10 days of Rilke 'til Christmas - The Third Letter

Letters to a young poet
Rainer Maria Rilke

Now Niels Lyhne, a book of grandeur and great depth, will reveal itself to you little by little…There is nothing in it that would not summon a familiar resonance echoing from the memory. No experience was too insignificant—the smallest happening unfolds like destiny. Destiny itself is like a wonderful wide tapestry in which every thread is guided by an unspeakably tender hand, placed beside another thread, and held and carried by a hundred others.

…read the wonderful book about the fate and longing of Marie Grubbe and Jacobsen’s letters…journals…fragments…poems…

…read as little as possible of aesthetic critiques. They are either prejudiced views that have become petrified and senseless in their hardened lifeless state, or they are clever word games. Their views gain approval today but not tomorrow. Works of art can be described as having an essence of eternal solitude and an understanding is attainable least of all by critique. Only love can grasp and hold them and can judge them fairly…Allow your judgments their own quiet, undisturbed development, which, as with all progress, must come from deep within and can in no way be forced or hastened. All things consist of carrying to term and then giving birth. To allow the completion of every impression…beyond words, in the realm of instinct unattainable by logic, to await humbly and patiently the hour of the descent of a new clarity: that alone is to live one’s art, in the realm of understanding as in that of creativity.

In this there is no measuring with time. A year doesn’t matter; ten years are nothing. To be an artist means not to compute or count; it means to ripen as the tree, which does not force its sap, but stands unshaken in the storms of spring with no fear that summer might not follow. It will come regardless. But it comes only to those who live as though eternity stretches before them, carefree, silent, and endless…Patience is all!

…the creative experience lies…close to the sexual…its pain and its pleasure, that both phenomena are only different forms of the same longing and bliss. If one could say “sexuality” instead of “lust”—sexuality in a large sense…wide pure sense…—then his art would be great and infinitely important. His poetic talent is great and as strong as the primeval urge; it has an impetuous rhythm that breaks forth out of him as water out of the rocks.

…one of the most difficult tests for the true artist: he must always remain innocently unaware of this best virtues if he does not wish to rob them of their spontaneity and their unaffectedness…And when [Richard] Dehmel’s creative power…meets the sexual, then it finds the man not quite so pure as he needs to be. For him there exists no totally mature and pure world of sex, none that is simple human and not masculine only…there exist lust, intoxication, and restlessness, beleaguered with the old prejudices and pride…love. He loves only as male, not as a human being. Consequently there is in his perception something confining…spiteful…wild…temporal, not eternal…detracts from his art, and makes it suggestive and questionable…imprinted with passion and transience. Little of it will continue and endure. (But this is true of most art.)

10 days of Rilke 'til Christmas - The Second Letter

Letters to a young poet
Rainer Maria Rilke

“We are unutterably alone, essentially, especially in the things most intimate and most important to us…to help another, a great deal must happen…different elements must coincide harmoniously; a whole constellation of things must come about for that to happen even once.

…about irony: Do not allow it to control you, especially during uncreative moments. In creative moments allow it to serve you as another means to better understand life. If you use it with pure intent, then it is pure…But beware of a viewpoint that is too consistently ironic; turn your attention to lofty and serious issues instead. In their presence irony will pale and become helpless. Scale the depths of things; irony will never descend there. And you…arrive at the brink of greatness, ask yourself whether this ironic attitude springs from a truly deep need of your being. For due to the impact of serious things, it will either fall away from you, if it is something merely incidental, of if it is truly innately belongs to you, it will be strengthened to become an important tool, and take its place with all the other instruments with which you must build your own art.

Of all my books there are only a few that are indispensable to me. Two of them are constantly at my fingertips wherever I may be. They are…the Bible and the books of the great Danish writer, Jens Peter Jacobsen…avail yourself of the small book Six Stories…and his novel Niels Lyhne, and begin with the first story…”Mogens”. A whole world will envelop you…learn of them…love them. For this love you shall be requited a thousand...times over, no matter what turn your life will take. This love…will weave itself through the tapestry of your evolving being as one of the most important threads of your experiences, your disappointments, and your joys.

…of the essence of creativity, the depth of it and its enduring quality, there are only two names that I can name: that of Jacobsen, the very greatest of writers, and Auguste Rodin, the sculptor. No one among all artists living today compares with them.”

10 days of Rilke 'til Christmas - The First Letter

Letters to a young poet
Rainer Maria Rilke

“You ask whether your poems are good. You send them to publishers; you compare them with other poems; you are disturbed when certain publishers reject your attempts…I suggest that you give all that up. You are looking outward and…that you must not do now. No one can advise and help you, no one.

There is only one way: Go within. Search for the cause, find the impetus that bids you write. Put it to this test: Does it stretch out its roots in the deepest place of your heart? Can you avow that you would die if you were forbidden to write? Above all, in the most silent hour of your night, ask yourself this: Must I write? Dig deep into yourself for a true answer. And…if you can confidently meet this...with a simple, “I must,” then build your life upon it. It has become your necessity. Your life, in even the most mundane and least significant hour, must become a sign, a testimony to this urge.

Then draw near to nature. Pretend you are the very first man...write what you see and experience, what you love and lose. Do not write love poems…at first; they present the greatest challenge. It requires great, fully ripened power to produce something personal…Beware of general themes. Cling to those that your everyday life offers you. Write about your sorrows, your wishes, your passing thoughts, your belief in anything beautiful. Describe all that with fervent, quiet, and humble sincerity. In order to express yourself, use things in your surroundings, the scenes of your dreams, and the subjects of your memory.

If your everyday life appears to be unworthy subject…do not complain to life. Complain to yourself. Lament that you are not poet enough to call up its wealth. For the creative artist there is no poverty—nothing is insignificant or unimportant…Attempt to resurrect these sunken sensations of a distant past. You will gain assuredness. Your aloneness will expand and will become your home, greeting you like the quiet dawn…

If, as a result of…sinking into your own world, poetry should emerge, you will not think to ask someone whether it is good…For you will hear in them your own voice; you will see in them a piece of your life, a natural possession of yours. A piece of art is good if it is born of necessity. This, its source, is its criterion; there is no other.

Therefore…Go within and scale the depths of your being from which your very life springs forth. At its source you will find...whether you must write. Accept it, however it sounds to you, without analyzing…bear its burden, and its grandeur, without asking for the reward, which might possibly come from without. For the creative artist must be a world of his own and must find everything within himself and in nature, to which he has betrothed himself.

It is possible that…you might find that you must give up becoming a poet. Even then this process of turning inward…will not have been in vain. Your life will...find its own paths. That they will be good ones and rich and expansive…

…progress quietly and seriously in your evolvement. You could greatly interfere with that process if you look outward and expect to obtain answers...which only your innermost feeling in your quietest hour can perhaps give you.”

Lily Allen - "It's Not Me, It's You"

Lily Allen has graduated from mere flippancy in her sophomoric first album to a classier, more composed cheek with such melodic ease and lyrical wit in conveying her insights in It’s Not Me, It’s You. This time, she confronts societal norms, conformity, youth, relationships, and self-absorption of all sorts—in short, life—and calls for an openness that’s evocative of the late George Carlin, unapologetic, but that’s altogether chic, sassy, and melodious. With its delightfully varied sound that’s intermittently indie, jazzy, retro, as well as country, this album is a complete fare that’s entirely seasoned with sophisticated sarcasm for those finer, contemplative moments.

With the opening track’s, “Everyone’s At It”, sobering message about drug prevalence which infect all of society, “from grown politicians to adolescents”, and that could only be solved by admission, the song is in sheer contrast to its breezy melody, easy synth, and subtle beats.

Likewise, “The Fear” has a contradictory upbeat sound for such grave lyrics describing a human frailty caused by worldliness:

“I want to be rich and I want lots of money I don’t care about clever…about funny I want loads of clothes…diamonds…people die while trying to find them…take my clothes off……that’s how you get famous…I don’t know what’s right or real anymore…how I’m meant to feel anymore...cause I’m being taken over by the fearLife’s about film stars and less about mothers…all about fast cars and cussing each otherBut it doesn’t matter ‘cause I’m packing plastic…makes my life so f**king fantastic And I am a weapon of massive consumption…how I’m programmed to functionI’ll look at the Sun and I’ll look in the mirror……I’m not a saint but I’m not a sinner…everything’s cool…I’m getting thinner…I’m being taken over by fear”

“Not Fair” is a galloping western bop that’s in sardonic contrast to what’s being sung, which is the utter dilemma of being in a relationship fraught with mounting discontent over the kind of sexual intimacy one is engaged in.

“22” is an 80’s jingle reminiscent of Belinda Carlisle’s “Circle in the Sand” or Madonna’s “Cherish”, but where they cooed about a seeming frivolity, Allen coolly croons about the difficult feat of confronting societal standards which declares that the only thing left for a 30 year old lady to do is to wait for the “man of her dreams”. Watch the video.

“I Could Say” is a song of liberation from that certain “chip” on the shoulder, wherein Allen cheekily chirps, “Since you’ve gone, I’ve lost that chip on my shoulder… I’ve gotten older…the whole wide world is my stage… …I’ve been let out of my cage”.

“Back to the Start” has perhaps the fastest danceable rhythm, as in the 80’s new wave with a subtle chime-like synth, that conversely plays a message of apology for one’s past jealousies and an appeal to start over.

“F**k You” sweetly expresses defiance against intolerance, with a kick in the air, joined arms a la the Rockettes, repeated chanting of “F***k you very very much”, and sticking both tongue and lollipop in the cheek, while jumping to the tune’s pulsing beats.

The following tracks have similarly breezy melodies, but with slightly slower tempos:
While “Never Gonna Happen” relates an unsteady relationship, “Who’d Have Known” examines a growing affection. And “Chinese” is quite the song, as well as the food, to have around when thinking about cuddling in front of the TV with a dear one. And whereas Allen blithely questions god in “Him” with unquestionable cynicism, she airily hoots about a father’s neglect and desertion with unmistakable sarcasm in “He Wasn’t There”.

Have this album for easy, thoughtful listening with a bit of shake. It’s especially soothing for those inspired moments when you’re itching to break out the paint, write, or simply be creative in other ways.

Teen Spirit?

Makes me wonder how a teen could get to a point where he likens a child to a piece of burger, or how another could be so curious about how it’s like to take a child's life. At what point did sanity cross over the threshold to insanity in their minds? What happened to these adolescents’ psyches, or consciences?

The Ting Tings

Have you heard their ting? That you haven’t heard their tunes is very unlikely since their debut album was released sometime last summer, topping the U.K. chart and sending the tireless Madonna to rest then. Here are my two cents on yet another grand act to emerge from Big Ben’s soil: upbeat and offbeat. Fresh is hard to come by these days even in a highly advanced society, and the irony is we’ve been there, done that, seen and heard it all, and recycled, revised, and repackaged so heavily as we’ve figured out the formulas, that there seems to be very little left to be discovered as original, especially in music. Hence, it’s always refreshing to see those who manage to reinvent and rise above the crowd every now and then, regardless of how long they stay up. And when one creates a distinct sound, it’s got a certain ring, or ting, that will cause you to listen again and again. And this dynamic duo’s certainly got it. They most certainly have that “ting” factor. The funky fusion of Jules De Martino’s dominant drumbeats and Katie White’s sometimes brazen, sometimes fragile, and frequently distressed or defiant vocals merged with their various other musical elements and influences, one of which echoes a pared-down, 80’s new-wave among others, power the invisible machine behind their playful sound. Their music is a little fresher and groovier than most of its contemporaries that currently saturate our airwaves. Even as the duo chant “We Started Nothing” incessantly in their finale, the 8-tract album can serve as an instant tonic to get you started in those days needing a bit of jolt, with Great DJ, That’s Not My Name, Fruit Machine, Shut Up…, Keep Your Head, We Walk, Impacilla Carpisung, along with the title tract, or just keep you coolly on your feet, with Traffic Light and Be The One, even if only for a little more than half an hour, unless you have it on repeat.