The Warning (Conclusion)
Posted: Friday, June 19, 2009
by Michael Ramzy
delusionthread.com
I can truthfully tell you the young man never went to another to have his music published. Of course, he did not believe his music was not good. If anything went through his head as he left the office that day it was that his music was good and was simply too different. Too passionate. If it was no good the publisher surely would have thrown him out before making the offer he did.
It really didn't matter, though. The young man knew his music was good. It was original, passionate, and stirred his heart even when he simply thought of it in his mind. It was just the wrong time. His time would come, he thought. One day, his time would come.
Did I tell you I have a Steinway? It is beautiful. I am looking at it now in this dim, empty light. The reflections of it thrown against the walls make it seem almost larger than life.
The candle is almost out so I must hurry now. Of course, I hope my handwriting is legible, if not the meaning of my words. I know there are some of you out there who will not understand, but music is a wonderful science. The most passionate art. There is a feeling which comes over me, overtakes me actually, when I sit and play . . .
The candle is almost out so I must hurry now. Of course, I hope my handwriting is legible, if not the meaning of my words. I know there are some of you out there who will not understand, but music is a wonderful science. The most passionate art. There is a feeling which comes over me, overtakes me actually, when I sit and play . . .
Did you also know music is a punishment? Did you? I didn't either until the years passed and . . . well, it is a punishment. Look it up in any dictionary, look up the word music and there it is, plain as day. Is that not odd? In my case, of course, it is not odd at all . . .
I must tell you another story. This is a very important story, so please pay attention. This is also the last story, I promise you. I have never broken a promise before, and I am much too old to start now. Suffice it to say this is a promise I will keep:
There was once a young man, a simple man who looked like any other. He was tall and gaunt. His grey hair seemed to blend well with the fire that lit his eyes. He had waited . . .
There was once a young man, a simple man who looked like any other. He was tall and gaunt. His grey hair seemed to blend well with the fire that lit his eyes. He had waited . . .
One day he gave a concert. He had hired the most able musicians in the city and with the help of an advertising firm had succeeded in filling the concert hall for the night of the performance. The program was unusual in that only original music, his music, was to be played. There was not much anticipation for the event and most of the people who attended did so more out of curiosity than anything else. It had been so long since original music had been written and played that they really did not know what to expect.
The hall filled quickly. The man watched from behind the curtain. He thought finally, finally he would be able to have his music played, finally the emotion and passion that had been with him all of these years would be let loose. Finally . . .
When the lights dimmed he walked proudly to the podium with his baton in hand. He thought of the endless years of struggle, the patience, the waiting, the agonizing waiting for this moment, this one moment in time that was by all rights his. This was his time, he thought, raising his baton. His, and all of those who had struggled and fought through years and endless, countless hours of self-doubt.
When the lights dimmed he walked proudly to the podium with his baton in hand. He thought of the endless years of struggle, the patience, the waiting, the agonizing waiting for this moment, this one moment in time that was by all rights his. This was his time, he thought, raising his baton. His, and all of those who had struggled and fought through years and endless, countless hours of self-doubt.
As his music, his music, played and rang throughout the hall, he felt a more profound emotion than he had that day years earlier in the publisher's office playing his concertos. More profound than that day years before that watching a man play music that was not his own. Playing it as if it was his own. This time, these moments that were his joy and triumph, was the culmination of years of asking questions all of his years: not why, but why not? Not never, but when?
The music finished triumphantly. The last notes echoed in the dark corners of the hall and died away slowly. The audience remained quiet, speechless. They had never heard music such as this before, never heard music as profound or triumphant. Since they had never heard it before, they didn't know if they should approve or condemn. They simply sat there, quiet. No applause, no condemnation. Nothing.
The music finished triumphantly. The last notes echoed in the dark corners of the hall and died away slowly. The audience remained quiet, speechless. They had never heard music such as this before, never heard music as profound or triumphant. Since they had never heard it before, they didn't know if they should approve or condemn. They simply sat there, quiet. No applause, no condemnation. Nothing.
I can tell you honestly what was going through my mind at that exact moment when the music stopped echoing throughout the hall. I thought to myself, they have never heard it before, they don't know if they like it. Not one of them had ever heard it before. Not one of them had the luxury of having the decision made for them, the decision of whether they liked it or not. They honestly didn't know what to think.
I turned from my position facing the orchestra, turned to face the sea that was upturned to the stage. I truly think they would have applauded if I had bowed or said some soothing words. I didn't. I couldn't. Instead, I simply stood straight and waited for their reply.
I turned from my position facing the orchestra, turned to face the sea that was upturned to the stage. I truly think they would have applauded if I had bowed or said some soothing words. I didn't. I couldn't. Instead, I simply stood straight and waited for their reply.
I looked into the eyes watching me and did not see understanding, did not see comprehension. I saw I had somehow broken a rule. I had dared to think I was good enough to play my own music. I had tempted fate by thinking I was good enough to create, and to enjoy my creation.
Of course, the hall emptied quickly. One of the bassoonists suggested we play some Mozart for an encore, just to hear some applause.
Of course, the hall emptied quickly. One of the bassoonists suggested we play some Mozart for an encore, just to hear some applause.
So here I am now, alone in a dark room writing this. My piano? I haven't touched it in years. I can't. I still feel the music in my heart. It still stirs me. No other music can do this but my own. I don't know any other music.
I know, I hope, some of you can understand this. Not many, but some. There is no other feeling that can possibly compare to the power of creation. When you know what you have made is good . . .
I know, I hope, some of you can understand this. Not many, but some. There is no other feeling that can possibly compare to the power of creation. When you know what you have made is good . . .
A warning? Of course, I said this was a warning.
I am now ninety-three years of age. It has been a long life, a very long life. I have only lived for one thing. Only one. My music. Nothing else, in all of those years, mattered to me.
I am now ninety-three years of age. It has been a long life, a very long life. I have only lived for one thing. Only one. My music. Nothing else, in all of those years, mattered to me.
Now I feel cold, and I am feeling a specific strain that comes from years of waiting . . .
In all of my years I have composed music. My music. I have played it once, only once in all of those years. Ninety-three years, for one solitary night of glory. And it was glory. Not for those who were there, not for those who didn't and couldn't possibly understand. Only for me.
In all of my years I have composed music. My music. I have played it once, only once in all of those years. Ninety-three years, for one solitary night of glory. And it was glory. Not for those who were there, not for those who didn't and couldn't possibly understand. Only for me.
Ninety-three years.
My warning is this: give in to your passion. You are weak when you do this, I know. I am the weakest of all. I let my passion carry me for my life. My passion was my life. It is easy to surrender to something that drives you, the hard part is finding that thing, that one thing, you are truly passionate about. Not many people these days are passionate, and very few reading this will understand what I am talking about.
My warning is this: give in to your passion. You are weak when you do this, I know. I am the weakest of all. I let my passion carry me for my life. My passion was my life. It is easy to surrender to something that drives you, the hard part is finding that thing, that one thing, you are truly passionate about. Not many people these days are passionate, and very few reading this will understand what I am talking about.
But there are some, I know, who understand. I know you're out there. I know . . . you must be.
For all of you who can hear and understand these words, for all of you who cry in the night until your heart breaks, who walk lonely empty streets until dawn wondering why, I can tell you only to surrender. Give in to your need. Without passion, you cannot live.
For all of you who can hear and understand these words, for all of you who cry in the night until your heart breaks, who walk lonely empty streets until dawn wondering why, I can tell you only to surrender. Give in to your need. Without passion, you cannot live.
Oh, I imagine you wonder . . . yes, you have a question. Was it worth it? Was it worth ninety-three years for one night of silent, solitary glory?
This Article has been viewed 178 times. (Not updated in real-time.)
Top-level comments on this article: (2 total)hi michael,i really enjoyed this article-it was different and intense and i most certainly could understand the emotions behind trying to compose something of your own, whether it be a story, a poem, music, a song, raising kids, etc.yes, it was overwhelmingly worth it!i have been listening to elton john since i was 17 in 1974 i think. over and over, through the years. i listen to him when i write. no one ever understood why i liked him. i could feel the emotions and feeling in both his music and taupin's words.the same with stevie knicks-my one wish, if i were to ever get one, would be to be her in concert one night. when i drank, i did impersonatte her with a black cape and a CD!great thoughts in this article, and put together in an interesting way.thanks for sharing,my best regards,sueThanks as always for reading and commenting.
This was a fascinating piece, Michael. I got a sense of Melville, Orwell and Poe! Nice job, what an imagination- awesome style, too.Thanks very much, Ken. You put me in some very lofty company. This story just came out in a rush, so much so I debated forever about splitting it up. I didn't want to lose the flow, but it came out ok. Thanks for the comments.
We want your comments! If you can read this, you don't have javascript enabled, so you can't use this comment system. Please enable javascript.