New England Writers II

It is amazing how fast time flies by -- I can't believe that eight days ago, about this same hour, I was sitting in Somerville Theatre watching Christopher Williams and Ellis Paul doing what they do best -- sing, drum, entertain, and create a communal bond in an audience. This happens regardless of race, ethnicity, sex, and religion. To reecho the sentiment you so ably shared in your e-mail, I believe that the concept of time is an artificial phenomenon which fails to subjugate the mind to its will. Time is an intangible tool devised by man to facilitate the arduous task of information bookkeeping (storage, processing, and retrieval). By virtue of its artificiality, it must constantly be under the manipulation of the mental faculty. Consequently, the nonlinear nature of time, its character as a single simultaneous continuum bearing no intrinsic segmental or fractional parts, becomes obvious when an object holistically raptures the mind. The image and experience is immediately integrated into a nonlinear character so much so that any moment the mind ponders the event, memory sharpens immediacy and simultaneity to such vivid levels that the retrospective experience rushes into the present. You think that you are still there, that you still have that precious moment to rob and fondle; nostalgia begins raining in on you. Art is the instrument for this propagation, it is the essence of our humanity -- a codified conciliatory symbolic representation. Isn't man an art form? When I was watching Ellis that Saturday many were the occasions when I looked up and saw another person in the huge auditorium glancing my way. In those bespectacled short-lived moments, I always felt like a chord joined me and that person on the opposite side of the aisle. I could hear the beat of their heart, the thoughts of their mind, and the wonderment in their eyes. Disbelief and fascination bubbled up the place! Many are the times when I wonder about the power of art to bind people. When one sits in the midst of a gigantic crowd as that, where the love of art have congregated souls, none in that buoyant gathering can feel marginalized, dispirited, or forsaken because we all join in a communal fraternity to experience the crystal beauty of artistic talent. A quintessential eruption of ingenuity and craft sets itself in motion to the jubilation of all! Ellis' music soared my heart. It fashioned a rhythmic harmony not only in my ears but also in my mind. The melodious waves captured in the strings of his guitar charged my heart, indeed, it uplifted every part of the affects to a climactic plateau, where both artist and audience were brought in unison. At that climactic pitch, not even an angelic dispatch could have deciphered artist from audience. Perhaps, if there is a mystery in our world, that mystery is not best exemplified by the inability of Catholicism/Christianity to rationalize the tripartite coexistence of God-the Father, God-the Son, and God-the Holy Spirit, rather, the inexplicable lies in the power of art (poetry, music, painting, sculpture, etc) to bring the body, the heart, and the mind of artists and audiences to a singular terrain, the art-form having served as the all important interlude of connection. I cannot commend you enough for this authentic work. I learnt much from the trip. As much as I joined the company of all these real loving people, my love for scholarship had never being that rekindled. More importantly, the trip reinforced my faith that scholarship should be an altruistic, down-to-earth, dynamic, and accommodating pursuit befitting the humblest of humankind. From Emily to Thoreau to Emerson to Hawthorne, humility, industry, love, and authenticity were all I saw. I had long thought that my generation had lost men and women of their caliber forever. You prove that I was wrong. Perhaps I should be less pessimistic and cynical of this generation's ability to thread the path of the past heroes. We seem to be so materialistic in our aspirations and ideals so much so that we have lost touch with the heroic ideals of social communality and moral essence. Regrettably, the institutions that are thriving today aid and abet the social decay one way or another, knowingly and/or unknowingly. Keep up the good work! Your toils will not be in vain. You touched me. There are many more out there. FA Following are some entries I made in my notepad during the trip: the working mind, its fire does not burn, its venom is not noxious. It induces, stimulates, charges, seduces transposes, transmits, transduces, and enrgizes. The thinking mind does not exasperate, it energizes, sharpens, awakens, and unravels. the power of language, written and spoken; it cannot be decribed, neither can it be quantified. Its quintessence is beyond man to penetrate or dissect We can attempt to vocalize the revelation of thought and state, but state itself cannot be communicated in its entiret, there is always a fleeing part of the whole to lay hands on, there is always an extensive dimension yet to be grasped. Man lacks the flair to make untainted experience transpire through communication, in the multiple realms in which it is conceived. That artist is not yet born, who will mold, inspire, and radiate the entire revelative moment, that twinkle of time in the experience when all seems to make sense, when there is a perfect fit and no defect, that flash of time when spirit, civilization, ocean, the earth, the skies, and the melody of chirping birds all join the poet in trumpet. The artist will be posterity's joy. We were sitting under a big tree, one beautiful afternoon in autumn. Energy circled around us, the peace and humility of it intrigued me. I pondered it all day. The scene raptured me, shackled my mind and fired my curiosity. There was never a moment like it in my life when I wanted so badly to pursue intellect and discover the novelties of the mind. The tree was huge, big healthy branches protruded from its rich vibrant canopy. It was in autumn. I was with Jon and his wonderful friends on their road scholars trip. The air was filled with color and rich autumn smells, the call of season had sprung flamboyance on the trees; wonderment, intrigue, and inspiration had descended on us. We sat under the tree in a circle, I felt connected to the group, I read joy in their faces. Leslie had set a torch burning. Such is as it should be; the essence of our search for wisdom and a better understanding of the complexities of our world. For me, the discourse on symbolic and linguistic representation begun chipping away part of a puzzle. This world, our world, Emily was watching. (FA)