Solo
A Gillyweed Story
Dear Reader,
My name is Eibeetmai Drumm. I am the current Temporary Interim Associate Archivist for the Archives of the Gillyweed Academy of Performing Arts. The most recent Temporary Interim Associate Archivist of the Archives of the Gillyweed Academy of Performing Arts is currently on indefinite leave due to a mishap with a staple remover. May they heal quickly and completely—and soon!
In their absence, it is my great honor and privilege to share with you the Inaugural Publication of these august archives.
"Solo" is a fitting Inaugural Publication of the Archives in that its ephemera describes a formative event in the life Hina Yamazaki. In the Gillyweed Academy Community, she is a figure of great renown—an exemplary student, winning many Great Awards throughout her performing career, and becoming a beloved Teacher in her own right. Over time, you will no doubt have many opportunities to read about our dear Hina.
The source of this story is one of Hina's roommates at the time of the story’s setting, who has asked to remain anonymous. Worry not, Dear Reader, for I can personally vouch for this source's authenticity, veracity, honesty, and above all their insight into the magical qualities of Ms. Yamazaki at the time and place of this story. I stake my reputation on it as the current Temporary Interim Associate Archivist for the Archives of the Gillyweed Academy of Performing Arts for this the Inaugural Publication of the Archives!
So now, please enjoy "Solo".
Solo
It finally happened!
After many months of asking her teacher, Hina was assigned the piece of music she had dreamed of playing since she was a young pianist. During all her years growing up in her family home far away from the Gillyweed Academy—and even after becoming a student there—she had imagined herself playing it beautifully, perfectly. She always thought of it as her piece.
When she first heard it, the ending conjured in her heart an image saturated with feeling—the sun disappearing behind a mountain overlooking the sea, a symbol of her family's name, Yamazaki. So, it was the ending that enchanted her the most, always reminding her of home and of possibilities.
In that ending, the long and complex melody which announced itself triumphantly at the beginning and had been exploded into myriad fragments throughout most of the piece, returned. The melodic ephemera gradually reassembled during a long diminuendo, until the final sound—a pianissimo fermata of an octave tremolo in the piano's upper register—faded, hanging in the air, the pressed sustain pedal allowing the entire string bed to vibrate in sympathy, exquisitely settling into silence, like the dimming light of the sun reluctantly extinguishing into night.
She was elated that her piano teacher, Professor Fazekas, after two years of her relentless requests, agreed.
"Your magic is now ready for you to learn this piece, but it is not yet ready for you to play it," he admonished, his voice thick and warm. All of his vowels, even the lighter ones, were dark yet familiar coming from his mouth, their resonance elucidated by rich, crunchy consonants.
"You must go slowly," the last word trailing and thinning like the sun fading at the end of the piece—the very one she had always dreamed of playing and now, at last, could begin to learn.
Night. Alone in her dorm room with her piano, she sits down to practice her piece for the first time. Now it is her responsibility to actually learn to play it.
The difficulty of the task shrouds her previous elation as she looks at the score which suddenly bares little resemblance to the music she had always imagined.
Where to start? Where to place the first step of her thousand mile journey?
Overwhelm. Paralysis.
She closes her eyes.
She realizes she has lost awareness of her breathing.
She regains her attention with a deep breath in.
A slight, comfortable pause at the apex.
A long slow exhale.
She decides: let go of everything you think you know about this moment. You have imagined it many times. Now it is here. Start as if it is not your piece.
In fact, for her now, it is not her piece anymore. It is not the music she once knew. That music and that Hina are in the past.
She must become a new person, a new musician. She must learn this piece again for the first time.
Her eyes still closed, she takes another deep inhalation. She makes herself aware of nothing but the nourishing breath entering and filling her body and her mind.
And, she remembers what her professor said. She is ready and she is not yet ready.
She summons her magic by imagining herself working quickly, purposefully. The passages she thinks she knows in her mind and body make no sense to her imagined arms and hands as they make the motions she believes she will need to make to make the sounds appear. In her mind, she does not play them correctly. That is acceptable for now. The music, the score, will tell her what she needs to know. The sound is in her memory, and not yet in her body, not yet in her feet and legs and torso and arms and hands and fingers. Not yet. They will be. She is certain. She imagines the light from the sun of the music filling her, exciting her, enticing her, imploring her quickly, fervently enchanting: "learn who I am, get to know me, play with me, hold me close, touch me."
Breathless again, she regains awareness of this moment. Her body asks for a long breath. She creates it for herself.
Stillness.
Her eyes open.
Lines. Solid black ovals. Curves, flags, signs. An unspeakable language of words and phrases that she recognizes and that soothe her, give her comfort, excitement, confidence.
All of her training and persistent effort every day for days and weeks and months and years and more years have all lead her to this moment.
She doesn’t yet know every step she will take on this long journey, but she knows what she needs to do now.
The melody announcing itself. She looks at it on the page. A mystery: she doesn't recognize the parts, the fragments that are soon to be exploded, their fate a secret. She chooses to forget for now the character and story of this long, crazy, wonderful, mountain of a melody. For the first time she perceives this single melodic solo line, which has no accompaniment, no counter melodies, no rhythmic support, just itself laid bare, vulnerable, brave, telling its story, naked to a silent world.
Measure 1. What is the rhythm?
Don’t even think about the pitches. Master the rhythm of the first measure.
Start with this one simple, scary, doable thing.
I know I can do this, she says out loud to herself.
She turns to the small side table next to her and the piano. Slowly, aware of each movement, each gesture; the look, smell, and feel of each moment; the lifting of her heart, soul, and spirit; she reaches for her colorful box of matches, takes one out, strikes it, and lights the candle there.
She takes a breath, exhales into the still burning match, liberating the flame from its fuel, placing the charred wooden stick, still smoking, into the glass tray next to the painted wooden box.
She turns back to the piano and to the score. She is ready to learn.
Now, she begins.