Variation I
“La Folia” has become my morning meditation.
Sitting at the piano to play it, my thoughts often drift to you.
When I included a recording of it in playlist number two,
perhaps I was the first woman to woo you with classical,
but that’s hardly the biggest surprise in all that transpired.
This entanglement has been rhythmic and cyclical,
as though guided by a demented metronome marking time.
We’re on, then we’re off, then on, then off, on, off, on, off.
I’m left wondering:
What happened between us? How did we get so lost?
After 20 years of friendship, is this really the best we can do?
Will you please just explain to me what’s going on with you?
Was all of this la folia? Madness? A folly?
Perhaps.
Variation II
“La Folia” has had its place in the canon for over three centuries.
More than 150 composers created their own interpretations.
Early folias were fast and likely originated as a dance.
The frenzied way peasants twirled to the music inspired the name.
Later folias became a bit more formulaic and predictable,
featuring standard chord progressions through a series of variations.
Like any timeless concept, everyone feels compelled to make it their own.
No version is right or wrong, better or worse.
They’re each just different; a reflection of their time, the composer,
and whoever is sitting at the keyboard to play.
Variation III
A friend of mine said when she’s anxious,
she plays a piano piece over and over,
getting faster each time
until the original work is unrecognizable.
No variations on a theme.
No elegant harmonies.
Just the same melody played repeatedly.
More speed, more speed, more speed.
Is that what you and I did?
Pounded on the keys til the ivory was set ablaze
and the ebony floated away?
Variation IV
When I first learned “La Folia”, my teacher marked the pages with copious notes about my many mistakes.
Much of her red-pen guidance pertained to parts of the composition that didn’t follow typical patterns.
“COUNT” and arrows indicated off-tempo notes —
a reminder that the time signature changed yet again.
“Pedal” and “no pedal” alerted me that my instincts were off —
I needed to slow down and look more closely.
“Right hand SOFT” marked the place when the melody shifted to the left hand for one variation —
accustomed to the right hand taking the lead, I failed to adjust.
There were circles on staccatos I missed —
my accidental legato transformed the playful, energetic section into a smooth, unremarkable melody.
The final variation was molto maestoso and ended with a ritardando –
I must have disregarded both, prompting emphatic circles around each.
I usually learned two or three new songs per week of lessons, but “La Folia” challenged me.
I practiced to the best of my ability, yet my teacher and I agreed to call it quits and move on eventually.
Instead of the customary celebratory sticker, a bold red X on the title page gives the impression of defeat and futility.
And yet, I now find myself playing this song daily — an exploration of memory and possibility.
Variation V
Our folia bears no resemblance to the lively renditions where peasants spin and whirl.
It also lacks a structure or scheme to provide any logic or order.
Rather than follow any precedent, we composed lunacy, then fell under its spell.
Stuck now in this maniacal dance, we erratically chase each other in circles.
There’s no sheet music to read or corrective markings to follow.
We have no helpful teacher offering redirection.
I don’t blame you for stepping away from this craziness again.
Yet even in your absence, your silence, I don’t sense finality.
I’m left wondering:
If I slow down and learn how to play my part better, might you come back?
Or is the true madness to think that I even could, or possibly should?
To expect that you would? To hope that it works?
La folia. Madness. A folly.
Perhaps.
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