Die Zauberflote
March 15th, 2007
I love listening to flautists play.
Not because I am particularly fond of the flute, because I’m not especially. But because I like hearing the flautist breathe. There is an intoxicating moment for me when the flautist takes her deep, sharp breath before beginning the next measure. There is something in that breath, a kind of sweet desperation, that I find extremely appealing. She has merely a moment to draw in enough air to continue to play her piece, enough to last her until her next breath. The music is an interlude, something to be done between breaths, and all of her body becomes an instrument, a slave to the music, to make something moving and brilliant in between breathing.
I think that’s what life is, what life is supposed to be. It’s the music we make in between breaths. Something for which to succumb to that sweet desperation.
I had a post I wanted to make, but I wrote it on my Mac at home, and I’m at work. One of the things I talk about is meaning, and whether anything can have meaning in and of itself. People ask all the time, “What’s the meaning of life?” as though it were the deepest question we could ask, but I’ve always found that question ridiculous. Things alone exist, but they don’t mean anything. Meaning requires context, external point of view. It requires translation from one feeling or experience to another. My life alone means nothing, and certainly isn’t very interesting. My life only becomes interesting when my narrative cross-pollinates with yours, and our lives touch, and we give each other meaning. It isn’t inherent. It’s something we derive from our involvement with the world around us.
So it isn’t meaning I’m interested in when I approach questions of existence, or relationships, or God. It’s music. We breathe in and out and we keep going. And in between breaths we make music. Some of us write symphonies; some of us write jingles. Some of us can only create nonmelodic cacophony. But it isn’t the quality of the music alone that matters (though a lovely timbre never hurts): it’s also the gusto with which the music is made. Nothing moves me more than watching someone play an instrument or sing a ballad and their whole body tells the story the music wishes to convey. They sway, their eyes close, they smile. That, itself, is beautiful.