LIVE TRANSMISSION 23.12.2000
ESTONIAN CLASSIC RADIO
Isn’t it so that music and all of us around that are seen and unseen go along as if being divorced from time, or is it so? Like it was one musical work fossilized into a state of being, which is surrounded by an ethereal landscape and a little darker background? Aren’t the walls reaching upwards similar to rising, pressing melodies rising more and more? Or a light pushing inside from the upper window of the basilica like the endless decorations of a Couperin harpsichord piece?
The arches of the churches are in and of themselves one musical gesture. One handing-over from one sound to another, one easy gliding over time and resting on the next column withpressure, which is made of up all its creator’s life stories.
In this way everything unites in this short process: the creators of sounds and substructures of sound - and air, which is ruled by music’s one and only absolute ruler – and that is time.
And everything repeats: from second to second, the seconds intertwine into minutes and minutes into hours. Concurring gesturesextend themselves to the next shores, and evermore to the next ones until the seconds fuse together into years. And the years are a quantity, like one entire musical work of an architectural tone.
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Like all pillars and bases and four-cornered towers and center aisles fuse together into one whole cut off from time.
Because a church – surrendered from the hands of its builders – is undoubtedly a remnant from a time, which it was born in, and from their fates who built it – and it goes along, unchanged.
Just like a musical work.
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But in the end aren’t buildings different – like musical works, those, which are lost and become unseen in the face of the wearing out of time.
The isolated northern churches, developing a cocoon in the middle of the darkness, doors locked, from time to time people gathering there, a snowstorm between the doors, a hop from one century to the next, coughing. All around a big, powerful, unyielding, unseen history.
Invisibility is deceptive, because actually – one way or another – in its own time the creation that has occurred has affected those that have lived around it.
Is it a problem of indifference, that into one small fragment all future and past history could be hid like moments in the night slipping by or church pillars – and with that exhaustive? One piece like a picture drawn by a child’s hand: angular figures, straight and rough lines, pictures of the smallest moments: trees, flowers, suns and cars, everything which was around and which could be in the future?
And a veil, which falls above the empty houses and musics can ruthlessly also hide those who have fallen into this trap accidently.
Just like all musicians and architects and builders would fight with time like in a world war: some groupsget by easier, some hide themselves in the forest where no one will be able to find them, the third fall into a trap at the Kursk arch like between the jaws of a huge fish – even though they were strong.
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S'éveille-t-elle en lui
Déloge l'homme en lui
Un ange vole
Un ange vole
beau
Se love-t-elle en lui
Furtive elle en lui
Un homme change
Where I can hear the cries :: etrange
parfait mélange
The pleas :: S'échange -t-il d'aile en elle
of my children :: Un homme sombre change en elle
Un ange bombe :: Sweet Virgin
Sweet Virgin ::
Sweet...:: un ange blonde
your eyes :: Dérange
Dark-eyed virgin :: ...doux...
I want to ask you :: ...parfait...
This question :: ...m...
:: sexe d'un ange ::
(Guesch Patti:Blonde / MacMillan:Virgin of Guadalupe)
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The state of silence comes especially strongly up in a snow-covered countryside place – shadows wrapped up in the darkness just like they were revoking this reality, which nature is. What remains is but a straight plane, a uniform, dark plane without contrasts, and time in this falls together, changes into a lit, river-like power line without impulses. Cold tones obtain a mat cover, soft tones change from their former selves into softer ones – and repeating, even rhythmics draws even more to the front of a stop in time. Darkness is a time when people close themselves up in their thoughts, listen to Classic Radio and BBC World, breath easier and think with fewer words. The movement on the street draws a melodic line over with a bar of harmony, cars hurtle along silently. A moment stays standing in place, as long as the darkness stands in place. At that moment impulse doesn’t look for a way out of its total stop.
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Those Central European sacred structures, whichfor peopleare places for birth and death, bring people astounded by devotion straight between the whirl of suitable and unsuitable feelings, though they attempt in this current commercial world to give temporary relief and pause. Altars, images of holy men, beggars, plagued people searching for work, a gravestone slab, see-through light, choir singers in their doings – fonts, a flock of tourists abuzz in an imcomprehensible language – and before you have reached the door, you have already gone through a vibrant life.
Church arches gesticulate briskly, and the mass of timid humanity saturated with coughing fuses together with all those center and side naves into one whole divorced from time.
And a bit further – seals on snowy coasts, whiskers waving in the wind.
*
Jüri Reinvere © 2000
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