Sometimes it is nothing more than a few notes drifting through space that will take me entirely out of time; a stray phrase of music, lilting, evocative. Today it was only reminiscent, not even the same music. It simply recalled to mind the tune that moved me so deeply that is has taken up residence, forever, inside me in such a way that mere hints of it will slow my pace to attend the feelings it recalls.
In the dim and distant days over a decade gone, I was madly in love: with a story, wrought in film, rendered with haunting music and steeped in passion. It was like nothing I had ever seen before and it stirred something within me that has never gone to rest. I have always loved movies. They are not merely entertaining, they are important. I am limited by my sight, and thus I see the world in a particular, and perhaps even a singular way. I cannot perceive distance and depth the way that most people do, and so when stories are portrayed through a camera lens, they become level; without varying expanse, more familiar. Yet differences exist in color and shade, shape and pace which inform me about how other people see and brings me closer to them. I care about films, and I believe they can be great and beautiful lessons.
And though I might not have always been able to articulate this, I have always loved movies. But this, oh, this was the first time I was so enraptured by a film that I watched it constantly; every day, sometimes several times, for months on end. I recorded the audio of the entire film through the stereo so that when I was away from home I could listen to it and dream away…
The movie was The Piano. It captured my imagination utterly. It is visually sumptuous and emotionally engaging, but there is nothing as beautiful about it as the soundtrack. Michael Nyman wove tendrils of music seamlessly into a tale of displacement, isolation, and an unexpected ardor. He captures the mood and tenderness with such skill that it is almost as though the music was nurtured inside of one’s own heart; as though it had always lived there needing only a reminder it was there. It is haunting and solemn, lovely and dizzying.
And so I would sit at my own piano, with no training but the trail of my fingers across the keys and the attention of my ear, trying to recreate the music that had been awakened inside of me. I’d sit in front of the piano, gazing out the window and down the south slope of Cooper mountain, and drift away over the fields.
This morning, hearing a hint of something that reminded me of these songs absolutely transported me to that moment, perched on my bench, fumbling at first, then with greater confidence, recreating a feeling I was still just discovering. And it was glorious to discover it again.
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