I lay in bed this morning in the silence. And then began a banging – slow, rhythmic, from across the river.
There’s a construction site about 100 metres from my windows. I imagined the workers using a machine to dig a hole. Later it would be filled with cement, creating a column that would support the new building.
And the throbbing continued. Part of it was inside me. And part of it was shaking my bed frame with every plunge.
“What?! My room is shaking. The vibrations are travelling under the river to me!”
Unknown. Things not as they seem.
***
And then the TV series Dark came to mind. It’s about four families and how they’re connected through time. Plus there’s time travel: between 2019 … 1987 … 1953 … 2053 … 1921.
The photo shows strings joining people. At the top right are three photos of Ines Kahnwald. From right to left, she’s 13, 46 and 79.
Subterranean connections within the same person – young meets old, old meets young.
Connections between people – in the same year, and also when you’re young and I’m old, when you’re old and I’m young.
Harry Chapin, long dead now, wrote a song about the music. Living rooms and kitchens rather than grand concert halls.
Just folks opening their mouths …
Remember when the music Came from wooden boxes strung with silver wire And as we sang the words, it would set our minds on fire For we believed in things, and so we’d sing
Remember when the music Brought us all together to stand inside the rain And as we’d join our hands, we’d meet in the refrain, For we had dreams to live, we had hopes to give
Remember when the music Was the best of what we dreamed of for our children’s time And as we sang we worked, for time was just a line It was a gift we saved, a gift the future gave
Remember when the music Was a rock that we could cling to so we’d not despair And as we sang we knew we’d hear an echo fill the air We’d be smiling then, we would smile again
Oh all the times I’ve listened, and all the times I’ve heard All the melodies I’m missing, and all the magic words And all those potent voices, and the choices we had then How I’d love to find we had that kind of choice again
Remember when the music Was a glow on the horizon of every newborn day And as we sang, the sun came up to chase the dark away And life was good, for we knew we could
Remember when the music Brought the night across the valley as the day went down And as we’d hum the melody, we’d be safe inside the sound And so we’d sleep, we had dreams to keep
Remember when the music Came from wooden boxes strung with silver wire And as we sang the words, it would set our minds on fire For we believed in things, and so we’d sing
Here’s a picture of nursing home residents I took from the Internet. In Belgium the facility is called a “care home”.
I met this morning with the volunteer co-ordinator of a care home near me. She agreed to accept me as a volunteer. Over time I get to be with the dementia unit residents. That’s what I want.
I now have the motivation to study Dutch again. I quit a year-and-a-half ago, saying it was “too hard”. And now … a chapter re-opening. I have my notes from Levels One and Two, and the Babbel language app. My next appearance at the care home is on December 22. Some basic Dutch will flow from my mouth that day.
The care home is around the corner from my music school. Both venues are offering huge challenges. And both will give me moments of immense happiness. Plus they are only a fifteen-minute walk from home.
Yesterday morning in the blue chapel of the Poel music school, about fifteen cello students took turns walking onto the stage and playing solo with a piano accompanist … and an audience.
I played miserably.
Of course the idea is to place the finger on exactly the right spot on the string to create the exactly right pitch. And to draw the bow across the strings in a manner that creates a rich vibration of sound.
It didn’t happen … much.
I wasn’t particularly nervous. I smiled at the audience before the pianist began his eight bars of introduction. My bow and I were ready.
Even as the “wrongness” began to accumulate, I still had moments of feeling the music, of my body swaying. And then those moments withered away …
At one point I realized that my right hand wasn’t holding the bow firmly. And once the bow simply slid off the strings.
Halfway through, I got lost. The piece has a few times where I had to jump to an earlier spot in the music and be aware of the number of bars of rest before beginning again. I got it wrong.
It wasn’t like I was having some physical event. I just didn’t know where I was, or where the pianist was.
My teacher Lieven came up onto the stage and pointed on the music to where I needed to play. I was embarrassed … and thankful.
(Sigh)
I’m pleased that I didn’t crawl inside an emotional shell. I bowed to the audience at the end and smiled at them. After the concert, I approached four of my fellow cellists and congratulated them on their playing.
***
Now it’s a day later. My sadness has dimmed. Yes, I failed to play well yesterday. I failed to keep track of where I was in the piece. But I’m remembering what my neighbour Dirk told me the day before the concert. He quoted the playwright Samuel Beckett:
Clearly a courageous shop owner, trusting that people will move past the sign and into the store. Good for her or him.
It gets me thinking … What do I really need?
Certainly enough food, clothing and shelter to keep the body going. But not caviar, Gucci and a mansion.
I need a deep connection with other human beings, especially when we’re 1-1. Not sex. Sure, it would be nice, but not essential.
I need periods of quiet, ideally including a daily period of meditation. I don’t need supreme soundproofing between my neighbours and me … the rumble of nearby noise is part of life.
I need to watch or read stories about folks and the people they love, and the people they don’t love. Real moments … tender or distant. I don’t need to binge watch the seven seasons of Outlander on Netflix.
I need beauty in my life … of colour, shape, movement, song and poem. I don’t need to be inundated with TV images that flash by in a second.
I need home. Kicking off my shoes and sprawling on the couch. I tell myself that I need Gent as home but maybe almost anywhere on the planet would do nicely.
I need to sing, play cello and write as ways to reach people. I don’t need to be good at these things. I just need to be passionate in the doing.
Marina Abramovic is a “performance artist”. Mostly she sits onstage in front of an audience and does next to nothing … for hours. And the people stay to watch.
In The Artist Is Present (2012), for three months she sits across a table from a person, looking directly into their eyes, for eight hours every day, without ever moving or taking a single sip of water.
“Gaps appear in the thinking, the gaps get bigger, and at one point you enter into a nonthinking state. For the first time you really see the person – and the person becomes highly emotional, because they see that I can see them, and they start seeing me too. It’s vibrational. The connection is incredible – that opening is very special, and then the heart opens. The effect ripples out to the audience – they see what I am seeing and are deeply affected. People wait for hours to come and sit with me. Even the guards who’ve been watching every day change into ordinary clothes on the weekend and wait in line to sit. We have seventy-six people who came more than twelve times, who have created a club just to talk about their experience.
I was all set to sing at an open mic session last night, in the café of Minard. Out of my mouth would flow the words of Stan Rogers’ “45 Years”. That’s him in the pic.
I knew the schedule – last Monday of each month. Except this time it wasn’t. Another event occupied the space. Open mic time was last Tuesday. (Sigh)
Yes, I was nervous to sing, but far more excited than that. So I started my slow slump home.
I dropped into my favourite hangout spot – Izy Coffee on the Langemunt. I told my sad story to the barista and three customers sitting nearby. And then …
“May I sing you the song?”
They smiled and nodded. The barista turned off the radio.
And there I stood, waiting for the first line to emerge. It didn’t.
Where the ______ shows its bones
Of wind-broken stone
What was that word? Four human beings gazed at me. Still nothing. More slumping.
I told the barista that he could turn the music back on. I put my mittens back on and turned to leave.
Defeat
One of the customers called out something like “Please sing.” I looked into his eyes. I sensed the bigness of the moment. Teetering on the edge of my future.
I took off my mittens. I returned to the four fellows. The radio filled the room.
I woke up this morning with the desire to dance … in a long golden dress.
I have little experience with this type of garment – basically just going to a screening of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. But so what? Men also get to pirouette.
See the gracious turn, with the fabric following in agreement. The right arm lifted high. The grand staircase awaiting our arrival.
Here’s another rendition of the moment:
The breeze blows. The stars and halo may be within or without. Either way, the being glows as she and he are taken.
Partway through this morning’s Music Theory class, our teacher walked us to a school courtyard, where we’d need to go if there was a fire.
As the group of us headed to our destination, a young woman who’d been sitting near me came up and said “Tell me about your life.”
I was stopped … and thoroughly pleased. Very few people have asked me this. Been curious about my adventures.
As we stood in the courtyard waiting for instructions, I opened my mouth and remembered the important stuff. I love telling stories.
Back in class, I leaned over to her and said “Thank you for asking.”
My new friend told me that her parents taught her to teach out to people. Good parents.
My version with people usually comes out as “Tell me what’s important to you.” I too seek to know the other human being.
I think of the magnificent John Denver song “Islands”:
And the mighty blue ocean Keeps rolling on every shore Like the spirit that binds us together We are so much more than islands
***
Thank you for the moment of asking
Dear fellow student of music
Deep down, all of us just want someone to notice us Notice when we’re hurting Notice when we’re scared Notice when we’re happy Notice when we’re brave
My daughter gave me her school progress report. It was full of good check marks, except for one that stood out.
“How am I doing, Mom?” she asked, looking up at me. Her glasses were a little crooked and smudged. She pointed to her teacher’s comment next to the one different check mark.
It said: “Distracted in large groups.”
But I already knew that. I had seen it since she was a little girl. She has always been very aware of the world around her.
After telling her all the good things on the report, I gently read her the comment. She gave a small smile and said quietly, “I do look around a lot.”
Before she could feel bad, I knelt down to look into her eyes. I didn’t just want her to hear what I was about to say—I wanted her to feel it.
“Yes,” I said. “You do look around a lot. You noticed when Sam was sitting alone with a skinned knee on the field trip, and you went to help him.
You noticed that Banjo had a runny nose, and the vet said it was good we brought him in early.
You noticed how hard our waitress was working and said we should give her a bigger tip.
You noticed Grandpa walking slowly and chose to stay with him.
And every time we cross the bridge to swim practice, you notice the view.”
Then I smiled and said, “And you know what? I never want you to stop noticing. That’s your special gift. It’s something you bring to the world.”
Her face lit up with pride. In that moment, I saw how powerful her way of seeing the world really is.
Because deep down, all of us just want someone to notice us. Notice when we’re hurting. Notice when we’re scared. Notice when we’re happy. Notice when we’re brave.
And the person who notices—that person is a rare and beautiful gift.
My urge to put finger to screen has faded away again. It’s a mystery … neither good nor bad. The yearning just walks away, without any decision or intention. Apparently without any me.
I trust in the rhythms of my life. Expanding … contracting … expanding again …
It’s only been five days, and I am sitting with my phone once more, composing a phrase or two. Something short is a beginning.
***
A friend sent me this photo, one among many. Although there’s an orange and a pink on the edges, mostly the image is black and brown.
Although the woman is throwing her body around in gay abandon, mostly the image is vertical and stationary.
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