Monday, April 09, 2007

Willingly A Friend.


You speak of preferring your visions to life and, yet, is that not the only way to be sure that your visions are the centering aspect of your life? I am not talking about the visions of a madman. I am speaking of the creative visions of someone who understands what it means to make something. It seems to me, and I know that I am not an expert on this matter (though I've always wished I could be), that those of us who live linearly lose something. I've always known that it is not productive to follow a straight line through your life. But, I suppose it is hard to avoid. I suppose you can only stare off to the sides, behind you, and it does nothing much. If you make your visions into your life you can look at them from all sides, from all angles. You must follow them down their crooked and sometimes darkening paths.

It is true what you say, partly. Those of us who neglect to know anything but our own visions are often too late. They look past the people in their lives and only into themselves. But, it seems to be necessary to the production of their art. I learned this from you, Fernando. I saw the way your eyes lit up when you spoke, that the words coming forth from your lips were just what you had wanted. You almost looked down at them as they escaped your mouth. They danced off the tip of your tongue and I caught them and held them and knew them. Before you, I only knew of art in vagaries. I had seen it; I had smelled it. But, I had never tasted it. The passion with which you spoke of Dedalus, of Mulligan, made me feel like they were right there with us, inside of us. And it is this ability, this strength, that gives way to all others.

You taught me that to make people see what you see, to put yourself into something so much so that they know it and it moves them, is worth all the moments, all the movements of your life. And yet, still, I cannot find a way to see myself in art. And yet, still, I struggle to muster up the passion that we had. I sit in the same bars, drink merrily, tilting my head back and smiling as I sip my beer, wiping the foam from my mouth with the back of my hand. I look ahead at whomever happens to be sitting infront of me and they are never what you were. Their eyes do not glow with any passionate light; they do not inspire me to speak and to shout.

And I wonder, is it enough to only know you in memory? Is it enough to only feel your presence in the depths of my thoughts, in the dark corners of days I can barely grasp hold of. It is enough to know your art only in these few but fond letters we are only recently exchanging. It wasn't until your last letter that I was able to really recognize the things I am missing. I am missing a passionate face to run through the streets with, eyes lit by words and by music. I pluck at my guitar every once in a while and put it away before the strings have time even to indent the skin on my fingers. I sit alone in a bar and stare at a blank page beneath me and end up with only a few sentences scrawled haphazardly across the top.

You speak of Julian and Maddalo, of the brittle chains which bind us. And how we are assured that much may be conquered, much may be endured, of what degrades and crushes us. The power that we ourselves have is embedded deep down somewhere and is not always easy to come by. I refrain from that sweet sleep which medicines all pain; I refrain from all things unworthy and I bow my head to you, to your words, in hope that I may find words of my own. I think, even now, I am starting to sound too much like you. And I think this cold world shall never know the depths of my emotions.

Willingly A Friend,