What is beauty? she asks herself today, often. This is beautiful, that is beautiful, the world is filled with so many wonderful, beautiful things. The ambience of a darkened backstage hall before the curtain rises for the opening number. The comforting glow of the lamp as its light envelops you. The sleek, brassy glint of saxophone keys and the deep, gutsy sound that arises from within as though your soul is speaking. The bleeding goodbye of the sun as it dips away. The rumbling fluidity of liquid crystal water. The miracle that is sound. The kaleidoscope pattern of the sun’s rays bouncing off the virginity of an unmarked first snow.
It’s an odd sort of thing, the feeling she gets when she recognizes beauty. It’s like a resonance inside your chest, some sort of ancient connection that has stood the test of time, time and time again. It’s like having lightning tingling down your fingers, teeming with energy, as though you could somehow manipulate that beauty.
But alas, she must ponder upon the negatives that disrupt the beauty in the world. Corruption, ignorance, poverty, and the marks of mailmen upon the virgin first fallen snow.
On the anniversary of the death of John Lennon, “team captain” of the band that can be considered the Shakespeare of the music world, a story of music is only appropriate. But there is the story of a great man she wishes to tell that loved music even more than the Beatles.
In the immortal words of Billy Joel, “the piano sound[ed] like a carnival.” That’s always how she remembered it. And it was never in tune, always just sharp or just flat. She supposes that would bug her now, but she never even noticed before.
He scared her at first. She had heard his stories, his rumours. But he had surprised her, Mister Music Man had. He taught her to play the Clarinet, and no one else could have made her feel more proud of something she did. He was like a friend you never had to speak to. He knew the mood the minute you walked into the room and down another flat or two went the carnival piano. And it was always more about playing and getting that feeling of being the music than actually playing it right. That moment… oh that moment… when the everything is perfectly in tune… that one second, it’s like heaven on earth. And when you’re playing it, it rings through this mortal frame and shakes your soul, splattering the walls with colour. He gave her that.
There was never any fear to be outrageous. Perhaps that’s what she loved the most. He couldn’t sing, but that didn’t matter, he would belt out the Beatles and crash out harmonies on that carnival piano until you were sure it would break. Oh, he was always a sight. It’s always that last moment you remember best isn’t it? That last second you cling to for all it’s worth. Her birthday, ironically enough is the moment. The cranberry carrot muffin wrapped in glossed brown striped paper that’s the symbol of the Canadian nation sitting next to an already set up rusted old music stand. And him singing Happy Birthday to her, a sharp or two higher on that carnival piano.
She plays the saxophone now too, Baritone and Alto. And she spent the whole year wishing he would come back, just for a visit, just for one minute… just so she could smile hugely and say, “Look what I’m playing!”
But of course you never did. You were sick. We found that out the day they told us you died. That was a terrible day. He’d be happy to know they still had band practice. And she sat there with all the other lives Mister Music Man had changed and remembered him, playing some of the songs we used to play, the Titanic and Sweet Georgia Brown…
Now little things remind her of him… Piano Man and the Beatles, You Are My Sunshine and cranberry carrot muffins. And she misses you. She finds it ironic that the school is doing the Music Man for its school play this year. Tomorrow’s opening night. That reminds her of him too.
And she will never forget him. He will live on, Mister Music Man will.
She misses Mr. Sutch, the man who loved music more than the Beatles.
There were castles growing beside her bed. The masonry was a jumble of ancient and new pieces, pockmarked, scratched, and dirty. The walls smelled the smell of old, of mould and damp and memories if memories could have a smell. There were frays running along the edges of the flags that soared proudly from the tourrets, proclaiming frozen moments, paused in mid-battle stance.
The desk… well one could wonder if there even was a desk beneath the scattered sheets of scribles, but I suppose something had to be holding up the well used laptop computer, its varnished black keys matted now, some of the painted letters worn off by proding fingers.
The shine had worn off the shutter of the bulky camera as well, scratched and dirty after one too many adventures. Gloss finished windows spilling colourful views adorned the walls, like time machine escapes to past realities, with lonely fiddly rolls of film collecting dust on the windowsill as proof that those captured moments ever really existed.
On this partcular day, the girl decided that it was time she organized her scribbles and adventures and moments. Here she would keep a record of her life, her feelings, her sights, her treasures, written out as little stories of prose, and sometimes poetry. And each day she would take a picture of something that mattered to her, so that her little stories could speak a thousand more words. In her heart, as she poured out her dreams, her life, her misguided thinkings, in some small way, she would change the world.
“Smile!” she said as she clicked the shutter down and captured that one moment of life.