(no subject)
i love my hands.
even when i get really old and wrinkley and i don't want anyone to look at me anymore, just as long as i can have my hands, i'll be fine.
i don't need much. Sometimes i'll get mad because i don't have nice skin or great hips or shaved legs. But i just look at my hands and i'm happy. i love how long and thin they are, and how they look when they hold things. I love it when they're tan, the nice, slightly brown color that you get after playing outside on a nice day. Stewart and I went to the park a couple days ago. We brought sandwiches and towels and laid out on them and ate our lunch. We had to climb to the very top of the hill to get in just the right spot for the sun to shine directly down on us, but it was our spot, and we made it our day. god, i'm going to miss this place so much.
I used to play the piano. I started right after i went into kindergarten and my mom would drive me far away to this very old man's house on the top of a hill. I can't even remember his name, just his house and how it was always rainy when i went there. I would walk up a stone path into this backyard through a jungle of ivy and flowers and plants, and his wife would let me in the back door and always had cookies fresh out of the oven. My mom would come with me, and she learned to play so that she could help me when i got stuck. His house smelled old and musty and when he was giving my mom lessons, he asked me to seperate his Ricola cough drops into seperate piles. The minty ones in one pile, the original in another, and the berry in a third. His hands were big and thick, and very powerful, and it never made sense to me how he could play such soft notes or how his fingers fit on the keys. They were old hands, but loving and they always placed my small fingers on just the right key. Sometimes i would go walk around in his backyard and pretend like i was a girl living in the olden days and sit in the swing until my mom was done. I learned easy songs like row row row your boat and mary had a little lamb, and i would play the scale for hours on his old dark piano.
We stopped going and moved to another house soon after and I started going to a woman closer to us. Her yard was very dry with rocks in place of grass, and dried up shrubs along the front. It was always very sunny and everything looked yellowed and bright. and she didn't have a husband, he had passed away a couple years before, and her whole front room was filled with hundreds of clocks. Cuckoo clocks, grandfather clocks, contemporary clocks with bright triangles and squares on the faces, and they always ticked in a steady rythm that could drive anyone insane. She would leave me alone often, when the phone rang or when she had to check something upstairs, and i always felt like the clocks were watching me and trying to talk to me. One time they were tick tocking and their bells were ringing and i swear i thought they were talking and telling me that she was a murderer and that when she left, she was checking on the bodies upstairs. After every lesson i would rush out of the house down the cracked concrete sidewalk as quickly as i could to get away from that place. Her hands were ugly, short and stubby and covered in boiled, brown spots, cuts, and wrinkles. She set up a recital for her students at the Foster City Coucil Auditorium that summer, and mom took me out shopping for a recital dress. I practiced my pieces over and over until they were flawless and everyone in the house knew the songs as well as i did. The day came and mom fixed my short hair with barretts, and i put on my new dress with my white stockings and shiny black mary janes, and sat in the front row with my books, shaking from anticipation. My big glasses kept sliding down my nose and i would push them up and turn around to see my whole extended family sitting a few rows behind, smiling at me with video cameras ready. When my name was called out, i slowly walked up the stairs to the stage, making sure not to miss a step, where the giant shining grand piano stood waiting. I bowed to the audience and sat on the cold, hard bench, put my music up on the stand, and placed my sweaty fingers on the keys. I played without missing a beat, and through my second piece i tried hard not to hear the crash out in the audience. As i finished, i bowed and looked up to see several people lifting my grandfather out of the crowd. He had a heart attack while i was playing, and soon ambulances could be heard outside to take him away on a stretcher. I sat back down in my assigned seat, lost and scared. I was so young and everything was going so slow and fast at the same time. I thought it was my fault. No one had heard me, and i just wanted to cry, so i did. My mom decided that i needed a new teacher, and we soon moved again.
She was much younger than the two before, with three kids, all very tall and skinny and pale. I always loved the ride to her house, down past downtown Duluth across the railroad tracks and onto a quaint street. She would always remind me that going to church was a good thing, and that my family should come to her family's church. Her hands were working hands, tough skin and broken nails, but strong, and that's how she played...strong. She sometimes had chocolate out for me, and her kids weren't supposed to come into the room when i had a lesson. Her house was a ranch style one level, with old, brown grass and a backyard with a see-saw that i would go out and play with her daughter on sometimes. I only got one recital there, with 3 other families that sat watching us play in her small, homey pink family room. One day she asked my mother over for a meeting and told her that we should consider joining her church. My mom didn't want anything to do with it, but my teacher was persistant, and that was the last day that i spent at that house. I was transfered again, closer this time, to another very religious motherly type, but she was the best of them all. She always had dinner cooking in the oven when i came over, and i had to take my shoes off to make sure not to get dirt in her white, clean living room. She home schooled her son, a pudgy, round blonde thing, with big blue eyes that was scared of anything that moved. She had thin, boney, beautiful hands that skimmed the keys and bounced up on the sticcato, and flowed down on the soft notes, with her feet always moving the petal. I would bite my nails down to the stub until there was nothing left, including the skin around my cuticles, always raw and bleeding. It was a horrible nervous habit. Every lesson she would present me with new songs that i knew and i wanted to learn so badly how to play, and we would work through every one of them until they were just right. I remember the drive so well after years of going back and forth, every week, but slowly high school crept around and piano lessons and practices became more of a hassle than a pleasure, and I had to stop. Her 18 year old daughter became pregnant, and she said that it was just God's timing, and maybe i needed a break. Now, my first keyboard sits up in my room, tucked away in a case, and my beautiful antiqued piano sits in the basement, covered, with a layer of dust and junk piled on top, now used more as a storage unit than the instrument it was meant to be. The bulb in the light on top of it blew out years ago, and i can't even open up the back to fix the keys and weaken the out-of-tune sound. I went back down there this year, to see if i still had it. I opened up the cover and let my hands rest over black and white keys. The picture came back of my working fingers that spent hours running through the notes, and i dreamed of what it would be like if i had never quit. I went back upstairs, frustrated, i couldn't remember. And that was that. All i have left are the keys on my laptop, but those could never produce the same melodic harmonies, intonations, pitch, resonances, tone, vibration or music that i used to make.
i want to make music again.
this village is so full of music. People that play it, they play it out late at night into the green. I'm usually up late, and i will never forget laying in my bed one night, hearing John Vournakis' voice, loud as can be, screaming his songs out his window above me. It took a second to realize why it sounded so close, and when i opened my window, i could hear him, singing to the world. I just laid in my bed, like i was being serenaded by his guitar and fell asleep to it.
Last night, i couldn't write my paper, so i opened my window to breathe, and noticed the sprinklers were on. I didn't even know they existed, and i was ecstatic. I called Daniel and Gina, who apparently had already discussed the idea, and told them to meet me out there in 10 minutes. We went out there in our dirty clothes and ran through the mud and the water and it was so cold, but we didn't care. My lungs hurt, but i just wanted to run until they fell out. I wanted to lay in the middle of it all, being rained on, surrounded by the thick mud, entranced by the spinning of the sprinkler heads. Kids laughed at us and made snyde comments, but we ran up the hills and down the hills and lost Gina to sliding almost everytime. I was the most free i've ever been, and i really needed it. I came back up to my room, covered in wet grass, my legs and toes red from the cold, tshirt and shorts drenched, but a giant smile on my dripping face. My body hurt from shivering as i was laying in my bed, and more music, two kids with a guitar and harmonica sang me to sleep after lots of applause and bowing from across the way where they sat.
I'm going to miss everything about this place, the music, the strange kids, the late night show marathons, quesadillas with Bobby, Masquerade 80's nights, the painted windows on the 4th floor, Mrs. Johnson and the security guards, the boys across the hall, the Tech parties, driving Courtney's car, putting Taryn to bed, the ring we run, Savannah Midtown appartments, Joe's on Juniper, even the drama...and i could go on forever. But it's just another chapter I am slowly starting to close, and there will always be things to miss, but so much more to look forward to. If Stewart can cut off his hair, i should be able to just cut off the old and start something new too.
After school is over, i'm going to California for three weeks. That means three weeks of catching up with what i used to know, finding changes and exploring. Maybe i'll find something there for me to do for the rest of my life. I need to find something for my hands. Something for them to do, to play, something better to hold.
but until then,
goodnight village.
hands. grass. tan. pictures. smile. walls. nothing but my computer and my bed. that's all i really. need.
even when i get really old and wrinkley and i don't want anyone to look at me anymore, just as long as i can have my hands, i'll be fine.
i don't need much. Sometimes i'll get mad because i don't have nice skin or great hips or shaved legs. But i just look at my hands and i'm happy. i love how long and thin they are, and how they look when they hold things. I love it when they're tan, the nice, slightly brown color that you get after playing outside on a nice day. Stewart and I went to the park a couple days ago. We brought sandwiches and towels and laid out on them and ate our lunch. We had to climb to the very top of the hill to get in just the right spot for the sun to shine directly down on us, but it was our spot, and we made it our day. god, i'm going to miss this place so much.
I used to play the piano. I started right after i went into kindergarten and my mom would drive me far away to this very old man's house on the top of a hill. I can't even remember his name, just his house and how it was always rainy when i went there. I would walk up a stone path into this backyard through a jungle of ivy and flowers and plants, and his wife would let me in the back door and always had cookies fresh out of the oven. My mom would come with me, and she learned to play so that she could help me when i got stuck. His house smelled old and musty and when he was giving my mom lessons, he asked me to seperate his Ricola cough drops into seperate piles. The minty ones in one pile, the original in another, and the berry in a third. His hands were big and thick, and very powerful, and it never made sense to me how he could play such soft notes or how his fingers fit on the keys. They were old hands, but loving and they always placed my small fingers on just the right key. Sometimes i would go walk around in his backyard and pretend like i was a girl living in the olden days and sit in the swing until my mom was done. I learned easy songs like row row row your boat and mary had a little lamb, and i would play the scale for hours on his old dark piano.
We stopped going and moved to another house soon after and I started going to a woman closer to us. Her yard was very dry with rocks in place of grass, and dried up shrubs along the front. It was always very sunny and everything looked yellowed and bright. and she didn't have a husband, he had passed away a couple years before, and her whole front room was filled with hundreds of clocks. Cuckoo clocks, grandfather clocks, contemporary clocks with bright triangles and squares on the faces, and they always ticked in a steady rythm that could drive anyone insane. She would leave me alone often, when the phone rang or when she had to check something upstairs, and i always felt like the clocks were watching me and trying to talk to me. One time they were tick tocking and their bells were ringing and i swear i thought they were talking and telling me that she was a murderer and that when she left, she was checking on the bodies upstairs. After every lesson i would rush out of the house down the cracked concrete sidewalk as quickly as i could to get away from that place. Her hands were ugly, short and stubby and covered in boiled, brown spots, cuts, and wrinkles. She set up a recital for her students at the Foster City Coucil Auditorium that summer, and mom took me out shopping for a recital dress. I practiced my pieces over and over until they were flawless and everyone in the house knew the songs as well as i did. The day came and mom fixed my short hair with barretts, and i put on my new dress with my white stockings and shiny black mary janes, and sat in the front row with my books, shaking from anticipation. My big glasses kept sliding down my nose and i would push them up and turn around to see my whole extended family sitting a few rows behind, smiling at me with video cameras ready. When my name was called out, i slowly walked up the stairs to the stage, making sure not to miss a step, where the giant shining grand piano stood waiting. I bowed to the audience and sat on the cold, hard bench, put my music up on the stand, and placed my sweaty fingers on the keys. I played without missing a beat, and through my second piece i tried hard not to hear the crash out in the audience. As i finished, i bowed and looked up to see several people lifting my grandfather out of the crowd. He had a heart attack while i was playing, and soon ambulances could be heard outside to take him away on a stretcher. I sat back down in my assigned seat, lost and scared. I was so young and everything was going so slow and fast at the same time. I thought it was my fault. No one had heard me, and i just wanted to cry, so i did. My mom decided that i needed a new teacher, and we soon moved again.
She was much younger than the two before, with three kids, all very tall and skinny and pale. I always loved the ride to her house, down past downtown Duluth across the railroad tracks and onto a quaint street. She would always remind me that going to church was a good thing, and that my family should come to her family's church. Her hands were working hands, tough skin and broken nails, but strong, and that's how she played...strong. She sometimes had chocolate out for me, and her kids weren't supposed to come into the room when i had a lesson. Her house was a ranch style one level, with old, brown grass and a backyard with a see-saw that i would go out and play with her daughter on sometimes. I only got one recital there, with 3 other families that sat watching us play in her small, homey pink family room. One day she asked my mother over for a meeting and told her that we should consider joining her church. My mom didn't want anything to do with it, but my teacher was persistant, and that was the last day that i spent at that house. I was transfered again, closer this time, to another very religious motherly type, but she was the best of them all. She always had dinner cooking in the oven when i came over, and i had to take my shoes off to make sure not to get dirt in her white, clean living room. She home schooled her son, a pudgy, round blonde thing, with big blue eyes that was scared of anything that moved. She had thin, boney, beautiful hands that skimmed the keys and bounced up on the sticcato, and flowed down on the soft notes, with her feet always moving the petal. I would bite my nails down to the stub until there was nothing left, including the skin around my cuticles, always raw and bleeding. It was a horrible nervous habit. Every lesson she would present me with new songs that i knew and i wanted to learn so badly how to play, and we would work through every one of them until they were just right. I remember the drive so well after years of going back and forth, every week, but slowly high school crept around and piano lessons and practices became more of a hassle than a pleasure, and I had to stop. Her 18 year old daughter became pregnant, and she said that it was just God's timing, and maybe i needed a break. Now, my first keyboard sits up in my room, tucked away in a case, and my beautiful antiqued piano sits in the basement, covered, with a layer of dust and junk piled on top, now used more as a storage unit than the instrument it was meant to be. The bulb in the light on top of it blew out years ago, and i can't even open up the back to fix the keys and weaken the out-of-tune sound. I went back down there this year, to see if i still had it. I opened up the cover and let my hands rest over black and white keys. The picture came back of my working fingers that spent hours running through the notes, and i dreamed of what it would be like if i had never quit. I went back upstairs, frustrated, i couldn't remember. And that was that. All i have left are the keys on my laptop, but those could never produce the same melodic harmonies, intonations, pitch, resonances, tone, vibration or music that i used to make.
i want to make music again.
this village is so full of music. People that play it, they play it out late at night into the green. I'm usually up late, and i will never forget laying in my bed one night, hearing John Vournakis' voice, loud as can be, screaming his songs out his window above me. It took a second to realize why it sounded so close, and when i opened my window, i could hear him, singing to the world. I just laid in my bed, like i was being serenaded by his guitar and fell asleep to it.
Last night, i couldn't write my paper, so i opened my window to breathe, and noticed the sprinklers were on. I didn't even know they existed, and i was ecstatic. I called Daniel and Gina, who apparently had already discussed the idea, and told them to meet me out there in 10 minutes. We went out there in our dirty clothes and ran through the mud and the water and it was so cold, but we didn't care. My lungs hurt, but i just wanted to run until they fell out. I wanted to lay in the middle of it all, being rained on, surrounded by the thick mud, entranced by the spinning of the sprinkler heads. Kids laughed at us and made snyde comments, but we ran up the hills and down the hills and lost Gina to sliding almost everytime. I was the most free i've ever been, and i really needed it. I came back up to my room, covered in wet grass, my legs and toes red from the cold, tshirt and shorts drenched, but a giant smile on my dripping face. My body hurt from shivering as i was laying in my bed, and more music, two kids with a guitar and harmonica sang me to sleep after lots of applause and bowing from across the way where they sat.
I'm going to miss everything about this place, the music, the strange kids, the late night show marathons, quesadillas with Bobby, Masquerade 80's nights, the painted windows on the 4th floor, Mrs. Johnson and the security guards, the boys across the hall, the Tech parties, driving Courtney's car, putting Taryn to bed, the ring we run, Savannah Midtown appartments, Joe's on Juniper, even the drama...and i could go on forever. But it's just another chapter I am slowly starting to close, and there will always be things to miss, but so much more to look forward to. If Stewart can cut off his hair, i should be able to just cut off the old and start something new too.
After school is over, i'm going to California for three weeks. That means three weeks of catching up with what i used to know, finding changes and exploring. Maybe i'll find something there for me to do for the rest of my life. I need to find something for my hands. Something for them to do, to play, something better to hold.
but until then,
goodnight village.
hands. grass. tan. pictures. smile. walls. nothing but my computer and my bed. that's all i really. need.