Right now. I am living in a moment, both of present and of past. Feelings of both sadness, and pride. As I listen to young Hilary Hahn beef out the first, and my favorite, movement of Sibelius' Violin Concerto in D Minor, I am flooded with emotions. For my father. Whom has scarred me so deeply. But when he plays this song, with as much fervency, I can feel his scars too. Deeper than mine perhaps. And this song. This very one. Has as much meaning to him, than it does to me. It is a ghost that haunts him. It has broken him so many times. Just like his heart. And you can feel it when he plays. Miss Hahn, plays this songs well, but when my father belts this out, I see, hear, feel, every string hit somewhere much deeper. It stings. It shouts at you. Telling you what it means. Who he is. Who he was. His music is his way of freeing himself. He needn't sing, nor speak. No. The passion presented is all that is ever needed to understand him. And it is from him, and not my mother, that I have received my unfathomable passion. Stubbornness. Recklessness. Selfishness. Anxiety. My father knows how to really feel. And I believe he feels the way that I feel. And I don't mean we are empathetic towards one another. I mean to say that he and I taste life through the same buds. Through this song. Through most anything. Love it, or hate it. Generally there is no middle ground. And we may not be close, and at times I find myself hating him, but there is such a part of him I can relate too. It scares me some moments, and at moments like these, I am filled with such pride. It is a conflict I may always treasure. And keep to myself. As a secret. Because even as I sit here writing this for you to read, the liking of me to this song, will never be understood, by another human being.
And now, we change for an ode to me. Moonlight Sonata, and of course, the first movement. My grandmother always wanted my dad to learn it. She said it's all she ever wanted before she died. I learned it. When I told her, she smiled, but didn't even ask to hear it. I think that has always haunted me. I learned it all on my own. Out of lesson time. I guess it was best. Because I didn't feel the way I do about the song now. It is now my haunting. It has broken me. Humbled me. Now that I can hardly read music, I try every once and a while to sit down and hack through those notes. I don't play it correct. I never have. I disagree completely with the dynamics. And maybe that is a huge slap in the face to Beethoven, but just like my father, my passion knows the song better than my eyes do, so it disagrees, and plays it to it's liking. And with my quickly dying musical literacy, I sat down to play this song, and it broke me. I could barely chop through the first few lines. There is a picture in my mind when I play this piece. I only imagine death. All of the dead, and all of the dying. And myself. It is a goodbye song. Of course I never die after I play the piece, or haven't yet. But I picture it being played at my funeral. I picture many people, I loved, and who loved me, gathered around, weeping, to this song. But not just anyone playing it. I hear me, playing it. I know it may sound sick and twisted, but I promise you it's not. Nor do I wish to die. It's just what drives my fingers to hit the keys the way they do.
This is not anything like what I have been trying to blog about. But it feels good to have gotten out. I am posting lyrics I wrote on my other Blog. So visit soon.
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