A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.
“Where is that balm?” Remus muttered, rummaging through the bathroom cabinet when the stuff didn’t come zooming at him when he summoned it.
“Merlin, Moony…I’m supposed to be taking care of you.” Sirius grumbled, from the bedroom.
Remus found the offending pot of healing balm that was wedged in the back of the cabinet. He supposed his magic still was wonky after last night’s full moon.
He went back into the bedroom and looked pointedly at the long gash on Sirius’s arm. “I’m not about to let you bleed to death, Pads. This balm will reduce scarring.”
Sirius sighed and held his arm out to Remus. He thought he knew exactly when he sustained it, when Padfoot and Moony were scuffling and one of Moony’s nails grazed his leg a bit too forcefully. It hurt, but Sirius didn’t like to let on how much it did. He didn’t want Remus to feel any worse, knowing he’d hurt him by accident. Remus pointed his wand at Sirius’s arm. “Episkey,” he muttered and the gash closed up, leaving a harsh pink line. Remus then took a handful of the balm and smoothed it over the mark, which immediately made the color fade.
“I’m ok, Moony. It’s not a big deal.” Sirius said, lying down in bed and pulling Remus close to him.
“I’m sorry I hurt you. I didn’t mean to.” Remus said, letting himself relax against Sirius, and feeling the full weight of their sleepless night hitting him and pulling him under.
Sirius smoothed his hair and dropped a kiss on the top of his head. “I’ll be fine.”
Jeannine Altmeyer: O radiant wonder! Thou bring'st me, true one, holiest balm! be blest in Sieglinde’s woe!
Paul Valéry: 'It has been 50 years since I cannot tire of this extraordinary magnificence'
Paul Valéry: “In Wagner - I never admire enough the incomparable sequence of themes, situations - and their combinations or deductions from the entire third act of Valkyrie. It has been 50 years since I cannot tire of this extraordinary magnificence that generates. - All the plans of passion and action and the transitions from one to the other - at the temperature of the "Sublime” - Everything works. And one finds, unheard of, - the changes of state of the “characters” as a function of the flow of sonic energy - which is like a sap to them, a reason for being, manifests through them, opposes itself, becomes anger, tenderness, will, so much so that… the “thought” (supposed) becomes one of the variables of this life of the work’s system! It is the triumph of total possession of the means and forces applied to an absolutely known purpose.“ (Paul Valéry, Notebooks, II, page 980)
Video:
The Ring of the Nibelung
Bayreuth 1979, Patrice Chéreau / Pierre Boulez
Jeannine Altmeyer: Sieglinde
Gwyneth Jones: Brünnhilde
Brünnhilde
(She takes the pieces of Sigmund’s sword from
under her breastplate and gives them to Sieglinde.)
For him ward thou well the mighty splinters;
from his father’s death-field
by good hap I saved them:
who once shall swing the sword new wrought,
his name from me let him take—
Siegfried in triumph shall live!
Sieglinde
(deeply moved)
O radiant wonder! Glorious maid!
Thou bring'st me, true one, holiest balm!
For him whom we loved I save the beloved one:
may my thanks yet bring laughing reward!
Fare thou well! be blest in Sieglinde’s woe!
(She hastens away on the right in front.)
(Black thunderclouds surround the height;
a fearful storm approaches from the back: a growing
fiery light on the right.)
German:
Sieglinde
O hehrstes Wunder! Herrlichste Maid!
Dir Treuen dank’ ich heiligen Trost!
Für ihn, den wir liebten, rett’ ich das Liebste:
meines Dankes Lohn lache dir einst!
Lebe wohl! dich segnet Sieglindes Weh’!
low notes that start at the feet and the high ones that treble in the chest and make my heart tremble
Singing is a balm for the singer, and if the singer can hold pitch then it’s a balm for the listener too. Any song will do, the field doesn’t mind either way. Sometimes I’ll sing the worship songs when I’m lost, a little line will get into my head, “Oh Jesus, show me the way . . . we go down to the river to pray . . .” I’ll be singing low or loud and kicking in the dirt, and the tears will just come when they are ready. Sometimes I’ll hear a chorus on the radio and it’ll be stuck in my head for weeks, and I’ll take it out to the field. Then the ghosts, the ancestors taught me songs too, and I’ll be sounding like something you’ve never heard before, low notes that start at the feet and the high ones that treble in the chest and make my heart tremble. Babirra is good, it’s food you can’t see but fills you up anyway.
— Tara June Winch, The Yield: A Novel (Harper, June 2, 2020)
Fighting with SAD today and the bleak weather is kicking my ass. Still, there’s a long list of things to do, so crawling back to bed is not in the cards today, though it’s my preferred place to hide from the black dog. What do you do when seasonal depression takes hold and all the caffeine in the world can’t lift your mood?