Tchaikovsky’s Romeo and Juliet, Fantasy Overture is making rings around the record player. It’s off-center a tad so there is an added flat, then sharp, to the loop each time around. I only hear it beyond the love and war scuffle because my ears are hyper vigilant. I hear everything right now — sharp truth and flat out lies. I was lulled away by the saga of tragedy in love. Montagues and Capulets battle it out like the warring hemispheres in my brain, as I wipe down the dining table. Music is a phenomenal storyteller.
I found the record for a dollar at a second-hand store. One that I am forbidden to shop for Christmas gifts from (says the husband). I did score a book series for my youngest girl there. That’s the only thing under the tree that will be thrifted. As for me, I love new things but I enjoy old things more. If it’s handmade, even better. I’ll never break myself of that, even if dubbed a junk collector.
I’m working through some substantial joint pain. Had me limping through my errands. That, coupled with my penchant for crocheted anything, has fully convinced me that I’m turning into a great-grandmother. Ironically, the daughter I bought the books for just randomly blurted out her love for said thrift shop on the drive to school. She also voiced her concern over an American flag not properly hoisted up in a yard we passed. She’s quickly on her way to old age, too.
I eventually sat and read my new/old album cover in its entirety, chock-full of Russian artists whose names I didn’t attempt to pronounce in my head. What I gathered were the harsh critiques of exquisite art, from the composer himself, mostly. I imagine we are all our very own worst critics. I picture scoring my passions and torments like these men did, and then slicing and dicing it to the point of “acceptable.” Huh. We hail it as brilliant today (proper house cleaning music) though in the late 1800’s its merit was considered questionable.
Tchaikovsky said of his 1812 Overture, “ It was very noisy, written with little love, and probably of small artistic work.” I reclined in my chair and smirked at the irony and relativity of how art mimics life, and how one man’s junk is indeed another man’s treasure.
Thrifted wisdom cost me a buck today.