Batakliev's Bloc

There is something selfless and infinitely generous about the act of piano playing in train or underground stations. The random performers don’t do it for money. They don’t do it for fame. In fact, they are mostly anonymous and invisible. They simply enjoy playing music and pleasuring the passers-by, providing a soundtrack to a transient moment to remember. Maybe they are Angels...for an hour.

I would have felt poorer if I hadn’t seen Dead Can Dance at the Ancient Theatre in Plovdiv. I would have felt less heartened than I am today, less immune to “the insatiable thirst for power” and less certain of our mandate for generosity of spirit. Lisa and Brendan sang with uninhibited joy, kindness and compassion of historic proportion, breathing life and “dance” into the white Roman marble and uniting the hordes of happy humans who joined their celebration. After the concert, in fact, after the last note of “Severance”, a flock of white birds soared and circled above the amphitheatre for hours, as if guarding the habitat of positive vibrations. Hundreds of happy humans stared at the white birds in the sky, smiling in the balmy night.