Minimalism
“So you really think you can map it
all out on paper?” asked Steve, with a clear sense of unease in his voice, as
if Philip had just told him that those black dots on the page were some
mystical indications of his inner workings.
“I wouldn't talk about mapping out
anything Steve. What I've been trying to explain for the past hour is that
these notes are a clear indication of something happening in me, right now,
these days, these hours. They are miscalculated signs.”
Steve breathed very deep, then
looked at him, while his deepest fears were coming true. Those signs on the
paper were clearly doing something, they were unmistakably forcing him to see
things he was afraid of.
“I’m serious man, I really wish you hadn't called me today!” harshly protested Steve “I was doing just fine this
morning. For once I hadn't woken up with a migraine, for once I hadn't opened
my eyes with that unbearable sense of thought-ridden yoke, for once I hadn't felt that sense of panic when looking at other people’s blank face… not
understanding what the hell they think or feel!”
He was reacting, now, viscerally to
what they had discussed earlier. Philip had spoken with his usual candor about the
ways in which music can delicately, mindlessly though punctually, map out the
feelings of a person. And Steve was unwilling to have his depths probed into by
anything, or for that matter by anyone. His cat was an independent companion,
who loved him though did not depend on his, gave him space but also warmth in
moments of unexpected connection. His apartment was half empty, minimally
decorated by Zen-like furniture – a vase here, nothing there, a Japanese futon
on the floor which he would roll up in the morning, two forks in an otherwise
empty drawer, his migraine pills on the shelf next to a copy of Suzuki's manual
of Zen Buddhism. Steve was decompressing, his mind was expanding, his emotions
were recovering, and the spark was slowly coming back in his eyes.
"Dude seriously, what ARE you
talking about?" – now his voice was trembling, and his eyes were beginning
to see Philip through a blurry screen of tears.
"Nothing – what I am talking
about is nothing. I'd like to say that these notes are tokens of what I feel,
realistic and audible manifestations of my inner self, but alas, as you know, I
am trapped in a dry, Nominalist cosmos. The notes are not mapping out anything –
but I am moved by them. They come out as cries, as some musical-though-sort-of-silent
Munch-like scream, and all I do is write down on music paper what I hear in my
ears."
Philip was uncomfortable too now –
this level of awareness was unpleasant to him too. He swiftly disconnected the
iPod from Steve's amplifier, and stuffed it, together with his notes, back into
this old, thirty-year old leather bag. Steve, on the other side of the room,
had heavily gotten back onto his feet, and now stood next to the window, his
breath making a little cloud of unspoken words on the cold glass, his forehead kissing
his hands which were wearily locked and trembled somewhat uncomfortably.
"I really wish one could write
a grammar of the universe, a morphology of feelings, a manual for the mapping
of thoughts – I really do. But I'm not that person Steve. Do you think it's
that easy for me to express things? Well… How would Hamlet put it? I don’t know
what seeming means – I have within me things which cannot be denoted by music,
mapped out by scribbles, shaped into understandable forms. 'For they are
actions that a man might play. / But I have that within which passeth show.' Talk
t'ya later man."
Steve turned around and lifted up
his right hand.
The room appeared to have expanded.
Silence at last. He turned on the music – MaxRichter's re-composition of Vivaldi's Four Seasons was in place.