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One.
My dear, let me tell you about the Elgar cello concerto. It was
Written by a man watching the end of his world, by a man whose country
Had been destroyed by a war that he thought at the time would be The worst that his world would ever face.
(He was wrong, but That is a tragedy unrelated to the way that he spins phrases into emotions.)
It was written by a man whose music, which had once
Been the pride of his nation, was considered
Too old, too out of style, nothing
Worth listening to. It was written by a man
In the middle of the woods with no company, save
For his wife, who was weakening each day. He loved her, and
Nothing will ever last forever. She died, my dearest, only weeks
After he premiered his last great work.
Still, she stood beside him as he watched the audience
Stare at the performer, unimpressed.
Do not ask me if she loved it. It is not my place to say.
Instead, stand with me and watch the sunrise, and
Pretend that this means that the day in front of us could be
Anything at all. (We both know
Just how much she did.)
Two.
This is the beginning of something new. Stand with me and
Watch the way that the sky lights up
With potential, glittering more than the false diamond
That you use as a paperweight. Pick both up at once
And hold them in your hands. Which is heavier, dear?
Your diamond holds your thoughts down, but I think that
They could never be as heavy as the world,
Pausing to watch a new thing enter the air.
It wants something, the world does.
It is very good at wanting things.
Perhaps, this time, it will want too much,
And the fireworks will fade before they have
A chance to begin. Even if that happens, stand with me
On the edge of understanding. (You can still watch, my dear. It is
A different kind of watching, to watch how it all falls to pieces.)
I will be remembering. I will be thinking
Of everything that could have been, that was never going to be.
Three.
This is the moment of greatness. This is the moment
That your world is at its height, that you have done
All that you will ever do. Enjoy it. No, I suppose that
There is no way to do that. First of all, you do not know.
Your ignorance lights up the room around you as you
Laugh at the awful, awful jokes that your best friend tells.
You do not know what comes after this moment, or if you do,
You have decided to ignore it. (Is that the best that you can do,
to simply pretend that nothing is inevitable?) You were not
Meant to live in a single moment and let it be the greatest of you life,
Surely. You were meant for more.
I will watch from the sidelines as you try to keep climbing
A mountain that will always be just high enough for you to
Glimpse the peak. Do not ask me for help. I told you
When your moment was, so that you could enjoy it.
It is the most that I can offer.
Four.
The clubs are in the air, two small things that the performer has
Carefully covered in tape to catch the light. Do you see them?
Do you see the performer? Which do you find yourself watching,
The objects or the human dancing beneath them?
She was better with the hoop, perhaps, which shone
Golden and became nothing less than another part
Of her body, one that she could toss in the air
With a smile and one that she could catch
Without thinking to look first, because she knew exactly where
It would fall. But she is beautiful with the clubs as well.
Watch her spin them in her hands.
She will win this round, as she has
Won all of the others. This is her last chance,
And she knows that she must do everything
Perfectly. She will, of course, succeed This will be
Her victory, her height, and she was meant to walk away
Victorious. Watch her throw the clubs with practiced ease.
Too practiced, you could say. She is overconfident, that is
A danger. (You do not say anything. You, after all, do not
Know how this story will end.)
Five.
Elgar never wrote again after his wife died, my dearest.
He simply couldn’t. On his deathbed, he had written only
Sketches and useless melodies that said
Nothing of importance, and he would not let them be finished.
It was his final wish, that nothing from his mind would be
Allowed to remain. Listen to Pomp and Circumstance, my love,
And try to tell me that this is the same man that wrote
The ending of our favorite concerto. You will not be able to.
The melodies are too different, and only one
Speaks of the truth in all things. Hold my hand
And ask yourself this: would you ever write again, if it was
Torn away? His concerto, his last work, remained
Exactly as it had premiered: ignored, a work by a man
Who was no longer himself. He would never be again.
Six.
Do you remember when you held a diamond
Paperweight in your hands and told me
That it carried nothing important at all? You
Keep your real thoughts in gilded notebooks
That you bought on a whim years ago.
You have too many of them.
(You have not enough thoughts. Leave that part
Unspoken, a thing for me to interpret through your silences.)
Hold the paperweight, and hold the new thing
That we glimpsed the potential in last night, the one
That the world could not help but greet with brightness.
Throw both on the ground. Watch carefully,
And mark down with the cold gaze of a scientist
Which one shatters first.
Seven.
This is the weight of an idea: that it
Will carry the whole world with its brilliance.
That it will be something new, reinvent itself,
Whenever it has the need to. That it will
Shine so brightly that it simply must be noticed,
That nothing else will be able to overtake
Its beauty. It is expected to be ever-changing
And always itself, lovely and brutal, simple enough
That you can speak it to me late at night but still
Something never seen before.
This is the weight of a person, dearest: that they
Will exist for themselves, for others, for the world.
That they will never fall.
Eight.
We were watching the clubs, correct?
Do not pay attention to the woman beneath them,
Reaching, reaching, always reaching.
It is a certainty that she will succeed.
Pay attention to the clubs, spinning
In the air in perfect harmony,
One and then the other. Watch them
Rise. Watch them fall. Now you can
Watch the woman, in her gold outfit,
Certain that this will be her final performance.
She is right about this. She is right about most
Of her life, she has learned to know herself.
She is wrong about the way that the clubs will fall,
Just a few inches to the right. (What, did you think that she would not
Be wrong, not after all this certainty? Do not be foolish.
Everyone is, my love.)
A few inches, but the world, and they fall
One by one to the floor that they are not allowed
To touch. A few inches, but now her
Inevitable victory is no longer in her grasp.
Watch the way that she drops to the ground after them at
The end of her routine, no longer smiling. Perhaps
You should have been watching her the whole time,
You say. Yes, perhaps. But would it have
Really changed anything?
Nine.
This is what the world thought about the Elgar concerto:
Too romantic. Too useless. It says nothing, and it
Tries to say too much. Good for nothing
More than an etude, or perhaps a work
To give to a high schooler swept away by rebellion.
No, instead you should play the Dvorak,
If you really want to be anything.
Ten.
The scene is laid out before you. A book,
Something Russian and overlong, on the bed.
Several notebooks, most of them empty.
Letters, held down by a diamond paperweight. You may pick them up.
The scene has moved on without you already anyways.
Here are letters written for somebody beyond the reach of time,
Somebody who only used to exist. (These are unsent, but they
Will never be forgotten. Read them, and remind yourself of what
Used to be.) Behind you, torn up in the garbage can,
Are the ones that were received, and opened, and abandoned. Put them
Back together, my love, for the full story.
Is that what you want? The full story?
Don’t bother. They could be anything. Just let me
Tell you this one important detail:
They speak of failure.
Eleven.
This is the ending. Does it matter
How long it lasted, how long it could hold itself strong
Before it collapsed in on itself, before it chose to be forgotten?
You know the answer, by now. Or, at least, you know
What the world will say. Nothing matters. All that matters
Is the pressure lifted from your chest as
The sky becomes dark again, and the
Sudden weight in your hands as you realize
That there is nothing left to do. Let me tell you this:
It speaks of failure. It speaks of an
Emptiness in your chest, which I am told
Once held a heart. (Did it? It is your turn to tell me
This one thing. What did you want, long ago before anything
Mattered?) Listen to the concerto, listen to the way
The performer reaches for the high notes in front of
An audience that does not care to think. Watch
The woman walk away from her performance,
Clubs in hand, crying because her one mistake
Caught her in the moment that it mattered most.
The diamond is still in your hands, but when you look at it
You realize that it has always been plastic.
Drop it to the floor. Drop it and feel the world
Stop caring. There is nothing left
But the afterimage of fireworks behind your eyes.
Twelve.
This is what comes after the end. Tell me,
Did you know that such a thing exists? It does. After all, someday the world itself
Will end, and there must still be something to
Live for after that. That is how these things go.
Do not ask if you will ever feel full again. You do not
Want me to answer you truthfully, you want
A lie beautiful enough to paint in front of the sunrise.
I am not in the habit of lying.
This is after the end. Walk off of the stage.
This is what remains: the memory of
A pressure that killed you inside, one that you came to
Love, and the hope that you can return to the
World that you lost. You cannot. Look at the final chord,
Faded notes on faded paper. Look at the
New victor, preparing to smile in a way
That she is not yet used to. Look at the things
That you are left with, and the ones
That you will never have again.
Thirteen.
The clubs are put away. The battle is lost.
Only the ribbon remains. Still, though, the performer
Needs to fight. It is what she was taught. Watch her,
Tears still hanging from her thoughts, her makeup
Mysteriously perfect, carry her ribbon
Onto the stage. Watch the way that she fights
When there is nothing left to lose.
Watch her smile. It’s different, now, no longer
Dripping with victory. Instead, it seems true. Ask
If it is real. Ask if she is enjoying this. Watch the way
That her ribbon shimmers in the air, watch her catch it
Perfectly this time, and let the questions build up.
Afterwards, she will leave the arena, and she will tell
The truth. Her final performance, the one after she had
Already lost everything, was the only one that she ever found
The strength to enjoy. It was the only one that she
Would ever want to experience again. Watch her exit the arena,
Hand in hand with the new victor, both of them carrying
Notebooks made to remember that day, long ago, when
They both won. Watch them relearn how to be simply friends.
Neither of them will ever perform again. Both of them will be
Remembered. Watch the rest of their lives, years spent
Seeking another way to find victory, and watch them live.
Fourteen.
My dear, let me tell you about Jacqueline du Pre. She
Was taught a concerto that nobody else cared for, one
Written by an aging man trying to memorize
The way that his dying wife smiled. Watch her
Listen to the notes, and watch her understand them.
When she is sixteen, still too young to know
What lies ahead of her, she will debut on an instrument
That costs more than her home. It was
Given to her, a gift from the world, and in return
She will give them the Elgar, in its full glory.
Watch her smile, watch her recognize
The way that she will be great.
Watch as the world realizes that they
Had forgotten something very, very, important.
Fifteen.
The paperweight cannot be put back together.
Why did you shatter it, in that way? Were you
Truly so hopeless that you had to throw it to the floor?
I cannot lie to you, and I cannot put it back together.
I cannot show you the way that another life, one that can
Understand yours, will one day light up the sky, and when they
Shine brighter than you ever could, they will dedicate it all to you.
Your private diamond will remain broken
Until the day that you break with it. But I can
Promise you this: one day, it will all be worth it. One day,
You will hear the world as it was meant to be. You will
Not remain forever bound to the Earth by the memory of
Things that you will always long for.
One day, you will reach for the sky, and it will
Bend in your grasp. When that day comes, my love,
Paint me into your sunset.
Sixteen.
The story is yet to end. It will not end
The way that you want it to. I apologise for this, because
Even though I did not create this story, my dearest,
I did have the option to leave out the ending. Still,
Listen carefully. There is still one more fall to tell you of.
Jacqueline du Pre, in all of her glory, played
Her instrument for only sixteen years. When she
Was twenty-eight years old, still so young that
Her life seemed like an infinite thing, she lost
The ability to open her cello case. She was diagnosed with
A disease that took away the things she loved best first, and
Did not give her the option of leaving the stage victorious.
She did not see it coming. (Who could have?) Watch her,
In her London flat, teach students from around the world.
Watch them play phrases that she will never again be able to,
In a way that will never be more than a pale imitation of hers.
She was the greatest. She fell more than most people could.
Do not ask me, darling, what her final great performance would have been,
If she had known. It is not my place to say. Instead,
Stand with me and watch the stars, stars that are both cold and warm at once
And stars that do not care how often we find ourselves longing to be among them
And stars that we love, anyways, with more of ourselves
Than we ever loved our lives. Stand with me, add remark that
Perhaps it would have been the Elgar.