Dear Friends,
Yesterdays (from Roberta)
Music: Jerome Kern (1885 — 1945) Lyric: Otto Harbach (1873 — 1963)
Performed by Ishmael Wallace
It is often said that we must put away nostalgia; that we cannot return to the 90s — to the 50s — to the years before the French revolution. It is true that, when the ancien regime returns, it will not be the same; it will not be before the revolution but after its long-drawn-out failure.
The music I compose is a good example. It is the music of a man whose deepest loves are extremely old-fashioned, but who nonetheless is aware of what took place in the last hundred years.
In the 80s, I was told, by a good composer, “Today, one cannot compose a waltz”. I have found one can still compose waltzes. Nonetheless, it is true that a waltz composed today has not the same meaning as the same waltz composed in 1890. In 1890 it was the current thing; today it is a paw raised against the current thing.
Though the past does not return exactly, our longing for the past is of great significance; above all it is the longing for home.
We sense that we have wandered far from home, and wonder if perhaps we could return — if only as a hired hand on our Father’s farm.
And when he came to himself, he said, How many hired servants of my father's have bread enough and to spare, and I perish with hunger!
I will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven, and before thee,
And am no more worthy to be called thy son: make me as one of thy hired servants.
And he arose, and came to his father. But when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him.
And the son said unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven, and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy son.
But the father said to his servants, Bring forth the best robe, and put it on him; and put a ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet:
And bring hither the fatted calf, and kill it; and let us eat, and be merry:
For this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found…
(Gospel of Luke, 15: 17 — 24, King James Version)
Our Father’s farm is the shining forth of primordial light. This light is dimmed by our attachment to thoughts and emotions; that is why we often sense it more clearly in those who development is stunted. Their thoughts and emotions are undeveloped, but something shines in them which we recognize at once.
It is the “visionary gleam” of which Wordsworth wrote:
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting;
The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting
And cometh from afar;
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Nostalgia for the past is, above all, nostalgia for the clouds of glory — for our connection to eternal light.
That said, it was better in the 90s — in the 50s — in the years before the French revolution. As I wrote last week, we are nearing the end of a long experiment: the experiment of placing the servant above the master.
Like a visit to a country whose customs are not our own, the past can show us alternatives — can show us that things need not be always as they are now.
Thank you so much.
With every good wish,
Ishmael
The Return of the Prodigal Son Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn (1606 — 1669)
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Very nicely sung. Of course the Prodigal Son is perhaps the most perfect piece of literature ever spoken/written. Thinking of our society as a prodigal has cheered up my morning quite a bit. So often we despair of society at large ever returning to Our Father. I guess we should be grateful that we have a better older brother than the one in the story, One who pursues us prodigals over the whole earth with the thunder of the White Horse's hooves.