Today, the afternoon wind had an unkind bite, April could not let go of winter.

Moon Reflected in Two Springs is playing and I am waiting for the bus, watching the rain break little ripples in a puddle by the curb. For a merciful moment I am only watching but on the bus these lines remind me, I know not why, of the man from whom this music came, and I become conscious of the tremendous distance between him and I, musician and audience, composer and listener: is this an illusion, this vivid impression that somehow we can share a common emotion?

If April cannot let go of winter, then surely it lingers the way this composer stood and admired the unreal moon, at once understanding and regretting the way it must have dawdled, apparently almost but certainly not touchable. The song from the erhu starts, lengthens and thins, deepens and grows and sometimes attentuates almost till it is inaudible, but it is there, it is a single thread of sound that the player doesn't let go … until a sudden break, a rude caesuras punctuated by percussion, a single note. When the music resumes, it doesn't take long before arriving at a frantic sawing motion, to and fro like a bee or man mad; yet this panic departs as soon as it comes, and the same lingering resumes, pulled and stretched and never fully abandoned. Thin and shrill, the song reminds us of the shocks the world subjects us all to; slow and mellow, it reminds of the comfort that illusions bring — a moon reflected in dark pools, a line from a song or a poem, memories.

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