actuality.log


Saturday, July the 29th, 2006

I have probably not harped about this often enough on my journal, but I am musically inclined. I’m a highly-trained classical vocalist, and I can play a bunch of instruments. None of this is at some sing-in-the-shower scale either, I’ve performed several times to a variety of large audiences, sung on national radio and have gathered numerous accolades. If I weren’t a science geek, I probably would have landed up in a career involving music; be it creating, performing or critiquing.

But today’s post isn’t about any of that. That prelude was just me stroking myself; stroking my ego, that is.

I’ve had thoughts of composing (music) for a very long time, but I’ve lacked the inspiration to be earnest enough to come up with anything (good). This sort of sensation—and the accompanying sense of under-achievement for not doing anything about it—surfaces and saddens me from time to time. In an amazing turn of events, all that changed last evening as I was lying pressed-up to Crayola as we were taking a breather; awaiting sleep.

With her slight shuffles and turns, and her laboured breathing, it was apparent that her mind was restless and she was unable to fall asleep. Actually, the signs weren’t as apparent as I make them out to be, and I am uncertain how I knew, or how things progressed, but before long, I was wrapping her tighter to me, and rocking her softly as I began to hum. It started-off vaguely similar to a tune my father would hum to me as I rested on his lap as a child, but soon blossomed to something else.

Something new, something delightful, something elaborate and rich. A tune, my tune, my tune for her, began to form in my mind and I proceeded to spontaneously compose it and hum it to her over hours and hours, calming her. I have sung to her normally in the past of course, but the response there had been more admiration than anything else. Now, almost instantly, I could sense that she was elevated to a state of tranquility and bliss. Her breathing was soon calmer; her face more serene as a stream of (happy, I suspect) tears began to trickle. I watched them travel lower and dry on her cheeks as she drifted-off to sleep.

I didn’t go to sleep; I ended up holding her and gazing at her instead.

This is a printer-friendly version of the journal entry “Spontaneous composition” from actuality.log. Visit http://emphaticallystatic.org/earlier/spontaneous-composition/ to read the original entry and follow any responses to it.

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