Bones. Feathers. Fabric
on the walls. The tears of a young girl falling on an old man’s cheek. Chanting,
singing, the stamping of feet. Pots of burning herbs, sticks of incense. She
cradles his head in her arms, soothing him with whispers. Drums are thumping
nearby. He looks up with half-blind eyes.
‘Chenoa?’ he rasps.
‘Pilan?’
The pitter-patter of
tears.
‘Do you have them?’
‘Yes.’
‘Keep them and find me.’
‘I will find you.’
‘You will find me.’
‘Sleep, Innie. Sleep and
be still.’
‘Find me.’
His lips move but the
voice has emptied of breath. A candle fizzles. The drumming turns to echoes.
The aircraft is cruising at
thirty-three thousand feet. I’d been bumped up to business class, the unexpected
but pleasant result of arriving late after a frenetic dash through the capital.
A month ago I was still at my desk
delivering ultimatums to unscrupulous landlords, drafting pointless reports and
flirting with staff twice my age. Every morning I fell into the underworld of
I’m shifting in my seat. We’re
over the
It was five o’clock in
the morning when the wheels struck the tarmac and we disembarked. I collected my
baggage and drifted through customs like a wraith. When the doors to the airport
opened, the full impact of the smothering heat struck. Some staggered as it hit
them, involuntarily stepping back into the air-conditioned arrivals lounge.
Others walked on, oblivious. I stood by the taxi rank and savoured the strange
and strangling air. I held my arms out so that the heat could penetrate me, so
no part of me was left susceptible to shock later on. It was only five in the
morning and
Like all first-time
arrivals in the city, I ended up on the
Waking up with a
hangover on the seventh day after my arrival, I decided to leave. I had no idea
where to go, no plan whatsoever. I wandered into a travel agent and picked the
name of a town at random from a list of destinations on a tattered board:
I spent my last day in
Music: the human
spirit has always pined for it. Before we could talk we intuitively knew the
patterns of rhythm. Before we filled a heaven with gods, we developed the sacred
art of music by which we could worship them. Why did men beat bones upon the
rocks? To be heard? To have a voice in the vast and isolating universe? Did the
syncopated beats of nature seek out the soul of man?
Through my
wretched bouts of fever, I had perceived an ether permeated by a fundamental
harmony, a rippling universal vibration that set everything into motion.
Everything in the vast and sprawling splendour of creation is
imbued with a rhythm, a fundamental vibration, an echo of a noise that permeates
all space and time.
The universe is a rushing torrent of noise and light, a seething
cauldron of matter and energy, forever caught up in a violent state of flux.
Nothing can be absolutely still; nothing can cease to vibrate. Vibration is
sound.
In my
delirium I had imagined that musical instruments were tools to tap into this
ubiquitous ether, translating strange mappings of perfection into languages that
we could more easily rationalise and understand.
Flux. Noise. And from the chaos, harmony and concord.
I read the
description of my fevered dreams four or five times before I put the journal
away and set off towards the station. I suppose I was looking for clues. In
On my way
through the city, I stopped at a bookshop to find something to occupy me during
the journey. I found a battered tome
of Chinese poetry. The I Ching was buried somewhere in the depths of my rucksack
and I thought they’d complement each other, so I bought the book and headed on
to the Hualamphong station. At midnight I boarded the train for
I gave up trying to
sleep. The tracks were rattling beneath the wheels; a child was crying in the
next compartment; a mosquito was buzzing somewhere. For a while I tried to
identify the note of its wings, but I couldn’t pin it down. I opened my
newly-acquired book at a random page, saw the word ‘music’ and began reading.
The author’s name was Lu Bu We, but no other information was provided.
The origins of music lie far back
in the past. Music arises from Measure and is rooted in the Great Oneness. The
Great Oneness begets the two Poles; the two Poles beget the power of Darkness
and Light.
When capital letters are
used on otherwise ordinary words, deeper meanings are usually implied, but I
didn’t understand the references to
Measure
and Poles
and the
Great Oneness. Why and how does music arise from
Measure? And
how was it rooted in the begetter of darkness and light?
Music is founded on the harmony
between Heaven and Earth, on the concord of brightness and obscurity.
The train rolled on
through the darkness of the tropical peninsular, passing through towering
limestone mountains and dense jungles that eventually gave way to endless rice
plains. The soporific rhythm of the wheels soothed my mind. I put the book aside
and slept until the train screeched to a halt at our destination. The passengers
diffused like clouds of smoke in the heat of the Malaysian morning. I gathered
my belongings and headed for the ferry.
In
A small table held a set
of knives, inks and brushes, and a stock of stone tablets. He sat down and
started to mark the tiny characters on a tablet with graceful fingers,
completely absorbed. His back was bent in a permanent stoop and his body was
frail, but his eyes maintained a fiery spark. He was calm and careful, like a
grandfather who has worked on the land for a lifetime. The candle flames
flickered on the blade of the knife as it danced under his command. When I
glanced away from his work, I noticed that the other end of the room was filled
with instruments. The shadows they cast seemed to be moving in time with his
knife, imbuing the strange shapes with a lithe animal quality. I stared for a
while, convinced the instruments themselves were moving, but they were not.
Turning my attention back to the old man, I asked if he was a musician. He
nodded. I noticed another table that was covered with tools and a profusion of
strings, bellows, mouthpieces, pedals and picks. I assumed that he either
repaired or built the instruments I saw on the walls. I was intrigued, but
became distracted as my mind recalled the words of Lu Bu We. I asked if the good
and evil of the pendant inscription were like
darkness and light.
His back straightened a little, his eyes lifted from his work, and the knife
stilled. He must have been surprised by my question, or perhaps by the
foreknowledge apparent in my tone.
‘Could be,’ he said in a
soft voice, without turning his head. The knife flickered and the candle flame
glinted in his eyes. I abandoned subtlety and asked him bluntly if he knew who
Lu Bu We was. His back straightened again and he turned with a bemused look.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because I’ve been
reading his work.’
He appeared doubtful. I
told him about the book from the shop in
Though I was enjoying
myself, I wanted him to answer my question, so I told him about my fevered
dreams. I must have sounded like a lunatic. I thought at best he would simply
humour me, but instead he became more serious and solemn. I sensed he was
dancing around me, presumably withholding an answer until he knew more about me.
When he eventually decided to respond, I struggled to keep up with the flurry of
words. He spoke near-perfect English, but at a pace that blurred the consonants
into vowels. He said that he had sacrificed wealth, family and friendship to
fulfil the ambition that had taken over his life: he was reinterpreting the
principles of Taoism. He claimed that the ancient text of the Tao-te-Ching was
intended to be a doctrine of fundamental music and that the Lao-Tzu masterpiece
had been misinterpreted for centuries. It was astonishing and improbable, but I
felt a prickle of excitement. He was waiting for me to react, so I prompted him
to continue. He asked me if I had read the Tao-te-Ching, and I said I had, but
when I was too young to fully comprehend.
To understand any work
of philosophy, he explained, one must begin by understanding the words that
describe the ideas. Every philosophy has its own idiosyncratic dictionary, its
own language within which familiar and commonly used words have attenuated
meanings. Once the nuances of the language are thoroughly understood, one must
transcend the meaning of the words to gain insight. Words will lead you to the
threshold of wisdom, he told me, but they’re too heavy to carry you across. A
true philosopher resides in an intuitive, boundless state, but a novice must
start at the beginning – with words. He described the origins of yin and yang
and the Tao and told me to reassess the words of Lu Bu We in the light of his
explanations. That night, in my room, I was able to recall and write down a
summary of his words.
Tao (the ‘ridgepole’): The
fundamental postulate, the ‘great primal beginning’ of all that exists – ‘t’ai
chi’ in its original meaning.
The ridgepole is the simplest
construct of form after the point: a line. The line represents the condition of
‘oneness’ prevalent in Chinese thought. It has the immediate effect of creating
duality: up and down, left and right, light and dark, good and evil, matter and
energy. The continual flux between the two extreme forces gives rise to the
phenomenal world.
Earlier Chinese philosophers used
the circle to depict the ridgepole: paradox and perfection; a line with neither
beginning nor end; the great primal beginning - Tao.
Yin/Yang:
The fundamental opposites; the extreme forces.
The combination of the circle and
the line led to the classic yin/yang symbolism with the duality of light and
dark employed to represent the fundamental duality. The yin/yang symbol depicts
both the ‘oneness’ in the universe and the opposites fundamental to the physical
existence of the universe – the source of all change in the natural world.
It was difficult to take
all of this in and simultaneously apply it to the words of Lu Bu We, but one
thing was clear: his words were imbued with a higher level of relevance.
Music is rooted in the
Great Oneness; music is placed in
the realm of the ridgepole, the unearthly, the ineffable. It is fundamental in
nature, existing preternaturally in the great primal beginning. It is t’ai chi.
It is Tao.
The Great Oneness begets
the two poles.
But if I didn’t understand Tao, what could I possibly learn from connecting the
essence of music to it? For that matter, what did I know about ‘the
essence of music’?
I was impressed by the
old man’s sincerity and his self-belief. I had such a clear memory of his final
words, spoken in near perfect English, that I was able to write them down
verbatim.
He (Lu Bu We) was trying to say
that music is founded in the fundamental harmony that lies behind the chaos of
duality. The physical world we live in is a world of opposites, of contrasts and
extremes: yin and yang; obscurity and brightness; heaven and earth; light and
dark. But they’re all just words we use, labels for the fundamental opposites.
The important thing to remember is that music does not reside in the realm of
duality, that is to say, in the manifestation of change that is the phenomenal
world – its roots are ethereal. Its roots are Tao.
Were these the words I
had travelled such a great distance to hear, the reason why I had given
everything up in
When he finished the
pendant, he made a pot of tea and asked me more questions about my travels, my
home and my plans. He showed me his instruments, letting me try some, but he
refused to be drawn further on the subject of music. I felt it was time to
leave, so I thanked him, paid him and said goodbye. I resolved to return and
continue our conversation another day. As I pushed open the heavy doors and
looked out at the seedy back streets of
‘You might think me an
eccentric old man with funny ideas, but there is truth in what I say – the
fundamental melody is no myth. It is always there, humming softly in the fabric
of the world. If you learn to hear it, well…’ A light rain began to fall as he
spoke.
‘The perfect rhythm, the
golden cosmic note,’ I whispered without thinking.
‘What?’
‘I’d find the perfect
rhythm, the golden cosmic note; the one they made in heaven, the one the Angels
wrote. It’s a line from a poem I
wrote down once after waking with it in my head.’ The ensuing silence went on
for some time until the sudden movement as I flicked my wet hair aside seemed to
stir the old man.
‘Wait here. I must fetch
something.’ He went back into the shop, leaving me on the cold kerbside with the
quiet hum of the bug-infested neon streetlights and the pouring rain. I rolled
the pendant around in my fingers, leaning against the wall and looking up and
down the empty street until the big doors swung open once more. ‘I want you to
have this one.’
He held out another
pendant. I started to refuse, but he insisted, snatching the original from my
grasp and pressing the new one into my hand. ‘No, do not refuse an old man. It
is late; I am tired and I must go to bed. Call again if you are passing and
don’t get too wet on your way home. Goodbye!’
I realised that I hadn’t
asked his name. As the door slammed shut, I looked at the new pendant and saw it
was inscribed with exactly the same couplet as the one he’d taken from me. It
looked identical. Standing in the sudden silence, bemused by his abrupt
departure, I noticed a mark upon the panels of the heavy doors that seemed oddly
familiar – a triangle of dots: one, two, three, then four. I stared at them,
trying to recall where I’d seen them before, but I couldn’t place them.
Ambling down the back
alleys of the colonial town, my mind was alive with ideas. Things I had read
came back in blurry paraphrases. I remembered the mythical ‘music of the
spheres’, the harmony of heavenly bodies, inaudible to our ears. I pondered over
the nature of subsonic and supersonic sound: an infinite landscape of noise that
passes us by. I tried to imagine what it would be like to hear the continual
quantum popping of matter becoming light, light becoming matter in a boundless
spray of nanoscopic sound.
Flux. Noise, and from the chaos…
The whirr of the jungle
cicadas has rhythms and beats that occur over timescales too small for us to
perceive. Our brains are the most developed of all species, but the elaborate
melodies of birdsong will always elude us. By the same token, we can never see
the world through the eyes of a bat, or smell it like a dog. The details will
always be lost to us.
Music is
in all growing things;
And
underneath the silky wings
Of
smallest insects there is stirred
A pulse of
air that must be heard;
Earth’s
silence lives, and throbs, and sings.
The world is full of
music we can’t hear.
When I returned to my
room, I wrote down as much of the old man’s words as I could remember. The ideas
resonated with an intuition that had grown within me over years, but they were
too esoteric, their connections vague and shapeless. Feeling compelled to act,
but having no clear objective, I spent hours contemplating the sounds of the
city streets: the hum of electricity, the dripping of rain, the squeal and purr
of petrol engines, the pitter-patter of cicadas and the comedy gulp of the
geckos. Eventually the sounds faded and I fell into sleep.
The next day I awoke
with a renewed sense of enthusiasm. I rushed breakfast, returned to my room, and
spent the whole day with my guitar, playing single notes, coupling them, playing
triads, combining notes in all the ways I could think of. I went through
hundreds of chords, shifting the mood with intervals I’d never dreamt of playing
before. In the evening I found a piano in an empty bar and I did the same thing.
For days I sat in front of the keys, but still I wasn’t content. In the end I
found myself striking single notes and listening intently to the fading echoes
of the overtones. I tuned the strings of the guitar until they snapped. I
replaced them and retuned them. The tragic words of Beethoven flashed through my
head: ‘It is, and always will be, a disappointing instrument’. He had
commissioned the greatest piano makers of his time to design and build pianos,
but the sounds could never match the music that rang sonorously through his
subconscious.
With bitter
disappointment, I left the instruments and began to meditate. I heard cars
screeching through the rain-soaked streets, drunks yelling, street vendors
heckling, dogs barking and the animal sounds of sex from the next room. I was
becoming depressed. The depression developed into a form of despair and I
ventured back towards the pendant engraver’s shop in the hope that he could tell
me more – anything to resolve my mood. I retraced my steps until the heavy doors
were in front of me again. The first hint of something amiss was the absence of
the pattern of dots upon the door. Somebody had scratched them away. I knocked:
nothing. I knocked again: still nothing. I pushed gently and the doors swung
open. I called out: nothing. I walked in hesitantly and found a silent house
filled with empty boxes. An eerie stillness hung in the air. The furniture was
beginning to accumulate dust – more dust than I would expect after only a few
days’ neglect. I walked through every room in the house and found no trace of
the old man, the instruments or the pendants. There was nothing remotely
familiar, just dust and empty boxes. I felt claustrophobic and left. In the
streets my head began to spin as I tried to make sense of it. I walked up and
down the road several times to check I was in the same place. When the rains
returned, I ran back to my room, packed my bags, stuffed the bin with my broken
strings and headed towards the station. Drops of rain hammered down. The crash
of a wooden palette hitting the floor was like a blow on the side of my head.
Motorbikes roared like jungle beasts and the cloth of my trouser leg scraped on
my shoe like sandpaper. My heart thumped in my chest.