Heartstrings

Dear readers,

Just before theokwek leaves for World Scholars' Cup - that's tomorrow morning! - he's decided to put up one of his latest pieces. Do read the preface (below) before reading the work, it helps. Also, theokwek sincerely reccomends Yo-yo Ma's CD, YoyoMa plays Ennio Morricone. Heavenly. And Sarah Chang's orchestrated version of the Vitali Chaconne (:

Once in a while we come across a work by theokwek that is difficult to explain, in terms of origin and content. The story goes that theokwek was asked by friend A to write a story about friend B, but he couldn't find anything to say about friend B, and asked friend C for advice. Friend C was someone whom theokwek had written for before, and she asked theokwek to write about friend A.

The essay is designed to show the thoughts and feelings adolescent boys when they encounter their first fondness for a girl. theokwek has taken the liberty to make use of the persona of Friend A to write this, due to a number of recent events.

we with mortal efforts drain
the blessings left us by the rain
but still sounds now that sweet refrain
pitter-patter, pitter-faint.

These adolescent attractions are very normal among guys of this age, and however hard we try to stop them, they persistently ring in our heads and hearts, jus like the rain will keep falling whether you like it or not. By telling Friend A's story as such, the author is not trying to belittle him but to bring out this biological phenomena.

Although the story is told from friend A's point of view, the experiences are not necessary his, but based on descriptions that theokwek has come across in his interactions with... his own kind.

And so this essay is about mysterious friend A. Now before the essay, the staff of The Straight Times would like to include a disclaimer or two: the following events and thoughts are certainly NOT the author's own, and they do not completely represent the thoughts and actions of friend A either, whoever he may be. However, the readers is urged to infer and conclude.

Infer and Conclude
That's what writing's about.
The Straight Times Editor


Adolescence

Alone he sat, at the antique upright piano, practiced fingers tracing out the chord progression of a familiar hymn across the rows of stark ebony on ivory. He kept this silent – scarcely daring to depress any one of those yellowed keys lest the jarring noise disturb the reflective mood of the sultry Sunday afternoon. Sun-rays, chilled and coloured as they streamed through the stained glass windows of the old chapel, cast silhouettes of his fourteen-year frame, painting his thoughts in black and white across the archaic marble.

This was his favourite time of the week, where, away from the flurried bustle of entropic school life, he could sit back and devote his mind to the little thoughts that had emerged around the corners of school, of home, and of his soundproof practice room. Like a movie editor, he pulled frames of memory from the past week and thought about them: the deepest darkest secrets that his violinist best friend had confided in him, the criticisms – “lack of practice, distracted!” – thrown at him by his piano teacher, the little snippets of gossip he picked up from ex-primary school classmates. He thought of problems, of memories, of troubles, of doubts, and when these chose to flood his mind he channeled them into the piano.

This week, the generic thoughts filled his consciousness, but with a greater intensity. The first that inevitably leapt to mind was school stress – he was in the heat of the exams, and could hardly withstand the barrage of papers that flew their way. Exam scripts, lovingly splattered with more red crosses than a lover’s note, were returned to them on the same day that they took other papers, dealing another blow to the less-than-average morale of a schoolboy. He thought guiltily of the failed English test-paper, which he’d carefully hidden in his Orchestra file to avoid the prying eyes of his mother. With the late nights that he was already getting, he just couldn’t afford another scolding session. That signature would have to wait.

He caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the smooth wood of the piano – those drooped shoulders and heavy eye-bags were testament to yet another over-intensive Arts Festival practice period, where schools, and their conductors, pushed musicians to vie for top place in the local competitions. ‘For the continued bringing of glory to the school’, CCAs never halted here, even during the busiest of times. Sadly – he reflected with a sigh and a glance at his ever-more-calloused fingertips – the cello, the second great love of his life, was becoming a burden more heavy than its hard-iron case. His feet, already drained of their strength, loathed every step he had to take on his way to school with that instrument beating rhythmically against his shoulder-blades.

What about his first love, then? That skill that kept his fingers alive in the coldest of winters, that mastery that imbued cadences, colours and chords to the family’s otherwise drab lodgings, that power that erased the weights on his soul and released a mysterious rhyme and rhythm. As the dreaded tests drew near and so did the Festival season, his piano founds its lid only opened on alternate days, and even at these times, the keys were subject brutal hammering; the senseless knocking of a master who seeks respite rather than beauty. His music was no longer musical.

But was that all that troubled him? His left hand experimentally wriggled out a scale. F-minor. Sweet melancholy. The sounds sparked off hidden connections, and he dug below the layers of undone homework and revision notes waiting to be read. There was something else in his life. Indeed, there was a third love. It was a some-one.

He was rather shocked as he dared himself to think about it; indeed, he had never thought about her that way. She sat just the pew in front of him in church, and always dressed (or so he thought) a little too maturely for her age. But then again, he told himself, that would be attributed to it being the Lord’s Day. Her face had this quiet, unassuming expression about it. Always humble, always caring. Somehow, it wasn’t an exceptionally pretty face – though he had to admit she did have long lashes – but still, it was a face that saw through his heart, that gave him a queer queasy feeling whenever he walked past her.

He remembered his best friend telling him some time ago that he liked her. But he'd never before in his life felt what it was like to like a girl. Come on, he told himself, he'd always been taught to treat girls just like anyone else, that they were just better in some things like gymnastics and handwriting. Still, he couldn't escape this wierd feeling - it was a feeling of injustice, that somehow the one making the confession about being fond of the girl should be him, not his best friend.

A wave of discomfort washed over him. It wasn’t the first time he was getting this feeling, but the first few times he had always been able to chase it away by playing a few thunderous chords – the opening of Beethoven’s 5th, maybe – or recalling the wise words of his mother: “It’s not the time for you yet”, but slowly, strangely, he found himself unable to escape from that feeling. It wasn’t just a feeling that arose directly from an attraction to her, it was a feeling that maybe she could bring some comfort into his busy life.

“After all,” he thought to himself, “come to think of it, no-one’s really ever properly comforted me before.”

And he would have thought: “Maybe she can”, but the logical side of his mind banished that thought to limbo forever.

The light continued flowing in through the stained glass. Overhead, Joseph whispered to Mary while St. Paul blessed the heathen of Galatia. Red, blue, green and yellow light combined and separated on the white marble flooring, adding turquoise here, orange there, swirling in and out of recognizable shapes…… it was simply… hypnotic. He leaned forward onto the keyboard, still staring intently at the shifting light strewn liberally on the floor, still trying to dissociate that queer feeling from his inner heart – the Holy of holies of private thoughts. The eye-bags grew inexplicably heavier right where they were, and gently but firmly shut his weary eyes to the assault of colours.

---

Some say dreams are an escape from reality. But this dream, though, to him, was special. He saw himself sitting at the piano stool, his favourite haunt, with one hand drooping as usual over the keyboard, tired bloodshot eyes staring into space. But he saw too something that he rarely saw nowadays – there was a smile on his face.

Looking at himself through the blurred reflections of the dream, he tried to imagine what might have brought the other him his joy. Might it have been an end to exams and to schoolwork? Might it have been an end to the politics and demands of the top secondary-school string orchestra in Singapore? Might it have been the cessation of both?

It might have been, one, or both, of them that enlightened his dreaming self – both were things he definitely dreamt of, both were dearly wished for. But somehow, the dream still did not feel right. An expected audience now, he kept on dreaming, watching that dream unfold and play itself in his mind.

A figure appeared in the doorway to the sanctuary. It was distinctly female, but as to who it was, he could not be quite sure. It might have been his mother, or his Sunday-school classmate, or…
But it wasn’t. It was Her.

But why was she in his dream? He couldn’t even explain the special feeling. He couldn’t even tell what it was that endeared her every little movement to him, that made him look out for her voice, that made him watch out for every detail of every hymn she played during services. She was actually quite good on the piano, he reflected.

The same thoughts buzzed through his mind, hitting a number of synapses that he was pretty sure had never been used by his thought processes before. He continued watching his dream, pondering, wondering.

The girl, with a slight smile, walked calmly over and sat beside him on the piano stool.

Inextinguishable joy. The loves of his life met.

She took his trailing left hand in hers.

And kissed him.