Listen

Itzhak Perlman is playing. My mind is wandering. I wish there was another one in the next room, right around the corner, but close enough to call to. Nights like these, as winter slowly creeps up, have a way of inducing a wistful melancholy in me, even on the best of my days. I can say I do not mind the evening's chill and embrace of a warm blanket, though a poor substitute for arms it is. I will sit and listen.

Music moves me. It always has. I wonder what strange magic sound creates in our brains that can so effect our hearts and feelings. Instead of processing words and information, content and message, I am simply becoming lost in the essence of the melody and all the other intricate harmonies and rhythms that surrounds that one lone plaintive and majestic voice of his violin. It takes me places.

I remember when I first heard this piece played by him. I sat between Joel and Andy, hushed and in the dark, breathless with awed reverie at the evocation of life, sorrow and ethos that this man wrung fluidly from his instrument. We ached together, wept and watched. All for sound. Each of us lost in our own thoughts as it took us to our own places.

Sentimental, I realize, but tonight is a night for such things. Maybe it is the music talking, but I feel warmer already, though wistful. I will wait.

And listen.

daemon