Kill-me-Croon

I took the train one Monday night never minding the flood of people joining in the rush. It was drizzling outside as crisp charges of light illuminate the dark sky. It was no cold to be out there that night. The city remained as it was . . . hot weather, bawling cars, infinite chatter. James Blunt's concert was at 8 pm at the Coliseum. I left home temporarily for this one. Left my books half-open, room's partially lit, the scent of sadness enveloping the room locked behind closed doors.

I was happy for a moment to hear hymns for lost souls played live. James Blunt made me feel better for a while. As I sat there at a dark spot where darkness seethed, the music entered my nerves and broke me into pieces. The atomized pieces of me were like the scene from the street few minutes before the rain: garland of yellow scallops falling gently into the air as small birds swoop into the descending petals; the birds trying to catch and save it from gravity.

James Blunt sang as if he was once in the hollows of the earth and that he knew everything. . .his music conveyed and crossed, probably, all human emotions. He wailed, laughed, made eccentric things like banging his head while playing the piano and erratic waltzing while strumming the guitar. He sang my favorite “I’ll take everything” like there’s no tomorrow. . .extending his left arm pointing to the vacuum in everyone’s spirit as he mellowed through the line in the chorus.

James Blunt made my night. It was a once in a lifetime experience to see him sing live at the Coliseum and to see myself mirrored before his songs. . .before everyone in the nameless crowd trying to digest a sad truth before us: that music is passion. . .and that passion couldn’t always come as easy with one’s life like in music and in any other art.

Lost Tune

Rush of cold wind pounds heavily on the glass window creating silent noises; the creaking of the dilapidated door, the rustling leaves, the tranquil sound of wind chimes and howls from stray cats. The fusion of these sounds reminds me of a lost tune, melody and lyrics which kept on playing round my mind albeit so soft and low like the sound of a breath. The song which left me imagining about the beauty of a sunset, the smell of moistened hay in the morning, the tiny ripples in the river caused by the breeze coming from the north.

You’re lying in that small hut. Tired and exhausted by the day’s work. You feel the cold wind enter the little openings on the wall soothe your burned skin. The night is silent and you could see the crescent moon and wonder if you could really sit on its tail and fish stars. A blurred sound comes out from an old radio. You could barely hear and decipher the lyrics but the melody resounded a deep thought that crossed boundaries. It broke your heart. A teardrop for a barren and void feeling flowed through the temple into the ear.

The song is being sung by the cold wind. I have just finished reading Irene Nemirovsky’s two-part novel. I leafed through the pages once more.

“Music is a demanding mistress. You can’t abandon her for four years. When you return to her, you find she’s gone.”

. . .Like a passing glint of a coin submerging in a murky water as it catches the last rays of light? Still, I said to myself that I will be her lover forever even in absence; even in abandonment.

When I was a little child I remember asking my grandmother about a virtuoso she’d known.

“What had happened with your uncle’s violin?”

“It was sold after he got sick and nothing could be spent for his medication. It was the saddest part. To let go of something which became a part of his life.”

“Could we still find it and buy it back?”

“Of course my child, but not now.”

"I have few pesos here. Would this be enough?

A smile made her eyes glitter for a moment.

"If it could only be that easy my child. But, you could always wish for it if you want."