An Earful of Beauty
The sound filled the air gently. I heard it as soon as I turned the corner to walk the 8th Avenue tunnel. As soon as the music came, I was somewhere else in another place and, more importantly, in another time. This is new, I thought. The sound was so consuming, so enveloping and so tranquil. It seemed misplaced, but also perfectly situated. I walked slower than I usually do, when I race this tunnel to spend as little time as possible within its restrictive, suffocating tiled walls. Today I lingered and was drawn to the sound like a moth to a streetlight as twilight descends.
The sound was everywhere. I looked about to see who else it was affecting as profoundly as it was me. It was still early and quiet. The people were few and spaced apart in large gaps, like an assembly line in a factory whose days are numbered. As I walked, the beautiful sound became louder, vibrating in my ears.
The notes were so penetrating and beautiful, each painfully sad or endearingly tender. They came with a cylindrical hollow to them, a kind of yearning in each. One or another stretched without interruption, a longing of love spoken softly without an uttered word. Despite the beauty, the notes have sadness in them and I find they hypnotize me. I stop to listen, something I never do. Someone else stops and stands next to me, and then two more people. It is the kind of sound that forces you to stop and acknowledge it for its simplistic perfection. I am not sure at what point this occurs, but the sudden and familiar warmth of tears fills my eyes and my heart swells, until it is a welcome pain. As I listen, I am in many places, but I am not there in that subway tunnel.
I am outside a Buddhist temple in another century in Japan. I stand and listen to the sound. I sway in communion with each note. My kimono is covering my pale skin, it is cool to the touch, its satin softness at once restricting and freeing. My eyes remain lowered out of respect. The Zen-like tone of the sound is mesmerizing. I am overwhelmed by it. I stand outside and am humbled by my proximity to the sound.
I am in a jungle, thick with plant and wild life. In the distance, a tribe plays the same sounds. The sounds are carried on the thick leaves of the giant trees. Greens at all levels of saturation mix and mingle, forming a beautiful expanse. Each leaf transports the sound on its dewy shape, dawn’s moisture still visible. I sit, barefoot on rough ground, twigs and stones beneath my thin loincloth. My hands are busy and my mind on my work. I hear the sounds, but I am not as affected. It is a sad mating call, but I pay it no mind.
I am on in island, alone on a beach. My legs are crossed and I am deep in meditation. I am inhaling the salt scented air, each breath filling my lungs to capacity. In the horizon, the white-hot orange ball of the sun is peeking up, deciding if it is time to rise. The reflection of its rays glistens on the ocean’s surface creating prism-like angles of light skipping along its path to the shore. I chant OM and thank the universe and I am at peace.
I am back in 6th grade, where I was forced to take band and where, noticing the simplicity of the flute, I chose it as my own. I am in the middle of the band room, my instrument propped straight up on my knee waiting for direction from nutty Ms. Caruthers. She looks insane, but not in a scary way. Although I feel sympathy for her, I won’t show it. When the class revolts against her mid-year, making it impossible to learn, let alone speak, in that room, I will be a reluctant part of the uproar. We began that day and I lifted the flute to my face. I positioned it on my lips, my head automatically tilted to the opposite of it; my fingertips were poised to begin simple notes. I took a breath and released it into the instrument creating bits of music with my incapable hands. I was impressed.
I brought myself and my thoughts back to present day. I was in that tunnel on 8th Avenue and I was hot, but I was willing to endure it for a bit of this gift of sound. Its origin was so present. It was someone new, a stranger amongst us, playing his heart out. A thin Asian man, a bamboo flute at his lips, his eyes closed, his mind focused, playing for money, playing to entertain, playing to move the masses through another morning. His face is lined, wrinkled around the forehead and around his lips. The lines are not harsh and angry. Instead, like the very presence of this magical musician, his lines are soft, gentle. I quietly exam the instrument. Despite its smallness and simple design, it is powerfully magnificent. There are no wires or attachments to the tiny relic; an antique of music without a hint of modern intervention in its sound. It's made by nature, a bamboo stick, nothing more to it. It is just a simple bamboo, hallowed out, and softened on its surface by years of human hands. By the man’s knee is a blue bucket, the kind my mom had to mop the floors of the house, squeezing with her bare hands the cold, dirty water out of the mop head. There is a dollar in it and some change. It’s probably his own – a way to give a hint to passers-by.
The flutist seemed so misplaced in that sweltering oven of a tunnel. He seemed misplaced in our 21st century, in our times, in our location. He is Old World, for sure. He is a man of another era, when music like his was not only enjoyed, but also used to work by, to pray by, to love by, to convey feelings of angst and passion. He seems so happy and content to be there and to be heard. His simple khaki slacks and light green polo top would look better at a golf course than in a subway. Yet he seems undisturbed by his surroundings and undisturbed by his fans. He is insynch with his instrument. He is one with its sounds, as well.
I glance at my watch and realize I should get going. I stay a minute longer to try to memorize a bit of the song he is playing. I want the melody to remain long after I have separated myself from there. If someone asked me to give a title to the beautiful tune, I’d call it Tearful Good-byes at Sunset. To me it sounded like an elegant prancing of notes across a sheet of music. To me, it sounded like beauty in motion.
The sound was everywhere. I looked about to see who else it was affecting as profoundly as it was me. It was still early and quiet. The people were few and spaced apart in large gaps, like an assembly line in a factory whose days are numbered. As I walked, the beautiful sound became louder, vibrating in my ears.
The notes were so penetrating and beautiful, each painfully sad or endearingly tender. They came with a cylindrical hollow to them, a kind of yearning in each. One or another stretched without interruption, a longing of love spoken softly without an uttered word. Despite the beauty, the notes have sadness in them and I find they hypnotize me. I stop to listen, something I never do. Someone else stops and stands next to me, and then two more people. It is the kind of sound that forces you to stop and acknowledge it for its simplistic perfection. I am not sure at what point this occurs, but the sudden and familiar warmth of tears fills my eyes and my heart swells, until it is a welcome pain. As I listen, I am in many places, but I am not there in that subway tunnel.
I am outside a Buddhist temple in another century in Japan. I stand and listen to the sound. I sway in communion with each note. My kimono is covering my pale skin, it is cool to the touch, its satin softness at once restricting and freeing. My eyes remain lowered out of respect. The Zen-like tone of the sound is mesmerizing. I am overwhelmed by it. I stand outside and am humbled by my proximity to the sound.
I am in a jungle, thick with plant and wild life. In the distance, a tribe plays the same sounds. The sounds are carried on the thick leaves of the giant trees. Greens at all levels of saturation mix and mingle, forming a beautiful expanse. Each leaf transports the sound on its dewy shape, dawn’s moisture still visible. I sit, barefoot on rough ground, twigs and stones beneath my thin loincloth. My hands are busy and my mind on my work. I hear the sounds, but I am not as affected. It is a sad mating call, but I pay it no mind.
I am on in island, alone on a beach. My legs are crossed and I am deep in meditation. I am inhaling the salt scented air, each breath filling my lungs to capacity. In the horizon, the white-hot orange ball of the sun is peeking up, deciding if it is time to rise. The reflection of its rays glistens on the ocean’s surface creating prism-like angles of light skipping along its path to the shore. I chant OM and thank the universe and I am at peace.
I am back in 6th grade, where I was forced to take band and where, noticing the simplicity of the flute, I chose it as my own. I am in the middle of the band room, my instrument propped straight up on my knee waiting for direction from nutty Ms. Caruthers. She looks insane, but not in a scary way. Although I feel sympathy for her, I won’t show it. When the class revolts against her mid-year, making it impossible to learn, let alone speak, in that room, I will be a reluctant part of the uproar. We began that day and I lifted the flute to my face. I positioned it on my lips, my head automatically tilted to the opposite of it; my fingertips were poised to begin simple notes. I took a breath and released it into the instrument creating bits of music with my incapable hands. I was impressed.
I brought myself and my thoughts back to present day. I was in that tunnel on 8th Avenue and I was hot, but I was willing to endure it for a bit of this gift of sound. Its origin was so present. It was someone new, a stranger amongst us, playing his heart out. A thin Asian man, a bamboo flute at his lips, his eyes closed, his mind focused, playing for money, playing to entertain, playing to move the masses through another morning. His face is lined, wrinkled around the forehead and around his lips. The lines are not harsh and angry. Instead, like the very presence of this magical musician, his lines are soft, gentle. I quietly exam the instrument. Despite its smallness and simple design, it is powerfully magnificent. There are no wires or attachments to the tiny relic; an antique of music without a hint of modern intervention in its sound. It's made by nature, a bamboo stick, nothing more to it. It is just a simple bamboo, hallowed out, and softened on its surface by years of human hands. By the man’s knee is a blue bucket, the kind my mom had to mop the floors of the house, squeezing with her bare hands the cold, dirty water out of the mop head. There is a dollar in it and some change. It’s probably his own – a way to give a hint to passers-by.
The flutist seemed so misplaced in that sweltering oven of a tunnel. He seemed misplaced in our 21st century, in our times, in our location. He is Old World, for sure. He is a man of another era, when music like his was not only enjoyed, but also used to work by, to pray by, to love by, to convey feelings of angst and passion. He seems so happy and content to be there and to be heard. His simple khaki slacks and light green polo top would look better at a golf course than in a subway. Yet he seems undisturbed by his surroundings and undisturbed by his fans. He is insynch with his instrument. He is one with its sounds, as well.
I glance at my watch and realize I should get going. I stay a minute longer to try to memorize a bit of the song he is playing. I want the melody to remain long after I have separated myself from there. If someone asked me to give a title to the beautiful tune, I’d call it Tearful Good-byes at Sunset. To me it sounded like an elegant prancing of notes across a sheet of music. To me, it sounded like beauty in motion.
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