header image

HOME

This is the blog of Ian Rosales Casocot. Filipino writer. Sometime academic. Former backpacker. Twink bait. Hamster lover.

Interested in What I Create?



Bibliography

Tuesday, March 20, 2007

entry arrow10:07 AM | Music is the Language of What We Do Not Speak

Some time ago, divining the self which remains unknown to me, Moses tells me that I have a grand way of falling in love. It is almost cinematic, he says, complete with a Puccini aria in the background. (Preferably "Nessun dorma," but that's being too typical.) In my subconscious, it seems, I reach out to the romantic Pied Piper, the gentle music man who plays the song who will lure me into the (often deadly, but happily so) reverie we call falling. I guess Moses is right. It is always easy to fall in love with music men. I have always fallen for singers, or for musicians. (And if literature must be music, too, also poets.) And maybe, just maybe, it is really the drama of the song I fall for, the gentle lyrics falling from their lips enveloping me into a kind of trance. In that moment when all else seems to break in the gravity of the music, I embrace the exquisite selfishness of owning their song. "That song is for me," I tell myself, and proceed to drown. I guess all love is inherently selfish: we pursue it for the headiness it gives us, like a drug, like a surging that runs to everything we are.

It's a Tuesday morning, and unlike the past two days, the day takes its time to unfold, and there is not much sun. There's even a stir of a breeze playing outside, a respite from yesterday's heat. I'm listening to Itzak Perlman doing his serenades with his violin, from Rachmaninoff's transcendent "Vocalise," to the cinematic themes of The Color Purple, Yentl, Out of Africa, Schindler's List, and Cinema Paradiso. There's also Stephane Grappelli playing "I Will Wait for You" from The Umbrellas of Cherbourg. There's also Diana Krall singing a string of standards that ache. This is how you fall in love. In the primal consideration, for music -- which is really nothing more than a perfect acknowledgment of the beating of our own hearts.

Labels: , ,


[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich




GO TO OLDER POSTS GO TO NEWER POSTS