By Phillip Hernandez
Music inflames temperament.
~Jim Morrison
One of my closest friends, Adrian, made me a mixed CD of songs after I had a harsh breakup with a girl. Each song was meant to summarize points of my life, and the feelings and exchanges I'd had with different girls. He had written some not-so-kind things about her on the CD with pink marker, and it made me smile. Smiling with sincerity was difficult for me then. I spent my days hiding away in the practice rooms of the music center and skipping classes with my friends. I had become so numb that I could hardly even feel, let alone pretend to feel. Adrian's mixed CD was a temporary release.
Music inflames temperament.
~Jim Morrison
One of my closest friends, Adrian, made me a mixed CD of songs after I had a harsh breakup with a girl. Each song was meant to summarize points of my life, and the feelings and exchanges I'd had with different girls. He had written some not-so-kind things about her on the CD with pink marker, and it made me smile. Smiling with sincerity was difficult for me then. I spent my days hiding away in the practice rooms of the music center and skipping classes with my friends. I had become so numb that I could hardly even feel, let alone pretend to feel. Adrian's mixed CD was a temporary release.
At the end of my senior year in high school, I spent the majority of my time continuing to try to escape. That's when I fell in love again. Her black and white keys were smooth, and the mahogany body was beautiful. I would occasionally skip English class to meet "my love" in the theater. My understanding English teacher would spot me through the windows, sitting at the eight-foot Steinway grand piano in the orchestra pit. He'd smile and wave.
I had music theory class at eight o'clock every morning. It was my science, my philosophy, and my escape. Every day after class, I felt like I had accomplished something. My other classes felt like child's play compared to music theory. Transposing keys, figuring out major thirds and chords, and remembering to hold my fermatas were a completely different feeling. I had been playing piano and guitar for years, but I never really understood them until I learned theory.
At the end of the year, Flan Man, what we called our music theory teacher, asked me to meet him in his office. I had this overwhelming feeling that I had done something wrong, like I had cheated on homework or failed the exam.
"PHILLIPE... AIR-NANDESS!!" Flan Man always greeted me with a handshake and his crazy smile. "Phil, remind me where you are heading off to school next year."
"JMU," I answered. "I plan on doing the business program there... or maybe something with law."
"Listen. I hear you every morning practicing on the piano. You've really got something. A certain je ne sais quoi!" He was always a little over the top, but he wouldn't have been a very good conductor if he wasn't so quirky. "Just promise me, whatever you do with your life, you keep music close by. Keep practicing some theory. I wouldn't want to see your talents go to waste." I just nodded and he showed me the A I got on the final exam. I never walked into the music room again.
There I was, barely eighteen, and deep in my heart, I could feel that shadow of emptiness pressing my shoulders down. Flan Man's words had thrown me a curve ball. It was the epiphany I had been waiting for, and all it took was someone else telling me I was good at something.
The first time I ever snuck into the theater and unveiled the piano, I felt relief. I felt relief from my failed relationship, relief from the fear of leaving high school, relief from my own complacency. There is a sensation that overwhelms me when I touch the keys of a piano. It's as if my feelings transcend my physical body and are released through song; the notes on each page are the ups and downs of my own emotions. And now, thanks to my teacher, I realized that music had become my purest passion.
I had music theory class at eight o'clock every morning. It was my science, my philosophy, and my escape. Every day after class, I felt like I had accomplished something. My other classes felt like child's play compared to music theory. Transposing keys, figuring out major thirds and chords, and remembering to hold my fermatas were a completely different feeling. I had been playing piano and guitar for years, but I never really understood them until I learned theory.
At the end of the year, Flan Man, what we called our music theory teacher, asked me to meet him in his office. I had this overwhelming feeling that I had done something wrong, like I had cheated on homework or failed the exam.
"PHILLIPE... AIR-NANDESS!!" Flan Man always greeted me with a handshake and his crazy smile. "Phil, remind me where you are heading off to school next year."
"JMU," I answered. "I plan on doing the business program there... or maybe something with law."
"Listen. I hear you every morning practicing on the piano. You've really got something. A certain je ne sais quoi!" He was always a little over the top, but he wouldn't have been a very good conductor if he wasn't so quirky. "Just promise me, whatever you do with your life, you keep music close by. Keep practicing some theory. I wouldn't want to see your talents go to waste." I just nodded and he showed me the A I got on the final exam. I never walked into the music room again.
There I was, barely eighteen, and deep in my heart, I could feel that shadow of emptiness pressing my shoulders down. Flan Man's words had thrown me a curve ball. It was the epiphany I had been waiting for, and all it took was someone else telling me I was good at something.
The first time I ever snuck into the theater and unveiled the piano, I felt relief. I felt relief from my failed relationship, relief from the fear of leaving high school, relief from my own complacency. There is a sensation that overwhelms me when I touch the keys of a piano. It's as if my feelings transcend my physical body and are released through song; the notes on each page are the ups and downs of my own emotions. And now, thanks to my teacher, I realized that music had become my purest passion.
http://www.chickensoup.com
Комментариев нет:
Отправить комментарий