The Letter

Emporte-moi 

[Take me away]

N’aie crainte que l’orage ne gronde

[Don’t be afraid of the storm’s roar]

Dans ce pays d’un nouveau monde 

[In this land of a new world]

Mon cœur ne battra que pour toi, que pour toi

[My heart will beat only for you, only for you]

Barriere, Alain. “Emporte-Moi.” Spotify. https://open.spotify.com/track/7lNjE8X29t58dIxw4NcTHnsi=079eeaa3f59e4e41 

The letter about to unfold before you is a mass of fragmentary material: dreams, world-associations, memories, passions. To begin, I turn back time. I reverse it to that quaint period where I was a young woman visiting some concealed corner of the world, where I could briefly experience life without its meticulous responsibilities and expectations. I remember conglomerate gothic-style buildings visible against a torrid sky, and the horizon stretching before me such as the beginning of an interminable stroke of watercolor. The sun held this scene in a torpid tranquility. Activity was unhurried, and sounds were muted.

Upon this visit, I was deeply engrossed in thought and contemplation, seeking to understand the meaning of nature and the revelation of books and scriptures. I remember my youth with great pleasure—a pleasure I also receive from my music box when I make the necessary mechanical magic and suddenly the music begins to trace its patterns on the cloudless sky.  And I regret the passage of my youth, a feeling evoked in my spirit when the music dies, and a steel point rasps and rasps the silence. I would say this music was the equivalent of meeting you that late evening, of the deep and living darkness, into which, in a single jet, in a fine interweaving of melodies, in pulsing and almost solid clots of harmonious sound, it poured itself, stanchlessly poured itself, like time, like the rising and falling, falling trajectories of a life. 

I first met you in the botanic gardens across 57th street, when my high heel got stuck in some crevice in the sidewalk, causing me to bump into you as you were admiring the blossom of Spring. You dropped your taupe trench coat and a copy of some esoteric philosophical writing—I think Hegel’s Phenomenology of the Spirit. Prior to this encounter, I believe we had passed each other along Woodlawn across the chapel, a touch of accidental poetic truth, perhaps. And other times, I had seen you lounging at that little French cafe, sipping an espresso. 

“I’m sorry,” I had nervously muttered, picking up your book from the ground. 

You had returned a promising smile: “Please, don’t worry about it, are you alright?” 

We instantly became ‘friends.’ You were lovely, articulate, easy-going, and as they say, ‘in the moment.’ As a history and classics enthusiast, you spoke not of peripheral, but, rather global, larger affairs—of periods, epochs, civilizations, reigns, and centuries. And at that moment, I had felt attracted towards the exciting prospect of experiencing with you rhapsodies of passion, union, and interdependence—philosophical ideals of love, or so. Perhaps, I had also felt attracted towards the greater prospect of gaining access to this higher institution of love, which had seemed concealed or intangible at the time. 

Of course, our relationship was not perfect. Although this letter aims to decipher some path, and not a mere conceptual reduction, through this fragmentary material, I deduce the greater realization that Beauty requires tumult, gain, loss, vicissitude, ambiguity. Every beautiful piece of music, literature, and film does not maintain one tempo, theme, or emotional tone throughout, rather they encompass all manners of digressions, dramatic shifts in emotion, and this—I believe—makes these articles beautiful, and beyond that, human. And thus, our shared music—our theme—describes a paroxysm of delight, triumph, and defeat. Although our relationship was subject to an end, it was beautiful… it inspired beautiful bouts of passion, anger, sadness, evidenced by the letter you are holding in between your hands.

Again, it is Spring. I read books, watch films, and most significantly, listen to the music. Only this particular music can tell me with any precision what our conception of the blessedness is at the heart of things.  Only this particular music can take me away as long as my heart continues beating for you, only for you.  

~ TO BE CONTINUED ~

Photography by Chris Tien.