The Fiddler's Green
Tonight, I tell you all the story of a young man, in his early twenties, who loved music. He was forever advised by friends (some of them more than the others) towards new pieces. He liked most of them, qualifying them with grandiose words with which he deemed fit to adorn the greatest glories, and this happened with every thing he heard.
But to his infrequent amazement he found that, that though he always liked these new pieces, his friends' favourites, the ones that moved him beyond words were the ones were always stray musical vignettes that he found in his long wanderings through the Land of Notes, the maps of which he understood not a jot of, since he didnt know how to read notes. Vignettes from some larger story, which to other mere mortals always seemed more beautiful in their totality than the bricks that made them up. But our protagonist was no mere mortal. He was a deconstructionist, where the term implies what I intend it to imply, and if it does not seem so to you, you are relieved with immediate effect of your duty to hear out my story.He stumbled on a beautiful brick, and then that was all he wished to ever see. It kept him up through nights filled with sweet torment, with their notes bouncing off like Divine rays off the walls of his brain, and he played the same piece again and again and again, till the spell was broken by the stealthy fingers of sleep.
And then , he would wake up the next morning, and remembering every detail of his enchantment, of his imprisonement without chains, and yet he would suddenly find himself released from the spell. And he would then seek to relive that feeling, at the focal point of all known human emotions, that man was always too awestruck by to name it when he encountered it. We therefore refer to it symptomatically, some call it Speechlessness, though a moment of close consideration would no doubt render the expression ludicrous, as it attempts to characterise the greatest unknown known to man by just one of its uncountably many symptoms. Preposterous.
So he would attempt to relive this great feeling. One may now ask, how?It is rather weird what a scared creature our subconscious is. We wander anywhere close to the Highest Secret, and our subconscious, the great traitor, clandestinely steals into the driver's seat and drives our wagon to more earthly considerations. Indeed, all the great individuals in the History of man have been characterised by the ability to subject this traitor to their will. And lesser men say that The have sold their soul to the devil. Rubbish. So the answer to that how is not what may occur to a man who is himself not standing on the verge of that great something where it becomes expedient for his subconscious to assume control. Its funny though. He never thought of attempting to relive it by literally reliving it. He would read some expository article on the piece, or try to hum it simultaneously along with his morning chores,anything but reliving the piece, and immersing himself in its magic , and seeing that the magic is gone, would abandon that once magical brick, and wander off, heartbroken, at being stabbed in the back yet again, so close and yet, so, so far. He would abandon that piece for ever, thinking that the chrome had rusted off. Little did he ever realize that it was all chrone, from end to end, through the meat, and his subconscious had coated it over with iron, dull and dry, to avert his gaze from it, towards safer avenues.
But he didnt have the vatage point that I and my readers occupy. So he would resume his journey through the Land of Notes, heartbroken, but never Hopeless, for he knew there would be a next time. He had too much experience to know there would. But there was always a tiny voice in his skull, which had nothing to do with all his experience of rambling through the land, that he would fail again, next time, and again , the time after that. He was doomed to be forever on the rim of that great stream of Understanding, forever on Human territory.
For if he did cross over to the other side, there would be no way back, would there? He would no longer be him, would he?
Would he?
Would he?......
But to his infrequent amazement he found that, that though he always liked these new pieces, his friends' favourites, the ones that moved him beyond words were the ones were always stray musical vignettes that he found in his long wanderings through the Land of Notes, the maps of which he understood not a jot of, since he didnt know how to read notes. Vignettes from some larger story, which to other mere mortals always seemed more beautiful in their totality than the bricks that made them up. But our protagonist was no mere mortal. He was a deconstructionist, where the term implies what I intend it to imply, and if it does not seem so to you, you are relieved with immediate effect of your duty to hear out my story.He stumbled on a beautiful brick, and then that was all he wished to ever see. It kept him up through nights filled with sweet torment, with their notes bouncing off like Divine rays off the walls of his brain, and he played the same piece again and again and again, till the spell was broken by the stealthy fingers of sleep.
And then , he would wake up the next morning, and remembering every detail of his enchantment, of his imprisonement without chains, and yet he would suddenly find himself released from the spell. And he would then seek to relive that feeling, at the focal point of all known human emotions, that man was always too awestruck by to name it when he encountered it. We therefore refer to it symptomatically, some call it Speechlessness, though a moment of close consideration would no doubt render the expression ludicrous, as it attempts to characterise the greatest unknown known to man by just one of its uncountably many symptoms. Preposterous.
So he would attempt to relive this great feeling. One may now ask, how?It is rather weird what a scared creature our subconscious is. We wander anywhere close to the Highest Secret, and our subconscious, the great traitor, clandestinely steals into the driver's seat and drives our wagon to more earthly considerations. Indeed, all the great individuals in the History of man have been characterised by the ability to subject this traitor to their will. And lesser men say that The have sold their soul to the devil. Rubbish. So the answer to that how is not what may occur to a man who is himself not standing on the verge of that great something where it becomes expedient for his subconscious to assume control. Its funny though. He never thought of attempting to relive it by literally reliving it. He would read some expository article on the piece, or try to hum it simultaneously along with his morning chores,anything but reliving the piece, and immersing himself in its magic , and seeing that the magic is gone, would abandon that once magical brick, and wander off, heartbroken, at being stabbed in the back yet again, so close and yet, so, so far. He would abandon that piece for ever, thinking that the chrome had rusted off. Little did he ever realize that it was all chrone, from end to end, through the meat, and his subconscious had coated it over with iron, dull and dry, to avert his gaze from it, towards safer avenues.
But he didnt have the vatage point that I and my readers occupy. So he would resume his journey through the Land of Notes, heartbroken, but never Hopeless, for he knew there would be a next time. He had too much experience to know there would. But there was always a tiny voice in his skull, which had nothing to do with all his experience of rambling through the land, that he would fail again, next time, and again , the time after that. He was doomed to be forever on the rim of that great stream of Understanding, forever on Human territory.
For if he did cross over to the other side, there would be no way back, would there? He would no longer be him, would he?
Would he?
Would he?......
posted by '~-)Sandman(-~' at 12:52 PM
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