something real

I made the mistake of going back in this diary to read a few entires from here and there in my life …

I am almost a stranger to myself.  Wow.

As I sat in the music school lobby, softly plucking my viola strings and scribbling down fingerings as I thought of them, a sister of a student of mine sat nearby playing some sort of … game … on her iphone (I think that’s what it was).  She had named a bunch of little creatures and was doing various things to them, like making them sit on an island, or putting them underwater … and it was completely inane.  I watched her going at it for a while, then got depressed by the very thought of all that time and energy being sucked into the litte electronic device in her hands.  I turned back to the Tchaikovsky part sprawling over my knees.

Today U passed me in the lobby as I sat there (waiting for someone).  He said, "I got your phone message – thanks – what book was it that you were reading?"

(I had called him the day I finished "The Elegance of the Hedgehog," leaving a message on his answering machine that said simply, "I’ve finished reading a book that had me thinking of you all the way through it.  In fact, it said ‘Call U. Call U.  Call U.’ the whole time, so I’m just obeying the book.")

I told him the book’s title, then described just one aspect of it.  I said, "There’s this concierge who feels she has to hide from everyone what a curious autodidact she is – and a Japanese gentlemen meets her, sees through her facade, and the two of them begin to share the beauty they see with each other."  I looked straight into U’s eyes and said, fully conscious of it being ten? nine? years since that theory lesson that sort of changed everything: "That is why I thought of you.  Beauty makes me think of you."

After a wave of humour passed over his face, and his eyes looked questioningly back, I said, "What I mean is that when I see or hear beautiful things, you’re the person I think of who might want to see or hear them, too – who might actually care."

"Well," he said, …

But it didn’t turn into buffoonery.  I gazed at him levelly and for perhaps the first time, felt the gift of the total lack of pretense over a sustained period of normal, measurable time (as opposed to the searing connection that seems to happen outside of time).  For a moment we just looked at each other, half-smiling.  Then we talked of other things.

I feel unafraid of this now because I am, as it were, beyond it.

In the light of eternity, being true with this kindred spirit, perhaps being one of a handful of people he can really talk to, matters more than my shyness, and matters much more than any desire.

Tonight the string members of the quintet I’m playing with came to the school to rehearse the Tchaikovsky quartet I’d been furiously trying to find good fingerings for.  We had a good slog through it all.  I felt curiously apart from the others when it came to anecdote-telling (the inevitable thing that happens whenever we put our instruments down for a moment); I felt like I didn’t need to dredge up something to share, but listened, laughed, or didn’t laugh …

 There’s something I found out that I don’t especially want to relate on OD, but it did make me feel like someone had thrown a cream pie at me.  I felt utterly humiliated, even while trying hard to wait to burst into laughter until I got safely into the solitude of my apartment.  I’m apparently worse than Emma Woodhouse at knowing the true nature of what’s going on in the hearts and minds of people around her.  But it was kind of fun to survive even that.

I’ll skip the dessert, but could you please bring the reality check?