Sebastian Castillo

Yesterday was as uneventful a day in my life as could be, which probably suits it for an exercise such as this. To get enumeration out of the way: I drank coffee in the morning; I took a walk in the sun after four days of straight rain, which had admittedly dampened my mood, so the walk did me some good in that regard; I went to the gym and performed my exercises; I taught my 5 P.M. class, as that is the only I class I teach on Thursdays this semester; and I finished my evening by watching something on the TV and drinking a beer.

Given how uneventful my day was, I thought I would at first make this journal entry a string of lies: inventions of things that had never actually happened to me, or a borrowing from events that had occurred in the recent past, all smuggled into a single day, collaged into some sequence of plausibility. But no. One thing I did was play around with a new purchase: the Elektron Sytakt, a synthesizer and drum machine encased in an attractive metal chassis. I had been curious about this device for a while, and as my birthday is coming up at the end of the month, I decided to buy it for myself as a present. It’s a complicated machine that makes beautiful sounds, and I’m still learning how to use it. I am 35 at the time of this writing, and most of my creative energy is dedicated toward writing fiction, stories, novels, etc. But it wasn’t always like this. For many years I was a musician and principally dedicated myself to the writing, recording, and performing of music. I was in lots of bands and made music on my own, too. Then something happened: I got older and a little bored, and stopped completely. I even listened to music less. There was something about it, I felt, that was essentially juvenile, an activity meant for, about, and by very young people. And as I no longer felt very young, thought it right I move away from it. In retrospect this was foolish! Very silly... Music is for everyone, and is exciting always. In the last two years, I’ve slowly come around to my instruments, and expanded my palette. I’ve been playing the guitar since I was 14, but I started teaching myself the piano about two years ago now. I sound like a decent beginner. I’ve also been learning more about drum programing and composition for electronic music, which is what interests me most at the moment. I don’t know if anything will come of it, but I feel boyish enthusiasm for music I haven’t felt since, well, I was a boy.

What attracts me most about making music is similar to what attracts me about making anything, whether it’s literature or a sandwich: before there was nothing and then you have made a little something you get to interact with it. Except with music, it can also make you dance, or nod your head, or help you feel its pulse. John Ashbery said in an interview once that people go see an orchestra play Mozart, and afterward stand on their feet crying with applause once the musicians are finished, but what are they cheering for? The audience says “yes” to a bunch of sounds. That is the peculiar and arresting quality of music. I saw something on the internet the other day, a screenshot of a Reddit post: a man had drawn a crude resemblance of a pair of breasts, and the text of the post said “Got me going,” presumably meaning he had masturbated to the infantile drawing he had created. This is of course ridiculous and very funny, but also, I would argue, not entirely different from any creative procedure. You make something out of the tools you have sitting around, and it enormously pleases you.

I’m going to end this account of my day with what I dreamt last night. I know it’s in bad taste to share one’s dreams—but I promise it’s good! And related. At the art school where I teach, I dreamt there was a Lydia Tar-like figure who was to spend a semester at the school mentoring a select ten students. This kind of mentorship was presented as a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that would have very real professional benefits for prospective musicians in the world of classical music. One had to audition in order to be considered. I entered the auditorium and there were about 200 hopeful young musicians, each of them tremendously talented. Once your name was called you entered a small room with an upright piano.

At my audition, Lydia Tar [this is what I’ll call her] sat with her assistant. They asked me to tell them about myself.

“I’m not a professional musician,” I said. “In fact, I have no aspirations toward that. I’m a writer, actually. But I’m here because I think Lydia Tar would be a good piano teacher for me. I’m still a beginner and would like to improve.”

The two were silent.

“This is an audition for student musicians seeking mentorship from a world-renowned conductor. Everyone auditioning today has been conservatory trained. And you want piano lessons?” the assistant said.

“That’s right,” I said.

“Play us something.”

I played the C major scale—over two octaves—and stopped.

“I meant music. Can you play us something from your repertoire? A composition,” the assistant said. Tar had been sitting silently and stone faced throughout this exchange. 

“I don’t really know many songs…” I said. “I know a little bit of a Beatles song.”

I played the opening chords of “For No One” but forgot how it went after the first few bars, so I stopped, and played the C major scale—over three octaves!—and kind of messed up toward the end.

In the dream, I remember smiling widely and beatifically at the two. Look at how stupid and simple I am, I meant to convey. I was convinced I could charm them despite my amateurishness and confounding intentions. I could see, then, Lydia Tar crack a very slight smile. Out of pity? Did she like me?

“Thank you,” the assistant said. “You can go now.”

I waited for several hours in the auditorium while the rest of the auditions finished. Once they were completed, the assistant approached a microphone on the auditorium’s stage and gave a speech thanking all prospective mentees for their wonderful and rousing performances, emphasizing how difficult they found the selection process. She began listing off names, each time followed by congratulatory screams and applause from the audience. The first two selections were the stars of the school—absolute prodigies who would probably have remarkable careers regardless. Then more names. Finally, she paused on the tenth and final choice, and said: “Sebastian Castillo.”

Everyone looked about ambiguously—confused murmurs, etc. I approached the stage and took the microphone. “Thank you,” I said, the only mentee to have walked on stage to address the crowd. “I’m not even a musician, really. I’m a novelist. Well, I’ve been playing the guitar for a while. And actually, I teach at this school, I’m not a student. I’m trying to make, like, techno and stuff. I don’t go to clubs yet I enjoy the music. Some techno I think would be good. But I’m excited to take piano lessons from Ms. Tar. I’m sure I will improve a lot. Thank you.”

And the dream ended! I was sad when I woke up, because I wanted to see how the story would continue. But maybe I’ll dream of the next chapter soon.

Sebastian Castillo is the author of SALMON, Not I, and 49 Venezuelan Novels. You can find him: @bartlebytaco