In any culture it seems it is our stories that define us. The bards and their harps, the folklore, the ancient myths and ....stories told in sand ....sometimes around a fire
*****
Jörn has spent months rewriting certain parts of the music. I like to watch him when he is deep at his work. I get the best studies of his expressions in the spot that I watch from above by the second floor gallery sometimes with sketch pad, sometimes with phone, pressing play where closeups are a useful tool, as well as my noir footage
today as I watch him he throws his pencil down from the music paper ....
he goes from notes to keys as he plays and then he records this in notes.... still in his running clothes, he had returned from this morning’s run with a surge of music as soon as he sat down; not even stopping to drink water nor to shower; still at it an hour later ....he is caught in this one part
It is the part of the opera that Jörn has described to me. it is across from a watering spot where he has brought a horse he purchased with the sale of some swords when he first sees her
the part when the dove appears to him and then magically it turns into her
but the fear of him startles her and she is speechless with fright
he bends over the water and makes a ripple that reaches her.... and then she bends to reply, doing this back to him as they watch each other across the water
But she has come there to fill a jug with water to bring back to her father at the market place stall where her father is selling herbs and healing the sick so she then returns to her task. He follows her to the marketplace
by now I have gone down to the kitchen to cut up an apple and quietly observe him from the butcher block table I chop the apple on.
His spending more time around has me wondering if this has as much to do with the repossessions of the safe and twin table and the association of Nivek Retnuh or ....maybe it is just the opera after all?
I study him thoughtfully.... then notice his hair has also gotten long ....
the ends need a trim and so impulsively I reach for the gardening shears.... but as I watch, now suddenly in a violent motion he tears the music paper out of the notebook, balls it into a crumple and then savagely throws it like a javelin with some Swedish curse
I go over to the window where he’s thrown it to and pick it up unfolding it
“It’s shit, toss it in the fireplace,” he waves with a sweeping angry gesture and points to the fireplace with a pissed-off commanding glance at me
“Hmmm....” I look it over as if I can actually read the symbols dancing about my dyslexic haze, still I pretend as I like to collect his scrawls and then walk over and put the crumpled sheet down on the piano surface and say, “hold still!”
“What are you doing with those?” Jörn glares at the gardening shears with a horrified look
“Don’t move!” and climb on him to stop him from moving
“I wish you wouldn’t walk around holding those that way,” and grabs for it
“No, really, hold still,” I take out the tie, “you can trust me, I’ve been doing this for years—“
“Not to me!” he protests even as I get the part that was bothering me in a clean cut.... which he hears and suddenly decides to stay still as he says under his breath, “should I point out that I am already feeling slightly bitchie?” and the humor of his tone is meant as a warning
“Two seconds and it will be over,” I say and swing around, getting off.
Impressed the shears are freshly sharpened. The neat flutters fall down like little feathers
“I really don’t recall making this appointment, never mind, it’s getting all over the floor, duva, can you stop now?”
“The floor is slate, not Persian carpet .... you should let me do this for you, this is going to look so much better than who ever it is usually does it—no, don’t move, this part is tricky—“ as having worked around him, am back to the front, getting back on
“Tricky—“ he repeats in a hiss under his breath ....after a moment, “will be if you ever get away with it if I don’t agree with your artistic vision.”
“There. Fixed,” I let him go and get off as to my amazement the shears made short work of it; a quick glance over, then touching the fresh ends to watch how they fall in a more natural angle that sharpens his bone structure—go get the broom, “you can look now....”
which he wastes no time in doing. He is by the entrance hallway mirror in a few strides as I’m sweeping up the hair dust into the bin and walk by him to throw it away
He’s still at the mirror inspecting himself with an odd, slightly indignant twitch in my direction as I notice him straighten up and look himself over thoughtfully but still with a slightly dubious expression as he brushes imaginary hair off his shirt
And as I go to the sink I watch him
I think of the wave in the water ....
then see it as if in front of me
I get a sick feeling, standing there. But it is not so much sick as it is the kind of motion sickness.... this only happens when ....those things which happen and have happened that I never write much about as they are quite strange; I get a strange feeling. That kind
I consider this.... water .... the water hole .... reflection in the water and watch it like a movie of daylight sky .... reflects ....like a mirror on the water .... watch it
I don’t even notice he is back at the piano with new enthusiasm .... suddenly a wild burst of vigor which seems to nearly explode from his fingers as he pounds madly the keys ....his hair in the light hypnotizes me, like the sand on the beach on one of those stops ....those nights under the bright stars with their legends and stories
Suddenly he bursts through my thoughts and says,
“come here!” like some kind of order —I want to call him Henry the eighth or something but stop myself because —I see that wildness in his eyes ....and it is threatening to erupt ....and just go
he indicates the bench hastily between slamming the chords with one hand still in pace and I sit there fast where he has made a quick place for me. He pulls me inside his arms and plays over me,
“I want you to play this exactly this way!!” he nearly shouts this
I watch his fingers pushing down over mine, he places them and we play it together a few times. Then he says he will do something around me but to keep doing these chords as he showed me
I get confused the first two times and apologize when he gets irritated but he insists and we do it again and after the fourth time I hear .... what he was trying to do
with the layers of sounds; the first set is one, the other reflection .... reversed notes .... then played back and the strange blending sound made together ....then the left hand....
Like a chill ....I feel something seem to touch the top of my spine
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