Pieces of poultry
The night was cold and dark , the wind strong and harsh pressing against his back and for a moment he entertained the thought that some divine force was watching and smiling, perhaps even encouraging him.
Encouraging the tendencies that drove him, muffling the voices inside his head that asked what he was doing.
He was beginning to transcend into the setting and situation, begging to embrace his role like an instrument in an orchestra, each working in different ways yet still all part of the same song and only together do they create orchestral music.
Him the same as the violinist who has never played in the orchestra before, playing alone he understand solely the violin and the music he plays, in his mind he cannot fathom what it would be like to play in the orchestra and the process of a variety of sounds coming together.
Yet upon the incorporation the violinist understand that it is no different than the music he makes alone. The violinist does not appease the orchestra; rather it is the orchestra that calls upon the violin and all the instruments of the orchestra calling upon each other, working to each other’s strengths and weaknesses this is what creates the bountiful flavour of the orchestra.
It is then that the violinist understands what it means to play in an orchestra. One may listen to orchestral music and perhaps it has even inspired him or her to take up an instrument of their liking. Yet this does not offer them the same insight that the violinist in the orchestra has.
They can imagine, maybe they play pieces from their favourite orchestral movements, perhaps they even go as far as playing along with the recording of an orchestra, entertaining the thought of what it would be like to play with the harps and drums and flutes, yet regardless of their manifestation they can never have the same insight as that the violinist who actually plays in the orchestra, who makes it a reality.
And if it is not that reality, then it never will be and the fruitions of it will never come to ripen in the head of the pretender, because if the tape stops, it’s over.
Copyright © chriss todd | Year Posted 2014
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