Apparitions Janáček (Four Vignettes)
You know, June...
This is the last time you'll see them.
But I wasn't thinking; it was like a piercing draft of wind that got caught on my ear to slowly seep into my brain, that one remark which I had dreaded begetting, let alone set a voice to. The acrid vision was enough to pierce open my eyes to an open stream of cold, selfish, unbroken tears. It was too much for me to process and suppress such inevitable events; time stretched and flowed onward, yet never once lost its momentum with which it pushed over the monuments I erected in my heart—until the landscape was once again barren and grey and lifeless, each pocket of air only a vehicle for yet another empty vacuum I lock my emotions in. But briefly, for today, just briefly, I let loose the cap which with all its strength kept all my bottled and volatile emotions to which I face with disgust and disdain whilst the high tide rose higher and higher, pulling itself just high enough for that draft to rush in and implant itself in my cranium, to let go of the weak, ephemeral grasp I had on myself and to let it all go, somewhere someone can hear.
Still sniffs, nearly static—periodic, almost predictable.
As I drowned in my thunder, everyone else continued to hack away at their meals, each cutlery, silverware, plate, and bowl ringing at their respective resonances, each cutlery, silverware, plate, and bowl boasting flamboyantly their own pitch, a monotonic melody that clashed and intermingled with my sadistic internal monologue—forever gone forever away forever gone forever—mixed like vinegar and bleach, every banging against my eardrum only amplifying with each passing minute of my incapacitation. Smells—oils, aromas, sweat, tears—all came assaulting forth, without any capacity left for processing the senses, save for polyphonic self-scathing reprimands and cursing. It dragged on. It dragged on. It dragged on.
Even as footsteps pounded irritably into my skull and away to their respective places of rest, the restless noisescape flowed tirelessly, floating over my thoughts of self-destruction like an electric blanket. Gone were they, yet their spirits remained firmly in place, an invisible silhouette of light taking their place, each organ breathing and pumping away louder and louder. I tried reaching an arm out, but to futility—my arm was still glued to my thighs, refusing each advance I gave to them, forever in this locked position.
Until there was no one left, not even myself. The tears would not stop even at the command of my thoughts—thought forever gone forever away forever gone forever—and eroded my cheeks layer by layer, leaving not even the youngest layer exposed—pure flesh, pain which stung with such distinctness I wondered whether or not I had died. My heartbeat reverberated in my chest. They wouldn't stop.
"When will you stop crying?" My dad suddenly said. With acrimony; with anger.
With fear... My heart stopped beating.
When will you stop crying?; acrimony... anger...
My heart stopped beating. It stopped beating.
His hand fit almost perfectly into mine. My cupped-together hands made a comfy mat for it, with just a bit of thumb sticking out. It was unbelievably soft, too, like fresh snow tumbling gently on the windowsill. In a perfect parallel universe, I would hold hands with him all day long, till my heart was satisfied—if such a reality existed.
Though spring was making its way through, we still felt remnants of the winter air. Each gust of wind scraped off any warmth on our cheeks that the sun might have radiated forth.
We stood silently in the steadily diminishing crowd. People walked by and ignored us—perfect, I thought. It was as if we were truly alone—just the two of us—cherishing this moment of warmth between us. I imagined a black backdrop surrounding us, devouring the timespace we knew until only our bodies remained, floating ambiguously amorously. Not even a sparkling star could see us in our quarantine.
This ever-brief connection between us will no doubt be our last. But God, do I wish I could die here, just so my soul could live on in this moment forever. I wish I could just melt away into the ground; I wish I could stand in the way of time and stop it from moving ever again. I wish I could stay here forever.
My skirt ruffled against my legs as another breeze blew past. Warmth quickly dissipated from my body. Afterwards, though, I felt it again in his hands as it propagated up to my wrists, but no further.
I closed my eyes and leaned in slowly, trying to find his face. Not soon after, I felt his hand slip away from mine. At first, I thought I had accidentally let slip; only now do I realize he was the one who slipped away. I opened my eyes to an empty crowd—footsteps, murmuring, all gone. My hands stayed frozen where they had been a few seconds ago.
"Let's go, June." His voice trickled into my left ear. Bewildered, I turned only my eyes at first. Slowly carefully, almost mechanically, I adjusted the other parts of my body to face him.
Bittersweet may be where it must end.
III. Allegretto (CW: suicidal thoughts)
Fireworks were being paraded outside. Everyone else was gone to see them. But not me—what's wrong, June? What's wrong? Here you are, lying on your bed—why aren't you outside?
A faint headache clouded my head as I reached for the box cutter I hid under my pillow. A voice, now barely distinguishable, asked, "Has it really come to this?"
But it can't be! It can't be! What was the meaning behind all this? I'd never even once thought of injuring myself—and yet...
That couldn't have possibly been true, could it? I mean, where would I even begin to explain why the box cutter was right beneath my sleeping head?
As if my muscles became sentient, tired by the days of torture;
Then I heard the fireworks: th-dum. th-dum. th-dum.
But it'll be alright, June. They haven't left you forever. Don't mistake discomfort for amputation. It's not worth it, June. You're worth much more than you know. So please, let it go.
You know you're already missed. They wouldn't want to refill that hole with a coffin. You couldn't justify that. Please, just stay here, June. let the box cutter go.
I started to feel it slide and rub against my skin. Slipping away, like my grasp on life slid away faster than I could breathe. Even if I wasn't with them physically, I told myself, my memories will always remain with them and carry them onward...
An objection came from inside my stomach. Another thought and I would've thrown up on my bed. My grasp on the box cutter tightened once again.
But hadn't I promised myself? Wasn't it going so well? There was no reason I could see—and yet here we were again.
"Has it really come to this?" The voice became weaker each time it spoke. But somehow, my stomach hung on to it just barely, never fully fading out yet thrashing away violently.
I wanted to let go, but every instruction I screamed at my arm tightened my hand even more and solicited even more tears. It doesn't end, does it? Does it?
My mind strayed further from sanity, the same it's always felt;
And I heard my heartbeat: th-dum. th-dum. th-dum.
"Time to go!" My dad shouted from downstairs. By his tone, I could tell he was still quite irritated, but it would only get worse if I didn't go down promptly. I stood up from the crouched position I was in and started to walk out. When I reached the door, I decided to turn around one last time.
My bedroom, once the quaint little container I spent my days sleeping and studying and enjoying myself in, was now a blank canvas, depressingly devoid of any texture or ornamentation. In the dim moonlight, I could just make out the rough finish on the faintly off-white wall beside the window. It feels... almost poetic, doesn't it? And to think I'll never come back—
It's surreal. I blinked twice or thrice in quick succession, as if a camera, imprinting the scene in the back of my head. Then I left. Down the little set of stairs, down the narrow hallway, down...
It was like I'd suddenly forgotten this place. Every room and hallway started to disintegrate and float casually in the middle of space. Only the night sky gave a vague structure to the house for it to keep standing.
No, I must be hallucinating... Before I stepped out, I turned around. What I could recall from my memories seemed all just a hoax, judging from the desolateness of the kitchen, dining room, living room... I shuddered. Afraid to spend another second here and end up being reprimanded by my dad, I took another picture in my head—blink, blink, blink—and skedaddled.
As expected, he was waiting—impatiently, by the look on his face—outside the car. I rushed over and quickly opened the door before he could say anything. Just as he was getting in, though, I turned to look behind. There was the moon, hanging so placidly in front of my retinas.
I wouldn't say it was an epiphany—how could it have been when I've thought it over so many times before? Maybe it was a trigger, a provocation, for whatever reason. I reminded myself of the memories I made here—and how they would remain just memories: not friends, not relics, just ashes in the stale air.
The image of the moon started to break apart and blur as my eyes watered again. Please, not this...
I desperately tried to blink back the tears. Inadvertently, the ghostly apparition of the moon cast itself onto a fresh film in my mind. Almost like a van Gogh painting, I thought as we drove out onto the road. If you took away the crows and the wheatfield... well. The vision was there.
The highway was a serene lake for my thoughts to subside. My eyes were seemingly glued in position, always tilted at the same angle out the window. As we drove farther from the city, the visible sky darkened and more stars glistened beside the moon.
I felt another stream of guilt-inducing nostalgia bursting forth in my mind. This time, though, I didn't even try to stop it from landing. What could I do now?
It all came crashing down: a devastating torrent of flashbacks, regrets, and colorful memories. My tears quickly formed yet another silent stream down my cheeks. Not a single word was spoken between me, my dad, and the moon as we drove onward.
I closed my eyes as the buildings gradually faded out of view, replaced by the brilliance of a billion stars.
Janáček's Violin Sonata is one of the rare pieces of music that stands out to me personally for its ability to permanently embed itself in my mind's ear. It's difficult to pin down why exactly—the inner workings of my musical mind is as mysterious to my peers as is to me.
I've always known I wanted to write something inspired by this sonata, but it was a long, dragged-out question of what to write. In times when I was distracted and thinking about this endeavor, I wrangled over the emotions Janáček wanted to paint in the sonata. Ultimately, I think it was this excruciating emotionality which made the sonata stand out so boldly amongst others and it was what I wanted to express the most through these vignettes.
Ever since first listening to this sonata, I've found this emotionality rather captivating: one which is intense and evocative much more than it is deep, rich, and mellow, like the typical romanticist. It's something that really must be experienced first-hand to understand, as is often the case with twentieth century classical music! (I recommend Augustin Hadelich's recording of this sonata; Patricia Kopatchinskaja's recording is also a neat interpretation.)
Many of the events June experienced were inspired by events in my personal life which left a significant impact on me. These scenes were, rightfully, quite emotionally intense and difficult for me to retrace and describe in detail. I do think, however, it was something I needed to pursue in order to truly put these memories to rest.
After all, bittersweet may be where it must end.
