TendingToPreviousWrongs

Time really did go on. The exciting side of life never appealed to my greater senses. Perhaps growing up in a back country town with a population you could count with one hand had something to do with it. Leaving this town to achieve grander schemes never seized my mind for a day. Simplicity would be the word I would use to surmise my particular ambitions. For some reason the life of content has followed my every waking step. You would be correct to assume my life has been free of any disaster or tragedy. I don't think my poor soul could take anything more than spilled milk.  Alas, tragedy has yet to knock on my door. Since my graduation from the notorious High School of Forty-Two, I procured myself a job at the fairly new hardware store in town. Being in such a small town, I could roll over in my bed and find myself behind the register. A typical day would constitute the habitual opening of the store while the sun rose over the mountains. Customers were few and far between. But for some reason, which still escapes my understanding to this day, an old peculiar man would always visit at least three or four times a week to buy some nails and other odd things of sorts. Whenever I saw him twiddling his thumbs and sliding from aisle to aisle with the eyes of a two year old at a candy shop, my curiosity always stirred. Maybe he just had time to kill? After all, what else is there to do with time in this town but waste it? For myself, I tended to my books more than the register. It would usually take him a half hour till he finished his usual stroll through the aisles. He would then eventually find his way to my corner of the shop and begin idle chatter. On rare occasions, he would grace me with a story of when he was a ‘young’in’ akin to myself. His uncanny hunting trips, the boisterous tuba lessons, and his wild adventures through northern Asia; every story seemed to be better than the last. Thinking back on it, his stories would have probably been considered the highlights of my week. The exciting and unpredictable nature to his stories kept me entertained for hours. I thought of myself as more of a Listener than a Doer. After all, someone has to wait at home for these crazy characters. Who else would they tell their stories to? You would think living in a small town would mean you would know everyone and everything that happened, but not in my case.

***

It was just like any other Thursday before it. Another morning, another day to open the store. It was quiet, peaceful, and the sun was just peaking over those same mountains; it was normal. Except for the absence of that peculiar old man. It must have been at least two weeks since I last saw that smug grin. The air was still until she walked through the door. Her arms pushed against the light wooden door as her thin legs carried her inside. Her struggle prolonged to the point of causing me to put my book aside and proceed to assist her. She nodded and chuckled as she motioned me to back off. I cracked an awkward smile in hopes to hide my flushed cheeks. An hour passed while she roamed the store before she ended up in front of the register with nothing in hand. I proceeded to ask her if she needed help in finding anything. She chuckled again. She wanted to talk to me, apparently. I stood there in silence as she softly told me about her husband. Apparently, the peculiar man who came by three or four times a week was her husband. Was. He had passed two weeks ago. She found him in his old chair when she came home from grocery shopping two Wednesdays ago. I couldn't help but drop my stare to my shoes. Gone? Just when I was getting used to those twiddling thumbs and outrageous stories. His wife was so small, so old, yet she had this aura of peace and content I had yet to begin to acquire. She felt obligated to inform me of his departure. She just couldn't find the time and courage to visit me at the hardware store after the funeral. She said he never let a day go by without mentioning me. He would tell her about the hilarious stories he would tell me and how kind I was to hear an 'old snake rattle off.'  After a couple of hours of conversation and overtly long pauses, she slowly stood up, took a bow, and made her way out the door. Well, I would have lied if I said I wasn't sad. When all was said and done, I found myself buried in my book. Tears found their way in between the pages. Why did I feel such sorrow? Why was I moved to tears? I never found out why he came to the store to buy nails and other odd things of sorts. I never saw his wife again after that encounter, but what strikes me to my core to this very day is that I don't even remember their names. Time really does go on...

Fin.

In my previous post, I said that writing a story around a piece of music would end in failure. I was wrong. A song can inspire stories. As I listened to Clair de Lune, I couldn't help but write down this random story I thought up. No outlines, no criteria. Just pure inspiration from this song. This is the first time I have felt this way about a piece of music. The atmosphere it invokes...timeless. I suppose this is a prime example to the growth I am and still have yet to undergo. Musication is involved over one's entire life, not over four years.

Dear Readers, I bid you good April. May we meet again when the week of terror ends.  

FluctuatingSoundsThatSoothTheSoul

The appreciation for the musical arts is uniquely exclusive to the human race. Can an animal appreciate the sweet tones of Mozart? Can it be lulled into the realm of tranquil peace through the cool sounds of Nujabes? Both questions can be answered with a unanimous 'no.' Why is this gift of music so majestic? So mysterious? When the music begins my mind rests to a stop, nothing but the music remains. Sweet melodies that comfort the soul.

What still baffles me is the divers forms that music takes. From up-beat intensity to the slow, almost stand-still beat that resounds within. The wide strata that is contained within music all manage to force my hand to hit the replay button just to attain that feeling which seems to slip away as soon as the music ends. Looking back on my music library I can't help but grin; scrolling through the countless tunes, replaying them in my mind wondering how all these different songs speak to me in different ways, yet achieve the same goal: bringing me to the realm of tranquil. This place will never cease to capture my attention. The bright explosions of excitement followed by the soft walk by the creek; it all brings a feeling of depth, university, and a touch of euphoria. That unexplained feeling one experiences when he discovers a new masterpiece; it never fails. Till the day my life reaches its goal I am sure that my journey through music will not cease.

The brilliance that follows this hobby is almost unparalleled. Movies, video games, and even daily rests beat hollow without music accompanying its ramblings. A book can move a person to tears, but can it harbor the same sentiments that music complies to? One book can take months to arrive, yet a singular song can grant the instantaneous passage to the realm of tranquil. However, even though music is such a powerful mediator, it does not stand unblemished. For even the greatest pieces of music can wane to a flicker when one listens to it too often. Indeed, even this magnificent gift has its limitations. Simply listening to a small pool of songs can begin to fester want and unsatisfactory appeal. The human mind is fickle and desires new experiences, no matter how exquisite the quality of a song may be, it will fail to satisfy after perpetual instances. This very fact disturbs my soul to no end. Why must music lose its power after listening to it multiple times? Thankfully, a song can regain some of its original vigor through the passage of time, but it will never return to its former glory when it was first discovered.

This journey of music shall never reach its goal, for its goal does not exist. To find supreme satisfaction in music is to find a spring in a blazing fire. I am reminded of this deplorable fact in every occurrence. Music's overwhelming glory pales in comparison to the Master Composer. For music is a gift, but it is still the human that weaves its tapestry. Yes, anything made with mortal hands shall die by the fist of time. Songs that are considered 'classics' have apparently stood the test of this rigorous and deadly dimension, however, I beg to differ. No one sits down in their car and turns on their radio to find the station that plays their favorite Beethoven or Bach. On the contrary, they find the nearest deplorable station which only indulges in the perverse melodies of the abyss. We may call Mozart and the like classics in an attempt to preserve and heighten what we can only define as 'higher quality' music, but failure is the only mistress that will greet us.

Throughout my life, at it currently stands, I have fluctuated from the uninspired dribble to the haven of genius where I now reside. I wonder if in time, maybe in a half decade or so, will I look back on the music I listen to now and scoff at my current ignorance? I think not. My true love for the musical arts did not surface until I began my dangerous journey across the otaku realm. During this time I encountered magnificent songs containing a unique style that accompanies Japanese culture. While I was listening to these songs I realized that it wasn't the lyrics (I couldn't understand a word), but the actual music, the melody, which spoke to me and resonated with my soul. The beat of the drums, the strum of the guitar, the reverberation of the piano, the culmination of these instruments solidified my love for not only music in general, but the backbone of what IS music. The melody, the tempo, and the subtle tweaks of the highs and lows. I acquired an amazing gift: appreciation for the skill required to compose such profoundly marvelous sounds. As I continued to mature my passion for music grew exponentially. My love for Japanese music branched to soundtracks contained in anime and movies. As I watch movies and shows I always pay attention to every scene and every note that is played in the background. It became such an important aspect to my cinema experience that it started to judge my enjoyment of any work of film. The music must not overbear the scene and it also must not accompany the scene. It must DEFINE the scene. A car chase, a moment of eureka, the suffering of a character, all these scenes must be accompanied with music (I do acknowledge silence as a pseudo-proper form of music, as certain scenes are defined by silence). Soundtracks must be inspired by the story. If one were to write a story around a piece of music it would fail. One does not simply write music for general genres in hopes of proverbially 'hitting the jackpot.' The composer must step back and realize WHAT he is attempting to compose for in order to capture the essence of what the production is trying to accomplish. It has come to my present understanding that the soundtrack is the third most important step to making a fantastic piece of cinematic art. Obviously, the story and characters are infinitely important, but what is a good story without it being DEFINED by the music? I have viewed many outstanding pieces of cinema that are easily forgotten because of the lack of identity. What separates Interstellar's docking scene from the Prestige's ultimate plot twist? The MUSIC. Both scenes are equally intense, but are they equal when you consider the music? Absolutely not (subjectivity = maxed). The necessity of a soundtrack is almost non-existent. However, let me illustrate an example to better understand why I place soundtracks on such a high level.

You seat yourself in a restaurant famously known for its critically acclaimed lobster. You obviously order the lobster and eagerly await your meal. When the meal is served you are presented with a beautiful and delicious lobster, indeed, the rumors were true. You then realize that the lobster is naked. No sides, no drink, not even butter! Ah, you have experienced what is known as the 'Naked Lobster Nightmare.' You eat and finish your delicious lobster; it was worth every penny, but you sense the wasted potential. After the passage of several days, you end up at a different restaurant which is also known for its amazing lobster. When the lobster arrives it is complete with sides, a drink, and a generous portion of butter. Yes, this is the meal which is fully complete, and it is the meal you will remember more so than the naked lobster. Both lobsters were equal in taste, but the lobster with sides and butter tasted better. Why? Because it was DEFINED by the sides. Were the sides necessary? Not at all. But it made the second lobster all the more memorable. Such as it is with soundtracks. Never underestimate the power a soundtrack can bring to any cinematic production.

 It was during my late high school years when I started to acquire the taste for English music. For some odd reason it was difficult to find a genre I liked in particular. My love for Japanese music and cinematic soundtracks did not translate well into common English music. I found most popular English music to be tasteless and in some cases bitter. Rap and pop music seem to permeate and overbear every other genre. I almost gave up my endeavors to find decent English music that I could thoroughly enjoy until a close friend shared a piece of his musical collection. This happened during the time I was preparing for my occasional trip to my Homeland. Throughout the whole trip I listened to these couple of dozen tracks countless times whenever I found myself a moment of respite. I was completely entranced by these songs. It opened the small door of English music that I was searching for among the thousands presented to me. Thus began my expansion into music I could not only enjoy listening, but enjoy understanding. As the years went on I began to discover songs that I loved instantly and songs that I learned to love. The lyrics to songs became ever so important as I started to closely listen to what they were trying to say. I suppose a song is not only a way to entertain people, but provide a medium for one to express their innermost desires and thoughts. The songs that speak to me on the most personal of levels tend to relate to what I am experiencing during the time of listening to it. This did not start happening when I started to listen to English music. I received this same treatment whenever I encountered an intricately layered piece of instrumental music. Lyrics are not necessarily needed to convey one's thoughts, for a person can read the thoughts of the composer by simply listening to the tones the song echoes. However, during my expansion into English music I noticed this feeling recurring often whenever I found a song that spoke to my immediate circumstances.  Now it is the present, and I find myself coming full circle. My love for Japanese music, soundtracks, and English music fully encompass my love for the musical arts.

The art of sound is powerful. Sight and taste are infinitely important too, but hearing is a sense you exercise in every moment of consciousness. When someone takes an instrument and begins to express their mind's rhythm to the rest of the world it has the authority to soothe, to amaze. Never shall I grow tired of this wonderful hobby.

I close with this: Music is something to be enjoyed daily. Listen, feel, and thank.

Playlist 

1. "Aoi Shiori" By Galileo Galilei 

2. "Dearly Beloved" By Yoko Shimomura

3. "Won't Give Up" By Colony House