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04-24-2019, 04:18 PM | #1 | ||
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The Conductor
Jacqueline Berger There's no mention, of course, in the program that the conductor has Parkinson's. He enters the stage, stands for a moment facing the audience, his hands by his sides, tapping air. Then he holds them together, an act of gratitude —we are gathered, we can do this— and of firmness, each hand forcing the other to be still. His expression, darkly bemused, the good news/bad news: I've lived long enough to lose so much. Or maybe he's staving off our sympathy, don't clap because of this. Then he turns his back to us, begins his work. Mendelssohn's Scottish Symphony. No baton, and from behind his body is jerky as a boy's, jumpy with excitement. His hands shake when they scoop the sections of the orchestra, as though pulling a weighted net from the sea. Still, I wonder if this work is easier than taking on the ordinary objects of a day— buttons, keys, and pens. I am an old man he must think when he looks in the mirror, briefly naked before trading the bathrobe for the tie and tails. And when he turns to us again after the last movement, he looks both old and young, his face washed of the expression in the program photograph, clearly taken years before, one eyebrow slightly raised, his smile more satisfied than happy. Now he shows us his innocence, if innocence is what the face unconstructed can be called. What else can he do, while his fingers tap the useless code, while the audience, in rows, rises from their seats, still clapping, what can he do but show us who he is, a man standing too close to the edge, edge no one can call him back from. |
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"Thanks for this!" says: | moondaughter (04-30-2019) |
04-26-2019, 01:14 PM | #2 | ||
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Thank you for the lovely poem.
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