My favorite part of Neruda was the soundtrack, so cello friendly. I had no reason to watch all the credits roll at the end of the film, other than enjoying listening to the simple and beautiful melody continue through the strings, remembering what it was to play in an orchestra, in a section of players. But memory is only partial. From a distance, I can remember the sweep and passion of certain moments; they were very real. But a little closer I imagine my scrutiny, paranoia, and judgment, that always seemed a part of orchestral playing, at least if I felt I was doing my job and paying attention closely. The detail has to be examined by the doer, not overlooked in a rush of emotion. Otherwise it might be out of tune, or not together. And then it is not a beautiful thing.
But how wonderful to sit there in a dark theater, watching credits in an other language, listening to something very beautiful, missing something that I loved more than I knew or would ever be able to know. There is so much to love, here and now. How can we let down the barriers of the present to allow it to be?
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