Observations on the Meaning of Meaning from Practicing the Piano
Excerpt from “Why Knot?” Buy the book at Amazon
Practicing the piano this morning (as a talentless amateur), it occurred to me that my eyes focus on the sheet music, only occasionally glimpsing my fingers on the keys. For pieces that I am familiar with but that I have not memorized, my fingers seem to have a memory of their own and seem to function independently of my conscious mind. And my fingers remember not the keys, but rather the intervals and the sequences (as an array), while my sight and conscious mind focus on the visual patterns of the notation, rather than the individual notes.
At the beginning of a piece, I look at the sheet music to determine the key (defined by sharps and flats) and look at my hands to make sure they are properly positioned for the opening notes. That brings into synch those two kinds of memory, the two ways of perceiving the written music.
As I play, somehow, I am always comparing the sounds that I hear with the sounds I expect to hear. And I’m also alert to instances of dissonance, that independent of my memory of the tune signal that I’ve struck a wrong key.
If I am playing a song, I am at the same time (whether singing aloud or remembering in my head) aware of the words that go with the notes. And if I were to recite the words, without playing the piano, I would be conscious of the tune, even if I did not sing the words.
This observation reminds me that language can be associated with sound in complex multilayered ways. We are aware not just of the semantic meaning of the words, but also of the tone and the rhythm, and the patterns of speech that define a local accent or a dialect. While understanding the words, we also detect the speaker’s place of origin and state of mind. We also, simply from the sound, can deduce the identity of the speaker and whether the speaker intends to emphasize the meaning or cast doubt on it, whether the speaker means what he/she says or, (humorously/ironically, means the opposite.
Handwriting, too, conveys more than the commonly understood semantic meaning of the letters and words. The style of the handwriting can be so unique as to serve as a reliable indicator of who wrote it. And when you know the writer well, you can sometimes tell the state of mind of the writer at the time of writing.
PS — In touch typing, too, my fingers remember, separately from my consciousness. So long as my fingers are in the right original positions, I can think and type letters, without looking. But normally, I don’t think of the letters, don’t worry about the spelling. Rather, I think complete words and phrases. Only when I proofread do I discover the spelling mistakes my fingers made (which are very different from mechanical typos). I expect that the hands and fingers of accomplished pianists remember in large chunks rather than individual notes.
PPS —Consciousness is like the conductor of an orchestra, setting the tempo and helping coordinate multiple streams of activity. But it has less control than a conductor -- because many functions, like breathing, operate semi-autonomously and others like the beating of the heart go on independently.
And among all those layers of thought, where am "I?" Who am "I?"
Our focus shifts depending on what we are doing and how much attention we need to direct that way, the degree to which those functions know what to do and how to do it from habit and training. Many activities like walking and talking and chewing gum we can do at the same time without paying attention to any of them. Some skills, like riding a bike, that we may not have used for decades, we can do again without effort or thought. Speaking a foreign language and playing the piano require some refresher work, but the initial training makes relearning much easier than learning from scratch.
In other words, we think in layers, and what we call "consciousness" is just one of those many layers.
