Feel free to improve my poor English
The Whistle
I cannot even play her correctly. That you do not understand me wrong, I can play her, but not as I would like to.
My whistle is made by hand, a genuine Overton Tin Whistle. I possess many Tin Whistles, English from steel, Irish from brass, in C major, D major, in each tone type. They sound metallic and shrill; but none is like her. If I take my whistle in the hands, she feels soft and warm. She consists of matte aluminum and has those six holes of a Tin Whistle; but she is something special. The same as she feels, is also her sound. Not the fact that you think to play her would be simple. I mean, she is as simple to play as a Tin Whistle - technically, but it is not simple to wake her soul. My Tin Whistle has a soul. Therefore she must be played also with the soul, in order to wake her warmth and her fire. Played without emotion, she blocks. She simply stops to give tones from herself. I beat her out then, because she is clogged by the saliva. Now she plays a short while, but then she refuses again.
But on those days, when she feels soft and warm, she is willing and she lets me believe, I play her; but she plays me. I close my eyes and keep her soft and warm in my hands. In my higher self swings a melody, projected by her, a warmth, which she radiates, a fire, which fulfills the room. In these moments we are one, are we not whistle and whistler, but simply only "1".
***
Now I sit here, in a death cell - without her. They did not give me the time to look for her. Yes, you can believe me, in that crucial moment I did not look for her. It was normal for me, how often had I mislaid her. I did not from time to time even think of her, had even lived my life without her. But occasionally, mostly in heavy hours, I missed her. I became jerky and unfriendly. I only wanted to find my whistle. Like being possessed I then looked for her, ransacked flats and accused friends of the theft. In these moments I knew that I cannot live without her. I found her again and again; she gets me then delicately with her most beautiful sounds, soft and warm she in each case felt. She never was upset about me ignoring her and was even affectionate towards me. In those times she swung in a resonance with the oscillations from my soul.
I sit here and wait for death, I think I have killed my father, or my mother: perhaps I killed them both, I do not know. Someone said to me, I was a parent murderer and therefore I had to die. I accept that; because here in this country parent murderers must die. They taught me that one does not kill parents. I did it nevertheless. They taught me that one must honour and love father and mother, yet I killed them. Now I sit here and wait for my fair punishment.
Yesterday my brother and my sister visited me. I asked them to bring me my whistle; but they said that I am evil, because I killed father and mother. They really did love me, but I had not thanked them for it. Therefore I would earn it to die. I accept that. They did not want to look for my whistle. That was yesterday, and they said that they will not come back - beforehand.
I sit here lonely, wait for my death, and miss my whistle. I hear steps, from which I know that they come to me.
My warden looks at me full of compassion.
" on Monday you are to be executed. The petition for pardon was rejected." I look into this poor man's eyes; he is really concerned.
" It is only a short step ", I try to comfort him.
" I know ", he says, " however it would be so easy to change it. I am aware for so long already that there is no need to execute anybody, but I cannot do anything against it."
I look at my warden. He sits bent over on my plank bed, a pile of misery. He does much worry me, this poor man.
Suddenly his face changes colour; determined, but still without hope in his eyes, he looks at me:
" let me do something for you --- please."
I do not have to consider:
" I need my whistle, an Aluminium Tin Whistle. I could not find her, when they took me."
In this moment the face of my attendant brightens up.
" Is it an Overton, which feels soft and warm - sometimes?"
He looks at me happily. I do not have to explain anything more to him.
" I will find her!", he says
There are still three nights until Monday, but I am not concerned. My warden will find her. On Saturday another warden comes - he is different. He does report to me that his colleague looks for something important, however he does not know what for.
On the Sunday evening I hear again these steps, from which I know that they come to me.
With glowing face my warden gives the whistle to me.
" Now everything gets well ", he says. I take her and say:
"Yes!"
He looks at me and remarks:
" However only play her tomorrow when they got you; then I will be with you."
I look at him affectionately and calm him down:
" You may go now, everything is done." On the next morning I hear many steps, from which I likewise know that they come to me. I keep my whistle clasped tight. The cell door flies open and grim faces look at me. More importantly looking, a black dressed man reads out to me from an important looking document, the fact that I killed my father or mother or killed both - I do not hear correctly. In any case I would be hung by the neck, until death occurs. They lead me by a long dark hallway. An indefinite number of people go before me, and go behind me. We enter a high space, in the center of which a platform is built up. From this a gallows rises up, about half of a yard over the floor the loop is hanging consisting of thick rope. I know, that is the loop, which is meant to be put over my neck.
In the death chamber are many people, they all are sitting there and want to see a parent murderer die. In the first row I see my brother and sister. Close to them sit nephews, nieces, uncles and aunts. They all wait for their brother, uncle and nephew to get executed for the murder of their parents, aunt and sister as well as their uncle and brother. They all know that I earned this punishment.
When I am up on the platform, this important looking official reads out from the important looking document to say that I have killed my father or mother or both and therefore I am to be hung by the neck until death occurs. In the first spectator seats I see my brother and sister applause. My eyes are looking for my warden, but they cannot find him. The whole time I hold my whistle clasped tight with the right hand, but the absence of my warden worries me. The important looking official just finishes his reading from that document. He looks at me and asks whether I have one last request. In this moment someone taps me on the shoulder. I look around and see my warden; it is the executioner. He looks warm heartedly into me eyes and says:
" Ask to be allowed to play a last piece on your whistle."
I am allowed, and my warden puts the loop around my the neck.
" Entrust in my care and your whistle."
I take her in both hands and she feels soft and warm. She imperturbably plays the melody of 'Once upon a time in America', which I never could remember.
" Trust your whistle ", repeats my executioner and pulls the lever of the gate.
The flap opens and lonely fades the melody of death in the wind.
© Erich Romberg, März 2000
The Whistle
I cannot even play her correctly. That you do not understand me wrong, I can play her, but not as I would like to.
My whistle is made by hand, a genuine Overton Tin Whistle. I possess many Tin Whistles, English from steel, Irish from brass, in C major, D major, in each tone type. They sound metallic and shrill; but none is like her. If I take my whistle in the hands, she feels soft and warm. She consists of matte aluminum and has those six holes of a Tin Whistle; but she is something special. The same as she feels, is also her sound. Not the fact that you think to play her would be simple. I mean, she is as simple to play as a Tin Whistle - technically, but it is not simple to wake her soul. My Tin Whistle has a soul. Therefore she must be played also with the soul, in order to wake her warmth and her fire. Played without emotion, she blocks. She simply stops to give tones from herself. I beat her out then, because she is clogged by the saliva. Now she plays a short while, but then she refuses again.
But on those days, when she feels soft and warm, she is willing and she lets me believe, I play her; but she plays me. I close my eyes and keep her soft and warm in my hands. In my higher self swings a melody, projected by her, a warmth, which she radiates, a fire, which fulfills the room. In these moments we are one, are we not whistle and whistler, but simply only "1".
***
Now I sit here, in a death cell - without her. They did not give me the time to look for her. Yes, you can believe me, in that crucial moment I did not look for her. It was normal for me, how often had I mislaid her. I did not from time to time even think of her, had even lived my life without her. But occasionally, mostly in heavy hours, I missed her. I became jerky and unfriendly. I only wanted to find my whistle. Like being possessed I then looked for her, ransacked flats and accused friends of the theft. In these moments I knew that I cannot live without her. I found her again and again; she gets me then delicately with her most beautiful sounds, soft and warm she in each case felt. She never was upset about me ignoring her and was even affectionate towards me. In those times she swung in a resonance with the oscillations from my soul.
I sit here and wait for death, I think I have killed my father, or my mother: perhaps I killed them both, I do not know. Someone said to me, I was a parent murderer and therefore I had to die. I accept that; because here in this country parent murderers must die. They taught me that one does not kill parents. I did it nevertheless. They taught me that one must honour and love father and mother, yet I killed them. Now I sit here and wait for my fair punishment.
Yesterday my brother and my sister visited me. I asked them to bring me my whistle; but they said that I am evil, because I killed father and mother. They really did love me, but I had not thanked them for it. Therefore I would earn it to die. I accept that. They did not want to look for my whistle. That was yesterday, and they said that they will not come back - beforehand.
I sit here lonely, wait for my death, and miss my whistle. I hear steps, from which I know that they come to me.
My warden looks at me full of compassion.
" on Monday you are to be executed. The petition for pardon was rejected." I look into this poor man's eyes; he is really concerned.
" It is only a short step ", I try to comfort him.
" I know ", he says, " however it would be so easy to change it. I am aware for so long already that there is no need to execute anybody, but I cannot do anything against it."
I look at my warden. He sits bent over on my plank bed, a pile of misery. He does much worry me, this poor man.
Suddenly his face changes colour; determined, but still without hope in his eyes, he looks at me:
" let me do something for you --- please."
I do not have to consider:
" I need my whistle, an Aluminium Tin Whistle. I could not find her, when they took me."
In this moment the face of my attendant brightens up.
" Is it an Overton, which feels soft and warm - sometimes?"
He looks at me happily. I do not have to explain anything more to him.
" I will find her!", he says
There are still three nights until Monday, but I am not concerned. My warden will find her. On Saturday another warden comes - he is different. He does report to me that his colleague looks for something important, however he does not know what for.
On the Sunday evening I hear again these steps, from which I know that they come to me.
With glowing face my warden gives the whistle to me.
" Now everything gets well ", he says. I take her and say:
"Yes!"
He looks at me and remarks:
" However only play her tomorrow when they got you; then I will be with you."
I look at him affectionately and calm him down:
" You may go now, everything is done." On the next morning I hear many steps, from which I likewise know that they come to me. I keep my whistle clasped tight. The cell door flies open and grim faces look at me. More importantly looking, a black dressed man reads out to me from an important looking document, the fact that I killed my father or mother or killed both - I do not hear correctly. In any case I would be hung by the neck, until death occurs. They lead me by a long dark hallway. An indefinite number of people go before me, and go behind me. We enter a high space, in the center of which a platform is built up. From this a gallows rises up, about half of a yard over the floor the loop is hanging consisting of thick rope. I know, that is the loop, which is meant to be put over my neck.
In the death chamber are many people, they all are sitting there and want to see a parent murderer die. In the first row I see my brother and sister. Close to them sit nephews, nieces, uncles and aunts. They all wait for their brother, uncle and nephew to get executed for the murder of their parents, aunt and sister as well as their uncle and brother. They all know that I earned this punishment.
When I am up on the platform, this important looking official reads out from the important looking document to say that I have killed my father or mother or both and therefore I am to be hung by the neck until death occurs. In the first spectator seats I see my brother and sister applause. My eyes are looking for my warden, but they cannot find him. The whole time I hold my whistle clasped tight with the right hand, but the absence of my warden worries me. The important looking official just finishes his reading from that document. He looks at me and asks whether I have one last request. In this moment someone taps me on the shoulder. I look around and see my warden; it is the executioner. He looks warm heartedly into me eyes and says:
" Ask to be allowed to play a last piece on your whistle."
I am allowed, and my warden puts the loop around my the neck.
" Entrust in my care and your whistle."
I take her in both hands and she feels soft and warm. She imperturbably plays the melody of 'Once upon a time in America', which I never could remember.
" Trust your whistle ", repeats my executioner and pulls the lever of the gate.
The flap opens and lonely fades the melody of death in the wind.
© Erich Romberg, März 2000