(no subject)
I need to get back to the piano.
I took lessons from my next door neighbor for ten years. Laurie's house was humid and smelled like cats. She had red hair like me, but hers was orange and frizzy. The window in the piano room would be open to the highway traffic that separated our houses. At that age the only incentives to get through lessons were the stickers and the hand-written notes on holiday stationary. The notes reviewed our performances at those god-awful church recitals; they were fair, honest, but full of praise. Laurie had perfect cursive, too. It was like waiting for a roll of film to get developed.
I was sixteen or seventeen when I quit. It was around the time when I had Maple Leaf Rag almost memorized, and I played it over the phone for my grandma. Dad said something like, "Okay, here's Maggie," and held the receiver a few inches above the keys. He was proud. She was really sick, then.
Today's demon: The piano teacher (Hey Lynda). It was around 3:30 in the afternoon, right after school, and I decided I was done. I called Laurie and kept it short. I think it hurt her, how abrupt it was. We never really talked again after that, and it still makes me feel sore. As a parting gift I put some tulip bulbs in a paper bag and left them on her kitchen table while she was on vacation. I hoped she would plant them at the base of the flag pole, between her house and mine.
At one time in my life, I was good enough for Bach, for Haydn, for Mendelssohn. I miss that. I miss the way, after a lot of practice, my fingers knew the notes faster than my eyes. And I miss the grit and earthiness of the Joplin rags, the yellowed Gershwin songbook with the cracked spine. I remember the day my body started to move when I played. I can't explain it. After years of good posture and good wrists, it just happens and your body goes slack.