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February 22, 2001
Last solitary night, I was walking by Lincoln Center
just as all the musicians were leaving for home. In black cases big and small
they carried their cellos and saxophones and clarinets.
Moments before, they had worked together to make
music. Notes from different instruments were spaced apart and joined together
and delivered at such a rate so as to cascade harmoniously into a beautiful
pool of rippling sound that filled the great hall. The timing, the rhythm, the
balance of flats and sharps had been thought out and delivered in such a
mathematically graceful way that spirits were lifted, cares released, and
hearts set aflutter; joined and in concert with the fleeting magic of the New
York night.
And fleeting it was. As the musicians ambled across
the street in laughing clumps, the sudden changing of light from red to green
ignited a hundred disjointed honks from impatient motorists consumed with
nothing greater than getting home to their disjointed lives on time.
In time.
Broadway Jim Sosnicky
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