It is another fine Sunday of solitude here at the Hazelwood Estate.  All of the help has gone home to be with their families in observance of the Sabbath.  As a result, the house is quieted and I am at liberty to engage in my own rituals.  One long-standing Sunday custom of mine is a morning reading from Ralph Waldo Emerson’s Essays.  If you find that I reference Emerson more than other luminaries it is because I rank him with the Jesus’ and Buddhas of the world.  Moreover, I consider his collection of essays to be every bit as high a source of truth as The Holy Bible itself.  In seeking, I have found great reward in the pages of the Good Book, but I have also found that there are other ‘Good Books’.  The Bhagavad-Gita is a Good Book, as is the Tibetan Book of the Dead, Rumi’s Poetry, Aristotle’s Treatises, and The Cat in the Hat.  A seeker of any origin can travel any number of roads to the same Universal Truth.  There are no doubt as many paths as there are seekers. Emerson just happens to be the soil of my path – one that is carved into infinity.  He had a great understanding that the artful delivery of Truth is as important as the Truth itself.  For, the interpretation from one to another is always subject to perception.  The Bible may cause one to love his neighbor while the other may use it to provoke a war in the name of God.  Emerson taught Self Reliance – that personal intuition is the highest source of Truth – higher than any text or doctrine.  When you have heard the quiet voice of your intuition (the voice of God) there is no denying it – no misinterpretation.  With this in mind, I believe a meditation is in order…

God Bless,
Mister H

I woke this morning particularly comfortable and warm.  As I regained my coherency, it became apparent that Pandora, my chamber maid, had taken the liberty of rekindling the fire, filling the bed-warmer with coals, and sliding it betwixt the blankets just next to my feet so discreetly that I was never disturbed.  Yet, I can hear her plainly in the adjacent room – aggressively laboring over woodwork and linen while singing the ancient hymn Of the Father’s Heart Begotten in Latin…♫

“Corde natus ex parentis
Ante mundi exordium
A et O cognominatus,
ipse fons et clausula
Omnium quae sunt, fuerunt,
quaeque post futura sunt.
Saeculorum saeculis”

 I must have been in a dead slumber.  I can recall no dreams which might have diverted my attention from the world of the living.  Yet I was gone, presumably to some place of unspeakable wonder or I surely would have remained.  Likewise, I must have returned because I find this world equally fascinating.  Though I can conceive of no alternative in my current state of consciousness, I must confess that this world appears a playground to me.  As I pull aside the window-veil and look down upon a snow-covered ground, I am filled with a vaguely familiar zeal of adolescence.  My heart is warmed by the permafrost, as I contemplate what to do – or not to do with this day.  Should I venture out into the street and consort with my fellow townsmen who are already engaged there in a bout of merrymaking?  Or, should I retain this perspective of the witness for some creative endeavor?  I shall decide after I have breakfasted….

~Mr. H.

A note from the editors:

We are delighted that you have chosen to subscribe to Mister Hazelwood’s periodical.  Many tens of people receive it every day and consider it a reliable and informative source of news, as the definition of the term ‘news’ continues to spiral into ambiguity.  We live in a time of informational freedom.  Mankind has heretofore labored under the delusion of the ‘They’, as some autocratic entity which has the authority to dictate the standards of our culture.  Yet, we have entered into this era of self-reliance.  What once posed as ‘news’ has been widely exposed as sensationalism for the sake of entertainment – for the sake of revenue – for the sake of power and control over those who subscribe to its manipulations.  It is a difficult thing to gauge one’s own perceptions.  We can no sooner do it than we can see our own eyes or touch the tip of our tongues to the tip of our tongues.  The good news (no pun intended) is that we have the individual power of choice to decide what is ‘news’ and to shape our perceptions thusly.  We here at misterhazelwood.com have long-since been deliberately out-of-touch with the supposed goings-on in the world.  We have abandoned the effect and are working from the position of the cause, with the understanding that this is the only way to truly affect change.  It is an illusion that any yesterday can hold even an ounce of the power of this glorious today.  However, with this realization comes the responsibility to refrain from the influence of such devious entities as Fox News, CNN, and others whose primary purpose is to perpetuate fear, ignorance, and self-subordination.  We do not claim any absolute ‘facts’ here as we believe that all things are relative, nor is this periodical to be considered any more than entertainment.  But, we are wholeheartedly in support of your own personal empowerment and hope you will trust us into your feed-reader.

Sincerely,
The New Transcendentalists

Come in, come in!  My valet will take your coat and hat.  I received the note that you were going to call and I have been eagerly anticipating our visit.  Can I offer you some tea….or some coffee perhaps?  I got into the habit of drinking the stuff during a recent sojourn in Paris.  Please!, take a seat. 

You may have noticed that I have some music broadcasting  from the parlor.  These new contrivances are a thing of wonder!  I picked up this device at last year’s World’s Fair.  It can play records without any cranking whatsoever! And to my astonishment, it can flip the record on its very own as well!  Edison has really outdone himself this time.  I shall have to call and congratulate him.  I shall have to call Alex Bell too!

You may be suprised to know that the music you are hearing is none other than my own.  Yes, that is a large portrait of me on the wall as well.  I am, no doubt, a man uncommonly fond of himself.  But let me assure you, there is more than vanity at play here.  My dear friend, there is a method to my madness!  What you are hearing is a sound-recording of a recent rehearsal for the making of my up-coming release.  It is a coarse rendition of what is to come. In expectation of your arrival I purposely started the record as to gauge your response.  You are aware that I am a bachelor and that I spend countless hours with none other than my own company.  Furthermore, an antiquary such as myself can have no clue as to the vogue of the day.  You, my friend, have superior taste and would do me a great service by imparting your honest opinion of these rough sketches of a would-be self-portrait.  How do they strike you then? Go on….   [ Listen ]

Why Hello,

I have just sat through the most energizing morning shower – an out-pouring of the essential stuff of life. The multitude of droplets upon the gables of this old manor created a powerful and sustained roar throughout its shadowed halls. From my writing desk I can see through a nearby pane that the rain has quit at last. Now, a calm of the same magnitude has settled in as to not be ignored. This proverbial ‘calm after the storm’, seems to me an ‘Amen’ or as we say in Religious Science ‘and so it is’, affirming that the world has been made new for us to go about this business of creating and re-creating ourselves.

“More servants wait on man
Than he’ll take notice of”

During the deluge, I sat in a moment of reverence at my newly-acquired pump organ. It is an Estey, built in Brattleboro, Vermont around 1892; among the finest of these instruments ever built. It is something which I have been seeking (and which, no doubt, has been seeking me) for many years. Because of their age it is rare to find one in tune and in good working order. This one is completely intact, in standard tuning and in tune with itself! To sit on its stool, pump the bellows with my feet, and play music on this magnificent contraption without the aid of electricity is thrilling to my sensibilities, not to mention that it is a lovely piece of antique furniture. But, to quote Shakespeare…”The play is the thing”. This instrument has a sound like the breath of the Gods! Already having recorded it as accompaniment on one of my compositions, it adds a texture which far surpassed my every expectation. It is a sound which has scarcely been heard by human ears in over a century.

At length, the ensuing calm has pervaded the interior of my home as well as the interior of my self. I can now go about the business of making music. Perhaps I will begin my day’s work on this beloved new instrument…

Full of hot air,
Mr. H

Dear Confidential Friend,

I know not how or to what end you have come to be reading my words, but it is among my philosophies that there is no coincidence. In submitting each entry, I have had a grand knowing that it would find its own way to those receptive souls who revel in this brand of non-sensory (nonsense-ory) perception, or as Poe once criticized “obscurity for obscurity’s sake and mysticism for mysticism’s sake”. I have collected data that would suggest that growing numbers of curious persons on every corner of the globe are regularly indulging in this periodical, and to me it is a thrilling prospect! It has confirmed my suspicions that I am a man uncommonly witty and wise. I extend my sincerest appreciation to my loyal readers and my warmest welcome to all of you who are just arriving. May you never take me (or life) seriously!

With Gratitude,
Mr. J.S. Hazelwood

It is a frigid night here in the old manse. I and my armchair have danced one another across the length of the study to draw in closer to the fire. At this proximity I am now and again singed by an escaping ember, but otherwise I am quite content with my situation. Hypnotized by the elegant choreography of the flames and the burning question “what is fire?”, I meanwhile have one of my compositions running its verses and choruses in a circle throughout the entirety of my consciousness. It is a philosophical piece entitled Live Forever which I penned around this time last year. I having discounted it many months ago, it has recently resurfaced in the odd way that songs often want to do. In this case, it is perhaps because the emotions from which it was born are systematically evoked by Old Man Winter. Nonetheless, it has in the past few days been the object of my fancy.

Yesterday morning I arose in particularly high spirits. It had been my intention, prior, to make of it a ‘recording day’ and so I did. I drew the curtains and silenced the telephone, sealing my intention to be undisturbed and beginning right away with Live Forever. It is important to note, by the way, that this session was part of the pre-production process for the making of my upcoming release. Since I am working mostly alone, it is a crucial step in the process because it allows me to experiment with various arrangements, production techniques, and nuances in performance; giving me the ability to listen-back with objectivity. In the way that the audio recording of one’s speaking voice can vary in timbre from the way one hears it in his own head, so is there often a great dissimilarity between the recorded and imagined versions of a song. In my experience, it can be quite humbling or even disheartening to be confronted by this divergence. With persistence, however, I have found that it is a gap which eventually can close through a combination of will and acceptance. I know that I am not prepared to move forward on the final rendition of a song until this does happen. Yesterday with Live Forever, to recklessly mis-quote Maslow, this ‘peak experience’ did finally occur.

I began by strategically placing microphones throughout my great room so as to capture not only my instrument and voice but also the characteristic ambience of this hallowed place. I sat in a chair and performed in a manner dictated by my mood (I have found it futile to attempt to do otherwise). What resulted was a solid solo performance of the tune, not magical necessarily, but acceptable for my purposes. Previously I had set up one of my antique drum kits in anticipation of this session, and so I shifted straight to the mind-set of percussionist. This was the part which was at the center of this experiment. Could I actualize the rhythmic element of my mental sound-image? When I began to play, it was apparent to me (both on and off wax) that I was badly out of practice. I spent the next hour or so devising a part and rehearsing. When I was ready I continued with the awkward and seemingly unnatural process of playing music with myself. In preservation of that topic for some future Journal entry, I will move on by saying it was a success! After a lengthy process of trial and error, I rendered a part that was very much to my liking. The essence of this song which had spent the better part of a year lodged in some shadowy nook within my mind was now coming into light. Dear God!….IT’S ALIVE! I wasn’t crazy all along…..!

In conclusion, I have assimilated enough data to move forward on the mass-production of this invention. It fills the basic criteria of a worthwhile product in that it a) is something entirely new b) satisfies a basic need c) is for the common good of mankind d) rocks. Now on to the next experiment: Does sleep actually obviate delusions?

Mister H

Dear wandering soul,

I find it particularly synchronistic that you have found your way into my presence on this day. You startled me with your tireless knocking upon my chamber door! I was delighted to find you there at my threshold rather than the badgering solicitor of wares who has regularly been trying to sell me some idea of want and worry. Yours is the only other face I have seen in ages! Tell me, where have you traveled from? You must have many fascinating stories to share! Do come in and sit down.

I hope you find these suitable environs for your aesthetic. I am in the process of remodeling and have only recently removed the scaffolding. There is still much work to be done, yet I am feeling rather accomplished by the transformation that has gone on here. So tell me friend…from whence do you come? Your eyes speak of some remote place where Truth and Experience oft collide. By what mode of transportation have you advanced through time and space so as to brighten my door at this very hour? I have heard tale of one’s consciousness traveling on a wire. Do you know of this phenomenon? My dear friend, I have not ventured beyond my quarters since the dawn of this New Era! Pray, tell me of these mystics who can command the image of any person or place to illuminate within their crystals. I am told that they also possess the magical ability to instantaneously ‘go’ wherever their imaginations might go. Have you encountered such gross manipulations of nature in your meanderings? Do tell!

[The wanderer never did sit down, but paced the room while gazing upon the few pieces of artwork which I have recently placed on display. He mumbled something about his ‘status update’ which I can only suppose was a reference to a recent inheritance or other windfall. Then, without bidding me good-bye, the stranger disappeared. ]

Mr. Hazelwood