It’s a moment he must think on as he is secreted into safest sleep.
The oboe descends from the lips, carrying itself from the body.
When the principal violinist nods, a harmless bit of something
vibrates out towards us. Its intention is to give the other musicians
a block to sharpen their instruments against, a mostly forgotten
progenitor of a note they chase to wear down.
There is no name for this mournful song. It is not even a song,
though it sounds the same each time they take it out—something
before music. It holds to it the wires that reach the nerves. I close
my eyes after the nod, the start of the engine, hoping that for once
the piece will survive, loping off into charts of story to be counted
out in focused minds.
I can’t be the first patron possessed by the witch of this tuning
exercise. Beethoven’s 9th starts off in a bit of a shambles, but look
what he found. Again, it’s the oboe and then everyone else placing
their sound in judgment, and just at the moment where cells divide,
it stops, a few loose hairs of violas needing one last bow to be
certain, dwindling down into the quieting spaces.
I want (badly) to clap then, to stand and clap in Italian, in respect
for those few seconds. But the sudden silence becomes an aisle
the conductor walks down, crushing out possibility’s ascent.
At least give that time a name, a childhood name that shrinks
as we age into something that respect can rest within. If not,
how can we ever trust the oboe again?
About Fred Dale
