Waversong

Waversong

Music is a touchy subject.

Blurry memories tinged in rose, trying to recreate a song by ear. My age wasn’t in the double digits yet. My clumsy hands touched the keys in random order, a burst of joy when the keys sounded right.

Music is not for me. That much I’ve been told. My attempts were met with a mixture of ridicule, pity, indifference, or some odd combination of the three. “People like us just don’t sing well,” My mother sighs. Once I had played an entire song by ear, only to be met with a class of laughing children and teachers alike. It wasn’t the good kind of laugh; I’ve come to realize.

They’re right, I think, stamping down a desire that refuses to stay down. I busy myself with the pursuit of life: walking, running faster and maybe one day I’ll leave it for good.

The moment I glanced at the words “Kawaguchiko Music Forest Museum”, I knew my mind had made its decision. My previous options paled in comparison, looking blander by the minute. I tried looking at other places, clicking through Reddit comments and TripAdvisor reviews. A meaningless last-ditch attempt, a battle I instantly lost the moment my partner suggested that I should go.
The bus ride was rather direct, the path from the station to the museum literally so. I paused the moment I saw the entrance, the words ‘KAWAGUCHIKO MUSIC FOREST’ towering above causing me to feel something in the middle of a rush and hesitation. Trepidation? Anticipation?

Walking through the winding rose garden, through the front door, I entered the museum.

My mind spun reading the schedule listed on the map that was given to me when I walked in. True to what the website says, half the experience comes from the various live performances done throughout the museum. I took some time at the restaurant, taking bites of beef stew as I wrote notes on what to see and in which order. Regular Concert, my eyes drifted to the next earliest show I could watch. Alright then.

I sat around the middle, waiting to listen to my first show of the day. The host—upbeat, engaging, exuberant—begins interacting with the audience, bringing forth the orchestrions—cupboard shaped machines that played music by itself—one by one, describing their history. There is an attempt to include foreign audience with subtitles on the side of the screens, but I tear my eyes away from the screen in favour of scrutinizing the orchestrions, scanning them up and down, up until the host takes out a coin-shaped object, inserts it in the one of the smaller orchestrions and said, “Well, let’s listen together!”

What does music sound like?

It sounds a little bit like the sea, the moon and the stars the only light illuminating the night. The ocean waves—calm, subdued—caress the sand, back and forth, back and forth. The animals have gone to sleep, the only other sound being the wind heading eastward, bringing forth the faint scent of salt.

It sounds like a tavern, a celebration held after a day of honest, hard work. The patrons are tired, shoulders aching, but their eyes bright, smiling in good merry as drinks are passed around. People dance on the open floor, people crowding and dispersing to the rhythm, and this is when I see: my beloved, laughing, smiling. I take her by the hand and we dance then, shoving away our worries for the night.

It sounds like a big city during Christmas, the traffic busy and the people busier. Dawn has just started, sunlight peeking through the clouds. Something good is going to happen; something good is in people’s hearts. The day screams potential and opportunity, wonder to be found just around the corner.

It sounds a little bit like sorrow, the tune tinged in blue. Of a choice made, the type that you can’t go back on. It's a bit fearful, a bit wary; one moment freeing and daunting the next. It ends with a note of acceptance, of a hopeful future.

“That’s all for today, folks! We hope you enjoy the rest of your day!”
The host’s voice brings me back to the physical reality; the show is over. The audience gets up and leaves, eager to carry on with their day, or rush to the next show happening in another building. I stay there for a little longer, still blinking away the border between imagination and reality.

Logically, I knew – I was looking at music in a very broad, vague sense. Music, even when not played directly by a person, could be made by other means, such as these orchestrions. There was always another way.
I wiped tears I didn’t realize I had and headed outside.

The rest of the day passes in a blur – between the opera performance, fountain show, live performances over sand art, and enjoying the view. I felt obligated to rush, eager to experience all that there is to be seen, but my thoughts remain on that first show, still. The others were good, I was glad to have experienced them, but I didn’t- couldn’t say anything more about them. Nothing unbiased, at least, when my mind still lingers on that very first show.

My feet brought me to a bench outside, where I finally took a break. The next show I had to see was still in about an hour, and I felt like I needed a breather.

I let the sound of the water and winds lull me back into my thoughts.

The truth is that I never stopped. Loving music, that is. Countless nights spent dreaming of something I could never have: performing a song that will never exist. Mornings spent chasing the vestiges of a melody, its sound passing through my fingers.

“I think,” She murmured, “You should try writing it down, once.”
Her voice shook me out of my reverie. I glanced behind at my bed, where she slept. “Write what down?”
Her next words come out muffled, buried under the pillows. “You were humming something for a while there.”
“Oh,” I felt embarrassment wash over me. “um.”
She laughed, a little more awake now. “Really. I like it a lot.”
I never did. And so I lost that song, like many others.

A part of me wants to laugh. Incredulous, that a museum visit is causing me this much turmoil, bringing all these memories back.

Maybe it’s just the nature of a museum: how it remembers. Imagine being loved to such a degree that a part of you survives centuries in the future. These orchestrions, did their creators imagine that it would be listened by so many people, years upon years after they passed?

The breather did me no wonders, so I got up and walked around.

There are multiple spots in the museum, some small tables with musical instruments on them, others dedicated to bigger instruments. There were some I recognized amongst the small ones, like the rainstick, cajon, kalimba, and even an ocarina. These were provided so guests could freely play with them, along with the piano and marimba by the restaurant.

I watched other people approach the tables, some couples, some small families. They were laughing as they tinkered with them, playing a few notes: sometimes children songs, sometimes nothing. Something twisted in my chest, making me uneasy.

I wouldn’t call myself fearful, but there’s this sort of barrier, the kind that freezes you in your tracks, eyes darting left and right and centre again. Like a seed that’s stuck in your throat, or wading into water that’s just a little bit too cold. The laughter sounds a little too loud, a little too recent. Too familiar to a past that deserves to be buried.

It’s not fear, I say as I chase away that grabby-sticky feeling of want, hurrying myself to the building nearby.
There’s other things I need to do.

It’s not.
It’s not.

As the weather gets colder, the sun sets faster. I leave early, rushing to catch the bus before it’s too late.
It doesn’t mean much; I think as I head home. It doesn’t have to mean anything at all.
I pick up a pencil and write down some lyrics. I record myself humming to a tune that didn’t exist until this moment.
I think I can let this one be around a little longer.

The Cosmos Collective

Kawaguchiko Music Forest Museum (English/Japanese)
https://kawaguchikomusicforest.jp/en/