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[ open post: forgetting envy ]
Nov. 21st, 2024 03:24 pmThe first time Lan Wangji wrote a song, it poured out of him, an ewer overturned. He was fifteen and half-convinced he was going mad. It seemed as if he had lost all control over his own mind -- as if every thought would find its slippery and insidious way back to Wei Ying's smile, Wei Ying's ponytail, Wei Ying's laugh. He couldn't tame those thoughts, but he could direct them. He would write that song differently now, perhaps, with more sophistication and restraint, but he loves it as it is. The love song of Lan Zhan and Wei Ying, as Wei Ying once suggested.
This time, he has given himself months. Months of quietly reworking the melody, sitting with his qin and recalling the then-unfamiliar songs that poured out of the record player at the wedding dance. That night is like a shining jewel in his memory, one of the times he has felt the happiest not only here at the mansion, but anywhere. Shortly following his visit with Lan Xichen, he had longed for home with an acute yearning that felt like a blade to the ribs. The dance eased it. He was happy. He felt like a part of something in a way that was a shocking novelty to him. Wei Ying was beautiful, the grooms were happy, and Claudius was pleased with himself. It seemed to solidify the way he had instinctively called the mansion home only a month ago, surprising himself with it.
He sits now in a parlor near the welcome table, one he often occupies when he is willing to entertain the occasional visitor. His qin, gleaming black and seven-stringed, sits across his tidily-crossed legs. Having at last decided himself satisfied with his composition, he is playing it, the qin's quiet, commanding voice a reasonable match for his own. In some respects, it may sound familiar. Portions of the melody are like that of the Song of Clarity, or of that very song he wrote for Wei Ying, if perhaps more complex with the heightening of his skill in the intervening years. In other respects, it may sound differently familiar. A wide array of influences are audible, from some of the more restrained waltzes that played on that record player to ABBA to "Kiss From A Rose." The qin can only be a soft and undemanding instrument, one that compels attention by its beauty rather than its volume, but if anyone happens to stop to listen, he is in a relaxed and, frankly, sentimental mood.
This time, he has given himself months. Months of quietly reworking the melody, sitting with his qin and recalling the then-unfamiliar songs that poured out of the record player at the wedding dance. That night is like a shining jewel in his memory, one of the times he has felt the happiest not only here at the mansion, but anywhere. Shortly following his visit with Lan Xichen, he had longed for home with an acute yearning that felt like a blade to the ribs. The dance eased it. He was happy. He felt like a part of something in a way that was a shocking novelty to him. Wei Ying was beautiful, the grooms were happy, and Claudius was pleased with himself. It seemed to solidify the way he had instinctively called the mansion home only a month ago, surprising himself with it.
He sits now in a parlor near the welcome table, one he often occupies when he is willing to entertain the occasional visitor. His qin, gleaming black and seven-stringed, sits across his tidily-crossed legs. Having at last decided himself satisfied with his composition, he is playing it, the qin's quiet, commanding voice a reasonable match for his own. In some respects, it may sound familiar. Portions of the melody are like that of the Song of Clarity, or of that very song he wrote for Wei Ying, if perhaps more complex with the heightening of his skill in the intervening years. In other respects, it may sound differently familiar. A wide array of influences are audible, from some of the more restrained waltzes that played on that record player to ABBA to "Kiss From A Rose." The qin can only be a soft and undemanding instrument, one that compels attention by its beauty rather than its volume, but if anyone happens to stop to listen, he is in a relaxed and, frankly, sentimental mood.
