An anthology of lullabies
Read this piece in Danish here.
A word that has been one of my favourites for a while is lullaby. A lullaby
is, as is known, used as a support for falling asleep, meant for small children and
babies. A word that is a direct synonym for lullaby is berceuse. This is the French
word for lullaby, and it is used when referring to classical compositions. Chopin
has, for instance, composed one in 1843/44. And quite a few people argue that
Brahms suffered from sleep apnea, and as a direct result from that,
composed a berceuse to himself.
If you have, or get, anxiety, which autism often entails, then you can shake it off
yourself, like a dog coming up from the ocean. It is a way of getting in touch with
oneself, that is very physical, very direct. One can almost imagine that you
shake these emotions of anxiety off, as if they are drops flying in all directions.
It is only after I have realized that I am on the autism spectrum that I have seriously
noticed which strategies for survival I have mistaken for simply being alive,
and being overwhelmed often when it comes to all kinds of experiences.
I have had to change tracks and listen to myself, instead
of other people, even more than ever before and it has resulted in me being more solitary,
at least for a while.
To move around among lots of people has often felt like drowning to me.
And to not drown in over-stimulation, receiving too much input,
I have often resorted to writing, drawing or painting, and in this way
found a focus.
While this process goes on, I have returned to the word lullaby like a safe harbour,
a point of departure.
One day, as I looked out my kitchen window,
there were pigeons that so often sit on the roof ridge of
the house just across mine. And then the thought occurred to me that I
could make a lullaby to one of the pigeons, or at least try. I did not think about
why I should do this, or what the motif, for doing it, was. Only that this was an
idea to be pursued.
When I think about that pigeon, I associate the word lullaby with the word nest. A nest
is a self-built bed where something can hatch.
When I look at those pigeons sitting there on the roof ridge, it looks so peaceful.
Some of them sit so still, they look like small statues. Until something,
an unexpected sound, disturbs the peace, and they quickly fly away again. If I
could, I too would fly away from several situations where lots of
people are involved. Instead, I must focus in order to not disappear.
It becomes a matter of life and death to rebel against being made invisible.
To die, perhaps in the sense of withering away,
to give up on yourself, while being alive is a tragedy.
One day, when I went for a walk on a path I often wander on, which leads the way
out of town and to the countryside, I saw a large ox lying in a huge pile of mud at
the outskirts of the field. It was so powerful to look at and at the same time full of
calm. I felt an urge to, in some way, get the same connection to the soil as this ox
so obviously had. The muddy soil was his home. To use a very human term it
looked incredibly meditative. The calmness of the ox radiated at the same time an
immense presence; his body was right there, but also a huge absence, perhaps
you could say introvert, about the way the ox was there. A breath that seemed
timeless.
A lullaby for this ox must be very slow and sung in a very deep voice.
Deeper than I am capable of. A voice that sounds as if it comes from the insides of
Earth. To be able to enclose this animal in its own fantastic energy. An energy I,
as the first impression, associate with primal power.
There is something inexhaustible about the image of that ox
which has imprinted itself on my mind.
It is also a reminder of ancient cave paintings. It is not unthinkable that the
people who painted oxen, for instance, also tried to make songs to them in order
to understand them, their minds, better. Because this, to make a song to
another being, with or without words, is to try to approach its living conditions.
Inner living conditions.
To sing is to do something healthy for yourself,
and to understand, and maintain one’s own living conditions.
I sing every day. If I am alone all day, I
sometimes have to remind myself to be quiet, because I sing as a way of existing.
I sometimes understand how I feel through singing. I especially understand if I do
not feel so well, because then it often sits in the throat.
When I leave my apartment and have to go somewhere else, where there are a lot of
people, it can manifest itself in my throat, as if I must clear it to get there.
It can be very annoying, but the knowledge that this is anxiety,
which is, most likely, caused by autism, helps, so I do not go into panic.
If one day is particularly bad, I try to calm myself by
saying out loud: Please, take it easy! Like a mild order. And the essence of a
lullaby.
I feel comfortable with freedom. Spiritual freedom.
This means that I study everything I find interesting with only the limitations of time.
The pigeons on the roof ridge enjoy some kind of spiritual freedom,
a freedom of speech, which is impossible for me to fully comprehend.
The Bulgarian author Elias Canetti once wrote that he would give
ten years of his life to get one year as an elephant, or perhaps it was one
year for one day. Here he possibly also thought about spiritual
freedom as part of a transformational power. He wrote a lot about throwing words
against death. There is a book about him with different contributions in Danish,
simply called “Dødsfjenden” (The enemy of Death). His position is a celebration of
the individual human’s (inner) freedom of expression and the potential for that.
If you must fight to find your voice and (re)gain your freedom of expression, as
so many sadly have to do, then it is important to burn from within. Then there
shall not be a lack of words in your songs. Then you must wriggle yourself free
and go into the unknown. It might create the sensation of finally removing
yourself from a web of sticky dogmas. One where you were a spider busy with
consuming the prey, only to suddenly realize that the prey is a part of yourself.
I wish that the world gets an anthology full of lullabies for individuals.
Other beings. Gently and mysteriously. Dwelling.
It does not need to be published in any official way, but it can be.
It can bloom continuously everywhere. Then any
human can meet another and tell them that they recently made a lullaby for
another animal, or they can keep it to themselves covered with the fine shadows of a
private life.
RUNE KJÆR RASMUSSEN
Rune Kjær Rasmussen is an animist, writer, singer, and occasional painter from Denmark.
En antologi med godnatsange
Et ord der har været et af mine yndlingsord i lang tid er lullaby. En lullaby,
en godnatsang, er, som bekendt, en støtte til at falde i søvn, der er tiltænkt små børn og
babyer. Et ord der er et direkte synonym for lullaby er berceuse. Det er det franske
ord for lullaby, og det bruges om klassiske kompositioner. Chopin
har f.eks. komponeret en i 1843/44. Og en del mennesker argumenterer for, at
Brahms led af sygdommen søvnapnø, og derfor som direkte følge deraf
komponerede en berceuse til sig selv.
Hvis man har, eller får, angst, som autisme ofte medfører, så kan man ryste sig
selv, ligesom en hund der kommer op fra havet. Det er en måde at få kontakt med
sig selv på, der er meget fysisk, meget direkte. Man kan nærmest forestille sig, at
man ryster følelsen af angst af sig som dråber, der flyver i alle retninger.
Det er først efter, at jeg har fundet ud af, at jeg er på autismespektrummet, at jeg
for alvor har lagt mærke til, hvilke overlevelsesstrategier, jeg har forvekslet med blot
at være til, og den overvældelse, der rammer mig utroligt ofte, hvad angår alle mulige
oplevelser. Jeg har måttet skifte spor og lytte endnu mere til mig selv, frem for
andre mennesker, end nogensinde før, og det har blandt andet medført, at jeg, i hvert
fald for en stund, er blevet mere solitær end før.
Det at bevæge mig rundt blandt en masse mennesker har ofte føltes for mig som en
oplevelse af at drukne. Og for ikke at drukne i den oplevelse af at blive overstimuleret, få
for mange inputs, har jeg ofte tyet til at skrive, tegne eller male, for på den måde at finde
et fokus.
Imens denne proces har stået på, og stadig står på, er jeg, som nævnt, vendt tilbage til
selve ordet lullaby, som en sikker havn, et udgangspunkt.
Da jeg en dag kiggede ud ad mit køkkenvindue,
kiggede jeg på de duer, der tit
sidder på tagryggen af huset lige overfor. Og så fik jeg den tanke, at jeg kunne
lave en lullaby, en godnatsang, til en af duerne eller i hvert fald prøve. Jeg tænkte
ikke over, hvorfor jeg skulle gøre det, eller hvad motivet for det kunne være. Kun at
det var en idé, der skulle forfølges.
Jeg forbinder ordet lullaby med ordet rede, når jeg tænker på den due. En rede er
et selvbygget leje, hvor noget kan klække.
Når jeg kigger på de duer, der sidder på tagryggen, så ser det så fredeligt ud.
Nogle af dem sidder så stille, at de ligner små statuer. Indtil noget,
det kan være en uventet lyd, bryder roen, og de skynder sig at flyve væk igen. Hvis jeg kunne, så ville jeg også flyve væk, fysisk, fra en del situationer hvor der er
mange andre mennesker. I stedet må jeg fokusere for ikke at forsvinde.
Det bliver et spørgsmål om liv eller død at gøre oprør imod at blive gjort usynlig. At dø,
måske i betydningen at visne hen pga. total opgivelse af sig selv, imens man lever, er en
tragedie.
En dag da jeg gik en tur ud ad en sti, jeg tit går tur på, der fører ud ad byen og ud
på landet, så jeg en stor okse ligge i en ordentlig mudderpøl i udkanten af
marken. Det så så kraftfuldt og samtidig roligt ud. Jeg fik lyst til på en eller
anden måde at få samme forbindelse til jorden, som denne okse så åbenlyst
havde. Den mudrede jord var hans hjem. Det så utroligt meditativt ud
for at bruge et meget menneskeligt begreb. Oksens ro havde en udstråling af
både et enormt nærvær; den enorme krop var lige der, men også et enormt fravær,
indadvendt kunne man måske sige, i oksens tilstedeværelse. Et åndedræt der
virkede tidløst.
En lullaby til denne okse skal være meget langsom og meget dybt sunget.
Dybere end jeg kan synge. En stemme der lyder, som om den kommer inde fra Jordens
indre. For at omslutte dette fantastiske dyr i dets egen energi. En energi jeg,
som det første, associerer med urkraft.
Der er noget uopslideligt over det billede af den okse,
der har prentet sig ind i mit sind.
Det minder også om ældgamle hulemalerier. Det er ikke utænkeligt, at de mennesker der malede f.eks. okser også forsøgte at lave sange til disse dyr for at nærme sig en forståelse af dem, deres sind. Fordi det at lave en sang,
med eller uden ord, til et andet væsen er at forsøge at nærme sig dets livsvilkår.
Indre livsvilkår.
At synge er desuden en måde både at gøre noget sundt for sig selv
og at forstå, og vedligeholde, sine egne livsvilkår.
Jeg synger hver dag. Hvis jeg er alene hele dagen, skal jeg
sommetider minde mig selv om at være stille, fordi jeg synger som del af en måde at
eksistere på.
Jeg forstår, indimellem, hvordan jeg har det ved at synge. Specielt forstår jeg, hvis jeg
ikke har det så godt, for så sidder det ofte i halsen.
Når jeg bevæger mig ud af min lejlighed og skal et andet sted hen, hvor der er mange
mennesker, kan det også sætte sig i halsen, som om jeg skal rømme mig for at komme
frem. Det kan være meget irriterende, men den viden om at det er angst,
der, sandsynligvis, frembringes af autisme, gør, at jeg ikke går i panik.
Jeg prøver i stedet at tage det så roligt som muligt. Hvis det er slemt en dag,
så beroliger jeg mig selv ved højt at sige: tag det nu roligt! Som en mild ordre. Og
essensen af en lullaby.
Jeg er tryg ved frihed. Åndelig frihed.
Det betyder, at jeg undersøger alt, hvad jeg finder interessant, kun med de
begrænsninger tiden sætter for det.
Duerne ovre på tagryggen nyder en form for åndelig frihed,
en ytringsfrihed, jeg umuligt kan leve mig helt ind i.
Den bulgarske forfatter Elias Canetti skrev engang, at han ville give
ti år af sit liv for at
prøve at være en elefant i et år eller måske var det et år for en dag.
Her kan han også have tænkt på åndelig frihed som del af en
transformationskraft. Han skrev også meget om at slynge ord
imod døden. På dansk findes der en bog med forskellige bidrag om ham,
der ganske enkelt hedder ”Dødsfjenden”. Hans position er en fejring af
det individuelle menneskes (indre) ytringsfrihed og potentialet for det.
Hvis man skal slås for at finde sin stemme, og altså (gen)finde sin ytringsfrihed,
som mange desværre skal, så skal der brændes igennem. Så skal ens sange ikke
mangle ord. Så skal man vriste sig fri, bevæge sig ud i det ukendte.
Det kan føles som endelig at komme fri af et eller andet klæbrigt spind af dogmer.
Et hvor man var en edderkop i færd med at fortære byttet for så pludselig at opdage,
at byttet er en del af en selv.
Jeg ønsker, at verden får en antologi fyldt med godnatsange til individer,
andre væsener. Nænsomt og mystisk. Dvælende.
Den behøver på ingen måde at blive udgivet officielt eller i bogform, men det kan den da
også. Den kan blomstre overalt. Så kan ethvert
menneske møde et andet og fortælle, at de for nylig
lavede en godnatsang til et andet dyr, eller de kan holde det for sig selv med
privatlivets fine skygger bøjet over sig.