Monday, October 26, 2009
Man and Violin
Every time we see him he is hunched over, hair combed, wearing his pressed shirt and pants. He leans against the wall, he cannot support his bending frame. He plays the violin, his own sad song. There is no beginning, no end, no dominant resolving to the tonic. It is gibberish, the song of a child. There is little skill, no panache. It is full of effort, dedication even.
No one claps. No one looks. No one stops. No one ever stops. We have never stopped. Phoebe criticizes his technique because she can't find any other words. And I don't have words either. What do you say?
Did he ever have technique? Did he ever have a song? What is his song now?
Where did he start, where will he end? Where does he go after he naps while waiting for the train? Who does his laundry for him? Who polished his shoes? What will he eat for dinner tonight?
His story can't possibly be told through his song, as so many stories can. There is more. And everytime we pass him, I am dying to know the rest.
You may also enjoy Man Behind the Glass.