The Hollow Mind

The current of time flows faster and faster.  Suddenly, the rests don't feel as spacious as they once did, and now life is one long continuation from one movement to the next, attacca.  I returned to the city from the mountains with shiny new tools in my arsenal, only to have them thrown out.  He claimed that the two approaches toward sound production are not mutually exclusive, but with so little time left, what's one to do?

Live through the music.  Music is a language.  Play with conviction.  They all make sense in theory, but with every attempt at expression shot down, what remains that can be conveyed to the audience?

"I found your playing to be apathetic, blunt, and even a bit rude."  I'm not careful enough, evidently.  But without the final product in mind, how can a sculptor even begin to think about polishing his slab of marble?

In the mountains, I freed myself of issues relating to tension, which resulted in a bigger sound, a greater ease of playing, and most of all, a much-needed boost of confidence.  But here in the city, the tension has returned, along with the poor posture, and the collapsed "system."  Tension isn't a physical issue, but rather the symptom of one that is psychological.  With so many limitations, the dangers of erring to poor playing is too great, prompting the body to defend itself by assuming the fetal position as closely as possible.

And now, I'm balancing surface issues while drawing a complete blank for the one at the root of them all.  And in defeat, I resort to dreams that no longer fall within my primary passion.

My good friend once told me, "When you listen to music, you listen not with your ears, but with your heart."

 Aber mein Herz ist tot.