Before the orchestra begins to play, there are a million different sounds.
Rehearsal was about to start, but I sat in my chair, at the back corner of the stage, right next to the stairs, my eyes closed, listening.
I heard the shuffling of stands and the crinkling of music scores as my classmates sorted through their music in attempt to find the right piece. I heard the sound of a pencil clattering to the floor, bouncing lightly on the hardwood surface of the stage. I heard the sound of the percussionists whispering in the back, giggling at some secret joke. I heard the sound of the violinists warming up, glittering scales and flying runs floating off their strings. I heard the scraping of chairs as the brass players tried to situate themselves in order to see the conductor's podium. I heard the sound of fabric brushing past the velvet curtains as the late arrivals made their way up to the stage. I heard the sound of a cellist struggling in vain to tune their c string, which had slipped as the wood contracted with the colder weather. I heard the booming sound of walking bass line echoing around the performance hall, more fit for a jazz band than a classical orchestra. I heard the sound of a violist rosining up their bow, thousands of fine horsehairs sliding over an amber resin. I heard the screeching of strings as someone dragged a microfiber cloth across their instrument in an attempt to remove the rosin which had caked the strings over months and months of playing. I heard the sound of a clarinetist noodling, taking a crack at the run at the opening of Rhapsody in Blue, just missing the top note with each attempt. I heard the sound of our pianist practicing her solo repertoire, a forlorn rendition of the opening of Camille Saint-Saëns' second piano concerto. I heard the faint pumping of EDM emanating from the headphones of my stand partner as he prepared himself for the three hour rehearsal.
All of the sounds swirled around me, pressing into my ears, enveloping me, and I sat enraptured, these sounds of the orchestra washing over me.
And then I heard the tapping of a stick, and the chaos, the music that comes before the music, halted for a moment as our conductor raised her baton.
"Let's begin with the Wagner," she said.
She lifted her baton, and then let it drop as the sounds of the orchestra gave way to the hauntingly beautiful Prelude to Tristan and Isolde.
YOU ARE READING
Thoughts I Never Intended to Share
SpiritualIt takes me a long time to write my stories. I write in spurts, bursts of energy which come once every few weeks. In between, I have a million thoughts in my head that come and go as they please. Every once in awhile, I'll write them down. These are...
