Ciertas Cosas Oscuras: Certain Dark Things

Over time, I’ve noticed my relationship with my imagination changes. Sometimes the conscious mind looks upon it with wonder: was it really that far gone into its own fantasy? That can happen a lot to artists: the fantasy trap. Anything can induce it: trauma, excitement, fear, liking. I think artists have to be careful to remain aware (and vigilant) of the line between imagination and reality. But it can be enlightening and even entertaining to see what the “crazy artist mind” was up to in some past quadrant of time, near or far…

I sometimes like to dig up old poems. It’s a window into where the imagination dwelt at that time. Poetry can be the easiest tell for me to discern just how far into Fantasy Land the artist mind decided to go. With music, it’s a bit harder to discern that, because music operates in physical, concrete phenomena, whereas poetry operates in language, which exists in the mind—and so it’s a more direct reflection of one’s wild thoughts. Language reveals directly, whereas in music, the bizarre can occlude itself and blend in with the highly abstract form of the art itself. One may never know just how bizarre indeed a composer is from listening to her music…but get to know us, if you dare! Music hides strangeness well.

It’s ironic that language, which exists purely in our thoughts, actually gives a more direct understanding of the insanity of the imagination, while music, which is actually real in the absolute, physical sense, can only hint at it. We don’t understand sound the same way we understand words. Sound is perceived as an abstraction (despite its actuality in physical reality) because it isn’t exactly human. It’s phenomenal. We don’t see it. We perceive it through our physical senses. We don’t think along with it the way words communicate thoughts. We must simply experience sound’s own phenomenally different mode of being. We can only experience it, and admire it, or detest it.

Words, on the other hand, are human-made. They offer a more direct understanding of our thought processes, even though they don’t actually exist in physical reality, the way music does. This is why words are important, and writing matters. Writing is essentially thinking, and when we read what we once wrote, we can directly perceive what we were thinking at that time. Poetry is a special form of writing, because it’s about as close to the fluid abstraction found in music as one can get with words. It reveals our thoughts, but in a way that manifests at some rarified octave, much like how music has the power to directly translate emotions into physical phenomena.

Sometimes I write poetry in Spanish. And then I immediately translate it to English. And it becomes a double poem. I’ve always written poetry. As soon as I could write words at the age of five I wrote poems. Poems are fluid, and they juxtapose textures of meaning, much like how timbre operates in music. One thing can become something unexpected, and meaning can grow from that unusual pairing of thoughts.

My double poem from two years ago:

Ciertas Cosas Oscuras:

Certain Dark Things

Te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras,

En secreto, en abismo,

En fe—

Y en mal…

Todo lo que tengo sera solamente…

Un delirio de tus ojos:

Negros y sin mal—

Atrapados,

Dentro del espejo profundo,

Escrito en mi alliento…

***

I love you as one loves

Certain dark things:

In secret, in abyss,

In faith—

And in malevolence.

All I have will only be

A delirium of your eyes:

Black and sinless—

Trapped within the unfathomed mirror,

Written in my breath…

Tempered To Thee

Sometimes I write poetry. Here’s one I found from a couple of years back about a dark effigy I fancied…

Just as the black gate frames a lone figure

Upon a rock, book in hand—

Through wet eyes, interiorly tempered to see you,

You’re there.

Plain you stand, unlikely, though all things shift,

Ensconced despite endless mirage,

Before me—

Because you are.

Multitudes of hungry, striking chimeras dance around—

Yet I cannot mistake you,

Even through the blur.

——————————————————————————————-

* I let this shadow etch a prayer into my skin.

——————————————————————————————-

Ah, to be an artist…to be delicate—

and lost.

Beyond the rabbit hole

Today, while I was recording some of the final pieces in my Songs of Juana Borrero song cycle, I had the thought that my little rabbits have heard these pieces before. Bonnie, my oldest, was even present when I composed them. Juana Borrero’s poetry and my singing and my songs have laced the tapestry of my bunnies’ lives for as long as they’ve been on Earth. And yet, they’ve no idea what these songs really mean. They don’t know who Juana Borrero is, that she died 130 years ago, that she suffered and was brilliant, and left a mark. The bunnies have no idea what her words mean, that they are a reflection, an echo, of a life lived long ago that I’ve somehow taken up to further my own expressive voice. My bunnies know who I am, but they do not know the depths of my mind, my activities, or the complex meaning of the human or animal world around them. They only know what they can see and grasp and feel.

And so I wondered, thinking about my bunnies today, as I was recording this song which set the poetry of a life lived long ago, how much of existence is truly unknown to us? We, humans, think we know a lot. How much of existence remains shrouded in darkness for our understanding?

Just like how my rabbits have heard my compositions and even been present when I’m writing them, they’ve no idea the scope of what I do with this work, or what it means, or the depth of it, or how it’s connected to other souls, living and dead.

Is that how we see the sun and the world and our existence? And further, is that our relationship to God? We might feel Him and experience His love, but we cannot truly know Him. His mind is so far beyond our own. We cannot fathom the meaning of His creation—which is the entirety of the universe—much like my rabbits cannot fathom the meaning of my mere compositions or Juana’s poetry. Do we, like my rabbits, have no real grasp at all of what this all is—the depth of life, of even the sun which we see every day, of our place here in this universe? I speak of the sun because everyone has seen it or felt it. But can we understand its meaning? Can we, even if we wanted to? My rabbits cannot even know to want to understand 19th-century poetry. They’ve no concept of its existence. How much of life’s truth are we missing because we simply cannot even grasp concepts or sentiments to try to understand it?

Maybe the sun is a mere note in God’s symphony or a rest in one of His many symphonies. Yet, all we perceive is a big glowing globe of fire…

Maybe God’s symphony carries a meaning we’ll never fathom, like how my art songs carry poetry and history and stories and remembrances of lives my rabbits will never grasp.

Maybe all our suffering and all our joys, and all our tragedies have meaning and purpose beyond us. Maybe life and death are like distinct poems in an opus—never meeting, never touching, but worlds and worlds unto their own, yet connected.

Maybe nothing is what it seems. Maybe all of life is far greater than we can ever perceive. Why should we then, complain or bemoan? We don’t know the meaning of life beyond our awareness. I like to think that existence is far more than what I can ever know and that even suffering and death itself form part of something much greater, and much more beautiful—like how my compositions mean a world unto their own that my little rabbits, however much I love them, will never grasp.

This Blog

Long before I went to music school and started making my dreams reality, I longed for art and for the wisdom artists impart. I used to have a blog called Soprano in the City, and on that blog, I catalogued wonderful performances all around NYC—from the MET’s opera stage to Trinity Wall Street. I also interviewed incredible people who had made their dreams reality. I still look to artists as people to admire, to learn from, and to dream alongside with.

Even though I am not resurrecting that old blog here on this website, there are a few pieces that stand out and deserve their place even now on my own artist website.

One of those pieces is my interview with the incredible Colette Lumiere, visionary artist, dreamer, woman, and all-around template for how to live an extraordinary, creative life. I still look to people like her for inspiration, and I want to pay homage, because those who paved the way and are still paving the way deserve mention. I am proud to keep them alive alongside my dream. Thank you to the artists, for living so outrageously and so beautifully.

I would not be going after my dream had I not sought out and met people like Colette, who inspire and who never stop creating. For this reason, I’ll always interview artists, to show that creativity is beautiful, essential, requires sacrifice, and deserves to be celebrated. Where would this world be without the artists?

Thank you to the artists, always and forever.

Click on the link below to read this interview and keep dreaming!