Nicolas Collins (w.Ben Neill & Kammerensemble Neue Musik Berlin) - Strange Heaven (Denise Eddy & Susan Tallman) | Текст песни

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• Nicolas Collins (w.Ben Neill & Kammerensemble Neue Musik Berlin)
• Strange Heaven (Denise Eddy & Susan Tallman)

Strange Heaven (Susan Tallman, after an interview with Denise Eddy)

Johnny Dear,
I realize — now — how odd it might have sounded when I said your baby Quentin was beautiful. Is it strange that I use that word? I've been thinking about your question — what was it like for me to know you “only by touch”? I myself would never have put it that way — that I knew you only by touch — I would say rather that I knew you also by touch. After all, I could hear you, I could smell you, I could taste you with kisses. Now that you are a father you will understand how thoroughly a baby's presence fills the air. Perhaps I paid more attention to these other things than you will with Quentin, since you can see him.
But of course, I first got to know you mainly with my hands. When I fed you I would put my finger on your mouth and zoom with the spoon to Find where my finger was. That's just common sense.
Touch is also how I knew what you looked like, if you will — how I knew that, as a baby, you were quite bald, like a hard, fuzzy, unripe peach warmed by sunshine. It’s how I knew that you shot up two centimeters in a fortnight, and that you had lovely small ears (unlike your father).
Other people told me about things like the color of your eyes; the freckles on your nose. I can’t say the information meant much to me, even though I can still remember that blue is the color of clear skies and parakeets, and that when I was ten I thought boys with freckles were cute.
I assumed you were beautiful.
It is true that I must have known less about your face than you will know about Quentin’s. I mean, I knew its shape — the high forehead, the straight nose, the round cheeks — but I could never know its full range of expression, I suppose. What did your face look like when you scored that penalty shot when you were eight? Did you smile? Did your jaw drop open? Your eyebrows shoot up? I never knew. I didn't know what you looked like, but I imagine I knew what you were like at that moment. The way your whole body and mind contracted into a ball of concentration and then burst up and out — an explosion of muscles, ligaments, heat, breath, joy.
I don't quite know how to explain it. I guess from the time of my blindness, people became less physical and more abstract. Even you. It’s rather like the way that in a dream you sense that someone is there, and you'll know exactly who it is — Gretchen, Quentin, old Spud, or whoever — but you won’t exactly have seen them. Does this happen to you? It happens to me, both asleep and awake. You are terribly important to me, but the physical just doesn’t come into it that much. That may sound a little other-worldly, like angels being both beautiful and invisible, but that's more or less what it's like.
Isn't that odd?
I always thought it would have been nice to have seen you, with my eyes, the way most people do. But I wonder: what would I have lost in exchange? Would I trade a snapshot for this strange heaven?
I don't know.

see/hear: http://www.nicolascollins.com/soundwithoutpicturetracks.htm

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