I
left on that day. Feeling sad like never before. Moon over sea- cold
and lonely. But not as cold and sad as the soul of a young man who had
just left his homeland for the first time.
The
island on which I had been living temporarily for a while - beautiful
and dreamy. Just like the place for loving couples. But for me it was so
cold and soulless. Every late afternoon, I went out there sitting in
front of the sea by myself, looking back upon the far away horizon. The
sound caused by the sea waves clapping against the beach provoked in me
fond remembrance. A deep longing. Being tormented by a deep longing of a
homeland just left behind. And a deep longing. Being tormented by a
deep longing of a singing voice now so far away. That singing voice -
sometimes it is immeasurably pitched like the sound of kite flying in
the windy afternoons back in homeland, sometimes it is sadly low like
the sound of a warrior's wife 's heart tiredly awaiting her husband. In
that old days, listening to that singing voice, I saw in front of my
eyes the bamboo bridges tortuous and bumpy, I saw vaguely around me the
figure of virtuous mothers well contriving all year round for the whole
life. That singing voice is unendingly versatile - sometimes it is loud
,dignified and majestic, sometimes it is harmonious and plaintive. "
There is only one such a singing voice, not a second. That singing voice
belongs to her only." (Kim Van Kieu)
The country that I
came to live and accepted as a second homeland- civilized and modern,
the country of opportunities. Joining that society, I had been living
hurriedly and busily like having no tomorrow. There were many, many
weeks without weekends because I had to work all seven days. There were
many days without nights due to my all night studying. And then I
gradually got used to , gradually felt love this country. Gradually
"felt in love" with the exciting Rock, melodious Blue rhythms,
especially American Country music. However, deep down in my heart, I
knew that I still loved that singing voice, still loved the "old days'
sound" without any change "like a son who could not say good-bye forever
with rice kitchen-garden, potato garden where there was a countryside
mother whose eyes did not ever have a chance to see a festival." (Trinh
Cong Son)
In those old days, a majority of my friends were
scared of having something to do with Vietnamese Opera, since they were
afraid of being labeled as "rustic", since they wanted to be "luxurious
and elegant". Despite all that, I have been tirelessly volunteering to
be "a rustic" and denying to be " a luxurious and elegant". The simple
reason is that I am not able to turn my back on that singing voice, on
that sounds- the sounds that made people's minds fretty, people's eyes
stung after hearing them. However it is especially marvelous: tragic but
not troubled, loving but still magnanimous. It makes people cry
together, and then feel more sympathetic with each other, feel love each
other more and feel united with each other more. Speaking generally, it
is the sound of heart, a quintessence of a whole country. With just
myself, it is a memory of a loving childhood when Vietnamese Opera was
"velvet", was "embroidered silk", was festival days which excited
people's hearts.
Many yeas, many months have passed. These
days, Vietnamese Opera is not like what it was before. "Luu is not Luu
of those old days any more" (Life of Miss Luu). Like an eternal law.
There was a little bit of "damage" in that golden singing voice. There
was a little bit of "fading" in that elegant and graceful stature. But
despite the time, that singing voice is still full of living power,
still immeasurably pitched, recalling the kites in the windy homeland
sky, still calmly curling like the homeland rivers curving bringing
alluvium to the immense rice-field. The singing voice is way like a kind
of bird: flying with zeal into the thorny bushes in order for the
thorns to thrust its throat, so it would sing out the last best singing
sound of its life for people (Thorn Birds). I believe that singing voice
keeps singing not for life-ending haloes. Moreover, fame is high
enough, position is high enough. How come there is such a halo which
vehemently attracts people at the last period of their lives? Thinking
so, I am respectfully thankful, deeply appreciate no matter from what
"source" that singing voice comes out.
Art is of noble and
high-flying creation, of limitless romance. Therefore, don't expect the
artists to follow any tastes. Don't confine them to the subjective,
extreme and narrow-minded thinking of yourselves either. Art is of
beauty. But beauty is inherently fragile. The artists' soul is as
fragile as beauty. Hence, if you don't love them, just gently hit them
with the petals of roses. In addition to that, "right" or "wrong" are
just subjective, relative, time-sensitive concepts. What we praise is
not definitely right. What we don't understand or haven't understood yet
is not definitely wrong.
Some day in the future, when I
feel tired with my life-long journey, I would come back my old village
to pay a visit to the old days' paths and district streets. It would be
very sad If there would be that singing voice any longer. In the utmost
regret and remembrance, I would point at the old picture of hers and
tell my son: "In the old times, I liked her singing voice very much.
Because every time I was listening to her singing, I felt miss....my
homeland."
02/13/2010
Jeffrey Thai
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