If I wrote tonight about what I am musing about lately, it would be a depressing look at marriage and a frank self-inquiry about why I would ever want to enter into something as terrifying as spending the rest of my days with someone unpleasant. But I don't want to go there tonight.
I used to play the violin in school; for ten years the YHS orchestra suffered just a bit because of my participation in its ensemble. Musically, I was not talented enough for the group, but I like to think that my energy was what landed me a spot. Plus I was dating my stand partner, who was rather talented, so I had connections.
Our orchestra director, Mr. Szabo, (who should be cited in this blog more often because he was one hell of a character), told us once about a crazy phenomenon that happened between instruments. It has to do with resonating and purity. If you play a pure note on a string instrument, the other string instruments in the room will vibrate with the note (provided they're also in tune). Isn't that a beautiful thing?
The reason I tell you this is that this is how I feel when I read certain passages or see certain paintings or hear certain songs. Like Art is hitting my chords. And so on that note (ha!), here's a beautiful passage from The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath that makes my inner chords vibrate everytime I read it:
...I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out.
I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.