Saturday, 28 February 2009
"I'll be a writer", thought Lark, "and will sing my writing!"
This thought spread itself through the mind echoing on all corners of the inner mystique.
So it was!
Writings and songs filled the space of life given to Lark.
Then there came flocks of Swallows.
"Style", sang one of them, "is short of audience's expectations."
"No, no", warbled another one, "it is not style but subjunctive usage"
"Au contraire", chirped a learned third, "it is the way pleonasms are structured, it disconcerts readers."
Quiet in this gabble, Lark looked pleased to the immense tide of creativity coming from the deepness of the soul.
"Why and for what I write?", Lark asked and the thought reverberated in the mind.
The answer surged powerfully from Lark's inner depth and it was full of light, inexorable, as truth always is...
© 2009 Od Liam
Saturday, 21 February 2009
"Do not cry for me" is a heroic claim but in the lips of a God it is foreboding.
Fragment of "The carrying of the Cross" from "The Rosary Sonatas" by Heinrich Ignaz Biber performed by Andrew Manze & Richard Egarr.
© 2009 Od Liam.
Tuesday, 17 February 2009
Today is Ghost's Day...
Thinking absently about a line of a new tale I said it unwittingly loud in my mind.
"Whose ghost?", asked Elf.
I growled noiselessly, there we go again!
"Eh... nobody's and anybody's", I had to answer or die.
"But then", the little rascal would not let it alone, "but then, how is it 'a' ghost?
"A ghost, is a ghost, is a ghost!!!" I hammered trying to close the argument, to no avail.
"How do you become a ghost?" asked my elf.
I knew he knew but as always I am mincemeat in his mindhands.
"I am no ghost", I said sternly, trying to deviate his line of thought... Maybe it is easier to stop the moon from circling the Earth.
He giggle as a teenager, sometimes I think he is underage!
"Not you, silly, a person".
"Well..., first «that person» must die", I tried desperately to find a reason to end the discussion, "well, first «that person» must die and then there must be an administrative goof somewhere in the next life, «that person» cannot go to heaven and «that person» cannot go to hell, so «that person» becomes a... Ghost! That's it!"
As always, it was a mistake:
"Next life! What you mean "next life"?! It is preposterous!", cried Elf.
He must have found that word somewhere in my archive and was trying to make his point about my being a nerd.
"Why do you think it is SILLY?" I asked trying to make him go down on syllables. You see, we change sides easily enough.
"Such a PREPOSTEROUS idea!", he retaliated, "when have you been in the next life?".
"Never", I recognized, "but then again I am not dead yet!"
"There ain't a next life", he said. "What happens is that you change tracks".
Tracks?... changing tracks?? dreading his meaning I choose the easy way of correction:
"Is not", I pointed, trying to hurt his grammar ego and start a new discussion.
I should know my elf!
"That's what I said", repeated Elf, "there ain't!"
"You see", he went on, "a person must die to become a ghost, and so it must go to the "next death", not the next life!"
"But", I tried despairingly to keep in touch with reality, "how can you be alive in the next death?, I mean... Ah!!, next death?!!!"
"Nobody is alive in the next death!", Elf retorted.
"But, but a ghost...", I said somewhat incoherently.
"A ghost is a dead person, ain't it so?"
I let that go.
"Yes, dead person", I said, utterly confused forgetting the old wives' tales about animal-ghosts and things-ghosts.
"Well, there you are!" Elf closed triumphantly his argument as if in a trial case he would have said 'The defense rests!'
I swallowed a Valium and a Prozac, drank a glass of water and refused to listen anything else...
Just before I was lost in the dense haze of unconsciousness a thought emerged from my subconscious: Wouldn't all this be a big joke, a huge pun, concocted by Elf?!
Fragment of "The dance of the Blessed Spirits" from "Orpheus and Euridice" by Christoph Gluck, performed by Sergei Rachmaninov.
© 2009 Od Liam.
Monday, 16 February 2009
Years went by and one day, adding to my already very confused nature I was informed that I was not any more part of those that warm their bones in the fire of Life.
With my usual soft resignation to the inevitable, I tied up my little baggage with the few belongings I had: some blurred memories of warm and kind hands which owners I couldn't remember and with a feeling of light-heartedness started my journey toward the unknown.
After a trip on a parallel line to time I found myself on a beautiful meadow almost alive in timing with a breeze that made the stems of shining dandelions move as a lively sea.
Colours danced between earth and sky leaving hue wakes that filled the eye with new scents and Immensity coiled in the hollow of my hand as if infinity wrapped around my fingers tried to comfort that daily solitude that clothed me in life.
I quickly removed my footwear and began to walk on the soft grass that carpeted the ground. The contact of the grama and soil with my feet revealed a new secret:
This was home... No, Home!
I started to run and jump over low shrubs, now my body followed me in happy conjunction.
I felt the urgency to lie down over the grass as long as I were and I must be very long since I could not see my feet. I looked up to the sky, the clouds were so beautiful that I wanted to sing and tell the world my feelings so humankind could be with me in this extravagant experience.
Then I knew it! I had to sing it!, I had to write it! And I remembered a sentence read many years ago, I do not recall where from: "unless you change and become like little children..."
That had been, that IS my Gift: "to change and become like a little child", all my life was like that, full and filled by grace. I understood it then and I wanted to convert that gift in my legacy.
I took a thin dandelion spike and moistening it in some dew drops I started to write this tragicomic story of mine and the secret message so, if there are people who still ask themselves what are they doing in the world, could find a small compass showing that deep in our heart always there is a reason to live.
And then again, my innocence and ignorance make me believe that I have thread for a yarn and as a writer this words will reach the heart of my readers...
"Ausencias" Astor Piazzolla's opus by his orchestra.
© 2009 Od Liam
Everything started at the beginning.
In a very confused moment I was informed that I had been born.
This happened, years ago, on a small isle with an unpronounceable name: Ghawdex, in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea, and even if everybody attending to the event asserts I was there, too, I must admit I cannot remember it.
I was baptized and they say that in that precise moment all the water in the font evaporated, but I guess it is an overstatement.
I tore down my childhood petal through petal, building reality as an infinite pieces multidimensional puzzle unfolded over the eternal hills of the natal hamlet.
Puberty and adolescence assaulted me without warning, preying on my inexperience and youth. I repaired my rent inner tissues dealing the distressed moments of my treble voice with those of off-key baritone with the charm of a diplodocus and a horsefly trying to dance the black swans 'pas de deux' together.
Finally time put me the adult costume but my entrails did not know it, adulthood is a chronology, not an ontological condition. My face came in my help: I looked adult.
During some years I tried to save the world but then I realized that my arrival was late... Way too late!
Astride on time I let it carry me ahead, the sad voice of the Mistral and the icy breath of the Cierzo followed my memories after leaving the cozy world of the 'Mare Nostrum' and the universe opened up to my amazed childish eyes of toddler who looked like an adult.
That very innocence and ignorance were my deliverance, nobody could believe that I could be so imbecile! (perfection does not exist except for especial cases as mine) and that belief made them, (people around me) to cook up stories of conspirations where I abet stronger and darker forces or that I was that darker force myself with wicked, hidden, and unspeakable purposes. This same stories awaken trepidation and fear and took them to show an esteem toward me that they do not feel really, but served well to preserve me from greater evils.
So I flew over human miseries, mine and other's, filling my empty days with arias and readings that as guardian angels wrapped my soul and let me be happy even in the middle of cruel vicissitudes.
Then again, the meddlesome time stated that I was an old man and to my chagrin my body agreed: each time I told to my body: "Let's run to that bush and jump over it"!, my body answered: "Who, me ?!!
And it happened that the inner child found himself alone: older people thought him crazy, and younger fellows, not understanding his predicament, thought him a lunatic.
Again, innocence and ignorance came to help me, looking around I found that my experience in languages adquired in years of traveling our rickety planet could be used to balance different cultures from language to language.
Unscrupulously and with the freedom that only youth can use I started to be a translator and Luck, who as a good female she is, loves naiveté and babies rewarded me letting me feel my intention accomplished, which is all you need to feel successful...
(to be continued)
© 2009 Od Liam.
Composite of "A Evaristo Carriego" written by Eduardo Rovira and played by "El Cuarteto Cedrón"
Wednesday, 11 February 2009
The night wraps me in its whisperings, the dead leaves of the early Fall crackle under the worn soles of my shoes, while a far away cuckoo fills the indigo sky with its mournful appeal.
Memories crowd in stampede and then the agonizing ache of loneliness hits, bending my spirit under the impact of the fatigue of living.
Irremediable and terrible pain that blends with the agony of a distressing storm of despair and leaves a fathomless emptiness in my heart.
I stand faltering under the ancient gnarled fig-tree where can be seen still a nameless etched heart transfixed by an arrow.
Looking back in time I tried to see her again, just one more time, but only the gruesome memories of her livid countenance and the painful cough muffled by the exquisite silk kerchief surges in my feverish mind.
Just that, her gaunt features and my unbalance between the sweetness of tenderness of the time before and the tearing bitterness of the moments afterward.
Now, the dreadful waiting... the deep work of time changing the present rending pain by an apathetic span of life, almost eternal, that will bring oblivion... or will not bring it, but will leave the tissues in my soul frayed and ragged with no feelings or reason.
And among the bewilderment of that maelstrom the wail of the wind crying the question without an answer...
Gigliola Cinquetti sings a very sweet and romantic "Dio comme ti amo" in Spanish
© 2009 Od Liam.
Monday, 9 February 2009
Sunday, 8 February 2009
It is there!
Hiding in some fissure of the subconscious mind. I can feel it grow! I cannot see it, but I know it IS there!
I despair from powerlessness, somehow I can keep it afar for a while but knowing its presence frightens, appalls me!
There! there! I just could see it again sneaking under the shadows of old memories!
What can be worst for a writer than the so dreaded creative block!?
Fragment of "Unrelenting" from "Incompetech" at http://incompetech.com/ by Kevin MacLeod.
© 2009 Od Liam.
Wednesday, 4 February 2009
What is the difference between ethic and moral?
Ethic: the command not to eat from "the tree of the knowledge of good and evil"
Moral: the decision to eat from it.
Fragment of "Missing" from "Autumn Prelude" by Zero-project.
© 2009 Od Liam.