CraBlogged

I often attribute the inspiration for my career to Nobuo Uematsu. His terrific work for final fantasy III and chrono trigger indeed hooked my heart strings and snagged my soul, reeling it in the direction of video game music composition. However, I would never have been a composer if not for one person. I don't think I've ever talked about her, what she means to me, what she has done for me, how she inspired me. Was I embarrassed? Was I indifferent? Or was it something I wanted to keep special, to keep a secret tucked away in the corner of the core of my being?

Her name is Cynthia Shih. I first met her in high school; either I was a freshman or sophmore, and she was a sophmore or junior. At the end of a school assembly of some sort for some odd thing, there she was, playing the piano. As luck or fate or the wiles of an uncaring god would have it, I was situated but a mere half dozen feet away from her as she played. At first, I merely listened to the music as it floated in the ethers around my noggin. What a delightfully sad tune, I thought. People around me were talking amongst themselves, not paying attention, and I wanted to shout out for them to shut the freaking hell up and enjoy the beautiful music that someone was tearing their heart out playing. I remember closing my eyes, to shut out the movement of everyone around me, of people poking and tickling and scooting and whispering. At the end of the song, she stood, and bowed, and I could see in her eyes that she was frustrated that no one understood, no one got it. I struggled, and could only feel the faint whisperings, I could only see a subtle sketch of her skillful design. She smiled, though, at given the opportunity to share at least something of hers with even an ungrateful crowd.

She was beautiful. Or was it the music that moved me? Was it a combination of both? This was someone special, someone gifted, and at that moment my heart leaped and was crushed in the same moment. I longed to say thank you to her, to say she played well. I envisioned myself speaking these words to her for so many times, that even now I cannot remember if I did so or not.

Next year, I joined choir at the behest of Megan, and there she was again. Not only could she play the piano expertly, but her voice was enchanting. I wish I had the self esteem to introduce myself to her, to tell her that I enjoyed listening to her, to ask her for advice or to ask her to a dance. I unfortunately could not bring myself to gather the nerves to confront her, afraid of my pimples, my squeaky voice, my lack of training in dealing with the twists and turns of a conversation with a woman.

Next year, I met friends that knew her semi-well, and occasionally we would gather to enjoy each other's company. We would play games, play the piano, we'd sing, and I would pine for her. My friends were a year older - her age - were more charming, more witty, more musical, more everything, and on top of that, one was smitten with her. She was smitten with the other one of them too, which made quite an awkward situation for the four of us. Perhaps this is all too much inside information, and besides the point. Perhaps I am merely reassuring myself as to exactly why I never took the chance on the one thing I longed most for at the time.

One of the most frustrating memories of my lifetime was of being at her house, playing a game. It was "in the manner of the adverb", where someone leaves the room and the rest come up with an adverb, such as "slowly". When the person is called back, he or she asks questions to the group and makes them act out scenes "in the manner of the adverb". When it was my turn to come back in the room and guess, I immediately knew exactly what people were doing. And yet, I was so overwhelmed, so anxious, so flummoxed, that the exact word flew straight out of my head. Instead of showing I had half a mind, I stalled and ended up giving in. Sarcastically. That was the word. It was all so obvious.

I composed my first song ever, because of her. She had told me that she was a composer, and I thought I liked that idea. One of the songs she showed me was a tune made from someone's name. Each key on the piano is a letter from the alphabet, but of course it only goes from a to g. After that, you just keep going up the scale so even though there is no "f", you just think of it as another "a". Anyway, I went home, wrote out her name, and made a song. People seemed to like it. It was just strange enough and just normal enough for people to enjoy it and know that it was composed as an original, by me. I ended up playing it for her, and she liked it. I told her that she was my inspiration for the song, and I immediately felt foolish, and didn't explain that it was her name in song form. I guess at the time I thought she would have just thought I was creepy, instead of being flattering.

She gave me a tape before leaving to college. It was a tape of her piano songs, ones that she composed, and it had some of her singing too. I listened to the tape a dozen times over in one sitting. How could someone create such incredibly moving music? I never until that moment realized that each and every one of us has the potential for greatness. I always figured that important and famous people were always other people, never someone I knew, and never myself. I figured up until then that I'd work at a company, doing this or that, have a wife and children, be middle class, and enjoy the simple pleasures of life. Listening to that tape changed everything. Me, Harry Mack, I could create something worthwhile. I could make something that poured out of my heart and into a saucer cup for people to sip on and to enjoy. After all, Cynthia has done it. She's just a girl, just a little thing from a small town, and yet, she has the potential to be someone. I envied her skill on piano, her gift of her voice. I envied her passion and her lust for greatness. I wanted all that too, and I would have it... at least... at least to a lesser extent.

Off she went to college. Off I went to college. I would think back on her from time to time, always as this illusion of a dream girl, of someone just out of reach, of someone to compare earthly, normal women to. I never, not even in my most outrageous fantasies, would think that she could ever think of more as more than an acquaintance.

Fast forward to this last year. Ben and Meg visit me, before they are off to Indiana, and tell me that they saw Cynthia, or someone who looked like her on a plane. They told me I should email her, to catch up, and to eventually woo her because she's a nice catch for a bachelor like myself. I recoil at the name, for it was one I had not heard of or thought of for many years. I figure, why not, I'll look her up, say hello, see what's what.

She's famous. She's been on Letterman, she has cds out of her music. I listened to some of the tracks and my jaw dropped. I knew she was destined for greatness, but the shock was so visceral. I wanted to break down and cry, for what, I didn't know. Instead, I emailed her, said hello, complimented her on her music, wanted to know when she'd be playing again and to let me know so that I could come watch and listen to her perform. I received an email a month after that, thanking me and letting me know she's happy she's making her career of music, happy to be able to make a living of it. I sent a reply to that reply, but it was lost and forgotten.

Until last week. I was part of a mailing list to some of her friends who know her to let them know she'll be playing in San Francisco at the Independent. At first I was paralysed with fear at having to drive around San Fransisco by myself, to see this immortalized version of a goddess, and worse, to actually say hello to her after all these years. I resign myself not to go. I figure there's no point in pining for her, because obviously someone like her has already found someone special in her life that makes her happy in ways no one else could. I figure that it's not worth a 30 minute trip through hell, to try to find parking, to sit alone, etc, etc.

Good thing I messaged Matt. I knew that I should go. I knew that I wanted to, but I needed a kick in the butt. He gave me just that, and more. So, at 7pm tonight, off I went.

The driving was indeed hell. There's few things worse in this world than driving up 45 degree hills on a stick shift with a truck behind you flashing highbeams. I hope I didn't do permanent damage to my first gear.

Parking was indeed hell. After ten minutes of circling and getting lost, I found a spot. Only, it was half a spot. My butt was sticking a meter or two out of where the parking spot allowed. I figured I'd get a parking ticket, but that it would be worth it to ensure that I would make the show in time.

There it was, in big bold letters, "Vienna Teng". She had mentioned in high school wanting a luxurious pen name, and I agreed with her that Vienna Teng certainly fit the bill. At the ticket booth, some poor souls were attempting to sell their tickets, because they bought them online and didn't realize it was a 21+ club. At first I wanted to just bypass them so that I could give Cynthia - Vienna - more ticket sales. Of course, I ended up buying a ticket from one of the cold souls waiting to resell their tickets.

I found a seat inbetween a few tables, and crammed in before the rest of the seats were taken. The show started with some openers, a guy on guitar and then a duo who played various songs in dark-humorous styles. Time dragged on, and I realized I should have parked better and not worried about being late.

But then at last, she came on stage. It was odd. She came on with three other band members, but I just assumed that she'd come on slightly after them and take center stage to sing. No, she came on with the band and was sitting on the far stage right behind a couple keyboards. My heart stopped. She said hello. It was a deep, sultry voice. It almost sounded as if she was purposefully speaking low, to reach a certain frequency that makes the spirit break out in spirit-goosebumps.

She made a joke, and it was just the kind of humor that we enjoyed in high school, the type that most people didn't find funny. No one laughed, and I was too moon-eyed and swooning to either. Maybe the whole room felt the same way. She sang. Gods... her voice. She sang while playing the piano. Her fingers danced lightly over the keys, the tips gently kissing as if long-time lovers. My expression for the first three sets never changed from its wide-eyed, slack-jawed dumbfoundedness. I couldn't even stir myself to clap I was so enthralled.

Eventually I closed my jaw -- but it was an effort, I assure you. I attempted to look at the other band members, but my gaze returned unerringly to that visage of overwhelming beauty. Or was it the music again? Or both? I would never have dreamed that the rosebud I knew could ever blossom into the epitome of a perfect rose. I was humbled, in every demeaning way possible. I felt unworthy to even be hearing such bliss of sound. Here a violin was off, there a cello marred, but never did her voice stray offkey. Never did her fingers miss their mark.

She told a story about writing a song on valentines day, not for the special someone in her life whom she is still pleasantly in a relationship with, but for all those others who are pitifully, painfully single. Of course, of course, of course she has someone already. How could she not? And yet, it was finally spoken, so all those flittering strands of a dream, of a chance, of anything, were finally let loose to float away forever.

She ended the concert with an a capella song... I think it was a Chinese hymn of some sort, or a folk song, I missed the description. She sang in Chinese, and though I could not understand the words, it mattered none. I felt ashamed to hear it. I felt so very ashamed to hear her voice singing this song. This was a song that no one should hear, for the very act of listening to it mars its perfection. You must think I exaggerate, I know, but to me it was a truth. I cried silently, I was so embarrassed to hear it, but at the same time I was so touched and honored that she attempted once again to chance something, to put it out and see if people got it, if they understood. It seemed as if all the years I have spent learning the foundations and theories of music allowed me the luxury of beginning to understand what she was truly singing. I knew enough to finally know for sure that what I was hearing was the soul and spirit of music, of music so respected, so loved and adored, that it was free to shine its fullest.

I waited afterwards to talk to her. She had quite a line of fans waiting for autographs, of old friends saying hello. I sat and waited until near the end of all this, and stood to make my presence known.

Her: "Oh... hey!" -- I was thankful she didn't add a "..you..." at the end.
I think there was a hug at this point.
Me: Cynthia... *panics* I'm so proud of you. *hopes it didn't sound too rehearsed, because he had been rehearsing it for ten minutes*
Her: Aw, thanks!
*pause. panic. tick-tock*
Me: So... where are you at nowadays? Down in LA, or here in Sa-
Her: Oh no, been living here in San Francisco.
At this point I wonder if she even recognizes me. I'm just that foolish.
Her: You know, when I was in New York, guess who I saw?
She talks about meeting up with one of our old time friends in High School. I smile at her story, and panic, trying to think of something to say.
Me: Well, simply amazing, it was an amazing concert, you have such a wonderful voice, and *babble continues*
Her: Thank you! So you're living around...?
Me: San Rafael
*look of incomprehension on her part*
Me: It's not too far north of here...
Her: Well I'm glad you could make it down..
Me: *mumbled dumbly a yes. I wish I had said, "It was well worth the trip" or something smart like that, but I think I just said "Yeah......"*
Her: So will you be in Saratoga sometime..?
Me: *look of incomprehension*
Her: You know, for the holidays or something...
Me: Oh, uh.. no.. Sacremento with the parents...
Her: *polite smile*
Me: *taking a leap of faith* Well, I'll... send you an email or something.. I'd definitely like to get together, to catch up, tea or coffee or something..
Her: Yeah, that would be great, we could get the whole crew back together.
Me: *whole crew, huh? abort! abort!* Again.. wonderful concert... well done...
I think I went for another hug. I can't remember. It was a daze. Isn't that silly? Isn't all of it just terribly silly?

The parking gods were favorable, I didn't have a ticket waiting for me. I wouldn't have cared, not in the least, not one bit. On the way back, the classical station was playing. Tchaikovsky and Chopin, some of the most wonderful and romantic music possible... sounded ashen to the tastebuds of my ears. I turned off the radio in disgust, attempting to catch the fading traces of refrain, to remember the sparkle of her voice, her soft smile, her long hair, her black boots, those lips that parted the seas to let through her siren songs...

*shakes head with a smile* A night to remember, for sure.