24 Hours Mozart

Back at primary school when my classmates were listening to groups like Bon Jovi and were getting ecstatic with songs like Europe’s “Final Countdown” the only music I had in my possession were two tapes with Mozart’s opera The Magic Flute. Of course that was not something to be proud of. I remember looking up to my classmates for being acquainted with all those fancy sounding groups. The only non-classical groups I knew, because of my parents, were The Beatles and The Doors. Knowing “Riders on the Storm”, however, did not make me any more popular among my peers - The Doors was a group that might as well have been called The Windows…

So back at primary school I was this weird kid that knew “Riders on the Storm” and the arias of Papageno which felt like a curse when the only thing I wanted was to fit in. It was only many years later that I was able to break free from my parents’ musical preferences and listen to other stuff as well. I remember my mother freaking out with the records I would bring home. It was of no importance to her, however, if I too was freaking out with the opera arias she would wake me up with every fucking Saturday morning. For my mom it was a case of basic algebra. Classic = good, Modern = bad.

So free from her tastes I broke eventually, or so it seemed, for how can you really break free from something that runs in your veins since birth? An opera lover I never became but The Magic Flute is still one of my favorite works of music ever. Plus there are times when I cannot listen to anything else but classical music. Still, growing up, I never really came to enjoy the composer of my favorite opera. As a teenager and piano student I loved Bach and Beethoven but disliked the Romantics and, yes, Mozart. I think I found him too…optimistic and playful - and a playful life I was not leading. I was finding Beethoven’s dark depths and Bach’s mysticism more suited to my teenage temperament. I still dislike the Romantics, but dear old Mozart; I’ve come to love, which is strange and unexpected. His playfulness I no longer find annoying, plus nowadays he sounds more melancholic to me than he ever did. I guess I can now discern this happy / sad blend in his music that I find characteristic of me as well and therefore I can comprehend.

Today it is Mozart’s birthday. He would have been 250 years old if alive. I find touching how Europe decided to unite its citizens with a 24 hour simultaneous broadcast of live concerts and other programs in honor of Mozart. I’d rather have Mozart uniting Europe anytime than the idiots at the Eurovision song contest – even though I fear very few people are watching today’s broadcast. Still, for me this broadcast is a more intimate affair – it’s like Mozart grinning at me triumphantly from the grave: “I knew you would come to love me in the end!”

Arrivals

Secretive automatic doors conceal those just arrived. In irregular intervals they fleetingly reveal some profile, a familiar back, but you have no time to make contact. They, absorbed in finding the right luggage and you, alone with a longing and a silly smile imprinted on your lips.

I avoid catching the eyes of those around me. I fear that I will read something in them and I will start to cry – stories of sons and daughters who after having spent years abroad they finally return home or of lovers whose eyes even though not seen have not been forgotten. Something always happens to me in front of these automatic doors. Maybe it’s the reunion that stirs something in me; something that separation cannot stir.

You see, the sadness of separation is something you experience on your own and you cannot share. Those who leave carry the sadness with them like a hand luggage which, incidentally, they get to open only after they arrive at their destination. For them there is a whole journey between the separation and the feeling of loss that overwhelms them the next morning when they wake alone. It’s as if the journey suspends time for them. Those who stay behind, however, keep the sadness like a present which they get to open immediately. The minute they wave goodbye they feel the loneliness and the loss come crushing on them, and as if dizzy they find themselves walking the distance between the point of goodbye and the parked car. The sadness of separation is something you experience alone. The joy of a reunion, however, you share, you face it head on, and that is overwhelming and touching.

The automatic doors continue to play their harmless game. Each time they slide open a small adrenaline dose finds its way through and you jump. Who will exit now? Like celebrities they cross the gates and all eyes fall upon them trying to spot the right one. The celebrities too try to make eye contact. Even if no one awaits them, they are still searching – their eyes revealing some deeper need. Who knows, maybe in reality it’s this that gets me by the arrival gates - the unconscious expression of a deeper need to belong to someone and somewhere.