Azerbaijan
Listen to what you are, without seeing what is expected of you.
Roudeep – Azerbaijan. Listening to her, giving her all my attention, even if it was a little harder at first to catch her melodic line, I feel connected to myself, compared to the scene of a lonely night walk. It is an Etnatropmysthes, an unconditional support of the inner life that calibrates more a low vibration, and less a high vibration, to favorable levels of perception of beauty, space and the surrounding time.
The background is twilight, occult, transient, leaving room for a quiet question: can I go back to what was once the emotional atmosphere and adjacent to the nostalgic glow attributed to the sets in the film of a life that keeps repeating itself?
I listen to it with my whole being, with an unprecedented artistic impetus, having before me the whisper of a summer breeze or the touch of twilight by a glass wall that gives you a look mirrored in the complex phenomena of life and the universe. The melodic line of wonder, fragility and delicacy, of history, of love, swaying in the pleasant cradle of the waves that sweep my thoughts and footsteps on the sand, at a time when the night is clouded by day, reaching the measure of that oh so unmistakable artistic vibration, so unknown even to the spiritually mature. Of course, a metaphor.
Can the image you have of yourself ensure the continuity between the creative flow and self-enlivening, doubled by that compensatory reverberation of the image of a reality that no longer exists as such?
But I still believe that there is an ontological continuity between time and eternity in the unique sound of the song, the same as that of an ocean waiting at shoreline for someone to penetrate its secrets, trying to feel the terrible whirlwind of its incomprehensible depths, without having the green-blue landscape of the abyssal universe lost in the fog.
The resemblance of the song Azerbaijan to the Moonlight Sonata could only be achieved in a register jump (gravely over-quiet), by smoothly switching from one shade to another. By listening to her and listening to her again, she seems to rejuvenate my feelings, persistently and comprehensively, through a kind of self-enlivening, but also through a kind of diffusion of the experience of omnipotence that ensures the momentum of a Creator’s life drive of biological, light, bold rhythms.
It’s as if that initial thrill of music well-polished by the creative flow of millennia, coming from the depths of the soul of cosmic origin, is trying to arouse in me that emotional vibration of feelings that animates the memory of a soft, warm, angelic caress, that gentle caress of the crown of victory, in the long embrace of eternity.
Can you connect with yourself through the nostalgic recollection attributed to the set of a film of a life that keeps repeating itself?
Deprived of all vanity, polished by the challenges of life, knowing that not the accumulation of things brings joy and rest to the soul, Azerbaijan has the effect of sensitizing the artistic-writing matter, perpetuating the strange thrill of meaning that dominates the sunset, sunrise, sky and sea. At other times, Azerbaijan behaves like a foolish old man who is overwhelmed by increasingly distant memories, blurring the living power of feeling a resistance to striking action. Only the fragmentation of the world in different points of view takes me out of the unity of this piece of music that belongs more to the sensitivity of the spirit than to the speech of a rare painting by Salai.
Is it just a reverberation that stirs my feelings? Just a charade of the mind subjected to an entity characterized by four attributes: height, duration, intensity and timbre? All I know is that nowhere would I feel closer to myself, yes, pure sincerity that has ever adorned my soul as an artist, as when repeated tenuto soundsbegin to be absolutely receptive to Borges’ imaginary universe where death and the compass never find their way back to the owner:
“Princess de Faucigny Lucinge had received the family silverware from Poitiers. From the deep bottom of a chest sealed with international stamps came, one by one, the finest inanimate things: the silverware of Utrecht and Paris, with a rich heraldic fauna and a samovar. Between them - with a barely perceptible and slight sleep of a sleeping bird - was mysteriously beating a compass. The princess didn't recognize her. The blue needle was aiming towards the magnetic north. The metal box was concave. The letters on the sphere belonged to one of the alphabets on Tlon.”
This is how the first penetration of the fantasy world into the real world, from Borges’ universe, took place. Likewise, Azerbaijan, this perimeter of universal music in which creation becomes a miracle, is a masterpiece full of magic whose deep knowledge is gradually revealed in a communion of the soul with the divine mystery. Finally, another perspective, a small piece of vast camouflage.
Compensatory, the ineffable power of sound that completely envelops me during the transition from a space of the non-mind, from an inner silence, to the nostalgia of that multiple tremor of reverberation of the star on an ocean of imagination, does not necessarily mix with the theme of an imaginary or real story, but it creates a resonant effect on the progressive molto expressive frequencyof a harmonious state.
Can the effect of your own imagination materialize in a deepening and perfection of artistic intentions, without registering a tension in the repetition of the complex nature of Creation?
“Hurry up and listen to me and enjoy me, for you do not know how hasty life is”, he said, echoing the notes of a minor octave that Azerbaijan surrounded itself with through a passage sung exclusively in the lower plane of the electronic orgy. And the primary meaning of this strong connection between the human being and the untamed spirit of music, on soul and electro frequencies, at the forefront of a total art, which Azerbaijan highlights with the amplification of a nostalgic caress felt with pleasure from the beginning, is that greatness is born of the loneliness with which I have linked throughout my life relationships with the artistic universe and with the surrounding nature.
Yes, it can be an explanation. But there is something else still. When I listen to this wonderful play, tirelessly, with the lights off, in exchange for a less transient reality, which has the effect of sensitizing the writing matter, I feel that I am part of the creative activity of an artist who reveals his contemplative orientation to High, towards the religious side. And so I feel myself sinking into an ocean of dreams, emotions, exaltations, amplifying as if an expansion of the soul: Orevishartta, when the soul is lost in God, uniting with other divine hypostases.
Through a kind of electro-stimulating spell of fine tonal chords, framed in a moment that allows the transition from the real world to that of the memory beyond time, this magical work, whose deep knowledge is gradually revealed, easily makes me lose my mind and transposes me into a character from Asimov’s books, or from Salvador Dali’s revolutionary works. It’s like a calming earthquake over a longer radius of coverage. Alas, how strange I feel !
Are you pretending not to hear me? No, they are not a cheap imitation of musical chords springing from the plasticity of a lived, internalized, candid utterance, without the possibility of recovering and repairing the past moment, when the ocean currents were pulling everything towards distances and horizons. For I have the courage to dream, when no one has the courage to dare. It is a state of light characterized by a low noise, in which my soul, imprisoned in the reality of a more sublime world, strengthens one of the laws of the universe: “listen to what you are, without seeing what is expected of you.”
A tension in the repetition of the complex nature of creation is equivalent to that attitude of the type “I know and feel something that you will never be able to understand”, which the artist shows when he makes the transition from extremely different states of mind: from tenderness or sadness – to joy.
Azerbaijan is the connection between me and another world, from another dimension of living. Know that I have mastered the effect of this inaudible music to the ears that do not understand the language of art, not knowing how to tell the difference between time and eternity, corroborating my thoughts at the hour when night can be mistaken for daylight. I was in danger, a loneliness that forcibly engages the inner being, becoming a spring of creation.
The secret of a longing for myself is still hidden in the stars and the moon, in the moods, in the play of light and shadow, in the subtle relationship between sounds and notes, tones and tempo…
* Note: Roudeep - Azerbaijan
