Making Music

The kid picked the guitar up from the floor. He had eyed it many times, touched its strings. Heard sound from a brushed string, then a pling when ticked by the fingernail. Running his fingers over all the strings as he had seen others do on TV, more sound tumbled out.

He ran his hand over the finger board, up and down the neck, and wondered how to make pleasant sounds. Maybe a stacked number of tones? Like a chord? He began to strum the strings with his right hand while fingering them with his left hand along the finger board.

The sounds were not all good. Adjusting his fingers he found better tones. He lay the guitar down. Other things beckoned his interest.

Days later he repeated his visit with the instrument. This time he began where he left off. The squeaks and sounds were more organized this time, not musical exactly, but more structured. He repeated this from time to time over the next several weeks.

A couple of months later he was playing recognizable chords. From there he picked out single note lines of melody. At first these were copies of what he remembered others doing, but eventually he found a line of notes from within himself.

Chords came next to accompany the note line. He was pleased with the short line of music he had created. It was his. Only he knew of it. It gave him pleasure to have done this and to repeat it often.

Months later he extended his ditty to a longer one. It now had a beginning, middle and end. Like a sentence, there was a subject, and action by the subject and also a conclusion. It was a trip, from beginning to end, and it told a story. He didn’t know the story yet. He needed to find a tale to go with the music.

Several weeks later he chanced upon a poem that attracted him. He took the poem and what it made him feel. He tweaked it with words of his own and soon had written his own message. All during this experience he ‘heard’ his own music playing along with his poem, his message. A week later he connected the two and made them one.

He had composed a song.

He shared his masterpiece with his family after supper one night. Excited to know their reactions, he presented his art for family inspection. They were surprised. He had never shown interest in music before now. But here was a small performance of an original song. Smiles broke out. Teasing, too, from his siblings. But no boos or disparaging comments.

Over the following years he tried other messages and melodies. He developed a style of playing the guitar that became unique to him. He had found a way to speak, to share with the world his thoughts that were mute before, unknown.

We will leave his story here, unfinished, untold. The important part is shared here – a voice created, discovered. A means to communicate more than thoughts and words. Feelings. Emotions. Pleasant sounds linked to words and mood. Art was formed. And we witnessed it. Just now. In these sentences.

Do we hear the music amid the sounds of life? Do we read the thoughts shared with us in forms other than language? Are we witness to feelings shared by those who must share it?

Listen. Look. See.

July 25, 2018