moving about, forming a portrait though ignorant
a bird flew past, it seemed to gawk at me, is that how they wink? or maybe its affection
why this cloud? why this expectation of fulfillment, of potential ends, or in an immortal sense - of essence
would not a wave be easier to climb, or a puddle to splash about?
this resonating tone irritates me, why must this sound abnormal to me? what is it with this second, or that third, or her dissonance that moves me so?
what is this sea of drifters that this cloud allows me to see through its curtains, through its seemingly warm wings and imaginary feathers... yet i'm within it, perhaps part of its scent, or maybe just a pause - a silent...resonance

.

each object has its tone
and every you has a color, a pitch
just seems, that seeming can be dillusional
and a break of a string a piece of my music too
who is to say that this is not sound, that it does not feel

,

you string, your integrity, uncompromising meaning, relentless metal, i admired you

it is only I that stand in your way, with my feelings and energies, but what is being fulfilled?
who's love is being shown? or who's pocket is being blown
it doesn't matter, I suppose, the composers intended for such aura, such tone
they lived it, but can you align to it? to that color of music? that shade of curtain with consistently trespassing wind? or this bench underneath you, it has as many legs as you, or maybe more, but your grasp is far superior, yet you refuse my heart the favor, instead waiting for my hands to toil
you react, with horrific sound, when you lose a string from your grips, like a missing leaf from a vine,
but is it not beyond your dimension to sympathize mine? i miss, your note, a vine, an escape
my voice.

Train station.

2010-01-06T01:16:00.000-05:00

There is a certain movie, named ВОКЗАЛ ДЛЯ ДВОИХ, meaning - Train hall for two.

As many memories that we have, it feels like a parenthesis, sparked by a familiar glance, or peculiar shade of color. This movie begins in the promise land of soviet justice - Siberia. A certain individual is called out from his prison on orders of his captain, that his wife has come to see him.

--
Backtrack.

It relates a story of a certain Pianist who, prior to a trial for which he took the blame for his wife's hit and run of a man on the road, he stops by at a train station empire grill, - a luncheonette. Due to his dietary restrictions, he refuses to eat what they hand all the passengers, but nonetheless demand from him pay, and claim that he is guilty.

From all the commotion, he misses his train and fights with the waitress who demanded the small pay from him. Late to see his father, and knowing that he will not be back in time to Moscow for his trial, he is deeply upset but resolves to attend that same restaurant and this time demand the food that he deserves (for pay, of course).

Film script made short, her bazaar trading boyfriend comes by, convines the pianist to give him his passport while watching this guy's *rare* melons, train takes off, his passport is lost, (which is Russia was like not having a metrocard, permenantly), the waitress realizes she doesnt really love her boyfriend, she and the pianist begin to converse, she convinces him to sell the melons with him to make money, he really sucks at it, she acts as an influential and speculative buyer, influences others to buy his melons, and when the other brokers see this, they get ousted from the bazaar.

Good day for a pianist.

Afterwards, she misses her bus home, they go to a vokzal and try to find a respective sleeping place amongst the many great soviet travelers. His wallet is stolen.

*hint* ВОКЗАЛ ДЛЯ ДВОИХ

Next day, he invites her out to the restaurant. This happens to be my favorite scene. He takes her to her restaurant, and begins playing piano for her. People get up and start giving him requests for money, and then happens the golden encounter.

Pianist of restaurant approaches.

-privet konkurentam [hello to the competition]
-privet bringenam? (whats up homie)
-Gostraliruyish? [Concert touring?]
-Na Xleb zarabativayu (Working for bread.)
-Na Xleb Podpivaesh? (Singing for bread too?)
-Ti pianist, Ya pianist, U menya dokumenti, dengi, fso ukrali. Mne tolko na uzhen zarabotat. (You are pianist homie, I am pianist homie. They stole everything, my documents, my money, I just need to earn for dinner)
...
-Cho uzhinayeti? (What are you two eating?)
-300 Koniaka, Dve kolbasi, Dve kievskiye, i dve porcii morozhina. (300 grams Coniac, 2 Salamis, 2 Kiev cutlets, and 2 ice creams.
-Mhm, logichno. (Mhm, Logical.)
-Da, I Salat! (Oh and Salad!)
-Ta nu, salat. Na etom ostanovic, ponyal? (Ah what's salad... And at that, stop. Understand me?)
-Agga! (Affirmative!)

---
A scene after this, he and the waitress are sitting and talking. She asks him.
So this means, you will suffer for the sake of good?
-And you would want, that in jail they would place here?
After a pause, she turns to him and says "I wish this - to noone."

Meanwhile, the lady who would have been sent away enjoys a prospering career in the then top profession of news caster state of the art state television channel, and is quietly letting him take the blame for her.
---
As he is leaving the siberian prison, he is told to pick up an accordian and to be on his way to a neighboring village where his wife is waiting for him.
It shows a woman walking into a wooden house with hot soup, and as she climbs the stairs, she sees him already sitting there and eating. he turns around and he realizes, it is not his wife, it is the waitress.

She came to see him after all these days. In siberia.

He sleeps through the alarm clock, and they realize he is late to the roll call, which is equaled to treason. As they run to the base together, they already see the base but he has no more strength to go, even though she is carrying the accordian to help him. As they fall helplessly, she suddenly opens the case, and tells him to play. He plays with all his might, and the captain hears and notices, his life is saved.

With this scene, the film is concluded. In this moment swollen with joy, the camera is taken off down the path of the frost snow road, ripped apart as a gust of wind from the temporary sanctuary it previously held dear.

My grandfather tells me that a wife is a best friend, one whom will be there with me for the rest of my life.

One because of whom the ice will melt and the snow will gleam.

ВОКЗАЛ ДЛЯ ДВОИХ

Who would go so far?

d Minor

2009-12-29T01:04:00.000-05:00

When you breathe, experience that grasping and satisfaction, this unequal taste of life, of fresh life, of an indescribable emotion,

it is endowed, it is plenty.
it is my chance, my movement, ...

same unused vessel in the fridge, serene train, home, where are the eyes watching me through the wall?

these are my reflections on an "escape" back, although lacking an object to run away from, i sojourned back to my neighborhood. there was a conventional gathering of college students. same drinking, same ... everything, and more.. .

i remember the first time we threw one. all this excitement, all of this promise of golden bliss, - a stark night, little fluid conversation, projected smiles from an empty disc, - and the feeling of a laugh that was never shared, or smile appreciated.

there is a cold impenetrable surface that serves as a cover and a blanket. we live with it, and convince ourselves of its warmth. or most often, are convinced. it does not seem conveyable, or that I may ever be able to share this apple that I cannot seem to bite, this note that somehow avoids the pen of every composer whose music reaches me, this - this utter emptiness that won't cease to appear before my eyes, before the receptors of those who slurp down the gallon of oil without knowing more, beyond, beneath, around, or at least that our abstract minds may find some middle ground, a tone of true - or at least imperfect harmony that will reach inside.

instead, i remember the moon out of that window most, ... and of course, classy furniture it was.

and the wind blew harder fashionably.

those eyes that seek, that console, that know that i await, and await too,
must it be years, till the right time, till

till...

till we won't need a broken glass to signal for us to rejoice. for me to rejoice.
instead, eyes will be met, and a smile will be eternal. internal. real.

what i want to say, is

Easy

2009-12-08T02:03:00.000-05:00

What is easy? As a typical blog opener and general life answering technique, I employ the infamous question as an answer. Indeed, little do we stop to redefine even the means by which we cling to define reality. Special emphasis on the we. Constantly relying on our own perception for clarity that we think we can console in.

When standing in front of the Rebbe at the ohel, I realize.

But all of this is not what I wanted to speak about. What has been on my mind is knowledge. daas.
When a person knows, what free choice can there be? What person who knows that a fire burns will approach it? What person, who knows the Eibesther, wouldn't run to do mitvot. When the mist is lifted in front of you for even a slight moment and the direction to continue on is certain, why would you turn elsewhere?

What free choice can there be with knowledge? What step beyond the neshama can a person take? Where is the olam? Where is the cover?

As a musician, all to often does one change their perspective on a piece of music. Its meaning seems to glue itself to the images rolling through my eyes every day that I walk with it. No spec of air is left without a color of harmony attached to it, and this i know, every time I feel it. stemming from nothing more than an etching of ink on a sheet of paper, and the size and color of the exterior shell that the publisher saw fit. After all, how can i know it any other way? How can it be played any other way?

How can the sun not shine through the curtain?

But yet, you know too. And all that you are knows too. And the subway car, and the mice near that rail, and that 2, and the sidewalk bench, and the polar bear club, they all know too. but when it all adds up, is it brought down into daas, into knowledge?

Do you do beyond your illuminated curtain?

There is a room waiting for it. There is a siddur. There is the table. There is this world, and it knows that which you are not yet doing. But it is knowing.