He stands up slowly. The spotlight dwarfs him, making him a
solitary silhouette in a world of darkness. Each bow is frozen in the air,
poised above the strings. The spotlight softens and widens, revealing the pit
of musicians. Violins, violas, and cellos helplessly lie at the mercy of the
hands that hold them. They thirst for guidance. They long for gentle love to coax
a melody, sweet and pure, out of their willing souls. The potential for beauty
reverberates sharply around the massive room like an electrical shock. Suspense
is thick, blinking away sweat and fear, the musicians wait for their cue.
Once again the silhouette commands attention. Time slows to a
crawl. The spotlight forces the lone figure to trust that his music will appear
in the air, in the darkness. He is alone in the great hall. Caging him into the
solitary scene, the spotlight beats him into submission. Running down his back,
he feels a single bead of sweat defying his strict orders of courage. Yet, even
with his feelings of impending doom, the master of the melody raises his hands
with an ease that comes with repetition. The great event is mere seconds away.
One………….Two…………….Three……………Four; the hands gain courage with each beat.
The deafening first note raises the hair on the back of every
neck. Like a jet passing through the barrier of sound, the colossal sonic boom
seems to echo through the hall even after it has been chased away by the next
measure. The violins harmonize with perfect pitch. Each violin appears to be
playing itself. Musicians have faded away; the instruments take over and form a
dictatorship. No pitch unless it is perfect pitch, no note unless it is the
perfect note. The sorrow of each chime is humiliating and humbling. Like sweet
honey, the violins pick up the melody effortlessly. Swelling and fading,
swelling and fading, the violins waltz this dance to the death.
The violas take control of the undertones. The violins may be
dominating the tsunami, but the violas kill the survivors in the rip tide.
Swift and deadly, the violas grasp the hearts of the audience and torture them
into falling in love. Rosin wafts through the air at each abrupt collision of
string and bow. The staccato is hypnotizing. Clashes of blue and yellow explode
against the black horizon. Melting into one, the violins bow to the violas,
enticing them to join the fatal waltz. Each note is unique, a moment in time
caged and presented like a bouquet. Each stanza bursts into the present, and
then fades quickly into the past without a second chance at perfection.
Antagonizing each other in this melodious tug-of-war, the violins and violas
support this frail balance called music.
The cellos suddenly swoop into the fiasco like a powerful
explosion. Flirting with the melody, the cellos sway in and out of the way,
laying the foundation with pride and bold strength. Accepting the role with
grandeur, the cellos pick up the evolving sculpture and mold it into the
spherical reflection of beauty it was always fated to become. The low current
of the cellos moves effortlessly among the light pattering sunbeams that the
violins are scattering throughout the great room.
All of this the silhouette anticipates and prepares. He
stands, introverted by the massive floodlight, preparing each trill, catching
each note. Caught up in his enjoyment, he not only hears, but he lives the music. No longer is he singled
out in the auditorium. Instead, the entire world is engulfed into his light,
and his dream. He moves with the music. Directing with enthusiasm, he gives the
cellos their courage, the violas their majesty, and the violins their energy.
He whispers loving words into the darkness. He swells with the crescendos, he
floats with the pianissimos, and he antagonizes the fortissimos. This lone
figure, he is one with the beauty.
As the last note fades into silence, there is nothing but
empty air. The standing ovation is overdue, but it does not appear. His eyes
open slowly; a single tear rolls down his cheek and hits the stage with a
resounding crash. The music is over, the finale has been dealt.
They watch him from the door.
“A madman,” they mutter, “a raving lunatic.” The nurses shake
their heads as they pass his room. Medication is the answer, some of them
hypothesize. The doctors discuss solemnly, “If we just get the right combination
of drugs, maybe we can pull him out of his crazy fantasy world and back into
reality.” One by one they wander away. As they leave, the ragged conductor
sinks down onto the floor. He feels the cold concrete underneath him, and he
sighs. The lights start to go out one by one, it’s time for bed. As the last
light flickers and fades away, a small voice breaks the silence. Quietly, with
only the darkness as his witness, “I’m not crazy, I’m the only one who’s alive……I’m
the only one.”
