Rhapsody Posted June 8, 2003 Report Posted June 8, 2003 Oh, members of the Mighty Pen, forgive this Muse's lengthy absence. In a brief explanation, I was selected as one of six high-school juniors to participate in a nationwide writing contest, judged by AP English teachers. Hence, work on the following has engulfed what writing time I've had. Admittedly, I'm not nearly as prolific or spontaneous or talented as many of my fellow Pen members. I write because I love to write. I try, at least. This is, by far, the most expressive and personal piece I've ever written and yes, it was in a much-reduced rougher form, my application for the Pen. Note to Wyvern, I am female. Without further ado... Therapy in Sonata Form I. Carmen Cordis Prelude: Maestoso Hark! The bard arises Cloaked in velvet dark Taking the floor Taking his measure Merry guests all a-twitter Ensconced candles a-glitter Caged songbirds a-flitter Warble a tune! Thrush and lark Lyre and harp Strum the live wires And conjure forth chords From the lyre Chatter stills, laughter hushes All heed the wordless song Sheer melody quieting barons’ boasts And peasant gossip in one fell stroke Eyes turn to center stage Spotlighted; swathed in shade Dark lord, dark sage Is he mortal or god? Surely divine Wherefore that tragic gleam of the eye? But check your questions He speaks! Vibrant baritone Shaping syllables Shaping stories As story and song elide Magic is born; an irresistible tide Sweeping all aloft Listen hard, for troubadour’s tale swells but soft… Exposition: Vivace It was my way of unwinding from the daily pressure. Come home, drop backpack "thud" on my bedroom floor, set down violin case, and sprint over to my upright piano the color of melted cocoa, the sheen of varnish, covered by dusty manuscripts of scripted music, my niche of paradise. The hardback chair—my lofty throne from which I survey my realm: the chessboard keys of ivory and ebony, cluttered music books stacked haphazardly, scattered theory assignments, staff paper stuffed into various nooks and crannies—the half-formed progeny of my eccentric spurts of brilliance. Little box metronome standing on the corner, addled by time, almost as old as me. Has been clicking about a hundred clicks too fast for three years. I smile—the metronome’s incessant clicking harries the dogs at my instructor’s studio to no end. Twin black labs cringe beneath the coffee table until a sharp rebuke sends them out the door, tails tucked like expatriates. Oh, such memories await under that smooth planed cover concealing the keyboard. Lift the cover off by its polished brass knobs, switch on stand-up lamp, slump into the seat, not even a proper piano bench, and rip into the music. Rip apart the music, like ripping apart the day and this reality. Exhaust myself with these pounding fingers, small hands barely reaching past an octave, yet always stretching until the pain burns in my tendons and my pinkie feels like it will fall off. Poor pinkie; it feels dislocated. Such minute hands: delicately boned, blue veins barely visible, fingers short and slender—more suited to poising ink-dipped quills over parchment than spanning the scales of the keyboard. Apparently, they are perfect for the violin, my other musical interest; still, several Schumann’s, Rachmaninoff’s, even Beethoven’s piano solos remain beyond my reach. My brother, a former pianist three years my junior, sports bigger hands. Yet, he is content with his violin. The irony gods hate me. Development: Allegro con fuoco Start off with the Grieg Concerto. Brazen notes, minor keys, big disconcerting intervals: ninths, tenths, and fingers are screaming for release. This chaos, dissonant chords snarling, fingers scrabbling, feet working the squeaky pedals. The bass, this constant rumble of thunder in my head; the treble a flying falsetto, now trilling, now turning, like a bird in elaborate courtship flight, wings flashing jewel tones in the sun. The music seizes me; through it I, too, soar—but far from free. I am locked in rhythm, overpowering downbeats that explode in the hands and head. This movement, this energy ramming into the yielding keys. Let the tension in my shoulders slam into this stout instrument; let the frustration sear itself away in this flaming melody. This music rushes like wildfire from the pivotal fingers, up my arms, rocking my body, flushing my skin, boiling in my swaying head, and beyond; blasts of sound fulminate in the air, like static electricity, alive with its own scintillations. Agitato, ma non troppo Turbulence—a potent word. The Storm by Burgmuller contorts the soul as well as the fingers, but lifts me into ecstasy. I’m an inveterate performer of the piece. Fast forward several years and we arrive at one of my most hated manuscripts—the Chopin Prelude in C minor. A grand total of thirteen measures long and written completely in the bass clef, it represents depression at its deepest. The old pain remains terrible, and I find myself struggling not only with the notes but scrambling for a reason to reconcile myself with Mr. Chopin. As of now, my signature piece is Pieczonka’s Tarantella, a presto-paced piece incinerating my fingers while feeding the flame of my excitement. Though at first glance, its lime-green cover page and plethora of notes seems staggering, the eight pages whip by in less than three minutes and sticks stubbornly in one’s memory. I must thank my best friend for introducing me to that one. Now for the Mendelssohn Praeludium, so disturbing it reminds me of “Phantom of the Opera”. With its minor keys, odd intervals, and echoing quality, it literally raises the gooseflesh on one’s arms, if one can sustain the thrill through the frowning focus of sight-reading. Truly, these are pieces to burn calories with, work off excess energy or emotion, and then to clamber grumbling into bed. There’s no better medicine for insomnia. Exhaustion, sweat pearling my forehead, fingers warm from exertion, oblivious to the chill nip of the autumn air sieving through the drafty windows. Molto tranquillo Time to relax. Flow into Debussy or Beethoven. Oh yes, the Moonlight Sonata. Gently rhythmic, ostinato bass offset by the complementary undulations of the right hand. My bass blocked octaves are solid without much effort, my melody softly pulsing. My wrists are serpentine, supple—no edges to this music. These gorgeous accidentals ring like raindrops plashing into a puddle. This dark music stirs deep longing; it raises the goosebumps on my arms. Heavy eyelids droop, easing me into a natal darkness where sensation is the only reality. Blind, I pick my path among the keys. I negotiate tricky trails of sharps and flats. The music is palpable; it swells and envelops me in its embrace, its womb. Can one be born from sheer sound? Tears spring from the sheer beauty, hot trails that streak my face, silently trickling from beneath my closed lids, letting the piano speak more eloquently than I ever could. Pure rapture. Yet always the pain lurks. White-hot, cruel light that lacerates my tendons. It’s held at bay only by the unrelenting rhythm of broken chords wrenching down my digits, until I’m numb and the pain recedes to a dull throb. Those huge intervals that must be played, must be heard, beckon my pinkie. Thumb is the anchor; pinkie is the lifeline flung out, hopefully reaching its destination. Is the cast strong enough? Adagio cantabile Beauty is the word, music that triggers that dizzying warm feeling from the pit of the stomach. I refuse to be circumscribed to only Beethoven’s dark vision of beauty. Give me Bach’s pastoral masterpiece, Sheep May Safely Graze, whose divine harmonies lace this secular theme; indeed it is worthy of a full-fledged church organ and glee club. Broadway, too, inspires with Memories, simple and sad, an old favorite that lends itself so well to my hands, I can sing in time. Switch to the Impressionists—pastel gardens of Monet, dappled light of Renoir, and wistful Clair de Lune of Debussy. Two contemporary pieces establish themselves in my repertoire: Gerou’s pentatonic Prairie Winds—picture tumbleweeds and wind rippling through golden stalks of wheat—and Journey West, alternately powerful and poignant. All are testament to the relevance of beauty to the human heart. Animato Rampant energy: the hallmark of a caprice. Sprightly—yes—this is the word. Grieg’s Puck is delight to play, rambunctiously staccato, characteristic of its namesake—the indebted deity of Shakespeare’s Propsero in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Roar into Maple Leaf Rag, torture to the hands, but utterly addictive. Syncopation and chord progressions supply surprisingly facile read. Ragtime means jumping octaves, invectives from the agony in my fingers, and an inane grin plastered across my face as I rip gleefully through. The Rondo Alla Turca is quite a different story—a piece I carry a personal vendetta with. I have a love-hate relationship with Mr. Mozart, no doubt enhanced by “Amadeus”, where Mozart’s effusive laughter alternately tickles and dismays me. Whereas quick treble lines suit me, presto-paced octave-length bass rolled chords do not. Hence, we have a problem, which is rapidly resolved by scrapping Sir Wolfgang and opening the frayed leaves of Bartok’s Grasshopper’s Wedding. High triplets and syncopated bass bring nostalgia for the countryside. Perhaps it’s the theme—constantly changing, but never losing its essential melody. Certainly, it’s enjoyable, but simultaneously piques myriad emotions I cannot begin to define. Physical effects include a tightening of the chest, an ache behind the eyes, a perpetual sad smile. I have yet to understand why. Lento Grave Music makes me sad, particularly piano music, though eliciting a vast spectrum of emotions, inevitably leaves me bereft. “Bereft of what?” I ask myself. “Whatever’s behind this music, whatever inspired it”—love, fever, experimentation—all these diaphanous abstractions that never satisfy curiosity. Then, there’s the opposite view: music relieves sadness. Whenever the Mavericks lose, my grades plummet, a best friend moves, summer ends, or my parents fight, there’s always the panacea of music—mournful music. Beethoven’s Pathetique stirs intensity that lingers atop those ephemeral chords, buttressed by a solid denouement that forces me to swallow hard before flipping back to the beginning and starting again. Few other pieces have the combination of fortitude and tenderness that so moves me. Satie’s Gymnopedie and Rebikov’s Valse Melancolique draw similar responses because of their simplicity and grace. Gymnopedie I first encountered in a computer game (old school Oregon Trail) and fell in love, while my best friend performed Rebikov for me after some cajoling (for I loathe waltzes). Strangely, I nurture a love for Oriental pieces, reveling particularly on a simple version of Shangri-la from Milton’s Lost Horizon. It’s a distant connection to my heritage. As an American-born Chinese, I’ve seen antique heirlooms of gilt and tasseled Burmese harps, have witnessed performers in saris and longyis and elaborate headdresses pluck exotic melodies from unidentified instruments, have heard a Burmese Madonna sing live, but nothing ever strikes home quite so much as playing a piece yourself. Shangri-la, with its peculiar sixths and Asian rhythms, alienates me further. It sounds quaint, but the chords don’t seem to fit the hand. Honestly, it sends shivers up my spine and I’m uncomfortable playing it; that in itself is reason enough for grief. Cadenza: Brilliante End with my favourite: Pachelbel, the jazz version. It’s my preference to first dazzle audiences with, an ingenious twist on an orchestral classic. Tears welling at the slow intro, whipping myself into a frenzy with the unrelenting runs of the cadenza section, crouch close to dancing fingers at delicate phrase played high in the treble, and come battering home, ending on fortissimo grandiose chords. All of it woven together in a round, familiar repeated melodies transforming like gossamer-winged butterflies into something hauntingly different. Six pages of bliss, only enhanced by my fanaticism. Five prison bars confine me, the unyielding bars of the staff. Dark spheres of note-heads weigh me down like leaden anchors, shackled to my feet. The glories of music, lifting me to heavenly heights and plunging me into gloomy Hades. It will be the death of me. Still I cannot get enough. Recapitulation: A tempo, expressivo But Mom can. She's had it with my pounding, my wayward striking, afraid I'll either break the keys or my hands. Banished to my room for another endless night of homework. Glaring at mother, wiping sweaty palms on jeans, jerking the smoothly-planed cover back over the warm glowing keys, leaving fingerprints on the brazen knobs, clapping shut dog-earred volumes of musical text, switching off incandescent lamp, skulking back into the real world. The world of school, world of work. Noisy, noisy, noisy. White noise and incessant jabbering, rustle of paper and scribbling of pencils. My trembling hands, once again subject to numbing cold, picking up pencils, paper, homework. My heart still beating in time to the music felt in my heart, those lingering cadences. I will not be denied. Notebook paper bearings the stigma of algebra problems now are blessed with my poetic scribblings in the margin. Potential song lyrics. Where is my stash of blank staff paper? Let the siren now play the muse; let the keys of inspiration unlock my untapped potential. Let poetry and music merge, let it crystallize into yet another priceless gem to be inset into Calliope’s crown. Yet—I turn back to those pesky numbers—algebra comes first. I gather pencils, paper, calculator…and portable CD player. Yes, time for schoolwork, but only with maestro-god Yanni ringing in my ears. Coda: Mysterioso The hypnotist checks his voice A slight smile gracing His face His spell is woven His tale is done Fragments yet echo in the banquet hall Listeners still noosed in his thrall But slowly they awake Dreams drugging their gaze Bemused—they glance around—ascertaining their assumptions In the mirror of their comrades’ glazed eyes Their truths now twisted An irreconcilable knot lodged in their hearts Forgotten, as they resurface to reality, to play their parts In the drama that Time Ensnared unwittingly in song and rhyme Sated, Orpheus stashes away his lyre His deed perfected Not a soul neglected His message selected Accepted or rejected Slowly, he extends a bow to his king Then melts into shadow; a phantom on the wing Going—silent—as he came To wander the world on his crusade Bearing mine or your name Or perhaps both are the same?
Ayshela Posted June 9, 2003 Report Posted June 9, 2003 (smiles speechlessly and turns the "page", music echoing in memory)
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