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Michael G
Senior Member
since 2000-06-25
Posts 579
Nashville

0 posted 2000-10-16 05:29 PM



This was a waste. All of it. Simply put, it was not worth the time it took nor the
energy it stole. I could see he couldn’t stand how he felt at this moment. God’s greatest
gift, the last of the players in this symphony of hell. How easy it would all be if they would
let him go on first and be done with the obligatory competition that always followed. I
thought of his hands and how they had started to grow out in their adolescent ways. How
they appeared monster like in proportion to the rest of his body. I could see those feelings
had started to surface in him once more. Those that he did not care to feel but would
come to contort his mind and soul for the time it took to get this ugly business done.
Another moment passed, quickly, silently though to him it’s hard to imagine
anything being such. He has found himself in that akward familiar place like so many times
before. Looking around as one after another go to their doom. Have they not figured it
out by now that it’s all fruitless, that for them there will be no triumph. He smirks to
himself, engaging the ridicule of the adults around him. He wonders if Amedeus had to go
through this private little hell.
He walks stiffly, almost roboticly from his hiding place. A figure that does not
command the respect that we should give him. His clothes looking as though they had
been purchased for someone smaller make him look almost comical. He hurries to the
piano centered on stage, making it seem as if it is his one refuge from all of the problems
surrounding him at this moment. Taking his seat, and pause. Eyes closed beneath a mop of
hair, framed in a face that is full of confusion and passion. Another moment passes, silently
he breaths. Time to remember, time to think.



The first notes come quietly, from another world they are born. Not mere pieces
on a manuscript, these are words that are being formed from his heart. My mind
understands this passion but has trouble comprehending how it is possible in one so
young, fifteen at best he is. A body that is exploding in growth from so many different
proportions. His hands alone look like paddles yet command the keys with a touch I have
not seen in many years.
His eyes remain closed as the music is built around him, his protector of sorts, it
combines the passion that he yearns to show and the anger he brings. What work has been
undertaken over the past to accomplish this I wonder. I see not the lost boy that came
from stage left, not a man either, someone in between that has come. The words he
creates from the keys are not all that transparent, wanting to be heard, to be understood.
He plays on, more passion begins added with what was left from the first. The words
blending into one brought forth with such magnificence that you cannot ignore. A
thousand notes separate, together making chords that sing to the soul first then to the
heart. What strain the single note brings is combined with his own for his youthfulness
fights to maintain control against the onslaught of becoming an adult. At times, there are
two distinct meters, similar and different, that produce the words that come from his
hands. The last pause. Another moment of reflection. Can that be his purpose to this
affair? Another note is struck and before I can question again the answer comes in the
form of opus 39 from Rachmoninov. I see now why he pauses, as anyone would before
playing such from a master, though he produces sound that even the master would be
forced to weep. More so the hands amaze me. They contrast just like the rest of this
scene, but the musician in me understands what connection is being made. The simple act
of touch is multiplied to the point of extension with one’s body, soul and mind. Never to
understand the difference between yourself and the instrument, it is simply lost. He has this
feature, and I find that I am jealous for I have lost mine.


Without warning, it ends. And just as quickly he leaps from the seat bows curtly
and leaves showing the youthfulness he wanted to forget. He sees the small crowd
gathered backstage, their eyes lost to him, the look of defeat he has come to know. They
want to talk to him, say something that will ease their own pain, but he will have none of
it. He brushes past them, finds the door that leads outside. Another moment pauses as the
foul city air envelopes him, taken over his lungs like the cruelty he has done to the others
left to wonder inside. I find that I am know longer in awe of his talent as I am angry with
myself for having let mine go. As I come around the corner, he is there looking ever more
the child he wishes he still were. Tears have taken his sight from him and all that is left is
to scream. The pain and anger have returned, for a moment forgotten in the mist of words
played out from the hands of greatness.

© Copyright 2000 Michael G - All Rights Reserved
Sven
Deputy Moderator 1 TourDeputy Moderator 1 Tour
Member Laureate
since 1999-11-23
Posts 14937
East Lansing, MI USA
1 posted 2000-10-16 06:11 PM


I have known ones like the one you describe. . . 14 and 15. . . yet the passion that lies in their hands and hearts would make the hardest man weep. . . and warm the coldest heart. . .

Perfectly describes the melding that happens when performer and instrument are one. . . they are part of one another. . . the performer telling of his pain, his joy, his love. . .

This is an excellent prose poem. . . and does the challenge proud. . .

Superb. . .

---------------------------------------------------------------

That which gives light must endure burning
--Victor Frankl


Marina
Member Elite
since 2000-02-10
Posts 2245
Pickering, Ontario
2 posted 2000-10-16 09:03 PM


I love your thoughts and the intellect behind this.  A very thought provoking prose.  You are an excellent writer!!!  

Marina


It is a blessing to have wings for words, and passion in pen
Marina Crossley



Denise
Moderator
Member Seraphic
since 1999-08-22
Posts 22648

3 posted 2000-10-16 09:09 PM


This is a masterpiece, Michael. I am speechless. Take your bow!

Denise

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