Читать книгу The Fiddler Is a Good Woman - Geoff Berner - Страница 10

Dharma Lodge, Galiano Island, B.C., 2015

As I said, it took me a while to truly figure her out, but I now clearly see DD’s music thing for what it was: a way for her to disconnect from people who were close to her, a way to step away from the real work of communicating with people, heart to heart. It was her armour, and, of course, an excuse to not really grow up. That’s sad. But at one point, I totally fell for the idea that music was this magical thing that made her magic and all that false wisdom.

I mean, after she played, people would look at her like she was some kind of priestess or something, like she had access to a special, special spiritual thing. And I’ll admit that at that point in my own journey, I may have been jealous. I can admit that now.

Now, I mean, now at this point in my life, that all seems pretty amusing to me, since I’m now at this point in my life where, as a shaman myself, people come to me to help them through their journey, help them work on themselves, and I’m not ashamed or afraid to say that yes, they’re willing to pay a significant amount of their wealth-seed to make those changes happen in their lives. I often have people asking to pay more, because, I’m telling you, they tell me themselves that the work we do here has been so invaluable in their lives. But I don’t wish to get off track here. What I’m doing here is trying to tell you a story about how lost we both really were, in some ways, at that time in our lives. How this idea of musical ability as some kind of window on wisdom, well, frankly, it fooled both of us.

I had started to take up the violin, not because DD played the violin, but just because I loved it. I thought that maybe I might have a special connection with it because my great-uncle had played the violin at one time in a symphony in England. Whenever he came over to our house in Kitsilano I always tried to just hold it, but of course my mother was always afraid I would break it so I’d get my hands slapped each time I reached out for it. Please, don’t get me started about the repression I had to deal with in that house. Later they did get me lessons but by then the repression of the earlier incidents had marked me, and there was so much else to deal with that I was never really able to apply myself. This is why later, when I was living with DD on the island, I thought I should maybe try again — to regain what I had lost.

I got a hold of a violin at a pawnshop in Victoria, without telling her, of course, and it came with a bow, and I was very keen on practising. The first time I pulled it out and started doing some scales, DD was out visiting someone or fucking someone or something, I don’t know, but then she came back, she came into the house, which was more of a cabin, really, and the first thing she said was, “Hey, who’s ass-fucking a Siamese cat with a hot poker in here?”

Which I should have expected, really. That kind of derision. It was typical of her when it came to music, which, of course, was her exclusive domain.

But I persevered. I kept up with my scales, despite the faces she made, despite the way she would run for the front door when I reached for the case. I also worked on an exercise from the Suzuki Method, a lullaby by Brahms, which gave me comfort sometimes. But it certainly gave no comfort to her. She would visibly wince every time I even mentioned the violin. She even stopped playing the violin herself in the house. And I missed that. I really did.

Then she went on tour with Mykola for a while, and I slowly lost interest in it. It was just too hard, knowing how she was judging me the whole time, making hurtful comments like, “God in Heaven, are you trying to kill me?” or “Hey, you know if you reach a little higher on the scale, you’ll hit the Brown Note. That’s the one that makes people shit their pants.”

So I set it aside, sadly.

Then one summer we were at the Vancouver Folk Music Festival, and I had a chance to see this incredible man named Xavier Rudd. I’m telling you, talk about magic. This golden-haired Aussie played some kind of guitar that he would actually play on his lap, and he sang like an angel, and he played the didgeridoo. Simultaneously. Often, he would layer his sound using this amazing pedal at his feet. Honestly, I still to this day don’t know how he did it. And he sang the most beautiful songs about the beauty of the Earth, and about the treasure of Australian aboriginal culture and wisdom. The crowd was understandably enraptured, and I was among them. This may sound unbelievable, but, honestly, those of us who were ready to feel his message? Were transported thousands of years, to the time of the Dreaming.

I dragged DD to hear another of his performances at the same festival, but she was too blocked to get him at all. “Isn’t he amazing?” I asked her. But I sensed some jealousy coming off her. She just said, “Yeah, that’s a neat trick he’s pulling off there.”

I pointed out to her the incredible way he had completely mastered the circular breathing technique that allows aboriginal holy men to play these hollowed gourd logs perpetually, without stopping to inhale. “Yeah, I bet he can use that for lots of things,” was her only response. But I was literally enraptured. I felt a special connection to the didgeridoo in particular, partly because of my unusually spiritual nature and my understanding of aboriginal spirituality all over the world, having studied it intensively over the years.

But I should have expected that when I brought one home, her only comment would be, “Oh, my fucking God.”

I was telling some friends at a gathering that I’d begun studying it, and she ducked into the room with a beer in her hand just to say, “I like to think of it as a didgeri-don’t. Ha ha,” then she let out one of her huge, disgusting Kokanee beer belches.

I was determined not to let her judgment get in the way of my personal development. So I practised and practised. It was genuinely, extremely rewarding on a lot of levels. But one thing preyed on me, and it was really a hard thing — I was unable to quite make the kind of sound I really wanted with it.

I would play and play, but the most I could get out of it was a kind of woof sound. Or sometimes I’d use my own technique and simply call down into it, calling down my deepest and most honest feelings into the ancient wood. But it never quite felt satisfying, and a lot of the time I wound up having to lie down for an hour after practising, because it makes you really light-headed.

I persevered, and she persevered in undermining me. “Don’t tell me you’re still blowing on that log,” or “You know that women aren’t allowed to play those things?” or “Why don’t you come to bed. I’ll give you something you can put your mouth on and blow.” She could be so crude.

But the caustic remarks weren’t what eventually stopped me. It was something she did, late in our relationship.

One day, I had been practising in the practice room in our little house. She had initially thought of it as her practice room, but now that I was playing, I was booking time to practice there, too. I had been there for about an hour. I was blowing as hard as I could, and still, not really approaching the sound I was trying for.

That’s when she did it. She stormed in. I’m telling you, her face was like a contorted mask. “I can’t stand it. Gimme that thing!” she shouted, and literally snatched my instrument, this sacred object, right out of my hand. I tried to take it back, but she shouted, “Back off! Right. Watch this, dammit!”

She put her mouth on it. She blew. She made a perfect sound. She modulated the sound. She turned it into that classic “ah-wa-wa-wa-oh” reverberation, making it rhythmic. It sounded exactly like Xavier Rudd. She did it for nearly two full minutes as I watched.

Then she dropped it. “There. See? Not so hard. Do it like that. Okay?” Then she stormed out.

I didn’t speak to her for four days. She knew she had done wrong, and she tried to make amends, but I knew then that this phase of our lives together was over. I never played again.