| TED SPEAKS...ABOUT WORDS AND MUSIC |
| MY LIFE AS A SYMPHONY. |
Gustav Mahler said that a symphony should contain "the world.” And indeed, when you listen to those Olympic symphonic achievements of his, you can understand what the composer had in mind.
Want to hear what "the world" sounds like set to music? Listen to Mahler's Third Symphony. It contains six (count them, six!) movements. The first movement alone is a world unto itself, lasting a half hour, which is longer than many conventional symphonies in their entirety. The last movement is equally gargantuan, clocking in at about 25 minutes, and so powerful it takes one’s breath away. Nestled between these two musical columns are four shorter movements, two of them vocal. In addition to the titanic orchestral forces Mahler usually employs, he throws in a mezzo soprano, a women's chorus, a boy's choir, bells, snare drums, sounds of nature, sounds of war, birth, tribulation, ecstasy, redemption—everything you've ever wanted to hear in a major work but were afraid to imagine.
Would that I could write the way Mahler composed!
Most of the masterpieces for which Mahler is remembered, he created during the summer months at his lakeside retreat, where he enjoyed time off from his hectic conducting schedule. That, dear reader, is the sort of power vacation I dream of. Unlike some writers, I don’t need a cabin in the woods to kick start the creative process. For me, the garden spot of the mind and soul has always been right here at home. (It also happens to be the only vacation I can afford.)
One of the more gracious perks of working for the government is the amount of paid annual leave one earns after so many years of service. In my case, that translates into five weeks of vacation, spread out throughout the year. Sounds mighty sweet, doesn’t it! What I don’t use in one year, I can carry over into the next. In theory, at least. My appetite for leisure being what it is, saving free time for later is like staring at a pizza for a year and forcing myself not to devour it all at once. As if!
Obviously, I’m grateful for any paid vacation my job offers me. Having a job at all these days is a blessing. But after banging away at the same blessing for over a quarter of a century, I need more than an occasional week or two to satisfy me.
I think of the time I spend waiting for a vacation to get here, the way it looms so large on my mind’s radar the closer it comes. And how that billowing mass of expectation just sorta burns away, dissipates once I’m inside it, much like the fog here on the Central Coast. So too, the deluge of personal accomplishment I envision from afar feels more like a trickle in real time, no matter how much effort I pour into my various writing projects. On a musical compatibility scale, a typical sabbatical places closer to a divertimento, if that, than a symphony. Then again, seeing how some barely make it past the pre-concert warm-up, I reckon a divertimento ain’t too shabby a deal. Heck, a mere bagatelle at home has to be better than the same dull opera at work. No matter, once it’s come and gone, the most successful vacation feels like a zero tacked onto the end of a very long number.
I’m not saying that my personal time is all vexation without representation. I believe in enjoying life and smelling the coffee (or the pizza, as the case may be). And you can believe that I do plenty of sniffing and stretching and scratching and...well, you know, all that good stuff an average dude likes to do when he's home. A week away from work, and my calloused hands soften, cuts and hangnails heal themselves, and my back finally stops aching. Plus, I save gas (the kind I use to drive to work, that is). I can lounge around all day in the same clothes I slept in, catch up on my reading, watch a few good movies. And of course, I get to spend quality time with my wife. She loves having me home full time, my crude, slovenly ways notwithstanding. What’s more, she respects my creative freedom and leaves me alone to write. Very supportive! I tell ya, life is good.
Why, then, must I qualify that goodness in terms of creativity? Or base the success of an at-home vacation on what I’ve produced?
Maybe it’s because I feel that, like Mahler, I should have something significant to show for myself, to redeem my otherwise unremarkable existence here on Earth. As busy as Mahler was throughout the year, he found time to commune with his thoughts, with nature, with God. The man embraced life with a passion so profound, his heart could barely contain it. I know that because that passion is contained in his music. And because his music has taught me, taught all receptive listeners, to love life in transcendent ways that would not have been possible had Mahler kept that passion to himself. The forces that compelled him and other musical heavyweights to compose, in turn, inspire and energize the writer in me, albeit on a less ambitious scale.
Personal pleasures have their place. But a man cannot live by pizza alone...not if he’s on a mission.
I know I would enjoy a vacation a lot more if I weren’t overly conscious of that infernal clock ticking in my head, louder and louder the closer I come to the end of it. I’m reminded of Mahler’s arrhythmic heartbeat, the very presentiment of death that haunted the composer for years, and how he incorporated that syncopation into the opening movement of his Ninth Symphony. There’s also the horrific tic-toc-tic-toc-PANG! of midnight, contained in Prokofiev’s Cinderella, which makes the ballet sound more like a tragedy than a fairy tale. Indeed, it would be tragic if the story ended there.
There’s only one way I’ve discovered that can slow that clock down, or block it out altogether. And that is through music. If a picture is worth a thousand words, then music is surely worth a million pictures. Mahler said a symphony should contain the world,. Well, I think a personal vacation should also.
One of my pet indulgences, other than eating, is assimilating new classical recordings into my music library. My vinyl collection alone, dating back to my early teens and twenties, would rival that of a small radio station. But since the advent of the CD, my library has grown exponentially. So have my musical tastes. In addition to my store-bought acquisitions, I’ve amassed a king’s ransom in CD’s from our local libraries. (These “extended loans,” as I like to think of them, I’ve copied solely for my personal use). I can’t begin to tell you the fantastical finds I’ve carted home from my various expeditions: recordings I’d spent years searching for; others I didn’t know I wanted till I chanced upon them; music that was unfamiliar to me, composers I hadn’t heard of before. Ah, the thrill of the hunt! You should see how excited I get, like a kid on Christmas morning, pulling all these goodies out of my sacks to show my wife.
Legitimate online music sites have opened up yet another musical galaxy for me to explore. In the last couple of years, I’ve downloaded and burned hundreds of new files without ever leaving my room. Amazing! Plus, I’ve got some 40 gigabytes of material stored on my computer’s hard drive, which I can listen to directly while I’m working at my desk. And it’s still growing.
I assure you, the music I collect doesn’t sit in a closet somewhere gathering dust and boring itself to death. It engages me daily on the deepest, most personal level. It might take me years to plow through my entire repertoire. Sure, I’m partial. Certain composers, styles, genres, etc. tend to engage me more on a given day than others. Depends on what phase I’m going through. For me, choosing the right music is more critical than deciding what clothes to wear. (Anyone who sees the way I dress can attest to that.) But I do get around to consuming most everything I’ve got...eventually.
Does it really matter what I listen to? You bet it matters! Music isn’t just a habit, like dope or caffeine. It’s more than a cluster of sounds to fill the space between my ears. Great music has weight. It has distinction. It has a reason for being. Music is the epitome of order and perfect balance, a refuge from the mindless clamor around me. Music nourishes me, renews me, quickens my senses, defines who I am and where I long to be, makes me excited I’m alive. Music is love. Music is power. Music is wealth.
Equally rich is the sense of fulfillment I derive from it. I marvel at how a masterpiece, once planted, makes itself at home in my mind and continues to inspire me long after I’m done listening to it. The way it blossoms and reveals its most profound secrets behind my back—much the way a garden bears its best fruit when no one’s observing it. I therefore relish what too few people in this age of sensory overload seem to appreciate: the freedom to abstain, to switch the player off and savor the silence. Because silence too, you see, is a part of the listening experience. Sure, I love music, but I’m not going to go into convulsions if it isn’t pumped into my skull 25 hours a day.
You may wonder why anyone as richly endowed as I am needs more music? Surely, I must have more than enough to last a lifetime, do I not? Well, what if I do? Who among us doesn't have more than enough dull jobs to perform? More than enough bills to pay? More than enough obligations to meet? More than enough unreasonable situations (and people) to contend with? More than enough stress, frustration, injustice. heartache, and all manner of bland, irritating nonsense (you can fill in your own blanks) to last him several lifetimes?
The way I see it, life is fraught with excess. The demands it makes on us are extreme. Why, then, should a person reward himself in moderation? How can one hope to level life’s playing field if he exercises restraint in the one pleasure that satisfies him as no common earthly indulgence ever could? Oh, no! No more music for me, thank you! I'm stuffed. Mustn't overdo it. Here, take some of this music away; I don't need anymore. Too much gratification will spoil my figure. I'm going to have to put in 20 hours of overtime every week for the next 8-12 years to work it off. Yeah, let’s hear it for moderation!
It’s the same with any creative undertaking wherein someone finds purpose and fulfillment. Could be acting, sculpting, painting landscapes, designing birdhouses, playing the ukelele—whatever sets a man on fire and (hopefully) enriches those who’ve been touched by his passion. For all we know, it could be a symphony struggling to be born. Or a novel demanding to be written.
Extraordinary achievements require extraordinary commitment, however unrealistic that may prove in the practical 9-5 realm. It’s crazy to think that anyone thus driven can be governed by a routine, much less placated by the insipid pleasures more sensible folks settle for. A person who dreams and strives outside the lines must seek his own reward. ‘Cause there sure as heck ain’t no one, this side of Eternity, gonna provide it for him.
Conventional wisdom be damned. I say that my vacation, like a symphony, should contain the world. Nothing less will satisfy me. Embracing that world is easy. Making it fit inside the old one: Ay, now, there’s the rub!
Back to TED SPEAKS