It says...
...in careful sharpie handwriting, and then I press play on my screen and wait to hear him speak.
I had found the tape before I left home for america, at sixteen. A tape with Abba's ballpoint blue, bird-wings-in-flight scrawl, in a drawer. I had wanted something of him besides the few 5x7's I had purloined from various photo albums. It did not matter that I did not have anything resembling a tape recorder.
South-African electronics did not function smoothly on America's volts, and come to think of it, probably nor did I.
At religious seminary, I scraped by on babysitting money. Rent, a bit of sustenance in the form of chocolate for dinner, but there was no extra cash for toys. I had a tiny little battery operated radio for music, so that was all right. As long as there was music in some form, there was life.
There is a shoe box of remnants, in my drawer that has remained with me through a succession of residences. In it, is the tape, resting between handwritten cards from friends, photographs, a mini book or three, little scraps of writings in dog eared notebooks, coins in odd currencies, old keys to long lost locks and so many other things, sweet and sad, funny and foolish.
By the time I thought about the tape again, tape recorders had quietly gone the way of the Dodo bird.
From time to time, I thought about bringing it to someone who could convert it for me. Then a friend told me recently, he had the technology to do it for me, and I tentatively handed it over. Not many material things in this world are irreplaceable to me, but that cassette is.
When he sent back the tape, and the CD, dressed in that post it note, there were no words I could really say, to thank him properly.
I did not listen right away. I let it sit for a moment.
I was aware as I wait, that there is a part of me which will forever be in mourning. I exist there, in a small, winter village. I exist on the precipice of tears, a spiderweb of lacerations, eyes frozen deep in blocks of memories. I try not to visit there too often, because once there, it is difficult to break away again.
It was the next morning that I felt ready.
I slipped it into my computer, and it began playing.
"What is that?" asked Rikal. I told her.
Rikal's eyes brimmed with tears. "Mom, that is so sweet, that you are hearing your dad after twenty seven years."
This stoic business would not go according to plan if she kept saying things like that. Who knew Rikal had a sentimental sap streak like her Mother. Lucky girl, can probably look forward to moments of finding herself crying copiously over diaper commercials, on particularly vulnerable days.
Dovi, hearing all of this, and not wanting to miss a grand theatrical gesture, rested his head on the table as if the bones had melted from his body and gazed at me with sad round chocolate frosting eyes, as the disembodied voice played on...
Abba had been a psychiatrist and this was a tape of a group session, involving folk music. His voice was distinct, both gentle and firm, a precise South-African accent winnowed his words.
His cacophony of patients sounded through my speakers, participating, sometimes rambling. Him soothing, guiding, explaining when required. I heard a synergy of voices,a choir...
He summarized the session with the thought, "as the group progresses, there is increasing integration of rhythm, of movement, of tone, of that quality of total unity in the group, the gestalt concept, the perception of the whole being much greater then the sum of its parts.
There is everybody now, willing to be in such unison with each other, now moving around rhythmically, spiraling around physically, emotionally and reaching higher levels spiritually.
This is the whole process of integration and therapeutic processes of group therapy. In a sense, its like a whirlpool. The water starts moving faster and faster, irresistibly, the quality of irresistible energy being produced
...and this I think, is the part of a creative process in human beings and if they direct their powers in a unified way, the group itself generates enormous pride, capacity, scope and tremendous function..."
Or in other terms not deliberately describing group therapy...
“The Destiny of Man is to unite, not to divide. If you keep on dividing you end up as a collection of monkeys throwing nuts at each other out of separate trees.”
- T.H. White
and
Individually, we are one drop. Together, we are an ocean. —Ryunosuke Satoro
Twenty seven years. He was wise and warm...
...I like his style.
It was almost as if we had a conversation.
...almost.
