Farewell to a passionate,
abundant, free, and magical voice.
Msatislav Rostropovich March 27, 1927 - April 27, 2007
“When I started learning the cello, I fell in love with the instrument
because it seemed like a voice — my voice.”
His voice will linger on…
I have always been enamored to miracles - plausibly because of the name i bear. I do not however intend to be vainglorious about my name or anything else for that matter, but when I read this lovely piece by Walt Whitman, I just said to myself, “this seems like a superior version of me, speaking.”
Miracles
Why! who makes much of a miracle?
As to me, I know of nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs
of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach,
just in the edge of the water,
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with any one I love–
or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love,
Or sit at table at dinner with my mother,
Or look at strangers opposite me
riding in the car,
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive,
of a summer forenoon,
Or animals feeding in the fields,
Or birds–or the wonderfulness
of insects in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sun-down–
or of stars shining so quiet and bright,
Or the exquisite, delicate, thin curve
of the new moon in spring;
Or whether I go among those I like best,
and that like me best–
Or among the savans–or to the soiree–
or to the opera,
Or stand a long while looking
at the movements of machinery,
Or behold children at their sports,
Or the admirable sight of the perfect old man,
or the perfect old woman,
Or the sick in hospitals,
or the dead carried to burial,
Or my own eyes and figure in the glass;
These, with the rest, one and all,
are to me miracles,
The whole referring–yet each distinct,
and in its place.
To me, every hour of the light and dark
is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth
is spread with the same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same;
Every spear of grass–the frames, limbs,
organs, of men and women,
and all that concerns them,
All these to me are unspeakably perfect miracles.
To me the sea is a continual miracle;
The fishes that swim–the rocks–
the motion of the waves–the ships,
with men in them,
What stranger miracles are there?
Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle.
Here is something I uncovered from my old files and I myself cannot believe I wrote this circa 2004. Of course, it is silly and strange… but then, we all are in many points of our lives.
A Little Bee’s Role in the Candor of My Senses
What is this I hear?
When did the convivial violin begin to
mock in my ear?
Was it when the viola’s subdued
utterance answered the cello’s
melancholy?
Or was it when the piano became
intensely emulous for an impossible
vibrato on a high note?
Oh, gentle voice! While the instruments
are absorbed in their own symphonies,
you comfort me.
‘Tis in thee that I find my harmony.
What is this I see?
Is Mona Lisa’s smile teasing me?
A cumbrous gray cloud has shrouded
my starry night!
My Thinker, please contemplate on my
dimmed eyesight.
I have expended my time on
impressions that are surreal!
You, my Art, have come to make me real.
I have tasted the throes from Whitman’s
pent-up aching rivers,
And swallowed the words of poor
infatuated lovers.
Sugary fools, your carelessness has left
a gall in my belly.
Why is it that most people hunger only
for elements that they see?
One has come craving for my mind and
heart therefore I savor euphoria.
My sweet truth, I am a fool, but you are
ambrosia.
The stench of illusion!
It brings indubitable confusion.
Lungs asphyxiate with perfumed lies.
Living in honesty, anybody hardly tries.
But my olfactory perception has found a
hopeful scent,
An aroma through which sincere love is
sent.
Finally, this is how I feel.
I have encountered donkeys and a fork-
tongued eel,
Princes and paupers offering deals,
and even a monster greedy for a meal.
They have bitten; they have marred my
confidence.
But little bee, by renouncing your sting,
I am healed by your diligence.
As a child, I admit conceiving reveries of marital bliss, breeding children of virtue, intellect and beauty, having a family, marrying the only man I have kissed in my entire lifetime, and daily falling in love with the same man all over again as we conquer age together. However, the attractive strength of independence and singleness, losing the man whom I thought was perfect for that scenario, and being thumped on the head by an it’s-not-that-easy-after-all realization made me forget those ardent fancies for a moment.
…but guess what? For some reason, those dainty wedding bells have been ringing in the distance lately… and my wedding march has been, too. Johann Sebastian Bach’s “Wachet auf,” performed by an entourage of marching classical musicians; violinists, violists, and flutists, playing the melody of that sublime masterpiece as the pianist and cellist carry the solemn rhythm of the march in a significant corner. (Plus, I’d be exceedingly fortunate to have a harpist and lutenist on that day.) Imagine a wedding without a best man and maid of honor, or purposeless bride’s maids, but rather musicians who are close to my heart promenading with their instruments on an aisle of delicate wild flowers. I fantasize an occasion where my family and the dearest people exclusively attend after being summoned by personal calligraph-ed invitations, and blushing, I wish to appear in a simple but classic Grecian dress with only a string of tiny fragile flowers to accent my flowing hair. (Make-up will be unquestionably ostracized, although light lip-gloss may be negotiable.) As the sun sets and casts an ethereal glow, my friend Tonet would bestow a soft humming of Bach’s heavenly Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring with the entourage gently accompanying her, then will my groom and I profoundly express the vows of love and truth that we have sired for each other. I shall be asked, “do you?” and I shall reply, “with all my heart.” By the time the first star appears in the sky, I will be wedded to the perfect man – perfect not because he is incapable of doing wrong, but perfect because I love him for who he is, and for the reason that God gave him to me.
…but then, I am only dreaming…
If that never happens, let us just suppose that the groom came across a better wedding plan and a more desirable bride. =P
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The Hopeful All-Bach Repertoire:
Franz who is acquainted with my heart to nauseating extremes affirms that if you do not know “The Philosopher,” then you are missing an ample measure of my entity… because Franz who only knows me too well, perceived that I was yoked and mutually affected with this poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay. Thank you for the poem, Franz, and for recognizing the reticent but vital constituent of who I am.
The Philosopher
And what are you that, missing you,
I should be kept awake
As many nights as there are days
With weeping for your sake?
And what are you that, missing you,
As many days as crawl
I should be listening to the wind
And looking at the wall?
I know a man that’s a braver man
And twenty men as kind,
And what are you, that you should be
The one man in my mind?
Yet women’s ways are witless ways,
As any sage will tell,–
And what am I, that I should love
So wisely and so well?
