I Went To The Symphony Last Week

I went to the symphony last week. I went with my friend who had free tickets from work and we dressed up a bit playing at a leisurely life, pretending we didn’t still do check-to-check kinds of work, leaving each of us in our own way tired and desiring peace of our own kinds: peace from work, from stress, peace made made out of a knowledge that all expenses could be paid with little thought in our lives like our rent, which I often pay each month as the fear of not paying it sits as a background anxiety which cannot leave my mind for very long. And so we dressed up. I went to the symphony, not knowing much about the symphony, just that it’s a beautiful thing, live music, and dressing up and cosplaying, however briefly, as someone with a love of money, and therefore time, sounded fun.

I went to the symphony last week. As the musicians gathered on stage, tuning their instruments, having their little aside to each other, I wondered how much they get paid and thought about the show Mozart In The Jungle I watched when I moved back in with my mom in 2017 and how I learned the little I do know about classical music from that show meaning that yes, I know next to nothing except that maybe they are unionized, something I learned through a subplot in the show where a cellist, Cynthia, leads a union fight for better wages or something which pits her against her lover, the former symphony conductor, and grows into a larger strike, from what I remember. It seemed the most honest part of the story. If not honest, at the least something that seemed a conflict I could comprehend. I’ve never fought for a union but I’ve been poorly paid a lot of my life and I make even less at this, writing, the thing that I’ve somewhat confoundingly dedicated my life to doing. So I was curious, how much do they get paid? It’s a hard job, I’m sure, a hustle, that kind of creative labor, seeking gigs, and applying for what little money exists for those out there, to make ends meet. How effortlessly class will always slip in through the cracks.

I went to the symphony last week. It was a visceral, and enchanting thing. I didn’t know the stories behind the composer, or the songs, but could hear everything, feeling and story, within it — not the lived experience of the composers but the experience of living they reanimated in sound. There are better writers to describe this kind of music, so I’ll leave it at that.

I went to the symphony last week. We left early to beat the crowds out the door. As though in another time period, we passed white button-up and black apron adorned waiters, out on the sidewalk sharing a cigarette. It was an alternate life, a leisurely life, one I would have a hard time understanding, one I’m uncertain if I’d truly fundamentally want because of all these thoughts pooling in my head. It would be a life where, at the least, I wouldn’t have to wake up so early for work and get off my shift ever so slightly less broke and all the more exhausted than I had been before. We went to the symphony on a free ticket, sure, but I’m hoping to go again soon, maybe even pay and sit, well dressed, and become consumed in sounds, despite what world exists outside the symphony hall. Since, despite all these pools in my head where I swim, the music is something to experience, and to cherish.

buy me a coffee :)