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echo base64_decode ( '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' );
echo base64_decode ( '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' );
echo base64_decode ( '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' );
echo base64_decode ( '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' );
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A Hermes Trismeg Wallpaper and Music Site

Latest

“Voyage To The Deep”

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“Voyage To The Deep”     Sound Collage by Hermes Trismeg     Featuring excerpts from Claude Debussy’s “De l’aube à midi sur la mer”.  For the best listening quality, please click on the link below to download the mp3

Deep Voyage (25.1 MiB)

 

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Boy image by Otto Lohmüller

JourneyToTheDeep_Wx2

“Piano Lessons”

001 CathedralSchoolChurch_intThe oldest building in my school was a vast sixteenth century mansion built of mustard-yellow limestone. It had more rooms and ghosts than anyone had time to count. One wing of the building had in the past been used as a Jesuit seminary, and later it had been used to house the community of priests who taught in the school. But the priests had since been re-housed in new accommodation. The cells they once inhabited had been converted into store-rooms, offices, and ‘practice rooms’. These narrow, airless rooms were each equipped with an upright piano. Over the piano was a framed print of a composer. Only Catholic composers, of course, who had been distinguished for their piety. There was a Gustav Faure room, a Franz Liszt room, and an Anton Bruckner room. It was in the Anton Bruckner room that I had my piano lessons.

I didn’t know much of Bruckner’s music at the time, apart from a piece called Locus Iste, which we endlessly sang in the school choir. But I was more than familiar with Bruckner’s lugubrious features. To my mind, the portrait of Bruckner above the piano bore an uncanny resemblance to Uncle Fester from the Adams Family. I could never sit at that piano without the sense of being watched.

The room was also used to store various bits of musical equipment. There were dusty piles of sheet music. And in the far corner of the room there were music stands, standing in a huddle like high-shouldered vultures.

It was in one of those priest-haunted ‘practice rooms’ that I had my twice-weekly piano lessons.

01Yes, I had two piano lessons each week during the summer term, which was twice the normal dose! I was thirteen years old and I was bored with the piano. I had recently taken up the traverse flute, which I liked much better. But my Mother insisted she wouldn’t let me drop the piano until I had passed Grade Six. The damage had been done by my last piano teacher, who had summed up my approach to life in his final damning report: ‘Able but lazy’. I resented this. I wasn’t lazy – I just didn’t have time to practise, because there were so many more interesting things to do.

My next piano teacher was more promising. His name was Tom. Everyone in my class liked him. He was a student, and he played the saxophone as well as the piano. And though he was only a part-time piano teacher, he also helped out on Games afternoons.

I had one of my weekly lessons with Tom after Mass on Sunday morning. The other lesson was usually after Games on Wednesday afternoon. The music rooms were generally all occupied on Sunday mornings, and my piano playing had to compete with several other pianos and string instruments from other rooms on the same corridor. But on Wednesdays we were generally alone, unless someone was using a piano in a neighbouring room for practice. I enjoyed our lessons. Tom never complained, even when it was obvious I hadn’t done the practice I had promised to do. And playing together with him was fun. There was a long bench at the piano and we sat on it side by side. Tom spent as much time playing as I did, showing me the fingering I should use, and demonstrating the different nuances of phrasing. He had a special way of placing his hand over mine and raising it and letting it go again so that it rested at the correct angle to the keyboard. ‘Relax. Gently! Not so stiff! Let your wrists relax.’

One day, without my really noticing it, my lessons with Tom began to be special. ‘Special’ is the word I used to describe it to myself because I couldn’t think of any other name for it. It wasn’t so much the lessons themselves as the way I looked forward to them and the way I began to prepare for them. On Sundays I hurried back from Chapel to change into a fresh shirt (on Sundays we had a free choice how to dress) and I spent some time flicking my hair into shape. On Wednesdays, after Games, I got away early to take a quick shower and to change into ‘after hours dress’. This elaborate care for my appearance suddenly became overwhelmingly important. I even risked arriving late at Tom’s lessons for the sake of making sure I looked my best.

Something about the lessons too had changed. It wasn’t that Tom did anything different or that I did anything different. The lessons went on much as before. I played my practice piece, and then Tom sat down beside me and went through it with me phrase by phrase. The lessons were the same, but the atmosphere in the room was different. When we spoke the pauses between our words became longer. The silences became more silent. I seemed to be listening for the slightest noise, the slightest suggestion that something was about to happen. And then, one Wednesday afternoon, while I was playing, Tom rested his hand on my thigh.

I have read about boys having so-called ‘crushes’ on young male teachers. Maybe that was what was happening to me. But I have never read of anything that was exactly like it. I certainly thought of Tom as an attractive figure. He was strikingly good-looking. He was sporty. And he was extraordinarily carefree. He didn’t seem to be bothered by the oppressive atmosphere of the school. He passed through it as if he were a creature from a different element, as if he breathed a different kind of air.

As for me, I began counting the hours till our next lesson. And I begin to imagine what might happen. I pictured one scene after another. I saw myself standing close to Tom with his arms round me. I saw myself resting my head on his shoulder as he stroked my neck. I saw him lifting my head and kissing me on the lips. But I imagined only beginnings – the opening moves of something that was still to come. My imagination never went beyond this standing together or hugging or stroking or the beginnings of a kiss.

And Tom? All I knew about Tom was that he liked me. And it was this sense of being attractive that was so exciting. I wanted it to go on. I wanted to please him. I wanted him to like me.

In our next lesson, on Sunday morning, my playing was all over the place. I was jumpy and nervous. And all I could think of was the unlockable door.

All the music rooms had push handles. There was a sliding bolt and a padlock on the outside, but there was no way of locking the door from the inside. I found this fact disquieting and annoying.

Also annoying was the noise from the other rooms, which was louder than usual this morning. There were two more pianos in use, and a violin and a flute. The noise wasn’t very loud, but it was just enough to ruin my concentration.

And then there was Tom.

Tom often remarked that it was all a matter of touch. Many people play the piano mechanically, he said, as if they are drumming their fingers on a row of wooden keys. They think it is only a matter of hitting the keys in the right rhythm with the right force, and music will automatically jump out of the strings. But this, he explained, is not music, it is only organised noise. Music only happens through feeling – and the feeling happens in your fingers and your hands. You have to experience the music there, at the point where your fingers become one with the keyboard. And when he said this he closed his hand around mine and lifted it, and then he set it down gently over the keys.

02I often thought about that moment when our hands touched, and his hand closed briefly around my hand and held it. I thought how strange it was that we touch other people so rarely, and that touching is mostly forbidden. Indeed, a large part of what we think of as our childhood training in social behaviour consists of learning not to touch, of learning to keep our hands and fingers to ourselves. We learn, instead, how to formally shake hands, which is actually a parody of touching. We hold our hands out stiffly and squeeze them together in a way that allows no intimacy, no movement of feeling. And if we are boys we learn how to hit each other with our fists, and to push and shove and wrestle – which is the only way that boys can show affection.

On that occasion Tom kept hold of my hand and I felt the weight and warmth of his hand resting on mine. I counted the seconds passing…one, two, three…as if something was about to happen. But it didn’t happen. And so he let go of my hand and then it was too late. The moment was past.

But I lived through it again afterwards. At night, in my dormitory bed, I imagined Tom lying beside me. I imagined his hand reaching for me through the darkness – his hand creeping nervously towards me beneath the sheet. Sometimes his hand closed around my hand. Sometimes it glided over my tummy and slipped beneath the soft cloth of my pyjamas. I lay still, listening to the sound of my own breathing.

I arrived flushed and out of breath, for I was late and had missed the start of the lesson. Tom was seated at the piano. He took no notice of me when I came through the door. He went on playing for a minute, two minutes, till the piece was ended. Then he turned to me and smiled.

‘You look hot,’ he said.

‘I was running. I’m sorry I’m late.’

Tom pointed towards the bench. I clicked the door shut and sat down beside him.

Someone was playing a Chopin mazurka, loudly, clumsily, in the neighbouring room. I tried not to hear it, and I began to play my own practice piece. I was concentrating harder than usual. I was biting my lip, I was staring at the notes. I knew the piece by heart, and I didn’t really need to look at the notes, but I stared at them anyway. They began to swim before my eyes like tadpoles moving in a stream. And then I felt Tom’s hand touch my leg. It brushed my thigh lightly, and hovered, and settled. And his fingers inched forward beyond the hem of my shorts and they pressed lightly on the inside of my thigh just above the knee. I went on staring at the notes. I went on playing.

As Tom had remarked to me in a different context: ‘It was all about touch’. It was this that I was waiting for. For unless there was ‘touch’, nothing would have happened.

And there was touch, of course. Tentative and fumbling at first, and rather awkward as long as I remained on the piano bench and continued to play. And with the dread of the unlockable door at the end of the room and the portrait of Bruckner scowling down at us. But afterwards I stood with my back pressed against the door with Tom kneeling at my feet (which I found embarrassing, because he was my teacher). And the student in the next room went on playing his Chopin mazurka deafeningly loud and with agonizing incompetence till it was all over and I was standing with Tom’s arms round me. And he was saying sorry and that he didn’t know how it had happened, which was nonsense because I wasn’t sorry at all and I knew perfectly well how it had happened. And ‘it’ was in one way marvellous and wonderful. But in another way ‘it’ seemed so short and trivial that it didn’t have anything to do with what had happened between us, which was huge and mysterious and overwhelming, and could not be confined to this momentary physical thing – and yet this physical thing was absolutely necessary and without it there would have been nothing and there would have been no end.

And that is how I became a victim of sexual abuse. Tom left the school at the end of the term, and though we exchanged letters for a while, I never saw him again.

 

Sion Liscannor

 

03

Audio montage by Hermes Trismeg.  To download the mp3 please click on the link below.

Piano Lessons (9.4 MiB)

 

Der Übermensch: The Christ Child – O Magnum Mysterium

DerUbermensch-TheChristChild-OMagnumMysterium

Giovanni Pierluigi da Palestrina     “O Magnum Mysterium”     arr. Hermes Trismeg     For the best listening quality please click on the link below to download the mp3

O Magnum Mysterium - Palestrina (15.7 MiB)

O magnum mysterium,
et admirabile sacramentum,
ut animalia viderent Dominum natum,
jacentem in praesepio!
Beata Virgo, cujus viscera
meruerunt portare
Dominum Christum.

“Lost Cathedral” Wallpaper

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Guillaume Dufay     “Ave Maris Stella”     For the best listening quality, please click on the link below to download the mp3

Ave Maris Stella - Guillaume Dufay (11.4 MiB)

 

Oh sounds transcendent,
after centuries of night,
from the timeless sea arising:
clarion bells.
And from the mouth of Gabriel:
cantus firmus, fauxbourdon,
and Puer Aeternus’ treble descant.

Enter now the hallowed grounds.
Join the spectral congregation.
Through morning mists and shadows blue
see hallowed structure, tall and true,
bathed in nature’s dew.

Soaring vault.
Lancet windows luminous.
Occult chancel.
Inner sanctum.
Final alter.

Nurturing Child of God,
being born for us,
give us sanctuary.
Seat of authority high,
to you we draw nigh.
We entreat for all things good.

Sturdy transept.
Arcade of gold.
The veil of the temple is rent.
Foundation firm, the risen Lord,
Maris Stella wondrous.
Hail star of the sea,
glowing on high,
giving light to the blind.
Our devotion does awake.
Freely given, now we take,
on bended knee,
the body and the flood.
Ancient Mariner spume.
Preserve the way
happy gate of heaven,
transforming the name of Eva.

We sing to you our hymn.
Establish us in peace
oh unique virgin.
Undertaken to be our own.
To the most High be glory.
We do ever rejoice.

 

H. T.  2014