-
Wordless
WORDLESSbyJames WuFADE ININT. COZY FAMILY ROOM - EVENINGa PIANO sits in the corner.a CELLIST, male, post-teen, practices on their CELLO as the titles are ...
Posted Jun 10, 2016, 11:53 PM by James Wu
-
Echoes of Schubert
Yesterday, I saw the Hurdy-Gurdy man,Gingerly scraping away on a fiddle.To his feet were bound, one a castanet,The other, a lever which, upon depressionCleverly struck ...
Posted Feb 9, 2015, 12:12 PM by James Wu
-
The Road Home
When I came in from
the outsidethe carefully fallen snow thathad powdered the sidewalk,which felt soft, likemother nature's teddy bear;it had been trampled
by ...
Posted Jul 30, 2014, 1:37 PM by James Wu
-
Mademoiselle Violon
Posted Jul 30, 2014, 1:26 PM by James Wu
-
A Message to the Audience
Posted Jul 30, 2014, 1:04 PM by James Wu
-
Dear Diary
Posted Jul 30, 2014, 1:02 PM by James Wu
-
The Hero
Posted Jul 30, 2014, 1:00 PM by James Wu
-
O Danny Boy
Posted Jul 30, 2014, 12:57 PM by James Wu
posted Jun 10, 2016, 11:50 PM by James Wu
[
updated Jun 10, 2016, 11:53 PM
]
FADE IN
INT. COZY FAMILY ROOM - EVENING
a PIANO sits in the corner.
a CELLIST, male, post-teen, practices on their CELLO as the titles are displayed. There is exasperation in his face and exhaustion in his fingers, but he presses on.
As the titles conclude, the CELLIST encounters a difficult shift. He repeats it over and over, slowly, then quickly, trying to analyze and perfect it with every method he can think of...
But he has become too exhausted and can no longer focus; he can no longer hear: as his mind pirouettes along the line between conscious and subconscious, nothing sounds in tune anymore; he can't hear what's wrong and what's right; it all sounds wrong to him.
The CELLIST's sweat-covered face grimaces. In uncontrollable exasperation, he lifts his right hand, clenched in a fist around his bow, to punch at something... at anything... because... there are no words.
As his fist comes downward, a hand catches it from below and holds firmly.
The hand belongs to the PIANIST, female, of similar age to the CELLIST. She looks at him, with a mixture of concern and compassion in her otherwise bright face. She stares into his eyes. A beat.
The CELLIST finally breaks away from her gaze, drops his hand onto his knee in despair and sighs heavily.
The PIANIST sighs too, but out of worry rather than exasperation. With a momentary look of knowing, she heads to the piano, pulls the bench out, and hammers repeatedly on the C below middle C. She gestures for him to play.
The CELLIST looks at her, quite annoyed. As she keeps gesturing, the annoyance in his face turns into incredulousness, and then eventually into reluctant agreement. He turns back to his instrument. A beat.
The CELLIST begins to play the C an octave above the lowest string. The sound is vibratoless, toneless, as if dead on the inside.
The PIANIST begins to play.
As the music continues, the CELLIST begins to play with more tone, with more heart.
And finally, he hears the calling, and resolves downward to B.
Then, closing his eyes, he begins to sing (on his cello)...
The mysterious harmony seems to bring him back from despair..
He finally understands, and begins to smile.
The CELLIST opens his eyes and looks toward the PIANIST, who then turns to look at him. They look into each other's eyes with a new connection that was not there before, smiling warmly.
FADE TO BLACK
|
posted Feb 9, 2015, 11:56 AM by James Wu
[
updated Feb 9, 2015, 12:12 PM
]
Yesterday, I saw the Hurdy-Gurdy man, Gingerly scraping away on a fiddle. To his feet were bound, one a castanet, The other, a lever which, upon depression Cleverly struck a small cymbal against His worn, empty box of a seat.
It was plenty cold that day, and I Had hurriedly arrived upon the Opposite bank of the train tracks. First I heard him, and I knew this was No ordinary sound, for its loneliness Was excruciating, yet in its isolation Was somehow festive; as if a demented Jester's parody of a fiddler on the roof.
I journeyed down the platform to see For myself this delightful ghastliness. What sort of band plays with such a Ghastly sound yet tears at my heart so That I cannot turn away! And then I saw Him.
There was no band, no fiddler prancing Maniacally in ghastly synchronization With a herd of drummers. No, it was he; A stoic old man with a wool cap perched Atop his crooked head. With bare hands He held his fiddle, and upon them were Stocked winter's deathly fingers; they Could barely move, yet the same haunting Tune churned out time and time again to The cemented, uncaring echoes of that Underground crevasse we were at the moment Inhabiting.
Passersby came and went. Trains arrived And departed. No one heeded the lonely Song of the Hurdy-Gurdy man. And as we Sat, he kept on playing.
Suddenly I sprung up from my seat in a Silent rage, for what did the Hurdy-Gurdy Man have to sit on? Nothing! Nothing Besides an old box... and what have I Done to deserve a seat on my civilized Bench? Nothing again!
Watching his bow tremolo across the Strings of his fiddle, I once again Noticed his cold deathly fingers. And Feeling my gloves, I felt my anger Rising again; for what did I do To deserve the luxury of wearing them? Nothing at all! Frantically I tore them Off the warm, delicate flesh of my fingers And flung them to the ground.
The Hurdy-Gurdy man keeps churning away At his instrument.
A hand placed over my heart, aching With pity.
From deep inside the depths of my mind, A mysterious voice answered: "What did he do to deserve his fate? Nothing again!"
And I quickly glanced at the end of the Station, but the tracks were silent. And I Hurried up the steps and crossed over To the other bank where he sat, alone And cold. With freezing fingers I pulled From the warmth of my pocket, a single Note of appreciation... and as I timidly Approached and dropped it in the empty Bucket at his side, an event so grotesquely Magical thus took place: slowly, he turned Toward me, moving only his head, while His music making continued uninterrupted; He looked at me with his beady, clouded Blue eyes, and a smile that seemed so Ancient, yet somehow possessed an Unbelievable warmth; a warmth known only To those who have witnessed the face of Death itself and lived to tell the tale...
And as quickly as that incredible moment Came, it had passed, and my train was Arriving across that steel river at the Opposite bank. As I rushed to secure a Place for the journey back home, his music drifted after me, still uninterrupted, Still the same as it had always been... And I realized that it really was music: It was beautiful, because whatever we Did or did not do in our lifetime to Deserve what we have or do not have: We are both alive, and that is something To celebrate.
Hour after hour, the music of the Hurdy-Gurdy man would continue. Hour after hour, he would remain, Unheeded. But hour after hour, he still lives, And being alive, I have come to realize, Is a beautiful thing.
|
posted Jul 30, 2014, 1:36 PM by James Wu
[
updated Jul 30, 2014, 1:37 PM
]
| When I came in from
the outside the carefully fallen snow that had powdered the sidewalk, which felt soft, like mother nature's teddy bear;
it had been trampled
by many a traveler on their way to who knows where; taking on the color
of urban dirt, splashing unpleasantly at my feet.
Yet when I finally
returned to that sloping lane of cement, I discovered the river of slush
completely frozen over by the deathly curfew of winter, and in that
moment I knew;
I knew that someone besides me understood how it's like
to cry when tears are frozen before they can perform their destined fate of forming rivers of sadness across cheeks for all to see;
Nature
stings my face gently with her bitterness and we both laugh, for we
cannot cry; the soft, gentle youth of freshly fallen snow has all but gone with the wind, leaving in its place a rigid, lifeless shell which seems suitable more for the errand of slicing a heart in half than
gently cushioning its fall.
If this were a Schubertian song, then all
would call attention briefly to its sadness and move on, leaving the leiermann to continue toiling forever and
ever and
ever
until
one
feels
and
sees
and
hears
nothing
|
|
posted Jul 30, 2014, 1:26 PM by James Wu
posted Jul 30, 2014, 1:04 PM by James Wu
posted Jul 30, 2014, 1:02 PM by James Wu
posted Jul 30, 2014, 1:00 PM by James Wu
posted Jul 30, 2014, 12:53 PM by James Wu
[
updated Jul 30, 2014, 12:57 PM
]
|