The music people. Why do our hearts always lift when we’re near? Why do we breathe more easily?
Because they have the cure. Because they don’t have to traffic with words. Or they do so only occasionally.
The music department offices.
Laughter – in the corridors? Is that possible? Joy – at the edges of work. Because they’re not all about work. Because they don’t take work seriously. Because they have a life outside of it all.
They aren’t weighed down with would-be seriousness. They aren’t crushed by supposed seriousness.
Haven’t we been too serious for too long? All our lives …
The music people. Blithe. Insouciant. They play with philosophy. They do what they like with it.
All of philosophy: a toy to be balanced on their noses, like seal. All of philosophy: a kind of fun to be had.
The music people, looking up and down our bookshelves. Picking up this book, that one. Flicking through them. Putting them down again, with a smile.
And there’s nothing morbid about their drinking, the music people.
It’s not death-bound, their drinking. It’s not a plunging into the Abgrund and the Aufriss.
They drink like innocents. They’re not worried about the morrow. They drink because they drink, just as they live because they live. For no other reason.
They know how to Eat, the music people. To cook!
Food talk, with the music people. Ingredients talk.
Their southern European connections. Their Mediterranean sympathies.
They know how to entertain. To give a day away to feasting. Lunch – and then dinner, at the same table. And then the spirits come out. A highland malt, a lowland malt.
They’re not broke like us, somehow, the music people. They have money. Money comes to them. It just flows in, for their hospitality.
Do they understand our gloom, the music people? Our northern European pessimism? Our tungsind. Our fear of being charlatans?
They look at us, concerned.. They want to help, but are not sure how. They ply us with drinks. Invite us to their dinner parties.
How free of worry they are, the music people. They’ll live until they’re a hundred and eight.
It’s a difference in temperament. In bearing. In fundamental outlook. They’re attuned differently. They’re light. They have the gift of lightness.
Our books. Our bookshelves. They look along them. Pick out this book, that. Read a few lines. Nod their heads. Put the book away.
Perhaps, around them, we can be a little like them. Perhaps we can learn a little lightness. Perhaps we can lose a little of our Weltschmerz.
The music people.
They haven’t got our thirst. Our alcohol obsession.
We crawl through our days, waiting for drinks. We crave drinks all day, until we meet them for drinks.
What do the music people know of the void? How do they avoid it, the void?
Music must banish the void, in some sense. Playing music, thinking about music. And particularly Mediterranean music! Particularly music from the warm places of the world! Flamenco! Zydeco!
Of course we only listen to void music. To northern European music, heavy with itself. Just as we only read void literature. Just as we only look at void art.
Work in Progress 