Childhood, Music & Exile.

Is music part of our souls? Or is music’s magic, its transporting quality, something that we learn through others and living? Really, music touches every spirit, music can motivate men to war, to murder each other without conscience, or bring two lovers together in a tender embrace. Music transcends all other art forms and without it, as one philosopher has stated, life would not be worth living.

My first memory of music, ironically, was on a new invention, the television.

The violin is a remarkable instrument. In the hands of a true genius, it can alter one’s state of mind; it can change one’s mood to whatever the music decides to take you. Even now I can hear certain sonatas that take me to lands and spaces only imagined.

In our apartment in Toronto, Canada, before my sister came into the world, while my mother was pregnant with her, we lived in a small flat in the middle of the city. Interestingly, my memories of Toronto are much happier than Montreal. I remember the flat being dark, warm and smaller with a much happier atmosphere. Mother and I had an exclusive relationship. I did not have to share her with anyone. It was the end of the day, around dinnertime that the magic box was turned on to listen to the weekly concert on the then public channel. It was at that time I discovered music.

I cannot remember the composer or the artist but the actual live performance entered me in such a way that is difficult to translate. Music can be a private experience, and my experience with this particular classical solo changed everything. My father came home from work and I was duly sent to bed, the notes echoing in my mind. I knew that music was everything; it grounded everything, made everything good.

The next morning despite my communication skills at a minimum, I was trying to tell mother that I wanted to play music. She seemed to understand.

These particular images are prevalent despite many years as they pushed my being; or more so thrust my soul into the harshness of reality, of the living.

The bright lights of the supermarket and the many colours it contains are always an exciting time for any child. Everything is for the taking: toys, candy, cereal and strange items that you just have to have…suddenly I looked up and saw a violin: the same exact instrument as the man on the television. I remember yelling instead of talking and pointing like a deaf-mute. Mother saw what I was pointing to and retrieved and purchased it even though the family could not afford the few dollars. I owned a violin and would play like a real classical musician. We would arrive home and father would get home and hear me play Beethoven, Hayden and Tchaikovsky.

Mother asked me to not open the instrument until the concert came on the television.

Father arrived home, and as I recall the scene, it somehow felt like a set up, something to amuse the adults. Finally the programme appeared and the violinist began his solo performance. Mother handed me my new instrument. Lifting it under my chin, placing the bow upon the strings, taking a deep breath, the performance began.

What was wrong? It did not sound anything like the man on the television. In fact, my attempt at playing sounded like a squawking goose. No matter how hard I tried, no matter how hard I closed my eyes imagining the virtuoso on the television, the music would not come forth. I felt devastated. Then, looking up at mother, I could see her attempting to hide a smile. I tried to play the toy instrument again to no avail. I was a failure, and never picked up a musical instrument until many, many years later. I cried and acted like a spoiled child. Let’s face it: I was a mere eighteen months, frustrated and terribly angry.

This memory actually depicts the inner feelings that haunted me for many years. This planet is about struggle, striving against obstacles that will prevent you from attaining your wants and ultimate desires. Then again, in the right circumstance, the right context, would give everything…for pain and a price.

In bed that night, I imagined mother and father laughing about my failure as a violinist before falling to sleep. Again I lapsed slowly into a child’s sleep, wondering why I had been exiled, once again, from my home.