The Masters
In my Dark room, Sweet Music gushing through like Manna from heaven, Like inhaling fresh Alpine air, and I wonder. My mind wanders to landscapes seen, and unseen, over hills and meads and water it flies, In old forgotten landscapes dotted with red apples and particolored cows, of Snow capped Mountains, and Green slopes, and as I waltz to the Music, I wonder, what made Him write such Music.
They say Music is a higher expression of Human emotions. When there are words no more, Music holds fort. In fact, so deeply intertwined is our perception of music with the setting, that indeed, an astute observer might be able to gauge the mood and general disposition of another by what Music he listens to. As such, it might even be said that the Musician and his audience are indeed very much alike, for the Music appeals to both the Creator and the Listener.
But, novice that I am, some musicians bewilder me, probably because I gauge their character, what sort of a person they might have been, by the Music they compose.That is a trivial enough task for most musicians. Or at least, the individuals we are wont to call Musicians in our age of the Mediocre. Aye, even the greatest of our musicians, the ones who adorn our walls and our attire, are liable to be read quite easily.
Having turned my attention to the great masters, I failed miserably though. I am not much into Classical, and I dont understand the technical details of Music anyway. So when I hear Music, my mind immerses itself in it. I lose my capacity to impose emotions on me, The driver of my emotions becomes the Music,and when I look back at what I felt, I know what they felt.
But I suppose that is why they were known as the Masters. Inscrutable,Enigmatic, they ensured that even even hundreds of years after they were gone, they would play around with the minds of their admirers at will, without lending their own to scrutiny. They were above us, the common bourgeois. Its almost as if they could see me now, trying to understand what I felt as I flickered , my mind sashaying across cool green meads with pretty lasses in unpolluted times as I listened to the great symphonies,and Smirking in amusement. One moment, I imagined something unspeakbly great, so great that I could see nothing but a tiny section of it, greater than the glory of sixteenth century Europe with all its grand facades, even grander than all the Maharajas sitting on their Elephants of gold, showering diamonds on his subjects. The very next moment, the scene changes, Melancholy grey hills, a horseman on a grey steed veering in to a shady inn to quench his thirst, and the scene shifts back. Is the grey traveller a Knight in guise, sent on a Knightly errant , that he and only he can fulfil? Or is he a distraught gallant thundering off to avenge his love? and now his Horse gathers speed, like a bolt of lightning, cutting through the green fields, Stepping over stone and water, leaping over gorges and bounding over ravines , but never once faltering. And who is this child, an angel rather, playing the flute all the while? Covered in a raiment of Silver, She is Grace personified as she moves across white halls, never touching the ground, a sweetness exuding from her face that I will never put into words. And why does our Knight Errant draw his sword. What is his task? and lo, whole troupes of oriental dancers seem to be waltzing too, in rythm with the galloping of our knights horse. My mind is muddled, and I know such Beauty. Oh beauty, a joy to these unworthy eyes of Mine. I realize it all, but cannot put it in words, For I can find no words worthy enough.
They say Music is a higher expression of Human emotions. When there are words no more, Music holds fort. In fact, so deeply intertwined is our perception of music with the setting, that indeed, an astute observer might be able to gauge the mood and general disposition of another by what Music he listens to. As such, it might even be said that the Musician and his audience are indeed very much alike, for the Music appeals to both the Creator and the Listener.
But, novice that I am, some musicians bewilder me, probably because I gauge their character, what sort of a person they might have been, by the Music they compose.That is a trivial enough task for most musicians. Or at least, the individuals we are wont to call Musicians in our age of the Mediocre. Aye, even the greatest of our musicians, the ones who adorn our walls and our attire, are liable to be read quite easily.
Having turned my attention to the great masters, I failed miserably though. I am not much into Classical, and I dont understand the technical details of Music anyway. So when I hear Music, my mind immerses itself in it. I lose my capacity to impose emotions on me, The driver of my emotions becomes the Music,and when I look back at what I felt, I know what they felt.
But I suppose that is why they were known as the Masters. Inscrutable,Enigmatic, they ensured that even even hundreds of years after they were gone, they would play around with the minds of their admirers at will, without lending their own to scrutiny. They were above us, the common bourgeois. Its almost as if they could see me now, trying to understand what I felt as I flickered , my mind sashaying across cool green meads with pretty lasses in unpolluted times as I listened to the great symphonies,and Smirking in amusement. One moment, I imagined something unspeakbly great, so great that I could see nothing but a tiny section of it, greater than the glory of sixteenth century Europe with all its grand facades, even grander than all the Maharajas sitting on their Elephants of gold, showering diamonds on his subjects. The very next moment, the scene changes, Melancholy grey hills, a horseman on a grey steed veering in to a shady inn to quench his thirst, and the scene shifts back. Is the grey traveller a Knight in guise, sent on a Knightly errant , that he and only he can fulfil? Or is he a distraught gallant thundering off to avenge his love? and now his Horse gathers speed, like a bolt of lightning, cutting through the green fields, Stepping over stone and water, leaping over gorges and bounding over ravines , but never once faltering. And who is this child, an angel rather, playing the flute all the while? Covered in a raiment of Silver, She is Grace personified as she moves across white halls, never touching the ground, a sweetness exuding from her face that I will never put into words. And why does our Knight Errant draw his sword. What is his task? and lo, whole troupes of oriental dancers seem to be waltzing too, in rythm with the galloping of our knights horse. My mind is muddled, and I know such Beauty. Oh beauty, a joy to these unworthy eyes of Mine. I realize it all, but cannot put it in words, For I can find no words worthy enough.
And as I am swung around by the Masters of ages past, I realise that I am but a speck of dust. When with their music,I disappear from my own view, and what replaces is Bold as brass, Beautiful, Grand beyond words, Darker than the darkest woods, and Brighter than the newest sheen, All the emotions that I know names for, at once, overwhelming me simultaneously, Each moment a new Gush, an overwhelming tide of emotions breaking against the Shore of my Mind.
And all the while, I am thinking, How am I to tell one drop of water from another.
posted by '~-)Sandman(-~' at 6:07 AM
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