My OperaSunday afternoon at Harvard Square
Monday, February 9, 2009 9:58:59 AM
As they say: because it's Harvard.
Because it's Harvard, because I have never been that interested in visiting museums, I left Harvard Museum of Natural History feeling delighted by the sudden breeze the above-freezing-temperature weather. Being outside in this weather made me happy. I hadn't seen the sky this blue for a long while. I was quite happy some days ago as well, when snow was falling and it was hailing and the snowflakes landed on the top of my hat made it wet, cold and numb. Today it was totally different, but I still liked it. Many people claimed to like everything in their lives. I'd recall from the top of my head a list of things that I liked, and they would nod to each of them in approval. After a while, I'd just give up and tell them that there's a difference between being indifferent and liking something with a passion.
Comparing to most people, I do have a wide range and number of interests - in that sense of interest. For example, I love weather and being outdoor. I was the only one sitting/eating outside on the tables in front of Au Bon Pain, facing Harvard Square, when everyone else struggled to find a seat indoor where it was warm and well-lit. A lot of people listlessly passed by; and there I was, just sitting, enjoying my hot soup and the sight of people walking. Oh, that's another thing that I do love: the feeling of not being connected. Being among strangers and watching them always makes me feel satisfied; that typical feeling at airports, cafes, unfamiliar streets - if I've been without it too long I'll feel unfulfilled.
You don't know how much I appreciated this, and how much I appreciated this weather occurring on a Sunday. Had it not been Sunday, I would probably be sitting in a class, or sorting and replying to these emails, or in a meeting or two, or doing psets, or planning something , etc, and I'd have never stopped to raise my chin, look up at the sky and admire its blueness. Some people never noticed. However, they were fine with not knowing, while I was not.
Well, I made the decision to do all the schoolwork during weekdays and nothing on weekends for a reason.
I was happy. I was very happy when a blue-ish guitar line reached my ears at the inbound entrance of Harvard T-station. The performer sat on the bench, his hair white, his forehead crinkled, his fingers swift and energetic. Our eyes met - and I missed the train.
His name was Peter. He came from Russia. He didn't speak English too well.
Can I play? I asked. I hadn't touch a guitar for 4 months, and so the familiar feeling of the guitar neck in my hand touched me deep inside. A man standing not so far away looked at me as I played, and he smiled - a smile that, as I looked at it, clearly came from enjoyment and appreciation. In that instance, I was brought back to some previous days of my life that, before this, had seemed to pass forever. But I'm a performer, and again I was one - here was an audience, no matter how small or big, and here was I with an instrument. As I tried to think of what to play, my fingers caught it. As my eyes were fixed on the frets, my heart danced and the music leaped; the harmony plucked an invisible string on my head. The next moment when I looked up, my eyes caught his smile.
The guitar was not my instrument, but I couldn't have cared less.
Every time a train came and went, a new audience emerged after the old one. "The person who stole Peter's guitar: Why did you do it? What did you get for it?" Peter showed me those words written on a piece of paper when the screeching sound of an approaching train became audible. Someone stole his guitar the other day when he went into the bathroom.
Call me, I told him. I'm not the least busy person in the world, but I wouldn't miss a chance to come and play if I could. As I said so, I opened my wallet and was reminded of my habit of never carry any cash. "I'm sorry." He immediately made a "Don't worry, who cares" hand gesture.
The second I rose to the ground from Central T-station, I could feel the winds running through my hair. I stood by the stairs and enjoyed that feeling for a while. Just an hour before, I'd been wondering about various things, I'd not been sure about many other things. And maybe I would still be if the sky weren't so blue, the walk weren't so long, and people hadn't known how to smile.
Because it's Harvard, because I have never been that interested in visiting museums, I left Harvard Museum of Natural History feeling delighted by the sudden breeze the above-freezing-temperature weather. Being outside in this weather made me happy. I hadn't seen the sky this blue for a long while. I was quite happy some days ago as well, when snow was falling and it was hailing and the snowflakes landed on the top of my hat made it wet, cold and numb. Today it was totally different, but I still liked it. Many people claimed to like everything in their lives. I'd recall from the top of my head a list of things that I liked, and they would nod to each of them in approval. After a while, I'd just give up and tell them that there's a difference between being indifferent and liking something with a passion.
Comparing to most people, I do have a wide range and number of interests - in that sense of interest. For example, I love weather and being outdoor. I was the only one sitting/eating outside on the tables in front of Au Bon Pain, facing Harvard Square, when everyone else struggled to find a seat indoor where it was warm and well-lit. A lot of people listlessly passed by; and there I was, just sitting, enjoying my hot soup and the sight of people walking. Oh, that's another thing that I do love: the feeling of not being connected. Being among strangers and watching them always makes me feel satisfied; that typical feeling at airports, cafes, unfamiliar streets - if I've been without it too long I'll feel unfulfilled.
You don't know how much I appreciated this, and how much I appreciated this weather occurring on a Sunday. Had it not been Sunday, I would probably be sitting in a class, or sorting and replying to these emails, or in a meeting or two, or doing psets, or planning something , etc, and I'd have never stopped to raise my chin, look up at the sky and admire its blueness. Some people never noticed. However, they were fine with not knowing, while I was not.
Well, I made the decision to do all the schoolwork during weekdays and nothing on weekends for a reason.
I was happy. I was very happy when a blue-ish guitar line reached my ears at the inbound entrance of Harvard T-station. The performer sat on the bench, his hair white, his forehead crinkled, his fingers swift and energetic. Our eyes met - and I missed the train.
His name was Peter. He came from Russia. He didn't speak English too well.
Can I play? I asked. I hadn't touch a guitar for 4 months, and so the familiar feeling of the guitar neck in my hand touched me deep inside. A man standing not so far away looked at me as I played, and he smiled - a smile that, as I looked at it, clearly came from enjoyment and appreciation. In that instance, I was brought back to some previous days of my life that, before this, had seemed to pass forever. But I'm a performer, and again I was one - here was an audience, no matter how small or big, and here was I with an instrument. As I tried to think of what to play, my fingers caught it. As my eyes were fixed on the frets, my heart danced and the music leaped; the harmony plucked an invisible string on my head. The next moment when I looked up, my eyes caught his smile.
The guitar was not my instrument, but I couldn't have cared less.
Every time a train came and went, a new audience emerged after the old one. "The person who stole Peter's guitar: Why did you do it? What did you get for it?" Peter showed me those words written on a piece of paper when the screeching sound of an approaching train became audible. Someone stole his guitar the other day when he went into the bathroom.
Call me, I told him. I'm not the least busy person in the world, but I wouldn't miss a chance to come and play if I could. As I said so, I opened my wallet and was reminded of my habit of never carry any cash. "I'm sorry." He immediately made a "Don't worry, who cares" hand gesture.
The second I rose to the ground from Central T-station, I could feel the winds running through my hair. I stood by the stairs and enjoyed that feeling for a while. Just an hour before, I'd been wondering about various things, I'd not been sure about many other things. And maybe I would still be if the sky weren't so blue, the walk weren't so long, and people hadn't known how to smile.
