the enchanter

Listening to the firing bullet sound of the thunder, to the harsh winds that heartlessly slap and rattle my windows, and the helpless raindrops being hit against the hard glass of the windows, all in the sad weeping melody of Gorecki's Symphony No. 3.

I was going to write about something.. oh I remembered.

When I was young, books were my source of comfort. They filled any gaps or holes in my life that would have made me feel empty and lonely; in fact, because they were such good friends for me, I remember becoming able to enjoy the melancholy of being alone, savouring the sweet taste of solitude. I was inspired in my solitary moments, and thankful to be able to have this very private and special treat that I knew not everyone could enjoy.

My poet mother was never really strict with my bedtime, foreseeing that I would need to be able to stay up late to study when necessary as I grow up. So I would stay up late every night: after finishing homework early in the evening, I would sit on my bed or at my desk with carefully chosen repertoire to suit my mood that night, and read far into the morning, with Louisa May Alcott, A. J. Cronin, Dumas (the father), Jane Austin, Dostoyevsky, Miura Ayako, Tolstoy, Gide and Hesse whispering words to my ear all night that painted such vivid pictures in my head. I would smile and laugh with them, say the conversated words aloud, act out facial expressions; I would sigh with them, weep with them, feel my own heart and body resounding with pains, and let out regretful moans with them. They filled up my world besides the one that I lived in with everyone else during the day and I was never lonely, because I had two worlds, both of them filled with dear friends.

During this time of my life music also became my friend - not just listening to music, but also playing instruments. Playing music was something I had asked to be taught, and it was never forced upon or restricted from me when or what I played. I remember many blissful moments amidst playing a short Nocturne by Chopin or a Bach prelude, and more often, Mozart sonatas, repeating the same passages over and over, those passages that were so beautiful that made my heart ache and lifted up my soul with an unearthly, even holy, kind of delight. I was thankful to God. I was thankful to Mozart, to Bach, Beethoven and Schubert, Scarlatti and Clamenti, to Chopin and Tchaikovsky, Grieg, and Schumann. I would feel intoxicated by the beauty of their music that would sometimes make me feel as though I would lose myself in it - make me feel like being part of these passing moments of beauty, being inside and among those beautiful sounds, alive and breathing with the notes. I once drew a picture of a single glowing angel dancing to God, to the holiness of his being in this music I was listening to (it was a transcription of Andante Cantabile from Tchaikovsky's first quartet, arranged for solo cello and chamber orchestra). I cried. I cried smiling, because it was so beautiful and only God could write something like this, through a human servant, or only one who had deeply been moved by His Holiness; it was so gracious and unpretentious, so simple yet rich, and tearfully sincere. I thought anybody who could dance would dance to God listening to this kind of music, to give thanks to him. I thought the angel must have been the vision the composer had when he wrote this music, and that it was also me, and that I, too, wanted to do something like that some day.

And then writing - which usually happened in my solitary hours through the night. Every night, I wrote either before reading and after selecting music to listen to for the night or between the long hours of reading. Often it was very spontaneous, as the music would often immediately trigger a strong reaction from me. I would write about that, and about everything that I had thought and felt recently, and it took me a long time just to write two pages even though I seemed to be writing without stopping for a moment. I felt every word in my heart and bones, I enjoyed and savoured each thought crafted into words, words that I most carefully chose for the most precision, but rarely erasing what had already come out, especially those words that just came out of me like a flow of water before I could even decide to write them down. I was thrilled to write. All the time. I rarely wrote poetry because I felt inadequate for something so high and holy (having a poet mother somehow resulted in this kind of reverence for poetry), but I wrote the one single ode of my life to writing itself, to the symbol of the pen. I begged God to allow me to write all my life, that my love for writing was like a passionate flame that would never die.
I was happy, and my life was full; or it seemed so at the time.

On the threshold of adolescence, my writing became more and more sporadic and eventually stopped altogether.
I couldn't listen to music the way I had used to now that I was studying it. And because of some more reasons, I lost my friends: first writing, then books and music - and it has never been the same since.

I feel that I don't want to write any more tonight. I have taken too much time writing the above and my thoughts have lost their momentum. Maybe I could continue some other time, but I would still like to recapitulate right now, for myself and whoever is reading, the reason why I started writing this. I was reminded today how writing, music and books used to be more than enough to console and comfort me. Why can't they do it to me any more? They can to a degree, but why can't they be the same good friends they used to be?

Actually the reason why I don't want to write any more is because writing about it has been a sort of catharsis for me. I was feeling depressed as I started writing this but now I feel much better. I guess one friend has come back. Actually, it's not that they are not my friends any more. They are, just not as alive and powerful as before. But it's probably me, because books and music don't change; a person does.

I see that the rainstorm has stopped. Things are quiet again, and I am on my second repeat of the Gorecki Symphony No.3, now the second movement Lento E Largo - Tranquillissimo. This music does indeed uplift my soul and purge my dirty regreful tears, making the now clear water evaporate into the cloudless blue sky. I used to avoid sad music when I was feeling sad and depressed, unless I really felt like pitying myself for whatever reason. This symphony used to leave me feeling drained and exhausted emotionally. Tonight, though, listening to it has also been cathartic for me, lifting me up, light as a feather. Because it is so sad and cathartic in itself, it seems to weep and cry and then calm down and pray for me, freeing me of my burdens, so I feel light and ascending. Thank you, God, for this beautiful music. Thank you, for inspiring this man and making him write something so inhumanly beautiful as this, for moving him enough to write something so honestly human as this.

And maybe another friend has come back to me.

My son, my chosen and beloved
Share your wounds with your mother
And because, dear son, I have always carried you in my heart,
And always served you faithfully
Speak to your mother, to make her happy,
Although you are already leaving me, my cherished hope.

Labels: Music