Music comes in and out of my life. J'admets, I have terrible, terrible taste. But sometimes, something marvelous does stumble through and leaves me empty when it goes. Joe Tex, These Taming Blues.
The internet is an endless source of sheet music, but sometimes the collection, the dusty book, the weight of the page, the notes from the previous owner are invaluable insights to the piece itself. Si tu vois ma mère. I never wandered at half-price. At the second hand book store, I knew the only section I wanted. I would go straight for the sheet music in hopes that like me, there were other musicians who plucked through a book, tired, and donated it. I never mastered anything.
For me, it was more the translation. The idea that black glyphs on a page could mean something else. It's a melody, yes. But more importantly, it was time travel. Bushwick Blues. A communication between centuries. An ancient artist crying out 'this is how I feel.'
I do remember the first time I 'read' a piece. Skimming the shelves I picked out a Chopin compilation (I recognized the name, why else?) and opened to a random page, the prelude section. Unfortunately, the titles usually mean nothing to me. Prelude in E minor. Something about the shape seemed familiar. I wasn't sure, but something reminded me of 'The Notebook' (my terrible taste illustrates itself in many forms) so I took it home. Wait So Long.
And that was it. When Ally plays the cobwebbed baby grand for Noah in what would later be their family home. I found it. From the page. And I played it over, and over, reveling in my discovery.
Take Me Home, Country Roads. Chopin is a genius hands down, but at the time, j'était tellement naive. I found many beauties from that book. Another first was when I read Nocturne in E flat major. Over and over, it left me numb in my place. I butchered the it repeatedly, translating this masterpiece broken Chopinish, and Chopin didn't care.
But music still comes into my life and then it leaves. This nocturne recently returned to me through a Mad Men episode and again left with the credits. It tore me apart and mended me again in about 3 minutes. I never feel an ache for music. It's more like sharp incision. Everlasting Light. A delicate and precise maneuver for which I am always unprepared that leaves me faint and dizzy in a hallway.
All of my friends are artists. They always have been, it's been in they're blood. I am not. Et il me tue. I want to create something, not just read it. I want to have that tick. That passion. Immer, toujours, always too many 'I's. I can submit to a melody, give in to the aria, but I am still searching, yearning for the drive. Born on the Bayou. I am surrounded by beautiful individuals who know exactly what they want, what they are good at, what they want to contribute to the world. As a typical early 20 something, I don't. But that is the last thing I've ever wanted to be. Typisch. You could say I am passionate about having a passion, but that's about it.
Chopin is my translator. He gets me. Dead Sea. But sometimes I go on vacation and he can't come. Hopefully you understand me, mon ami.
