I met a man today. Neither short, nor tall; neither tanned nor pale. Hair well kept but not styled. All in all, a quiet and unassuming character. We spoke for a long time and came to the same conclusion that the existential purpose of culture was to both educate and inform the human race. Despite this, we could not between us decide in any way how music today informs and educates the average human. After our meeting, we both picked up our coats and umbrellas and parted ways.
When I returned back to my home, I put down my coat and went to the kitchen, where I made a cup of coffee and went through the corridor to where my piano was stored in what would usually be the living room of a normal house. I put down my cup and started to play but nothing new came through my soul and into the keys. So I decided to saunter upstairs into my study.
Today clearly was not an artistic day, nothing poured from my brain to the paper, so I sat at my desk drinking my steaming cup of tea. All this time I imagined how lonely this existence was, writing music, only stopping for food, drink and the menial house duties. When I finished my cup, I put it on the desk, still steaming and gazed at the bare plaster walls waiting for the spark of imagination to fill my being.
Saturday, the 24th of May, 2014
After having recently obtained a job at a local church, I once again sat at my desk and peered outside the window. Despite it being late may, the weather has seemed to take a turn for the worst, reverting from the glorious sunshine we had enjoyed over a few weeks back to the grimy, wet and cold substance that is rain.
Now is the weekend, the time for relaxation; well it would have been had it not been for various pieces of work that have to be completed for the coming Monday. Feeling slightly deflated, I set to work. Pausing only for hot cups of tea and coffee, I dredged through my work. After not making much headway, I decide to go on a walk. So I once again leave the study, lock it, and slide the small key into my trouser pocket.
At the front door, I pause, gazing at the cold and drizzly rain. Despite the uninviting nature of the rain I decide to venture out; after locking the door I realise the full brunt of my error. Freezing rain dripped down my collar, and I step forward into ever more chilling rain.
Now is the weekend, the time for relaxation; well it would have been had it not been for various pieces of work that have to be completed for the coming Monday. Feeling slightly deflated, I set to work. Pausing only for hot cups of tea and coffee, I dredged through my work. After not making much headway, I decide to go on a walk. So I once again leave the study, lock it, and slide the small key into my trouser pocket.
At the front door, I pause, gazing at the cold and drizzly rain. Despite the uninviting nature of the rain I decide to venture out; after locking the door I realise the full brunt of my error. Freezing rain dripped down my collar, and I step forward into ever more chilling rain.
Tuesday, the 20th of May, 2014
This morning, I awoke to the sound of birds with bright sunlight and fresh air entering my room as I roused myself from the deep sleep I'd had the night before. As I lay there, musical ideas entered my head, formed by the birdsong which had entered my dreams, waking me up.
Like many countless musicians and composers before me, being inspired by the tweets and chirrups of the Blackbirds and Dunnocks outside my window, I left the bedroom to begin the walk to my study. Whilst all this activity was occurring in my brain, the walk to the study seemed to take much longer than ever, like the last walk to the gallows. However, this did not deter my from my path. I shuffled to the study door, took out the small brass key and put it in the keyhole. I turned it, and heard the lock click.
Upon entering my study, I locked the door behind me and sat down at my desk. With bright sunlight streaming across my desk, picturing soaring violin lines and luxurious piano chords, I pulled out my pen and manuscript paper; and I began to write.
Sunday, the 18th of May, 2014
As I sit at my desk, I wonder what to write about. Nothing at first springs to mind, so I look towards my empty in-tray and sit back and ponder. At the beginning, nothing, but then a spark. A very small spark at first, but nonetheless a potential for a bright flame. I then open my desk, pull out some manuscript paper, and begin to pen new melodies and harmonies.
Often, I wonder to myself what is the point. Yes, what is the point in inking all these melodies to page; when in reality it will forever remain a dream for my work to be performed. Continually doomed by the curse that is the unpredictability of a music career, these dusty parchments will ever build higher in their static piles. These piles will soon become stacks, and ever perpetuate a state of stationary being.
So I lay down my pen, close the lid to once more condemn the freshly written music to the piles of paper that carpet my study floor. That is it for now, the lonely artist ever locks the empty room that is his study in search of some freshly made coffee that is waiting for him in the kitchen.
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