Life would be so much less without music. It is as much an emotion as it is a sound. That is to say, it is hard to – for me – to distinguish whether the music invokes the emotion, or the emotion attaches itself to the music. No matter the quantity of notes; be it a note in solicitude or an orchestra playing, the way in which it lands inside your being and – as though unnoticed – switches on the depths of ones soul, is truly divine.
I did – for many years – play music, though to say play music implies little of what it involves. For reasons unknown to me, or maybe best forgotten, I ceased playing at-all for ten years, and it is only now the notes have found me once again. Indeed such a gaggle and in such strange decorum. My friends in who’s company I have spent so many hours are back again, bringing with them a whole new shape.
Finding me afresh with nuance and old flames, they come in an abundance which had stopped when I ceased playing. Maybe that was the point. To stop to learn, to know, to live, to change to find. We as mortals live between hope and hopelessness; life and death; the what we have, what we want, and we can only dream of. Life is itself a dream of which we cannot wake up until the ending of it.
Each day I hope to capture some of the passing notes, and yet to do so, can be like keeping a bird in a cage. Like a bird that can only sing the same tune day after day. I have found that one must let notes free. If one is trained in the art of reading the dots, then one is chaining them to the wire, like a bird in a cage. Fly my friends, if it is only I that hear you, that is enough.