What Would that Be Like?

Tonight, I should go and see five-hours’ worth of Wagner’s Ring of Nibelung.  A seed has been planted and I’ve been feeling the tendrils flailing about, looking for soil to grab ahold of all day.  But the day’s a salty, gravelled beach and I think this seed will die.

Last night I reconnected with a wonderful old friend whom I hadn’t seen in years.  For as long as I’ve known him he’s had a seat as a tuba player in the Hong Kong Philharmonic.   We’d lost touch and he’d reached out because he was here in town, with the orchestra, performing Wagner’s Ring. 

One always considers the road not traveled and certainly orchestral brass was never leading out from anywhere on my life’s map.  But anyone can appreciate the dedication to artistic mastery.  What would it be like if I solely devoted everything I had to my craft?  That’s an echo chamber as old as masturbation.  If you shut out all else and strove singularly for artistic perfection, what would that be like?

My friend knows.  And we discussed this over a chicken sandwich and no beer at a brewery.   He talked about what it’s like to simply work for hours trying to come in on a note quietly.  Wow. And he too, like all of us who age in spite of ourselves, has woken up at this moment in time and wonders precisely how it is he arrived here. 

The younger one has theatre practice. The older one would really like to go but has an obligation that seems to have grown in importance throughout the course of the day.  The Mrs. is long since booked out. And it’s not because I want to hear five hours of Wagner tonight, though that would be pleasant, I think; its not even because I want to be able to write my friend and say, “hey, you came is so softly!”; rather it feels like something a parent should orchestrate for his kids and that if he did it would be memorable, not for experience which would be a crap-shoot for any teen, but rather because whenever the Opera or the composer were mentioned in the future, as they would be, my children would have a fundamental family reference that would, as I imagine it, give them strength of character to ward off idiots, and it presses me all the harder because I know these moments are fleeting, and soon these children will be off and I will have no more powers of orchestration. 

I consider going myself.  It’s not my purpose.  The seed’s tendrils wither.  The night moves on.

Friday, 10/27/17