Doubles.
Doubles
The boy placed both thumbs on the middle C and allowed a lingering moment before the other fingers of his hands started moving in succession in opposite directions as he played the chromatic scales. No flats, no sharps. It was smooth, flowing and natural, but somehow it seemed to lack vibrancy. Oh well, music, and specifically the Piano was analogous to Life, but isn’t exactly larger than it.
He felt more contentment reading his book. The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro. It was probably as dense as Life itself, but again, it wasn’t all encompassing. Funny, he wondered, Literature by itself did not appear to have much importance(subjective) when compared with life-saving Medicine or justice-upholding Law or money-generating Business. But…every tradition and culture, has embraced it. From the pre-historic inscriptions on cave walls by ancient civilisations to the modern day cyberspace media of blogging, Literature has been ever present.
But he has drifted. For once, and for many more occasions to come, he was jubilant because even when he found himself to be living in the heart of darkness(Joseph Conrad) or when things fall apart(Chinua Achebe), at least he was still himself. At least he still had absolute knowledge that he was in the power to correct if not his surroundings, then perhaps himself. The boy was still very much focused on Literature as expression and self-discovery.
There were no negative external influences on him now. He had quit smoking for the past two hours (although not particularly inclined to prolong it) and kept aside the devilish looking bottle of brandy. He was lying stark naked on the floor and reading, with his room door locked and curtains down of course. Hey, he felt it was refreshing though I think it was sheer madness.
Who am I? Oh…Sorry if my abrupt infringement into the narration has caused some confusion.
The boy started getting confused as well, not quite sure if his elation was due to a fleeting moment of idealism or perhaps something which would go on. And on. Like the 45 page long reading on cyborgs and cyberspace politics he had to read last semester. He wasn’t sure if he was happy or not by being happy. Actually, he was left puzzled by his own layered interrogation with regards to a simple emotion of happiness.
Why was he happy? He didn’t know.
How did he become happy? He couldn’t figure it out.
What was he happy about? Probably over nothing.
When did he become happy? He didn’t notice.
He was quite afraid his probe into happiness would stop the emotion altogether. So he decided to register it at the repressed department of his brain for later investigation. It was then that the horror surfaced. What if the investigations at a later time give rise to negative results. Would that mean he would have to bid an eternal farewell to happiness?
He clapped his hands. When you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands. They didn’t teach the song just for the sake of developing a child’s gross motor skills. The music and synchronised actions takes your mind off the evaluation of happiness, just in case…just in case happiness was not to be what it really was supposed to be.
Was it all pretence then? No.
Why was he happy? He had finished two tutorials and his book.
How did he become happy? Gradually…it did not overpower him. The intensity built up slowly, without any hints of reaching a climax nor regressing into negativity. Hmm…and there was nothing sexual about his happiness.
What was he happy about? The book had a pleasant revelation in its concluding pages.
When did he become happy? Specifically, it was the moment when he first pressed the middle C with both his thumbs.
The boy was happy.
Forgive my intrusion again…I think he is mad. Who am I? I am him.
The boy placed both thumbs on the middle C and allowed a lingering moment before the other fingers of his hands started moving in succession in opposite directions as he played the chromatic scales. No flats, no sharps. It was smooth, flowing and natural, but somehow it seemed to lack vibrancy. Oh well, music, and specifically the Piano was analogous to Life, but isn’t exactly larger than it.
He felt more contentment reading his book. The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro. It was probably as dense as Life itself, but again, it wasn’t all encompassing. Funny, he wondered, Literature by itself did not appear to have much importance(subjective) when compared with life-saving Medicine or justice-upholding Law or money-generating Business. But…every tradition and culture, has embraced it. From the pre-historic inscriptions on cave walls by ancient civilisations to the modern day cyberspace media of blogging, Literature has been ever present.
But he has drifted. For once, and for many more occasions to come, he was jubilant because even when he found himself to be living in the heart of darkness(Joseph Conrad) or when things fall apart(Chinua Achebe), at least he was still himself. At least he still had absolute knowledge that he was in the power to correct if not his surroundings, then perhaps himself. The boy was still very much focused on Literature as expression and self-discovery.
There were no negative external influences on him now. He had quit smoking for the past two hours (although not particularly inclined to prolong it) and kept aside the devilish looking bottle of brandy. He was lying stark naked on the floor and reading, with his room door locked and curtains down of course. Hey, he felt it was refreshing though I think it was sheer madness.
Who am I? Oh…Sorry if my abrupt infringement into the narration has caused some confusion.
The boy started getting confused as well, not quite sure if his elation was due to a fleeting moment of idealism or perhaps something which would go on. And on. Like the 45 page long reading on cyborgs and cyberspace politics he had to read last semester. He wasn’t sure if he was happy or not by being happy. Actually, he was left puzzled by his own layered interrogation with regards to a simple emotion of happiness.
Why was he happy? He didn’t know.
How did he become happy? He couldn’t figure it out.
What was he happy about? Probably over nothing.
When did he become happy? He didn’t notice.
He was quite afraid his probe into happiness would stop the emotion altogether. So he decided to register it at the repressed department of his brain for later investigation. It was then that the horror surfaced. What if the investigations at a later time give rise to negative results. Would that mean he would have to bid an eternal farewell to happiness?
He clapped his hands. When you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands. They didn’t teach the song just for the sake of developing a child’s gross motor skills. The music and synchronised actions takes your mind off the evaluation of happiness, just in case…just in case happiness was not to be what it really was supposed to be.
Was it all pretence then? No.
Why was he happy? He had finished two tutorials and his book.
How did he become happy? Gradually…it did not overpower him. The intensity built up slowly, without any hints of reaching a climax nor regressing into negativity. Hmm…and there was nothing sexual about his happiness.
What was he happy about? The book had a pleasant revelation in its concluding pages.
When did he become happy? Specifically, it was the moment when he first pressed the middle C with both his thumbs.
The boy was happy.
Forgive my intrusion again…I think he is mad. Who am I? I am him.
posted by sUmmEr heAt at 9:51 AM
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