The Next-of-Kin is off on an adventure out of the country, and I'm here on my own for ten or twelve days, and for some reason I decided to spill a bit for the boys, living and dead, while Mozart pounds me to dust. Yes, tonight it's black music and smoky scotch whiskey, dark as old gold-inlaid mahogany, smooth as a lover's secret touch, dangerous as mortal sin. GlenDronach 18 Year Old Allardice — expensive, but worth it.
It's been a hard, rocky road getting to this place. In May my best friend/mentor/rabbi died. We've talked here about that for a bit. Since then three others have gone from our crew, one from "natural causes," whatever the fuck that means, and two others in low-probability accidents. And my old dark companion has been whispering close in my ear more and more often lately, chuckling that I'm a helluva lot nearer the end than the beginning. Memento mori, indeed. So, dark scotch, dark room, dark thoughts — needs dark music, yes?
I expect that my being a fan of "classical" music will be a surprise to practically anyone who thinks they know me. I dunno, it's been a long life here online. I may have mentioned my fondness for Wagner, and in particular Trauermarsch from Götterdämmerung Act III, which I consider to be one of the greatest pieces of music ever set to paper for all that it's less than 10 minutes long out of a 25- or 30-hour opera.
But Mozart? I can take or leave most of Mozart. Much of his music is just too brightly frivolous. But this piece, this Requiem — look, I'm a hardcore rationalist, agnostic at best, but this music makes me feel that I ought to be down on my face somewhere, hands out in supplication, praying that God isn't really examining my life as closely as I suspect he is.
Confutatis maledictus
Flammis acribus addictis,
Voca me cum benedictis.
Oro supplex et acclinis,
Cor contritum quasi cinis,
Gere curam mei finis.
Lacrimosa dies ilia
Qua resurget ex favilla
Judicandus homo reus.
Huic ergo parce, Deus.1
Grief and hellfire, alternating with weeping prayers for redemption, thundering lyrics that are a straight rip from the Latin poem "Dies Irae," The Day of Wrath, a part of the oldest Catholic liturgy from the earliest primitive church.
Sonorous Latin echoing down out of vaulted spaces like the voice of God always thrums something deeply atavistic in me, and I've never even been Catholic. The old Church knew it, too, knew that the midnight-tolling resonance of that dark, ponderous tide of occult words kept the flock in the pews and on their knees, and praying and confessing in their claustrophobic candle-lit closets. But still, no matter the resonance, they're just words, all said and done. But that evil little fucker setting those words to his black music, music that drags the glistening dark crimson out of the middle of me — ah, Holy Christ, I do love it.
Time for another couple of fingers of that scotch.
The muted desk lamp illuminates the whiskey, refracting through the cut glass, casting a monotone old-gold kaleidescope, the only real color in this otherwise dark and deeply shadowed place. Unfocused subliminal hints of brown and black leather and fabric surround me; deep maroon accents define shadows like pools and streaks of old blood. And building, filling, and destroying the universe around me, the music: Dark on dark on dark, shades and shadows overlapping and smearing, prismed anti-color curling like smoke…
There. They're right there, the entire crew, all of us, illuminated by that solo soprano suddenly breaking through, voice so pure she sears me clear to my spine and breaks my heart. She sings us home, a glowing silver flash of hope winding through the swirling black tentacles of the brooding music. Is catching that insubstantial shaft of light really all that's required?
Lux aeterna luceat eis, Domine,
cum sanctis mis in aeternum,
quia pius es.
Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine,
et lux perpetua luceat eis,
cum sanetis tuis in aeternum,
quia plus es. 2
Alone in the night with my whiskey, Requiem reverberating through me, my spectral crew around me, I seriously wonder where I would be if I suddenly found myself in the hands of an angry God, as Her preacher (and Mozart et al) would have it.
I won't, of course. I'm a rationalist. But in the shank of these dark hours, I find myself swirling around the irrational black hole of the single question: Am I at least a good man?
And I wonder what that means.
Or if it matters.
All I know is that here, under the weight of this version of The Dark, it matters; it fucking well DOES matter. And after all these years, all the hard choices, all the horrific things, the slippery, bloody morality of deciding between bad options — I don't know. I don't even really know how to define the terms.
So, then. No answers. Echoing silence in the dark hallways. More whiskey, splash a toast…
Here's to us, boys, the brothers and sisters who have gone on and those of us who will follow: We fought the fight and did the best we could. Seems like so little now, but sad to say it's more than most. We gave what we had, and it will just have to do. And if we're abandoned on that mountain looking across the river at a Promised Land where we'll never set a foot, at least we have us, forever and ever, and fuck the rest. Amen.
Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine,
et lux perpetua luceat eis.3
Whaddaya mean you don't speak Latin? What's the matter with you? OK, fine, here are the translations:
1. When the accursed have been confounded
And given over to the bitter flames,
Call me with the blessed.
I pray in supplication on my knees.
My heart contrite as the dust,
Safeguard my fate.
Mournful that day
When from the dust shall rise
Guilty man to be judged.
Therefore spare him, O God. ↩
2. May eternal light shine on them, O Lord.
with Thy saints for ever, because
Thou art merciful.
Grant the dead eternal rest, O Lord,
and may perpetual light shine on them,
with Thy saints for ever,
because Thou are merciful↩
3. Grant the dead eternal rest, O Lord,
and may light shine on them forever↩
Powerful, visceral stuff. Hope to see more.
ReplyDeleteThank you.
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