The musicians who serenade the stumbling, rambling men and women of Court, are the greatest servants of today. They bring out some of the most beautiful sounds one may hear, yet they blend in with the most abysmal scenery: the bricks of roads, the walls of buildings. Also, it's amazing how such an amazing sound fills such a large space and then disappears just as quickly as it came.
This microscopic view of Court's lovely performers is seen in all beauty.
The same quickness in which the music disappears is felt the same way when someone falls in love with a passerby and never sees them again. As I sit and ponder my next sentence in a hotel lobby in Tennessee, I look out at all the wonderful events taking place. After a few seconds, my entertainment is gone. These events will never return. The memories of them will soon be replaced with the next beautiful event.
How can something so wonderful, such as the strum of a mandolin or the hum of a violin, be so easily passed by? What do people miss everyday? It is freighting to think of what is missed. So much energy can be spent on such beautiful events only to be never viewed upon. Back in the hotel lobby, no one has seen me.
It can almost be said that beauty and depression are consistent with one another. Court's musicians will always be there for this reminder.
Disclaimer: When I was talking of sitting in the hotel lobby and how no one had noticed me, I was not trying to say I was a beautiful sight to see. I was just trying to shed light on how easy it was for everyone to pass by without noticing me in general.
Nice interpretation of people-watching. Really quick though, you say 'freighting,' but do you mean 'frightening?' (paragraph 4 after question 2)
ReplyDeleteYou're blog reminded me of this: http://tropist.wordpress.com/2007/04/09/worlds-greatest-violinist-plays-to-subway-crowd/
I think people sometimes like to love music, or other forms of expression/art, when it's convenient for them, myself not always excluded. With everything that happens in our lives, which our grand to us, sometimes we just don't think about pausing. Which is a shame.
I like what you say about 'beauty and depression,' but it's not exactly clear to me in this. Can you maybe give more specifics about passersby and the musicians? I think that would highlight your meaning. And maybe a little more introspection.
Oh my god, embarrassing grammar mistake. ARE not OUR. My bad.
DeleteI liked this look at what we see without actually "seeing" it. We go through our days so often unappreciative of all of the beauty surrounding us. Sometimes I'll walk down Court Street and suddenly realize how lovely the bricks look, and then I think about how I rarely actively think about that. I especially liked the analogy with someone passing by whom you never see again. That happens to me all the time. I never say anything, and then the person is gone forever.
ReplyDeleteVery nice. I think your melancholy take on the hobby of people watching is pretty Woolf-like. I would like to see some more elaboration on the depression aspect, though.
ReplyDelete"It can almost be said that beauty and depression are consistent with one another." This is the key. Work on this, Anthony.
ReplyDeleteSee if you can describe the scene on Court Street more originally, and maybe forget about the Tennessee stuff. In such a short piece, we don't need to jump around.
I've also wondered about buskers, and the ways in which their efforts seem so futile.
Wrote a poem about it once:
Its Watch
Nothing seems to pop
until a man in tan and hemp
vomits on the street: translucence
on brick, brick under this
now-apparent sky.
If I could scrawl the village deviance,
and turn my own to melody. . .
No. Such a plan withstands execution.
But the town heeds him like a reflex,
convulses once and reorders. It's a heap
of litter, memory, muddled
by an acid drop.
The pile embraces,
enfolds—yes, becomes!—
the burned spot.
The world looks up from its paper,
its watch.
He, undaunted,
wipes his face, unconscious
of a difference-making.
That streetlight considers his 'do.
Graffiti perceives.
Two squares of sidewalk vivify to accept
the nonchalant excrescence.
Over there a jingle rings its hearty
accompaniment. A subtle change
in weather.
Some busker with dimes
in a checkered hat chuckles,
shakes his head, begins to play
vainly, though frighteningly
well, a song that won't stick.