Life in a Thrashing Machine | Page 5

.
one day everything will turn-out for you and you'll look back at today
and say to yourself 'boy, was I dumb.' Live life, Vladimir. Go home and
work some more on that Musical that you told me about. You're not

working, so you may as well. You won't accomplish anything by
waiting around and brooding. Put your emotions into your music-it
could only benefit you, in the long run."
Vlad balanced his head freely in a nod that almost made his head look
like it was ready to fall off.
He understood what Henry was getting at but he didn't fully agree with
him. Indeed, he could go home. He might write some music, hoping
that his home environment would be tolerable for a sufficient period of
time. Vlad was truly serious about once he started to compose, he
would prefer to continue until he finished his project. Job offers, after
he started to compose, would only annoy his already disturbed state of
mind, and he was afraid that he would have a difficult time to continue
with his musical work.
Vlad disliked constant readjustments and adaptations to his life. As far
back as he could remember, his life was a conforming life; always
changing for the betterment of someone other than himself. He felt that
it was his turn to do what he wanted to but he knew that life was never
that generous, towards anyone, except to those jerks and assholes of
society.
He wondered if that's all that it took to be successful in life. Forget
about honesty and clean-living. Forget about ability and integrity, and
just indulge in life's excesses. Partake of drugs and of sexual
perversions, and be as hateful and mistrusting as you can be towards
your adversaries. Use them as the foundation block that you step up
from, to fame and fortune.
Yet, Vlad wondered if doing all these things, just to become
worldly-great, would really be worth losing one's immortal soul for;
and not only that, those negative aspects of life could hinder any form
of purity from being expressed in his music.
His music was good. He knew that the sounds which came from his
mind, through to his hands and then onto paper, had that innocent
purity that lacked in most of the other works composed by his piers and

counterparts.
He did not want to lose that purity that was within him. Just the
thoughts of such things made him feel weak and even ill. He felt ill
now, for such a reason and he could hardly bare it.
"Do you remember that guy I told you about, from Ottawa?" Vlad
asked Henry. "You know Jon Slater?"
"Yes, I remember. What about him?"
"That ass-hole, so I hear, is already apprenticing as an arranger for the
Toronto Philharmonic." Vlad looked depressed and very angry. He
actually was starting to shake from the idea of his chief-rival. Slater,
was so far ahead of him, and he hardly had the expertise or originality
for the job.
Vlad was sure that he, and not Slater, truly deserved that apprenticing
position. His qualifications were, as he felt, much higher and more
impressive than Slater's. He had composed three original sonatas for his
mini-ballet HERA'S GARDEN, whereas Slater only did a two-part
variation adapted from Purcell's DEATH OF QUEEN MARY and
Vivaldi's OP. 8 - ALLEGRO I FROM "SPRING". Slater truly could,
brilliantly modify some other composer's works and give them a quality
that resembled originality, but he couldn't do a damn with his own
imagination.
All this didn't matter in the long run, however. The judging of his work,
against Vlad's, was as if no competition had taken place. The majority
of the judges that he had sucked-up-to and totally impressed with his
charismatic charm, chose his adaptations over Vlad's original works.
Vlad prayed to God that he would, one day, put Slater in the place that
he deserved; playing his violin, on some street-corner.
"Don't let that bother you, Vlad!" Henry tried to comfort him. "You
told me that Slater is what, some five years older than you are? It's only
fitting for him to get his glory now, so that you can whirlwind your
way to the top, and leave him behind in the dust, by the time you're his

same age!"
"I suppose that you're right. I am only twenty three years old. If I don't
get killed by a car on the street, tomorrow, I guess that I'll have plenty
of time to become successful." Henry urged him.
"It's just . . . It's just, I want it so badly, right now, Henry. You know
what I mean!"
"Yes, I do, Vlad." said Henry, putting his large hand on Vlad's shoulder
and then smiled at him.
They stayed like that for