09.11.09

Sounds, Etc.

Posted in 2009 Medley at 3:44 pm by Miracle ♪♫

(Music, The Street Where I Live, and My Mind’s Coffee Residue)

Proust regarded habit as an annihilating force which suppresses the originality and even the awareness of one’s perception. And since it was not a habit of mine to walk down the street where I lived, being laptopless and locating a nearby internet café drove me to stroll this fairly peaceful street – in terms of traffic – which visitors always mistake for a road inside a subdivision even though it is a mere extension of Dipolog’s main road.

Notwithstanding the church music emanating from the cathedral which is erected in the heart of the city, the same which divides Rizal Avenue from Rizal Avenue Extension, I live in a musical street. I cannot say this with too much pride however. One of our neighbors hosts rock band rehearsals whose rock wars with my Rach, another neighbor boasts of a videoke station (lonely rivers flow, to the say, to the say… I’ll be coming home, wait for may, and all that stuff), while a brass band practicing funeral marches to Sousas plays on in another home where a bandmaster lives. (My uncle who lives next door has hearing problems. So does my dad. Go figure.)

There was nevertheless one morning when nobody felt like practicing, and that was when I went out our gate in search of that internet café. That was when I heard the unsung tutti of my neighborhood: Audible sounds but which were like Chopin’s music to a violinist – less significant than Paganini’s since Paganini provided a striking and attention-grabbing world to the violin repertoire, whereas Chopin composed steadfastly for the piano. And I was that violinist at that moment who suddenly took notice of another kind of music because she was in love with the pianist; the pianist this time was the candidness of the moment which performed sounds that were always present but were obscured in a more powerful oblivion.

The diapason of our gate hinge signified the “A” of the oboe which the entire orchestra subjected to, and other A’s wavered as the atmosphere’s instrumentalists tried to match its precision. I closed the gate behind me. The orchestra was tuned – or so I thought. Mischievous percussionists weren’t done conditioning their instruments; the bato lata of neighborhood children rattled along with the hammers of carpenters from a nearby construction. Nevertheless, the conductor had the last tap and silence was observed for a moment.

What came next astounded me. Vehicles passing through an intersecting road blew their horns in greeting – or warning, but these were no ordinary horns, to me at least. I do not know how or why, but they emitted the eight opening notes of Dvorak’s Cello Concerto. The notes and tempo were exact and so were the rhythmic intervals! I wanted to grab the next passerby and exclaim hysterically, “Did you hear that?!” But I know I would have been thought insane and be questioned with a “Vor-what?! Vor-who?” I stood dumbfounded for a period of time until I realized that the orchestra decided to abandon Dvorak for another unsung symphony along with the secret choreography of the carpenters, the children on the street, the few honking vehicles, and the candid street population.

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Is it right to suppose that the universe already contains all musical possibilities and the artist only has to be intent to extract what he hears from what is given him by the universe?

Is composing, like any other art, really creating something out of nothing? Or are we merely borrowing, selecting, and gathering from the universe (what we deem the choicest berries from a coffee plant, and then roast them to the perfect bronze, grind them, add sweeteners and creamers to suit our taste and satisfy or disturb the senses)? If so, is keenness to our universe the primal requirement to being an artist? Would this supposition humble the artist into acknowledging that only One has created something out of nothing?

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