The Warning (Part Two)
Posted: Thursday, June 18, 2009
by Michael Ramzy
delusionthread.com
I know I should not start a story with a story, but it is important for you, who are reading these words, to know what I am leading up to.
As I sit here I think of all of the millions of people in this world and how they seem to live in a way that is, do I dare it? Common. Not really common, but not original - not with any real thought past their day-to-day existence. Almost as if they cannot feel. I don't know why I think this way, and I don't know how I can explain it. I never could, in all of my years, understand it.
You will have to bear with me, reader. I know these are the last words I will ever write. That being the case, I should be allowed a certain amount of . . . latitude, freedom. Yes, freedom. After all, I am the one who writes these words by the dim light of the candle, and the candle is almost down to the wick, so I know I must write fast.
Did I say this was a warning? I must have. Yes, I am sure of it. This is a warning. But I must tell you this story as it is very important. I will surely get to the warning since that is why I write this now, in this manner. But the story must be told.
Once there was a young man. He was not unlike any of the other young men, not in appearance, anyway. But he certainly wasn't a man of the times. He was handsome, yes, and well-spoken, but otherwise he was normal.
He played the piano. He was dedicated to this piano absolutely. There was not a day that passed, not a night that swept over the earth, when he did not play. He played all of the time, and all of his time, he played.
One day, he took his music to a music publisher. The name escapes me, but were it important I am certain I would remember it.
He walked in carrying his music, his hands numb from endless practicing. He held his head high with pride. His music was good, he knew. He wanted to have it published and recorded. It was music for piano, as well as music for a full orchestra. He had written concertos, symphonies, many different kinds of music. He had also written a requiem, which was a feat in itself. He was only twenty-four, and youth knows nothing of death or suffering. Well, they should not, anyway.
He sat in the anteroom of the music publisher and waited with his music grasped tightly in his arms. He did not have an appointment, but the secretary said the publisher would be able to eventually fit him in.
The next day he returned to the publisher and waited once again in the outer office. His music was in his heart, his mind, and written on the pages in his hand. He waited.
Many days later, after many hours of waiting, he was admitted into the office of the publisher. He sat in front of the desk and watched as the man unrolled the music and read it slowly. Every now and then the young man's eyes would stray to the old piano leaning idle against the wall behind the desk. The publisher looked up from the music in front of him and looked at the young man. He read some of the music, then went to the piano. He set the music on the small wooden bar above the keys and played some of it.
The keys were indifferent to his touch, however, the music not meant for his hands. The publisher rose and turned back to the young man seated calmly before him. He gestured the young man to the piano.
I tell you now, those of you who are reading and understanding these words, the young man was elated. You see, he had written this music and yet never before had anyone heard it. As he sat at the piano, the young man thought it the beginning stage of a great thing.
He played his music, only the concertos, of course, and played them flawlessly. So perfect, so passionate was his playing tears ran down his face. He moved his head slowly from side to side as he played.
When he was through, he turned and the publisher was astounded. He asked the young man where this music had come from, from which period. The young man, tears still on his young cheeks, told him proudly it was his own music. He said he had composed it slowly, carefully, blending only the styles of his emotions that ran deep in his heart. It was his music, from his heart.
The publisher looked at the young man and told him he had a wonderful talent, in technique. If he would be able to play some of the masters, perhaps some Chopin, then there would be no limit, literally no limit, to what he might gain.
The young man returned that he only knew his own music, his fingers would only play the chords which emanated from his own being. Besides, he concluded, he would not feel right playing music he did not write. Anyone, everyone could do this.
Anyone else, that is.
The published looked sadly at the young man, and I tell you he truly tried to change the young man's mind. But in the end there was no way the young pianist could possibly play anyone's music other than his own. He just couldn't. The publisher could understand this, couldn't he?
He left the office with his music under his arm, never to return. He did not understand. Perhaps, he asked the publisher, perhaps he would like to keep some of his music and one day when the mood struck him he would publish it?
Of course not, the publisher answered, closing the door on the young face. We have no need for original music. All of the great music has already been written and only those who can play that music well are published. Only those who could copy, by way of technique, would be allowed to be heard. Original music? There is no such thing any longer.
(to be concluded)
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Top-level comments on this article: (2 total)hi michael,this was truly a metaphor for so many different situations, and thinking processess. you expressed many different thoughts and emotions, and all came together in a wonderful story. i can't wait for the conclusion,my best to you,sueThanks for the read and comments, of course. The conclusion should be available any minute now . . .
Can't stop now!
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