Remember that hyperventaled excitement at your first discovery of a new pursuit. That youthful confidence, "I'm going to be a firefighter, when I grow up." And, all those adults listened. They encouraged. They were proud. "Good for you." "You do that." Did they really believe it?
Now remember a time when you thought a loved one could do no wrong? Your hero. The child wonderment, "My dad can beat your dad..." Could have anything made Leopold prouder than the day young Mozart said that he wanted to be a great violinist? Like his dad... Father and son discovering music together.
The third Movement sings a reminiscing song. "I remember those days." It says... As do I. I remember sitting behind the typewriter my parents got me for Christmas, facing a wall of crumbling plaster, writing for hours. Escaping into my own world. I remember My father, brother and sister, riding bareback in the corals, trying to knock each other off our horses: horse wrestling. I remember wanting to be a cowboy. The opening violin solo. remembers such memories. Yes, I was going to be a cowboy and a writer (and stuntman too, but that's neither here nor there). And, Mozart was going to be the greatest violinist in all of Europe. (He clearly had the potential.) "Those were the days." The first concerto chunk sighs. Only hints suggest, "Maybe all wasn't as I thought it was..."
I don't think it is that life necessarily gets worse, I simply think we begin to see events clearer. That is the point at which tones turn from major key to minor key. The music shifts. Darkening, the orchestra strikes. Frantic, the violin fights back. "Oh. I didn't see this coming. What am I going to do?" With a scourging percussion effect, bows lash the lower strings, trying to beat down the violin. Reality is sparing with perception.
As he wrote this concerto, reality was surely sparring with Mozart. Watching his father battle the politics of Colloredo and company, Mozart must have lost some respect for his father. Even if he agreed with Leopold in plight, did he resent the results? What bad words circulated Salzburg about Leopold? How had Leopold's pressures on Mozart to weighed on him? "You need to get a good job, to support us." Did Mozart begin to see that maybe his father wasn't concerned about Mozart's dreams?
Ebbing and flowing the orchestra and the violin spar. Slowing... Wearing... Until exhausted, the violin declares victory, but only by redefining the terms. Like a teenager refusing to come out of his room, after a parent told him to go to his room. I try to contemplate why Mozart did no other Violin Concerto's after this. In fact, his violin work all together greatly diminished. Was it to stick it to his father? To Salzburg, they loved the violin concertos. Or, was this concerto so great, Mozart didn't think he could top it? (I like to think that because it makes me feel all uppity.)
And so, can I relate. It's hard to know when I began to loose respect for my father, but I'm pretty sure I knew a date when it was gone. We'd had a particularly harsh winter--not as if South Dakota is famous for its winters. Bills for feeding the horses mounted. Dad came home crying. Really crying. "I don't know what we're going to do?" We didn't have the money to cover everything. He got on the phone calling various government agencies and what not, for help. After chewing out various officials, he put his head on the table and sobbed. My brother, my sister and I stood there watching. They were scared. I was mad. Then my dad turned to us and said, "I love you." My brother and sister said, "I loved you too." They hugged him. I just stood in the corner. Gnashing my teeth. Vile thoughts lashing through my head, with accompanying expletives. "Get rid of the horses." "Stop drinking." "Stop smoking." "You brought this on us." Gnashing my teeth, I stood there watching the three cry...
I won't say it was from that day on, but slowly I began to hate anything related to the 'Cowboy Way'. And, above all, I hated horses. Moreover, I was always the one put on the bullheaded steeds. Maybe being a pissed off teen helped me handle them.
Writing became my only positive pursuit. Of course, reality sparred with that perception as well. I was well into my junior year, and hadn't done very well in high school. The 'what are you going to do with your life' lectures bombarded me. My answer was simple. "I'm going to be a writer." "Ah, well. Ok. But what are you going to do to make money." I'm not out to be a dream-gazing hippy, criticizing counselors a such for crushing my dream. They were right. I needed to think practically, but I heard, "You sure you can do that? You weren't the greatest student." With my grades and our financial situation, was college even an option? So my default, scared, confused troglodyte response was, "I'll join the army. Yeah. That's what I'll do. I'll write while I'm in the army." So, I joined the army. Four years, and I never wrote. (Well, I did one whiny love letter to someone. A friend said it was well written.)
I 'grew up' and 'learned' writing wasn't a practical occupation for me. Once I was done with the army, I had to figure out my next lot in life. I was told by some, I'd make a good Chaplin. And, thus that became my path. I am a pretty tolerable man. I am willing to do all kinds of jobs. But, I was only ever wanting to do one. And, college came. Papers and tests, the primary source of evaluation. My strengths. I was scared when I started. Especially considering the program I had chosen, I had to maintain a higher GPA. Well... I did much better than I had expected.
It was my writing ventures that sparked a renewed spirit in me. I received complements on my writing. In fact, there was not a paper, where I actually tried, that I did not get an A. (Yeah, now I know academic writing is a different beast from 'real' writing.) But, this success gave me a hint of confidence. "Hey, maybe a writing career is possible." Sometimes, though, I wish I hadn't been give that spark. For, I'm still that lone violin, frantically trying to silence the lashing orchestra. I have by no means achieved victory. I still interpret the voices that say, "Oh neat. You want to be a writer," as, "But, seriously, what are you going to do with your life?"
And so, the concerto movement ends as it began, reminiscing. As do I. When I think of my lot now, life is good. If I never become a writer (or if I accept what those fluffy poster quotes that say I'm already a writer since I have written), that is ok. Yet, like the ending of this movement, I still can't help but reminisce.
I don't miss the way things were, just the way I saw them.
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