Bamboo

On November 22, 2015February 5, 2017 By roderickmallen

I am reasonably comfortable speaking to an audience, or was in the past, but playing a musical instrument in front of anyone gives me the heebie jeebies. Well, that’s not strictly true, I was once the leader of a Ukulele Choir that had more than two dozen members. (I like the idea of an instrument that you measure by the dozen – like bread rolls, or fruit!) The Ukulele is such a friendly and forgiving instrument, and we had enormous fun in our choir; a big audience didn’t faze us at all … much. But these days I am playing serious music, because I am a student at the Murray Conservatorium. Initially I made the mistake of thinking that a rural music school claiming to be a Conservatorium was a bit high handed, but I was entirely wrong. There are more than 600 students at ‘The Con’, and the teaching staff are musicians of the highest calibre who perform all over the place. Graduates from here regularly go on to study at the Sydney and Melbourne ‘Cons’ and become professional musicians. It’s a great place to go every week! My teacher says we are studying Baroque Recorder, which I think distinguishes us from School Recorder. I imagine that’s the idea, as the humble recorder has a rather hackneyed reputation. It’s a great mistake to undervalue the recorder: the 400 year old Baroque Recorder is an incredible instrument capable of playing the most challenging repertoire from every era. It is chromatic, complex and nuanced. In lessons we play duets by Bach, Vivaldi, Corelli, Telemann and others, and it’s as demanding as anything could be, and beautiful and exhilarating.

Earlier this evening I was playing at the Murray Conservatorium in in front of a small audience, but an audience of considerable talent. The concert was for those who had written a piece of music for performance (which I had!). The opening piece was written and performed by a high school flautist who will doubtless go on to far greater heights. She was accompanied by a young man of the same age, who played a complex piano accompaniment with great panash. Her piece is to be her scholarship audition in a short while, and it was just dazzling*!

My much shorter piece was titled Bamboo, which is good because you don’t really expect bamboo to dazzle, do you? Bamboo can just be its unique and unsymmetrical self, it’s appeal is simplicity; calming and sedate. More earth-honest than all those fancy orchestral instruments! That’s the conclusion I reached while the school students were offering their considerable musical talents.

A few days ago I was practising my piece, Bamboo, on a piece of bamboo. Instead of recorder I had written for Shakuhachi, and end-blown Japanese flute that is literally a couple of feet of bamboo with five holes and an angle cut on the top to create a ‘blowing edge’, known as the urugachi by the shakuhachi literati. While practising I lost concentration as a vision of the upcoming performance crept into my thoughts, and my hands began to shake so much that I had to put the instrument aside for a while before I could play properly!

My Baroque Recorder teacher was my accompanist this evening, playing tenor recorder. He is a terrific musician, in demand as a performer here and overseas, and is actually the head of the conservatorium. I’m very privileged to be studying with him, and to have him as my accompanist for Bamboo. When our turn came we sat down out the front and tuned (not that you can really tune a piece of bamboo …) and I said under my breath, “you know they are looking at us”, which he kindly repeated to everyone in his big, confident, boss-of-the show voice.

I stayed up till midnight tonight to write this all down (after staying up till 2 am last night worrying about performing) because I need to tell someone how ridiculously satisfied and rewarded I feel; how deeply peaceful and purposeful such a moment can be. The performance wasn’t perfect, but neither was it a flop. It was modestly good I reckon, and the seasoned musicians in the audience were genuine and appreciative in their comments. Gosh, it was a thrill! From the weeks leading up to the concert, refining my simple composition, through to the intense preparation for a single recital. It was an experience that seemed to embrace all of my physical, emotional and spiritual being. And again I feel so very fortunate. I am grateful for a field of endeavour, something delightfully consuming, somewhere to point my own small boat.

Rejoice!

* I wrote this essay on November 11th, and since then we have attended another concert where a composition by the same young student was performed with a full orchestra, herself as flute soloist before returning to the percussion section for the rest of the concert. Quite a talent.

As always, please say hello!

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Crowd Pleaser

On November 8, 2015November 8, 2015 By roderickmallen

My recent journey retracing last year’s 1580km expedition north by rail to visit my daughter’s family is well and truly complete, but I have a final reflection to share. It’s a sequel to the thoughts in last week’s post I think.

Passing through Sydney twice, it was inevitable that at some point I would end up on a crowded bus. This is can be nerve racking. Most bus drivers have proved to be helpful and kind, but I have met one or two that are tense, cautious … even gruff. At one bus stop on this trip the driver looked at me with something like disbelief and said,

“You want to bring that” (pointing dramatically at The Chug),
“in here?” (pointing sceptically at his bus).

Honestly, I don’t blame drivers for their caution. With all my paraphernalia, my “rolling show”, I’m sure I look unlike any other passenger they have seen. And there is another factor: more than half the people I see in wheelchairs on buses also have carers with them. In fact I have never yet seen another person with a manual chair on a bus without a carer, and many have significant, obvious disabilities. So it’s probably quite reasonable for drivers to have legitimate questions about my level of physical and intellectual ability, my communication, or anything at all really.

This is Qld, not NSW. And it's a train, not a bus. And we are facing forwards, not backwards. And it's empty, not crowded. But it's the only photo Iv'e got .... you get the general idea. — This is Qld, not NSW. And it’s a train, not a bus. And we are facing forwards, not backwards. And it’s empty, not crowded. And they are on opposite sides of the aisle, not side by side. But it’s the only photo I can find …. you get the general idea.

The Chug is the same width as Bugger, a narrow manual chair, so that side by side they will fit snugly into the smallest two-seat wheelchair space on any bus. Living in the country I have had much practice driving up the ramp and turning into fairly empty buses, uncoupling from The Chug and parking both units neatly and quickly. I generally have myself organised before the driver gets back to the wheel after he lifts the ramp. I can do it quite efficiently now, but the first dozen times were quite daunting, and the second dozen still intimidating. A crowded bus still brings considerable apprehension.

The dread moment arrived in Sydney surely enough: a full looking bus was pulling up, and time pressures did not permit me to wait for another. The driver was happy and courteous, but even so the multiple challenges of driving onto the bus, putting a ticket through the little machine, squeezing past who or goodness knows what, and finally parking both units, were all waiting ahead. I could hear the driver asking people to move out of the designated spaces behind the front wheel arches, and I heard a couple of the seats being folded up. It’s amazing how much your brain can process in one moment, and along with fierce concentration on the practical details at hand my thoughts delved into the possible reactions of the people on the bus. Especially the ones who had been asked to move! Were they annoyed with me? Would they be looking at their watches wondering if the slight delay would escalate into missed connections in peak hour transit? Were some people questioning my right to take up 4 seats when many were already standing? Were people tut-tutting under their breath, asking themselves (and possibly their bus-neighbours) the very same questions about my level of ability that bus drivers must ponder?

Sydney buses have a peculiar stipulation that I have encountered nowhere else: wheelchairs must be parked backwards (hence the need for 4 spaces on this bus, double the disruption I generally cause in Victoria). There is a bulkhead that you must back up to, which would presumably serve well in the case of a collision. But the result was that as all these anxious thoughts were still whirling around I found myself looking straight into the faces of my imagined antagonists. Several were barely an arm’s length away! What’s worse, the seating on buses steps up as you progress down the aisle, presumably to accommodate mechanical things going on under the floor. From the perspective of the backwards-facing-wheelchair-spot this creates a veritable amphitheatre of interrogators!

There was nowhere to look except into eyes and faces, most wearing the blank, dispassionate look of the city dweller. They were everywhere! As I was imagining the unspoken ire of the audience I faced, one of the blank faces broadened into a smile.

“Nice driving”, said the smile.

“Good job” came a second.

“You must have practised that”.

And suddenly there were several smiles and nods, and a couple more kind remarks too. Briefly, we were connected.

My mission to spend a couple of days with distant family was quite unknown to my new found friends. They were unaware that it would take 9 days of travelling on public transport to accomplish my goal; they had no idea of the complexity of preparing for the trip with a check-list with over 100 headings; nor had they any sense of the climactic, blissful celebration of life which my grandsons and I enjoyed at the other end. Similarly, I was utterly unaware of the private challenges each of my (smiling!) audience no doubt carried. And yet …

There was a connection. We were all on the same bus, just for a moment sharing a common destination, forging our way along life’s uncertain path. I don’t think I am reading too much into that moment; I think the warmth I suddenly felt in the face of fear came from a tiny glimpse of human truth, shared by a few, on an ordinary bus: that we are all in this together. One of us might have had a more obvious challenge right then, but the rest well knew that we’ve all got to take our chances, have a go, and hope.

Rejoice!

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Saved from a Pickle

On November 1, 2015November 1, 2015 By roderickmallen

After 14 hours on the train from Brisbane to Sydney I very nearly ended up in a pickle.

I ran out of time for an important task on my way through Sydney last week, which was to call in at the Pensione Hotel in George St. to check that there were no steps. I have learned that it’s always best to make contact with a hotel and ask if there any steps: specifically any rise more than 1 inch high. It’s surprising where steps turn up; and surprising also how invisible steps are to people for whom they present no obstacle. Even with my simple 1” rule I can still arrive and find a step hiding somewhere. The most common step is actually the curb; occasionally it is very difficult to find a way from car park to path. Well, I should have emailed the hotel in Sydney, but I didn’t do that either; it was entirely my fault that I had no idea what I would find at day’s end.

And what a surprise it turned out to be! Two big, convict-laid sandstone steps rising from the footpath to the front door which opened onto a tiny foyer containing a lift and a cedar staircase winding its way upward. A sign pointed invitingly upward to Reception on the first floor. I always carry with me an excellent pair of German made collapsible carbon fibre crutches, so leaving Bugger and The Chug somewhat exposed on George Street I mounted the sandstone treads, caught the lift, and immediately descended three steps to a wandering corridor that led to Reception. My thoughts were running to the cost of a new hotel room, the probably forfeiture of this hotel’s deposit, and the problem of just how and where another room might be found in the Sydney CBD at 9pm. I felt somewhat foolish explaining my mistake to a young man behind the counter, but he was charming and enthusiastic, “No Sir, I don’t think this will be a problem, let me go and check”.

He was gone a few minutes and returned with confidence that the room I had booked could be accessed. He then accompanied me back along the wandering corridor, back up three steps, back down in the lift, and back down two sandstone plinths to the footpath, where we found Bugger and The Chug safe and sound on George St. Then I followed this helpful fellow a few doors further up George St. and into an old arcade, studded with tiny shops. The arcade narrowed considerably and after squeezing between two columns at the end we turned and passed several tables of diners, then on round a couple of bends to our goal: another lift! The building, my guide told me, was very old and had once been a post office. The lift itself was the oddest shape, as was the room when I eventually found it.

The tiniest room in the world: single bed, Bugger and The Chug, and only half of me. — Just enough room for a single bed, Bugger and The Chug, and half of me.

To reach my allocated room we went through two large fire escape doors and along a couple more winding corridors that changed width considerably and occasionally dodged old sandstone cornices and columns. Destination: the tiniest hotel room in the world! But everything was fresh and new, it had an en-suite, and it was definitely the best sleep of the trip.

The kindness people show me is continually reassuring. If I stop somewhere to read a map or to figure out a timetable it is quite likely that someone will stop beside me and ask if I need any help. The Chug attracts comment virtually every time I leave home; many people say enthusiastic, encouraging things to me. Entertainingly, people frequently offer to help me get it on the bus ( … how are they planning to help … actually?), or offer to help me push it along! I can’t imagine how they think I am pushing it, but the function of The Chug – which is to pull me along – seems elusive to many. It is quite amusing when people finally figure out how it works. Their faces light up, and they say, “Oh, now I get it!”

In a world gone mad, a world that seems ever more impersonal and commercially driven, a world obsessed with profit, fascinated by disaster and ringed in conflict, it seems to me endlessly reassuring that ordinary people are nice. It’s a terribly bland word isn’t it? Nice. It’s oh-so-average and ho-hum, but perhaps it’s underrated. Most people are ordinary (I like that statement), and my observation is that most ordinary people are nice. But think for a moment what that actually says about the world around us: contrary to what we are told daily by our government and the media, we are surrounded by nice people! Most of the time strangers are not dangers.

There is one caveat to this observation: people were not as nice to me when I was an able-bod. Not that people were unkind, or un-nice, but the innate goodness of people seems often to be hidden away; until it can be drawn out by a fellow human’s need. I didn’t especially notice the kindness in the throng of humankind until they saw my limitation. En mass we seem capable of callous indifference, hatred even; but one by one we are beautiful.

One of the things I find most attractive about Christ’s teaching and life is his concentration on individual people. His message did not have corporate appeal; and was never intended to build empires. It takes considerable embellishment to turn Jesus into a juggernaut. He calls on people one by one, and then asks us, “How do you treat the stranger among you?”

Rejoice!

I’m actually back at home again now, so you can’t write to me ‘on the road’. But write anyway:

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