12.26.07
When Paths of Two Polybibliogamists Collide
To have yourself or your photo “psychoanalyzed” with elegant meticulousness and be developed as blog-material by a musician/artist/somnambulist/polybibliogamist/ writer/philosopher (among other “er’s”) of superior caliber, is truly an honor. Though flattery was not this writer’s intent, it flatters me how another soul knows enough, cares enough, and sees enough, beneath the gathered moss and the premeditated or subliminal riddles of myself. I am deeply humbled and touched.
I thank you profoundly, Mar.
These words are not destitute that they should need a prologue. So, without further dawdling, I share you a prodigious person’s view of an insignificant Friendster photo that through consonance and adept consideration is transformed into a beautiful masterpiece.
Annotated Miracle:
A Reflection of Secrets in the Telling
(Tribute to a fellow night owl.)
Today, a few vacant hours has left me wandering into old territories (Friendster profiles) of friends, allowing me the luxury of breathlessly discovering profound truth and beauty in them that they may just be too bashful and modest to write about. Worthy or not I may be of such, still, be so kind, Reader, as to allow me the honors of writing about these, on their behalf, instead.
This one particular blog-material victim of mine happens to be - among others - a musician, a voracious “polybibliogamist” herself, and might I gratefully add, a joyful sharer of my life’s simple “absurdities”. She comes by the name of Miracle.
An Old Photo in a New Light
Wandering into Miracle’s “infinitesimal territory in cyberspace” and observing how her profile changed, I surmised it must be the new rippling effect of her old photo that captured my attention. Aside from my obvious fascination with both water and photography, this one photo – as how some people would describe the La Gioconda – has a certain enigmatic appeal that has (unfortunately for me) slipped my fancy before and as such, can also easily slip others if they be as careless and as reckless about seeing the silent, mysterious quirks behind the form, behind every quiet curve, and behind every unseen detail as I have been.
Shown in a different light of a profile background with rippling effect and held by new eyes however, it is quite a Miracle. (Pun intended.)
The Right Hand
Notice how Miracle’s right hand gently but firmly holds her instrument: as if seemingly never letting go. Anyone beholding Mira’s right hand would know that it is this same hand that paints, writes, and performs other occupations entirely detached from the violin. Yet, this same hand remains closely embracing the violin within its hollowed palm – palm emptied, this time, just
for the violin alone. Could Mira be more eloquent in subtly stating that, despite differences, the violin has her devotion? Could such intimate gesture of indubitableness not be a telling sign that even while going about the banal concerns of the day, her thoughts, unbidden, ceaselessly fly to the violin? In her most unguarded moments, is she, perhaps, haunted by the memory of its voice, or how it felt and sounded with every movement of her bow? Is she not moved by its ability to summon forth and give form to her deepest thoughts and strangest affections? And in vulnerable solitude, does she not long to be with it?
The Left Hand
Mira’s left hand strongly reveals the pianist in her. And yet, the same powerful left hand that has solicited the grandest chords from the piano now rests pliantly on the violin’s edge, on the margin and outskirts of its body. It couldn’t be more telling of a love powerful enough to silence the great. Notice how that left pianists’ hand seem to playfully tap just the edges of the violin, reminding it lightly of a heavy truth: that, despite that left hand’s dominance on any key or on any octave, this hand shall forever remain believing in the violin, enduring it, and containing it, even if it just be soundlessly from the wings.
Miracle’s Face
Even in a new light, Miracle’s face remains unseen. I would like to think that she is doing the beholder the great favor of not so much as sparing them her countenance (as she is quite a vision), than revealing to them a poignant truth: that to better appreciate unconditional possibilities, we must be denied some actualities. Until perhaps we have learned this truth, Miracle’s face shall forever remain a “riddle that no one guesses”.
The Position of the Violin
You, dear Reader, may be quite familiar with how violinists hold their instruments: with the violin’s face exposed and revealed (quite openly might I add) to the world. However, notice how Miracle holds hers: with its face to her, seemingly whispering a quiet word that was only meant for Mira and Mira to hear alone; with the entrance of its rich, sonorous and resonant sound held
tenderly against her womb and its head resting on her bosom and its ears leaning in, ever so delicately, to listen to the secrets of her heartbeat!
Could they be sharing a secret, a pact, a vow that only instrument and player
dare share? Could the violin be so docile an instrument to its player, keeping
its lips sealed until the time when Miracle calls forth its voice again to an
unknowing, heedless and ungrateful audience? Could anything be more sacred than the breath shared quietly between a woman and her music? Could music and musician be more in love and could anything be more tragic than a photo of a violin with its back turned away from its player then? I shall never look at
the same violin pose the same way again.
Like Mira’s old photo, it’s quite easy to dismiss old ideas, old loves, old
dreams if they persist on staring at you right in the face. When shown in
a different light however or when seen by new eyes, old ideas, old loves and
long-forgotten words may just hold vast reservoirs of truths that even the
strongest of hearts and the deepest of souls may find too breathtaking and
confounding to contain in one single lifetime. Its power may just be more
than enough to sustain them in two.
