A Valentine's Day note for you -- and only you
"The Farewell of Telemachus and Eucharis" was painted in 1818 by Jacques Louis David. While not as well known as Cupid and Psyche or as Romeo and Juliet or as Paris and Helen of Troy, these absolute lovers also were forced to part. Eucharis was a daughter of the sea nymph Calypso, while Telemachus was the son of an ancient Greek mortal who is among the three or four most remembered today. If you do not know who that man might be, perhaps your curiosity will be stirred enough after reading this to do a bit of research. I might add that my initial thought for an illustration for this post was another painting by David (Paris and Helen of Troy), but, when I saw this piece, the woman's hairstyle and the presence of the man's second faithful companion won me over in an instant.
There probably have been five or six variations of this song I have posted since I entered this realm of mostly invisible individuals more than two years ago. This probably is the fourth or fifth time I have posted this particular version. I absolutely love it.
This song, without a doubt, is on my list of the five best songs ever in the era of rock and roll. I love the melody. I love the lyrics. I love the smiles and the happiness and the hopefulness that emanates from the music. I love the casual movements of the performers in this version that can only be accomplished by absolute professionals at their crafts.
Have you ever noticed that? The difference between amateurs and professionals, I mean? Experience has nothing to do with it. Age has nothing to do with it. Education has nothing to do with it. It is a god-given gift -- innate, inborn, instinctual -- which is a natural movement whether melodic or violent, whether known or unknown, whether artful or crass.
It is evident on a battlefield. Some people cannot die, and a few even realize that at some point along the way. Others know from the very beginning they cannot survive warfare no matter what they do or where they hide. It is visible on a stage. Some performers struggle and work their hearts out, but while they might achieve momentary popularity, genuine art is beyond their reach. Others open their mouths and voice of an angel emerges and their bodies move like a river flowing to the rhythm of Nature itself.
Psychiatrists might gaze within the minds of men, but they cannot understand them. Writers might describe events which have occurred, but they can only blindly speculate about what will happen tomorrow. Everyone knows that vanity is a sin, but knowing is not realization and does not slow it down.
Whether you see my point or not, or, if you do, whether you agree with me or not, is of no importance. Whether you read this or not does matter. Maybe, to you. For sure, to me.
There is a cliché to the effect that nothing is certain in life except death and taxes. It is not correct. There are a few other things which are certain, like the absolute love Paris had for Helen; like the absolute perfection of Michelangelo's Pieta or David; even like the haunting, absolute truth of a rock and roll song like "Absolute Beginners."
I noticed the other day that at the site of one of David Bowie's songs, someone had written: "David Bowie is an alien." I think that possibly could be right. I think there might be a few others among us, too, but most of us are blind to their presence and are inclined to worship the momentary rather than to build upon the lasting.
Moses knew the score. And, when you have given up on mankind as I did long ago, there remains the consistency and the beauty of Nature in which to find a semblance of absolute truth.