MYSTICAL MUSIC THEORY, Part 2

MYSTICAL MUSIC THEORY, Part 2.

When I was a Swedenborgian Pastor, I emailed my musician friend Darryl Dybka about theology and metaphysics. I was not mystical, then. I was not a musician, then. I was looking in AT music from the outside, as a Pastor who forgot all about my life as a musician, 44 years ago. Music was dead to me as a participant. So, as a learned scholar and theologian, I was telling Darryl what I saw the essence of music to be, and how music is woven into the structure of Reality.

I told Darryl something I’d been believing for some time. When a musician plays music, they are connecting with forces of the whole universe. A vibrating string or sound wave, is physics. Physics is the physical, material universe. All the notes in a scale, and all the chords you make out of those notes, are contained in a vibrating string or standing air wave in a flute or organ pipe.

I am not a physicist, so I don’t know how much of the universe vibrates. I do know that an electron can be a wave, and that electron shells around an atom’s nucleus act like musical harmonics. (Atoms have lower and higher shells around them.)

Ocean waves are waves.

But the point isn’t how much of Reality vibrates like a guitar string or standing wave. The point is that music is physics and built into the fabric of matter. Musicians do not stop to think that what they do is participating in what the universe is made out of.

There is powerful Philosophy and Myth that speak to this: Pythagoras and The Muses are only 2.

Pythagoras discovered the Pythagorean Theory; for right triangles. But in a Harvard course called THE THOUGHT WORLD OF EARLY CHRISTIANITY, we learned about the Pythagorean Number Mystery Religion. That course was not about the Bible. It was about the thought world that Christianity took root in. We learned about the way Myths functioned in daily life. We learned about how Romans made offerings to the Spirits who governed the intersections of Roman roads. How when Cyrus the Mede liberated the Jews from Babylon, he told his priests to learn how to honour the God Who governed their land.

Pythagoras was thought to be divine. His Number Mysticism was based on a triangle arrangement of numbers, with 1 at the top: 1, 2, 3, 4. My interest is the number 3.

Pythagoras discovered that a string vibrating in half makes an octave. That is the same musical note next up: C to the C above it.

He discovered that a string vibrating in 3rds makes the 5th tone up. In C, that would be the note G.

And what blew my mind was the discovery of the 4th tone. Pythagoras discovered that 3/4 of a vibrating string is the 4th tone up; in C, that would be F.

This is astounding. The other tones, or harmonics, of a vibrating string do not have the 4th tone. But it’s there, anyway. Push down a string at 1/4 of its length, and let the remaining 3/4 of the string vibrate, and you have the 4th.

Why this is important is the I, the IV, and the V are the foundations of Western music: from Palestrina, Bach, Beethoven; Robert Johnson, Z Z Top and beyond.

The Numerology Mysteries of Pythagoras found the essence of Western music.

The Three Muses inspire Artists. Later traditions add more than 3; but originally, it was 3.

And the Three Muses all relate to music. They reside near a Sacred well at the foot of Mount Helicon. It is The Hippocrene Well, or Spring, because the winged, flying horse Pegasus touched Earth with his hooves and the well gushed forth.

There are 3 Muses: Nete, Mese, and Hypate. Their names mean, “Lowest, Middle, Highest.” They refer to the three strings on an Ancient Greek lyre.

I had to fight search engines because they kept telling me that Nete was lowest and Hypate was lowest. The root “hyp” doesn’t help. It can mean “hypo”–under, as in hypodermic–or it can be “hyper”–hyper which is “above.” My question was, is Hypate from hypo or hyper? The Proto-Indo-European root, “UPER” goes to Hype. “UPO” goes to hypo and its root means “under,” and a lot of other words so far from hyper that hypo isn’t what I went with.

Nete, has “NED” as its PIE root, which means “contain, hold together, a net.” That’s what bass notes do.

The origins of Western music are the 3-stringed Lyre. Each string corresponds to one of the 3 Muses. The Muses are the Goddesses who inspire all Art.

The 3 Muses are in Delphi, and connected to the Oracle of Delphi–the greatest source of Wisdom known in the Ancient World. The origins of Wisdom are the origins of Music.

I can’t wrap up this exploration. Other than to say that music is in the bowels of Creation. Maybe I should say the heart. Musicians involve themselves in the Creation of the Universe when they play a Blues song. Blues is based on the I, IV, V tones in the scale.

ENIGMATIC DR DAVE ENTERPRISES, PRELUDED

Safari detected unusual activity coming from my “research phone” when I was looking into all this, and wanted me to verify that I’m human. Whether I’m human is debatable; and, no, I did not let them know if I’m a human.

The Contest of Apollo and Marsyas

RINTRAH–THE LION WHO WOKE TOO LATE: ME

Rintrah slept most of their lives. Incarnated as The Dave for the last remembered time, The Dave never knew what to grow up to be–despite, at 18, asking everyone.

He is an Artist at 70, and 20th-Century America didn’t have aptitude tests for that career choice. Still doesn’t.

I came to Canada in 2006 to begin a new career as a Swedenborgian Christian Minister. I was un the middle of a drawing that I asked a female bass player to pose for, while I took some stills to work from. I loved the way she played upright, acoustic bass with her eyes half closed. I approached her after the show and she thought I was a musician (I was a memory of a musician, then), who wanted to jam out on her bass. “Our policy is to refuse . . .” she started to say.

When I explained myself more fully, she graciously stood and began to play, eyes half-closed. I snapped some stills with a disposable camera I bought at a drug store: there were no cell phones back then.

Among all my worldly goods, I brought my portfolio to Canada for a “real job” called Swedenborgian Christian Minister. After 3 years of never drawing, before Canada I had drawn THE BEST SKETCH I EVER MADE ALL MY LIFE. I do not understand it. No practice drawings. Must be my Muse awakened.
I took the Drawing to an art shop to have an Artist frame it. “Please take care! I don’t think I can draw like his again!” I exclaimed! It’s on a stand on the floor, next to my piano keyboards, in my temporary Government-Housing, man cave. No big-screen tv in my man cave, although I like movies.

MY FRIENDS, WHY DID I STOP DRAWING???!!! Tell me because I don’t know.

I quit Swedenborgian Christian Ministry June 18, 2023 and I believe believers resent me quitting, resent me. I still believe, won’t stop believing. Just don’t want the job of professional believing. The pay is bad.

THE UNIVERSE awoke me from my slumber with one eye awake. Probably because it was sick, sick and tired of the Art spectre I was haunting Artists I wasn’t.

ENIGMATIC DR DAVE ENTERPRISES, PRELUDED

I am 70 years old. I quit Christian Ministry at 68 years old. But that’s just me.

Isn’t it remarkable how free-flowing this narrative is, without systematic development, like my sermons or published Articles in University Journals. Artistic–eh? We say “eh” in Canada.

An Art photo from a Social Worker’s waiting room.

MY MUSE

MY MUSE is a hard taskmaster. Last summer, 2025, I just finished two books:

LINES DRAWN AUTHENTIC: A Realized Man

THE FOUR ELEMENTS: Seasons Bleeding into Existence 

     I thought it was time to relax and recuperate. The two books were 7 years in the making. But NO!

     My Muse called me to start a new, original project: a Quest. I have studied much in Quest Literature of Medieval Europe–particularly the various cycles of the Holy Grail Quest. I read several Grail accounts from different authors–each story rather different. The most famous Grail story is in Sir Thomas Malory. Jessie Weston in the Early Modern Period theorized that the Grail Quest happened on the Astral Plane! 

     My Muse called me to write a greater Quest. The Human Quest we all go through: birth through maturity to the next plane of existence. I wanted this work to be truly collaborative–my words and a visual artist. They and I would collaborate on what this Quest looks like in art form. 

     It would be truly original. This was not a book in which my poems were illustrated by their pictures. It was as much a visual artist’s book as it was a writer’s book. 

     I spoke with a small number of visual artists. Some said they’d think about it. Others rejected it outright. 

     I just realized Tuesday night (last night) that I am in the midst of the project, and it’s going to be all me. I have four new poems recently completed. I have a mine of more already written to draw on. Fate is tumbling me into making my own visual Art for the book, also. 

     Last summer, I came up with the title:

“A QUEST THROUGH QUESTIONS OF TIME”

     These missions are Destiny. It’s not like I can slough of not doing this. Circumstances are and I believe that they will make it manifest. 

     Currently, we see this as another picture book. Probably Trade Paperback. That will be 3 recent Art books.

ENIGMATIC DR DAVE ENTERPRISES, PRELUDED

I do music, too.

Screenshot

WORDS AND MUSIC BY THE POET

WORDS AND MUSIC BY THE POET

These words are taking me away from my piano
All art requires dedication, but music, a special dedication
Art gives grace to the human who decides to dedicate
A life, or even part of a life, to art
When I’m done with these words, I’ll be at the piano
Finding my way around the key of E
Alone, just me and the piano keys
When you make music, mind flows into body, maybe like dance,
Music involves you with inflexible laws of physics
Which become laws of the musician’s heart and soul and muscle memory
I write these words in a dive with Alternative Rock in the background
I glance at the waitress, the bartender, customers
As I manifest this poem into these words
And I am not alone—just me and these words
Hemingway wrote in La Closerie des Lilas for the same reason
None of this can happen when I am in the key of E
It is only the articulation of my fingers on certain select piano keys
No music can be in the background; the only music that is
I make
Writing poetry is closer to waking life than playing music is
We are immersed in words much of the day
Not so, the specific piano keys you must depress—and no others—in E
You must wrench yourself away from everything
When you come to the piano
That is why it is sometimes hard to practice
You don’t want to leave everything
Unless music is everything to you
And it is when you are playing
A spell overtakes you and the ecstasy
Makes you wonder later why you weren’t at the piano sooner

TOO MUCH ART

Too much art can ruin a guy
Make a guy think that scales and well-crafted phrases matter
More than the well-being of people, more than wishing well
For those whose lives we touch, for yourself
Then, when someone’s father needs to be put in extended-care,
Or your car breaks, your world collapses
You won’t know how to deal
How to care
Religion puts it all in perspective
Gives your soul strength of life you need to get by
I preached today; I’m alright with the world
The rear axel on my car sounds like it will probably break soon
It could be the differential; maybe only shocks—I’m not a mechanic
Either way I won’t be able to fix it
I emerge out from my protected home life
I’m listening to club music I don’t particularly like
Because it’s the young barkeep’s style and it makes her happy
The whole idea of it all is cute, and
I’ve heard enough Jethro Tull in my day,
Sympathy for the Devil over 50 years
The music morphs
It’s anemic, vapid pop and
I sadly reflect that it may reflect her generation
You hope not, wish that you had Whitman’s gift of optimism
Too much art can ruin a guy
I was in church, today, and I’m alright with the world

A CIRCUITOUS PATH THROUGH MADNESS

I have wandered.  Walked a circuitous path through madness
I know there is no romance in madness, no art in it
I now stand in sanity, more or less, understand where I was, then went
Stand with side effects from lingering symptoms, from the pills I need
Pills that keep me on this side of normal, with you, with where I was
Though simple effort still taxes my will, stresses my avolition
With a modicum of happiness breaking through the forest depression deep
The circuitous path I wandered out of to here, with you, with where I was
Not the manic elation I knew for a decade, nor a decayed will
When I couldn’t move, motivate myself, simple effort was enormous
Ambition used to mean what healing means to me now,
I know now why Tristan and Isolde required connubial conjunction
I know the swoon of Tristan’s potency into Isolde’s salvific potions
The solipsistic isolation Isolde solved in her era, saves me with solutions
Potions, herbals that brought back my heroic effort to get out of bed
To make another poem, words wound in sane sense not just to joust,
Vainly at windmills mindlessly spinning in vorticular winds, flailing,
Failing mind, falling into delusions, furtive stabs at shadows of reality
Breaking word sequences into nonsense and here is no art, no romance
Now in pills and many therapies, I invoke the soul of Lady Isolde’s salves
Potent restoratives who would potentially invoke my psychiatrist’s laugh
My psychiatrist, who doesn’t know, as I know, ethereal healings,
The anaesthetic pulling of my will into that simple activity, effortless,
As it used to be, an hedonia in doing, pleasure like happiness piercing
A clearing in deep forest darkness, depression’s deep gloom, like gladness
Like pleasure, like love Lady Isolde holds for prowess, like Lady Shakti’s
Chakras subsume susumma’s breath, and prana is clarity of mind, too
And spirit is psyche, ch’i, psychiatry is a chiasm of daemonic possession,
Desperation deposed—psychic chiasm, peripeteia in an ill-written script,
Light breaking forest gloom as in a clearing, a breath of fresh air
Inspiration of hope.  Stilling the spiralling like blown windmill blades
Spinning into a profound nowhere, incoherent words wheeled into order,
Wielding truth’s double-edged sword about it all, well-being, wellness
Wellsprings of hope, strength of will, wandering back, back to you,
To where I once was, departing the wilderness, wildness, the windmills’
Fiendish, whirling perseverations stilled, standing in sanity, more or less
I have wandered.  Walked a circuitous path through madness
There is no romance in madness, no.  No art in it
Not as there is art in sanity, in the sound of sense, in sound sense
In the sound of words making sense, and life as a living poem, making.
I did not choose to compose this poem, to wander that artless path

WE ALL SEE THE SAME MOON

He had a Kawai baby grand piano in his living room
It wasn’t a Bosendorfer, Steinway, or Yamaha
But he had a baby grand and my roommate a long time ago
Had an inherited Steinway with real ivory keys, she let me play it
Play way into the night, a nurse now, and a music school graduate
With her inherited Steinway, and he is a psychologist with his Kawai
Laura Rain played Blues on Whyte in Edmonton, and
The Edmonton Bluesfest; I heard she played Buddy Guy’s
I first heard Monkey Junk at the Salmon Arm Folk and Roots Festival
Playing on a side stage; Taj Mahal headlined on the mainstage
My sister had a Taj Mahal album in the ‘70’s; and Monkey Junk
Can fill a moderate concert hall and they’ll always work in Canada
My friend the psychologist got a friend of his to cast his wedding rings
And having lived in Southwest Florida for decades could always get gigs
He wouldn’t be able to fill a concert hall, but there weren’t any, anyways
Just the symphony hall, and I heard B. B. King play there, once
And I’m a Swedenborgian minister of a small, aging, dwindling church
An accomplished piano player in Nashville asks me spiritual questions
And critiques recordings of my original music free of charge
He plays cruise ships and exclusive summer resort hotel bars, solo,
With an illustrious past, having performed with industry giants,
Making a living in an undependable business.  We’re all making a living.
And there’s a place for art in life, however life ends up construed
Whatever life is called, or identity defined, be it by a career, aspiration
Passion or calling, writing on a business card, how others know you
Like my friend with the Kawai, or his friend who cast his wedding rings
Or the music graduate with her inherited Steinway, who is a nurse
B. B. King, Taj Mahal, Monkey Junk, Laura Rain, my musical friends,
My musical inclinations, the thousands I spent on instruments
I, a Swedenborgian minister at a small, aging, dwindling church,
Still happy, contented with my life, contented with my inclinations
And their manifestation, my pay, the recognition of my peers, my friends,
My musical instruments and their exercise, my career, my attainments,
Those I yet pursue in these advanced years, the lingering dreams I cherish
The moderate drive moving my intentions through happy reflections

OLD BUT NOT AN ELDER

I’m done phased out
There are only so many updates a hard drive can sustain
Before it’s time for a new model

It’s an odd feeling.
That it’s pretty much all behind me now
And that no one’s going to hire me

Despite my talents
With my age, my gender, my race, my desire to still contribute
Though it were charity to voluntarily yield my place

Get out of the way, voluntarily
Make room for new blood, young blood just starting out
Except I’m not feeling all that charitable

So it is mandated involuntarily
By the system, the machine, rage against the machine
And by the machine, we mean

That young HR professional
Snotnosed, snoot-nosed, or otherwise, who scans one’s Vita,
Or algorithm scanning keywords, number, gender, race

And I am sunk
It is deemed that it is all behind me now
I am old, but not an elder

It is deemed I am an archaism
Were my body’s accusation of age not sufficient for me to accept
With whatever grace or rage I can

And yet I keep going
Learn, study, write, compose, assimilate, with no eye to audition, application
No eye of future performance, career

But to pleasure myself
Onanist used to be the disdainful Biblical word for it all,
I once encountered in a poem by Walt Whitman

It is deemed the word is an archaism
A ghost of art past, haunting schools with rhyme, rhythm, meter, beats, feet
19th-Century poems, representational paintings, liturgical music

At my leisure
I learn, study, write poetry, compose music, pleasure myself
At my leisure and leisure is all I have now

When Wallace Stevens Won the Robert Frost Medal

Robert Frost is so far out there when we consider where poetry is now, my English professor almost decided not to include him in a course on Modern American Poets. In the Modern Period, Robert Frost’s poetry had rhyme, rhythm, beats, feat, and profound themes and sentiment. Since Frost, and in his own age, poetry typically has none of these. OK, maybe theme and sentiment at times. I checked out a journal as a possible place to publish my own poetry. In their guidelines for submissions, they said, “No rhyming poetry.” That’s where we are.

Art, generally speaking, doesn’t rhyme. Visual art doesn’t represent recognizable objects but abstractions; morphs into performance; has become so cerebral that it emulates bare theory. Music went through an atonal period epitomized by Arnold Schoenberg’s 12-tone system of atonality in which anything like melody or harmony is abandoned. Since then, harmony and melody stab at presence in compositions. Along with this general trend in art, abstract poetry finds a place, exemplified by the likes of Wallace Stevens. Abstract poetry is like atonal music. And, in fact, at least one modern composer set Whitman’s I SING THE BODY ELECTRIC to music. (Try finding him/her with Google if you can get past all the posts about Fame.)

Robert Frost was a retrenchment into poetic form that was slip, slipping away. Yet he is still a master poet. With rhyme and rhythm, maybe, indeed, despite rhyme and rhythm Frost’s preeminent place in literary history is firmly established. No course in Modern Poetry can omit Frost.

Beginning with Walt Whitman, poetry loosened the constraints of meter and rhyme. And despite my best efforts at appreciation, it appears to me that Wallace Stevens also loosens the constraint of meaning. In his life, Robert Frost won 4 Pulitzer Prizes, and was awarded 40 honorary degrees. Wallace Stevens won 1 Pulitzer Prize. I chuckle, no, sneer, when I think of Wallace Stevens winning the Robert Frost Medal in 1951.

But today, poetry is more like Wallace Stevens than it is like Robert Frost. Frost was a last gasp of poetic form. At one time, Frost said he would have sold his soul to modernism but for its sameness of sound. Themes created poetic variety for Frost. When one reads poets like Stevens, one can tire quickly of words that deconstruct meaning. Like reading a glossary without definitions. I know of a poet who wrote out in prose a poem about the murder of her parents, then cut it up–either physically or conceptually–and reassembled the story “abstractly.” If one has a story to tell, it is a lie to make it unintelligible in order for it to be art. Then art is a lie.

Whither art? We don’t know. Art must evolve become new;–all things new. We wouldn’t want a steady diet of Rembrandt only–even if it be Rembrandt. We want a new song to sing. But we also want to be able to sing the song.

WHEN MY ILLNESS WAS MY LIFE

I was the bipolar poster boy
When my illness was my life:
Super Consumer
Drop-In Center
Support Group
NAMI Organization
Seminar presentations
Academic publications
Consumer community
High functioning.
The eyes of all consumers waited upon me
—We understand one another—
I was my psychiatrist’s favorite
When my illness was my life
And the textbooks labeled me mentally ill, label me
A chapter now closed on the fulness of my life
I can hardly recollect in my life now
Realize that the textbooks still label me mentally ill
My life then, when my illness was my life

My 12-Step community was my life
About which I must keep anonymity
At the level of press, radio, film, and poetry
My only friends
My social life
My whole life
Salvific meetings
Salve
Salvation
Save
And healing persists in the 12-Steps
And I live the principles in all my affairs
But all my affairs are not only in and of
The meeting rooms I attend
All my affairs are not only the 12-Step community

Life does not launch me into recovery
Not as failed life once did
Recovery launches me into life
I must live with, but not by, my illnesses
My illnesses walk with me, will ever walk with me
While I walk this mortal coil
I embrace the whole world that walks among life outside meeting rooms
Life that finds fulfilment among hypergoods that thrive outside meeting rooms
Outside the Consumer Drop-In Center
Recovery, sanity, serenity, meetings, pills
Launch
Launch me
Launch me into fulness of life
This, my life of
Music
Verse
Friends
Amusements
Work
Study
Love
Spirituality
Fulness of life
Life outside the drop-in center, meeting rooms
The illnesses that no longer make me who I am
No longer make life what life is
The chapter closed
Poem concluded
I compose new stories in the fulness of life I live
Write new poetry

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