Friday, 13 January 2012

Linchpin lover

I feel like a slug. "Full moon!" Nicolas has warned. The only constructive thing I have done is to paint this wall in the dining room in blue grayish tones to jazz up the otherwise monotonous ivory white walls which spread through the whole flat. There's no money in the pot so I stay home and try to be creative. A new song - My Linchpin Lover, that I have started yesterday when I toyed and reconstructed one of the poems Bibbe has sent me recently. 
It's going to be a simple, upbeat number - but how I wish I could play the guitar...

Simon has told me yesterday that there will not be sufficient fund to have me as musical director for the Anne Clarke project he's setting up in Zürich this coming month of May. Surprised? Not really. I was flattered that Simon even thought of paying me - even more that he would fly me to Switzerland for the occasion. Maybe I had an inkling it would never happen - maybe that's why I never felt the impulse to start working on Anne's songs. 
To be honest, I was never much inspired by them musically. The lyrics are beautiful indeed, and Anne Clarke is a very interesting performer, but since she doesn't sing a single note in her songs, my task, which Simon understated as being that of an arranger would actually have been closer to setting those texts to new music: composer. Working as an arranger in pop music, (producer, a bag word that is so loose no one really knows what it is exactly) can be frustrating, since anyone who can come up with a little melody can claim to be a composer. Is it because of the financial aspect - one makes more money being a songwriter than 'just' a singer, a genuine desire to be part of the creative process, or the fact that everything is now copyrighted to the point of ridicule? I went to hear Beethoven's Ninth symphony at the National Concert Hall and was reminded how I recently found out that this Ode to Joy, which anybody in the world can hum heavily borrows from a sacred piece by Mozart - fortunately never performed! That should humble down many of these pop creators who cry for outrage when a few bars of theirs find their way in someone else's song.

I saw Isabelle in my dream. It could have been a real life situation: she was lamenting about how scarce work was for her, how everything was difficult. I wanted to see some enthusiasm in her when I talked about the play I'm writing for her. But the only answer I would get was that it was oh so difficult.
Then everything switched. As soon as I made up my mind that I would give up on her, a new thought rose in me, that I could simply think that it was possible. By magic, Isabelle's attitude changed and seemed much more confident.
Our dreams only reflect ourselves. And in Isabelle, I can also see a lot of myself, the fear, the apprehension, the weight of the past, of the parents' and ancestor's past. But we are not living this life just to abide.
"We have friends who mirror who we are", Nicolas said earlier today. "Most of your friends do have this dark and melancholic side in them. See how Jan and his jolly disposition thinly hide a deep anguish. See me..."
He's right. Then he asked:
"Why don't ask Bévinda to be in that play? You need someone who's building up, and isn't afraid.
The suggestion hit me on the right spot. Of course, Bévinda would be the perfect person for the project. She may not have the theatrical experience that Isabelle has, but she looking forward and unafraid to make the jump.
"You're right, Nicolas; I want to work with someone who's actually doing something, however small. Isabelle is waiting to be saved and I'm not Pygmalion."
I still wish to see Isabelle waking up and show a more aggressive behaviour. I haven't heard much from her for the past months though...
But yes, having Bévinda is a brilliant idea. I don't know whether she can act, but as a performer, she surely has stage charisma.

Ryan is leaving soon. Tonight will be our last night. As the final day is approaching, my affection (an understatement) for him is growing stronger. He has managed to fill all the empty spaces I had left unattended for years with his youthfulness, his tenderness and liveliness. Now I find that I will miss him. If I had been professing the idea that he should seize what life has in store for him and not be afraid to experiment, now I toy with the idea that I we shall meet again when he comes back. What's next? I just allow it to happen, whether I am a coeur d'artichaud, as the French would put it, whether my disillusioned self is starting to warm up to love again but doesn't quite manage to believe its luck...
On verra, my linchpin lover!

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