How does beauty happen in life, with all its pressure, tension and empty heart’s sorrowful keening? There is a little secret, I could whisper in the quiet hours of night, confessing in hushed tone as when at last, behind the screen is forgiveness and not being faced with ambush. Reason calmly reigns at affection’s head. True love liberated from low passions lifts heart to prayer’s eternal heights.
And so secret starts like craftsman’s work. Strings are fed through the tailpiece and held fast and immobile over the bridge. Filaments pinioned by more solid matter can’t just get up and walk away. Like life’s first catastrophe it is, fed through a small opening and caught just before passing through. Urges are strong just to run away, and pretend it never happened. Let no one see. When that won’t work, let us set to prayer. He can fix it, you’ll see, He won’t leave us here. Efforts will be rewarded and accomplishments recognized all in due time; except, they are not. Future’s expectations yield yet another fiasco.
Just like when artisan wraps the upper end of those strings lovingly over the pegs. Things aren’t just fouled up over the bridge anymore. Everything is now not only stretched all over the F holes, but at the other end completely coiled about the axle, and further constricting. At least before we could flail about in vain, but now pinned down left and right means no movement, just a thorax in agony heaving up and down in thinning hope, toward Heaven. Pegs wind ever tighter.No worries, I’m sure that it will all stop soon. Without doubt this means that He intends to test and then for certain vindicate in the eyes of all whose admiration is so wrongly desired.
Pegs keep twisting, one by one. There’s something else gone wrong now. Bum’s rushed out of yet another situation. Such a shame, voices sympathize, “he did everything right, too.” Can things get tighter? Most definitely could be worse. Time to soldier on and await deliverance when this rising tide of worldly woe finally recedes.
Yet rueful tide recedeth not. Craftsman’s work being completed, the bow is placed in the hand of the Musician who loves. What good are hands immobilized? Pretense yields to pain and even the most trivial failures are magnified by enormous heaviness. Unrequited desire for frustration’s pain to relent now quietly itself dies the death, leaving only awe at what could possibly be next.
It is a sound. Crushing pressure across unimaginable, suffocating heartfelt tautness, and yet a sweet, sonorous tone. How now, an hallucination, this? Just a fabrication of mind’s distress, is all. Because nothing good comes from this, we are told: medicate, raise the screen flicker rate, and believe it not.
But now the irrefutable objective facts of life’s implosions and improbably uninterrupted washout streaks stand like Rock’s saving foundation. Words can’t go here, but only He. And when unbearable tension between desire and disaster are met by overpowering transverse compression, what happens is phrasing like unto Virgin’s voice in blessed little ears. Being His work, those little notes become the only thing that matters. How many millienia has He thirsted for these sounds to take to the air? See His delight now as if all His existence has come down to playing His beloved instrument.
Empty, Master. So sorry to have no accomplishment to raise up to Thy Name! But hollowed hearts, void of victory, resonate well for Thee. Just then- did you feel that note rising to Heaven? It was the pulverizing burden of failing to find the proper pot lid for boiling water. How possibly can His face radiate more joy than this, as He presses upon His fingerboard? Or now- can we sense that long draw coming off so low and strong we could build a house upon it? That’s ten years of career collapse, a sound marvellous and unrepeatably delectable.
He plays upon His creature, slaking His thirst for beauty it alone can quench. Did you feel that stabbing exquisiteness of those measures right there? It’s the total humiliation of non-victory, and yet only need is that this sound continue to rise. Such a deep draught He pulls with it from His well of profound celestial pleasure. His solitary want to bring sweetness in vivifying mere decaying matter. How can he raise abject existence to such height? Pressure, tension and bringing beauty from empty things is His unsurpassable bliss.
Yes, a true act of love happens here. But do keep this beauty secret. An ounce less tension, or a pound’s less pressure and there would be no music at all. Now listen