|The Conductor has very poor musicians to work with, indeed.1
We are a mixed crowd of secretaries, unemployed hipsters, students, lawyers, teachers, and doctors that know nothing about music. In our concert black we might look at least somewhat presentable on the outside… except, perhaps, for the one wearing suspenders who has substituted dark skinny jeans for slacks. Where is his tie, anyway, and how can he play his instrument with his iPhone glued to his hand?
We have been given one small morsel of direction: “Watch me,” He says. Yet for some reason our eyes always manage to stray, to stick up our cognitive noses at those members of the symphony that misbehave—if the concert is a disaster, it’s because of them—or to frequently survey the audience for signs of approval or disapproval.
Thank goodness the Director is a much better Teacher than we are students.2
We cannot make music. We are, in fact, incapable of it.3 The standard for pleasant tunes soars far out of our reach. It is with miserable trepidation we gaze at the score, jumbled like a foreign language. Stomachs plummeting, the concert starts, and we expect nothing but disaster to occur. Continue reading
A doubt prevails above the truth.
A song, so sad, above the noise,
Of peace, of grace, of hope, of joy.
Instead, I sink. Oblivion.
When you paint my portrait
Attend to my eyes
Though sunken and tired
and clouded, blue skies
My cheekbones, they rise
Cliffs jutting to meet them
My nose, the long drop
My mouth is the ocean