Re: The Moment Jars

The brain is a microcosm creating its own stories. People then live out these stories.
- Kirima Seiichi

If I had to define what a moment is, I would say it is the individual perspective of a specific event of which one has a memory. Maybe that doesn't sound very interesting, yet it is, when one considers how much we experience in our lives and how much we subsequently forget. If something stays with us, this is not without reason. It has somehow affected or impressed us. I suppose this might be different for people with photographic memories, or maybe for everyone- I have long been of the opinion that generalisations generally are dangerous.

I often stop and think about this, even while I'm in a completely ordinary, uninteresting situation. I feel I lose so much. Constantly. I realise that this is inevitable and that troubles me. Yet perhaps it must be so- in order for there to be an extraordinary, there must be an ordinary, and it would seem our life is spent creating this situation.

I remember so little from my childhood. I know it was good. I know my parents, they are good people. I see the photos, the child is always smiling, the child who was I, and yet is a stranger to me.

I am sometimes told by others that I have a great memory. But they are only comparing me to themselves.

In a dining area on a college campus, five, six years ago, I became painfully aware of this evanescence. I stared at a potted plant, more specifically its small green leaves, each one perhaps two inches long... you know what, I don't really know anymore what the plant looked like. The moment wasn't about the probably quite ordinary piece of decoration. It was about my desire to remember. I stared at it and thought, I will remember this moment, I will not let it be devoured by the void of time, I will keep and cherish it, it belongs to me.

I seem to have no choice but to agree with Devon, for it is surely a fact: a moment cannot be recreated. All we have is "the illusion of memories" (Kirima) Photos and videos can be surprisingly ineffectual triggers, nothing more.

I find it difficult to decide which moments are my most cherished. I cherish them all, they make up the the story- my story. Yet if I had to....

I might choose those in which I wept.












A reply to this post

Omaggio a Burri

I just read this in a CD-booklet, I assume it's from the composer, Salvatore Sciarrino, and I thought I would quickly type it here before returning the CD, since it's something I often think about:

The music of today barely touches the wider public. However, it is untrue that the public does not understand it. Maybe the problem is that people perceive immediately just how new it is, and that's why they reject it. If music today has a value, it is that of becoming closer to the thoughts and sounds of our age. But to follow music means to devote one's mind to it. In order to understand the language of music the idea of approaching it purely as a pastime is of no use whatsoever. If, therefore, we can learn how to concentrate on the transformation of sounds, of figures, then music will reveal its secrets to us.

We do not need to expend any great energy: only a moment is required of us. A moment in which it is necessary to empty the mind in order to fill it with something else, as when we observe a cloud scurrying overhead.

covered

Today I visited a cemetary. Crosses. Rocks engraved with names. And resting gently upon them a layer the height of my fist of pure, white frozen water, each particle unique and intricate, whose beauty we so often ignore, for she is too difficult to see.

I followed the procession, slowly advancing, passing people by, one by one... We stopped at a group of stones. His wife and the others followed as Gerald, the son-in-law of the deceased, stepped through the snow between two, turned, passed one, and stopped next to a somewhat newer rock, freshly imparted with photos of the dead man, in his youth, in his middle-age, in his last days. As Gerald began to speak, I swept away the white from a small bench and laid upon it the black which I had been carrying on my shoulder.

I approached the others and listened to the speech of hope and comfort. Darkened glasses obscured my eyes, the beard warmed my jaw, and as soon as Gerald began to pray, the bells of churches around us filled our ears. He spoke louder and finished. He looked to me and followed me to the black box. Now would be a good time, he said quietly. I removed the case's contents and walked again through the earth's snow layer, the height of my head, and stood where Gerald had.

The bells still rang, and as soon as the german Adagio began to pour forth from my instrument, a third voice joined our group, the weeping of the humans around me.

With every passing moment my fingers became colder and stiffer. They did not want to make music in the winter air. Stop, they said, please stop moving us! I ignored their pleas and continued to perform with my grand ensemble. The viola became silent. The bells rested. The music continued.

excerpt from Goethe's ,,Die Leiden des jungen Werthers"

am 21. Aug

Umsonst strekke ich meine Arme nach ihr aus, Morgens wenn ich von schweren Träumen aufdämmere, vergebens such ich sie Nachts in meinem Bette, wenn mich ein glüklicher unschuldiger Traum getäuscht hat, als säß ich neben ihr auf der Wiese , und hielte ihre Hand und dekte sie mit tausend Küssen. Ach wenn ich denn noch halb im Taumel des Schlafs nach ihr tappe, und rüber mich ermuntere - Ein Strom von Thränen bricht aus meinem gepreßten Herzen, und ich weine trostlos einer finstern Zukunft entgegen.
______________________________________

August 21

Futilely I stretch my arms out towards her, mornings when I awake from heavy dreams, vainly I search for her at night in my bed, when a happy innocent dream has deceived me, as if I were sitting next to her in the meadow, and holding her hand, and covering her with a thousand kisses. Ah when still half in the tumble of sleep I then grope for her and begin to feel enlivened - A stream of tears breaks forth from my wringed heart, and I weep inconsolably against a dark future.

literary excericise no. 1

window triangle prism melon doubt reflex moment wish fear octogon hope shadow window hope suffering hope melon charisma gigrant ocean melon arrogance abyss flexicon subterfuge elbow dusk wonder abuse freedom fugematon cereal gonoctism pathway fruit cycle peacefullness phantastasm window refussal meadow doubt realcism archway vigilance wish dernacle ice enficitude crander margin pentacle excitement window hope window melon
_______________________________________________

instructions: use only nouns

I was reminded while writing this that many english nouns double as adjectives, verbs, etc. I deliberately tried to avoid such words but am surprised as I read over it at the amount I oversaw. I was aware of "abuse" and "wish", "hope" is also obvious, yet there are also "shadow", "wonder", "fear", "cycle", "elbow" Theoretically, any word in the english language can be used as a verb, yet some words are more resistant to this possibility than others, particularly words with noun-specific endings such as -tude, -ism, -con, or -tion. Even if the word is made up, such an ending will make it appear to be a noun. I also wonder if being surrounded by so many other nouns makes the more ambiguous ones appear more noun-like. Unfortunately, I cannot be objective about that.

Otherwise, I attempted to avoid painting a clear, everyday picture, partially by alternating between objects and more abstract words, and by avoiding chains of clear word-associations. I attempted simultaneously to form connections through repeated words and between certain words regarding their meaning as well as by constructing new words inspired phonically from words already used. reflex- flexicon. triangle- gigrant

,,...einen guten Rutsch'' (...a good slide)

und plötzlich war es Altjahrsabend. Das Zentrum Salzburgs war voller Leute, einschließlich vieler schlampig gekleideter Mädchen, besoffener Jungs, und der obligitarischen Touristen, welche sich auf dem Weg zu einer richtigen Stadtfeier (Budapest ist zum Beispiel nett) verirrt zu haben schienen. Nicht, dass es etwas zu feiern gäbe. Ein neues Jahr war dabei, eingeleitet zu werden, doch nichts war dabei, sich zu verbessern.

Auch die Houn, mit der ich zum Ansehen des Feuerwerks gekommen war, war schon wieder bereit ihr Alkoholproblem zu bestreiten. Ihr Argument war, wenn ich ihr Alter erreiche, werde ich auch soviel wie sie trinken... müssen, hat sie vielleicht gesagt. Allerdings kam ich nicht weiter und gab missgönnend nach, ein Bier mit ihr zu genießen.

Wir trugen unsere Flaschen in die Altstadt und setzten uns an einen Zaun hin, wo die Houn mir über den Anfang ihres Lebens als Komponistin erzählte. Wie sie nach Deutschland ging, und viel Hilfe von ihren Kollegen dort erhielt.

,,Erzählst du diese Geschichte oft?" fragte ich sie
,,Nein... ?"
,,Schön"

Nachher gingen wir an die Salzach. Die Menschen um uns spielten mit Bodenfeuerwerken und machten viel Lärm, aber wir zwei blickten hinauf, uns die künstlichen Himmelsflammen ansehend, über die Vergangenheit sowie die Zukunft sprechend. Themen, die gemischte Gefühle erwecken.

Dass die Erde einen neuen Rundgang um die Sonne beginnt ist wohl belanglos, doch wird der Mensch, wird diesem ein Mittel zum Messen seines Lebens gegeben, die Gelegenheit ergreifen, über dieses und dessen Zukunft nachzusinnen. Johnathan sagt manchmal, dies sei der entscheidende Abschnitt unseres Lebens, der bald sein Ende finden werde. Ich dachte über die zwei letzten Jahre nach, wie viel mir geschehen sei- die erfüllten Träume, die Hindernisse, das Glück und das Leid die ich endlich kennenzulernen begonnen habe.

Auch die Houn, die vielleicht diesen Lebensabschnitt schon hinter sich gebracht haben soll, verriet mir, sie habe es schon vor, nach einem kurzen Aufenthalt in ihrer Heimat, ein ,,Künstlerisches Doktorat" zu beginnen. Sie will noch jung sein, eine Vielzahl aufgeschlossener Türen vor sich sehen... und wer würde es wagen, ihr das wegnehmen zu wollen?

Ich will auch jung bleiben.
Feuer!
Will das nicht jeder?
Farbe!
Diese Welt
Paff!
ist so
Bumm!

Bumm!
___________________________________________
to the title: in Austria, people wish one another "einen guten Rutsch", a good slide, into the new year. Don't ask me why.

and suddenly it was old year evening. The center of Salzburg was full of people, including many sluttily dressed girls, drunken boys, and the obligiatory tourists, who seemed to have misdirected themselves on the way to a real city celebration (Budapest, for example, is nice). Not that there would be anything to celebrate. A new year was being ushered in, yet nothing was changing for the better.

Even Houn, with whom I had come to watch the fireworks, was once again prepared to dispute her drinking problem. Her argument was, that when I reach her age, I will also drink as much as she... that I will need to, she might have said. In any case, I was making no progress and begrudgingly gave in to enjoying a beer with her.

We carried our bottles into the Altstadt (old city) and sat down against a fence, where Houn told me of the beginning of her life as a composer. How she went to Germany, and received so much help from her colleagues there.

"Do you tell this story often?" I asked her
"No... ?"
"That's nice"

Afterward we went up to the Salzach. The people around us played with ground fireworks and made a lot of noise, but the two of us gazed upward, looking at the artificial heavenly flames, speaking about the past as well as the future. Subjects that awaken mixed feelings.

The earth's beginning of a new circuit around the sun is probably meaningless, but a person, when given a means to measure his life, will sieze the opportunity to meditate on it and its future. Johnathan says sometimes, this is the determining time period of our life, a period that will soon have its end. I thought about the last two years, how much has happened to me- the fulfilled dreams, the hindrances, the happiness and the sorrow whose acquaintance I have finally begun to make.

Even Houn, who should perhaps already have brought this time period behind her, confided to me that she is already planning, after a short stay in her homeland, to begin an "artistic doctorate". She wants to still be young, to see a plethora of open doors before her... and who would dare wish to take this away from her?

I want to stay young as well.
fire!
Does not everyone?
color!
This world
bang!
is so
boom!

boom!

Houn (revised)

(english translation below)

Ein Festmahl... ein ziemlich armes für einen Vegetarier. Mit Brot, Gemüse, und etwas Brie habe ich das Verhungern abgewehrt während ich einen Rotwein genoß... der anständig war. Die Menschen um mich standen an Tischen unter dem hellgelben Licht des Empfangsraumes, redend und lachend, essend und trinkend; Musiker, Musikliebhaber, die dann vom Abteilungsleiter unterbrochen wurden, als dieser das Verleihen eines Preises an einen seiner Schüler verkündete. Alle klatschen und setzten ihre Belustigung fort.

Und dann kam Houn. So nenne ich sie wenigstens jetzt. Halb so groß wie ich. Asiatisch. Zart und schwankend wie eine Puppe aus Stroh- doch sie war kein Kind. Das verrieten die vielen kleinen Falter um ihre schmallen, schwarzen Augen; sowie die nicht mehr so frische Haut ihres Gesichts, und dazu behauptete sie immer, sie sei ,,über 30" (ob das noch gilt, weiß ich nicht). Sie war schon lange Studentin, schon lange in Salzburg, und schon lange einsam und unglücklich.

Diese schlüpfte ihren Arm durch den meinen und verlangte von mir Wasser- obwohl ich offensichtlich keins zu verschenken hatte. Ich fragte sie, ob sie betrunken sei, was sie anfangs leugnete, worauf sie dann aber gleich zugab, etwas Bier zuhause, und hier zwei Gläser Sekt, und noch etwas Wein getrunken zu haben.

,,na, dann nur angetrunken" lautete meine Antwort, von einem Halblächeln begleitet.

Sie hing verzweifelt an meinem Arm. Der Fritz (so nenne ich ihn jetzt) ging an uns vorbei, lächelnd, so tuend, als schösse er ein Photo von uns.

,,Sehen wir etwa nach einem Paar aus?" fragte ich ihn
,,Ein bisschen" lächelte er

Der Fritz weiß, wie die Houn ist- hielten andere etwas davon, war es mir wurscht, also gönnte ich mir ein stoffliches Lachen... doch die Houn krallte sich noch fester an mich. Ihr Kopf fiel ein Stückchen herab, ihr Gesicht unsichtbar machend, und von unter ihrem Pagenschnitt her entwich eine Stimme.

,,Ich will eine bedeutende Komponistin werden"
,,Das will jeder von uns" war meine kalte Antwort
Sie wiederholte sich, damit sie der Fritz, noch bei uns, höre
,,Das bist du schon!" lautete seine fröhliche
Er hat sie aber nicht überzeugt.

Nach einigen Minuten entchloß ich, mich nach Hause zu verziehen. Ich versuchte, der Houn einen schönen Abend noch zu wünschen, doch sie bestand darauf, mich bis zur Haltestelle zu begleiten. Ich musste einen langen Weg zu Fuß noch gehen, da mein Bus um die Uhrzeit nicht mehr auf der Seite der Salzach fuhr.

Als wir zum Markatplatz und dann über den Makartsteg gingen, Houn immer noch an mir hängend, vielleicht damit sie der Wind nicht hinwegwehe; fragte ich sie, wie lange sie noch in Salzburg bleibe. Sie hat letzten Monat absolviert.

,,Ich bin so unglücklich" sagte sie auf einmal
,,das bist du immer" erwiderte ich
,,das will ich nicht sein... und wie ist es für dich? Bist du immer glücklich?"
,,...nein. Bei mir ändert sich das ständig"
,,Du bist noch jung..."
,,Warst du in meinem Alter glücklicher?"
,,Nein! Ich war zu zurückhalte n d..."

Wir kamen an der Haltestelle an, wo ich ihr zu erklären versuchte, dass Alkohol keine Lösung sei, dass der einen nur empfindungslos mache... Zum ersten Male hat sie ihr Problem nicht bestritten. Ich redete ihr zu, sie könne nie stärker werden während sie sich darauf verlasse. Aber das hatte ich wohl alles schonmal gesagt. Ich sagte ihr, sie solle beten... zu Gott. zu Jehova. Doch weiß ich eigentlich nicht, ob er ihr zuhören würde.

Die Lisa hat einmal gesagt, als wir über die Kleine sprachen, dass sie meine, der Mensch könne sich nicht ändern. Ob das stimmt, weiß ich selbst nicht. Wenn dem ist, ist Houn...

Als ich auf deren Gesicht herabblickte, wurde mir klar, dass sie weinte. Mir gingen die Worte aus, und ich wusste nicht mehr was zu tun, außer ihren Kopf gegen meine Brust zu halten, ihr die schwarzen Haare mit der Hand zu streicheln... deren Berührung rau wie Stroh war.

Ich tat das... ich weiß nicht für wie lange- wenigstens 10 Minuten, wenn ich von der Zeitanzeige der Haltestelle ausgehe. Dann kam mein Bus an. Ich sagte, ich müsse gehen, drückte sie sanft von meiner Brust hinweg, und sprach, ihr in die Augen blickend,

,,Versuch etwas stärker zu sein. Ich will dich nicht immer so schwach sehen" Es kann sein, dass sie mir zunickte, ich weiß es nicht mehr.

Nachdem ich ihr die Haare küsste, verließ ich sie in der Kälte stehend und ging auf den Bus zu, ohne zurückzublicken, ohne zu sehen wie sie da noch ein paar Sekunden, vielleicht sogar eine Minute, vielleicht länger allein stand, den Kopf noch nach unten gerichtet, noch weinend, schwankend; diesen Anblick vermeidend, stieg in den Bus ein

wo ich mich so ratlos fühlte.
_________________________________________________
A banquet... a rather poor one for a vegetarian. I fought off starvation with bread, vegetables and a little bit of brie. Meanwhile I enjoyed a red wine... it was decent. The people around me stood at tables under the bright yellow light of the lobby, talking and laughing, eating and drinking; musicians, music lovers, who were then interrupted by the department head, as this one announced the awarding of a prize to one of his students. Everyone clapped and continued their merry-making.

And then came Houn, at least that is what I will call her now. Half my size. Asian. Delicate and wavery like a puppet of straw- yet she was no child. This was betrayed by the many small wrinkles around her her narrow, black eyes; as well as by the no longer so fresh skin of her face, and regarding this, she always claimed to be "over 30" (although I don't know if this is still valid). She had long been a student, long been in Salzburg, and long been lonely and unhappy.

This one slipped her arm through mine and demanded of me water, of which I clearly had none to give. I asked her if she was drunk, which she at first denied, but in response to which she then admitted to having drunk a beer at home, two glasses of champagne, and some wine.

"Well, only tipsy then" sounded my answer, accompanied by a half-smile.

She hung desperately on my arm. Fritz (that's what I will call him now) walked by us, smiling, acting as if he were shooting a photo of us.

"What, do we look like a couple?" I asked him
"A little" he smiled

Fritz knows how Houn is- if others thought something of it, I couldn't have cared less. So I indulged myself in a substantial laugh. Yet Houn clung even more tightly to me. Her head fell a bit downards, making her face invisible, and from beneath her pageboy cut escaped a voice.

"I want to become a significant composer"
"Every one of us wants that" was my cold answer
She repeated herself, so that Fritz, still with us, could hear
"You already are one!" sounded his cheerful response
Yet he did not convince her.

After a few minutes, I decided to withdraw to my residence. I attempted to wish Houn a good evening, but she insisted on accompanying me to the bus stop. I had to go a long way by foot, as at this time my bus no longer drove on this side of the Salzach.

As we walked to Markatplatz and then over the Makart-bridge, Houn still hanging on to me, perhaps so that the wind would not carry her away; I asked her how long she would remain in Salzburg. She had graduated the previous month.

"I'm so unhappy" she said at once
"You always are" I riposted
"I don't want to be... how is it for you? Are you always happy?"
"...no. With me, it changes constantly"
"You are still young..."
"Were you happier at my age?"
"No! I was too withdra w n..."

I tried to explain to her, that alcohol is no solution, that it only makes one numb... For the first time, she did not dispute her problem. I reasoned with her, that she could not become stronger while relying on it. But I had probably said all that before. I told her she should pray... to God. to Jehovah. But I really don't know, if he would listen to her.

Lisa once told me, as we spoke about the little one, that she believes people cannot change themselves. Whether that is true, I do not know. If it is, then Houn...

As I looked downward at this one's face, it became clear to me that she was crying. I ran out of words and knew no more what to do, except to hold her head against my chest, to stroke with my hand her black hairs... whose touch was like straw.

I did this... I know not for how long- at least 10 minutes, if I orientate myself on the time display of the bus stop. Then my bus arrived. I said, I have to go, pushed her gently away from my chest, and spoke, looking her in the eyes,

"Try to be a bit stronger. I don't want to always see you so weak" She might have nodded to me. I don't know anymore.

After kissing her hairs, I left her standing in the cold and and approached the bus, without looking back, without seeing how for a few seconds, perhaps for a minute, perhaps even longer, she still stood there, her head pointed downward, still crying, wavering; avoiding this sight, I boarded the bus

where I felt so at a loss.