ode to a friend
In my choir class we have a pianist.
She never was pretty. Her clothes cling and hang awkwardly, and her hair is too sweet and not quite brown enough. When she speaks her face is contorted with effort as she tries to speak audibly but it only ever comes out in a tiny half whisper, like the sound in deep autumn when you walk alone between trees speckled with the paint of the season and everything feels crisp in an indescribable way and suddenly you hear something on the dirt path behind you because you think that someone must be there (perhaps it's him!) and you turn to find that the only one there is Loneliness who is dancing the tango with the fallen leaves you carelessly crushed and waltzing with the wind in the most carefree manner; so you join Loneliness and take a walk with him and let him hold your hand and tickle your back and you don't know why, but you're softly crying, and probably not from joy. Her voice is like that.
I feel a binding connection to her. Although I doubt she knows it, I have empathy for her struggles and respect for her triumphs. I look at her and see somewhat of myself, regardless of the polarity of our personalities. I see a distinct part of me in her that is universal with true pianists, which I pridefully consider myself. She loves the music. She sways and smiles and sincerely loves the beauty and that is all that we, as true pianists, can do. We can only be taken in by the power of the music and let it have its way with us. We can only smile for the ride that we've been taken on, for we are slaves to that God, who moves our fingers and powers our arms and gives the music the fairy dust to make it magical. Perhaps what's worse than this servitude is the fact that we love every second of it. The power of music intoxicates our lungs and clouds our eyes and suddenly its what we live for; we are insatiably desirable of more of the euphoria that music gives us. The passion of our pathetic lives.
But that's not why I wrote this entry. Recently in class I saw an interesting thing. After she'd finished playing she quickly began to massage her thumbs, her eyes squinted shut in an impenitrable grimace. She does that so often - both the massaging and the grimacing, sometimes she'll grimace when we sing flat. I was struck with the injustice of the situation. I contemplated her afflictions and could come up with no alternate justification except that the world is unjust. I guess that's why I wrote this, because I'm disgusted at times with the way things turn out and unavoidably someone who deserves better is forced to accept below par. Yes, I think that's why I wrote this.
I also had the equisite experience of regret this week. How did I not figure it out sooner? All the lost time. I rarely regret things, truly. But I think this time I have really regreted the time that I never spent.
She never was pretty. Her clothes cling and hang awkwardly, and her hair is too sweet and not quite brown enough. When she speaks her face is contorted with effort as she tries to speak audibly but it only ever comes out in a tiny half whisper, like the sound in deep autumn when you walk alone between trees speckled with the paint of the season and everything feels crisp in an indescribable way and suddenly you hear something on the dirt path behind you because you think that someone must be there (perhaps it's him!) and you turn to find that the only one there is Loneliness who is dancing the tango with the fallen leaves you carelessly crushed and waltzing with the wind in the most carefree manner; so you join Loneliness and take a walk with him and let him hold your hand and tickle your back and you don't know why, but you're softly crying, and probably not from joy. Her voice is like that.
I feel a binding connection to her. Although I doubt she knows it, I have empathy for her struggles and respect for her triumphs. I look at her and see somewhat of myself, regardless of the polarity of our personalities. I see a distinct part of me in her that is universal with true pianists, which I pridefully consider myself. She loves the music. She sways and smiles and sincerely loves the beauty and that is all that we, as true pianists, can do. We can only be taken in by the power of the music and let it have its way with us. We can only smile for the ride that we've been taken on, for we are slaves to that God, who moves our fingers and powers our arms and gives the music the fairy dust to make it magical. Perhaps what's worse than this servitude is the fact that we love every second of it. The power of music intoxicates our lungs and clouds our eyes and suddenly its what we live for; we are insatiably desirable of more of the euphoria that music gives us. The passion of our pathetic lives.
But that's not why I wrote this entry. Recently in class I saw an interesting thing. After she'd finished playing she quickly began to massage her thumbs, her eyes squinted shut in an impenitrable grimace. She does that so often - both the massaging and the grimacing, sometimes she'll grimace when we sing flat. I was struck with the injustice of the situation. I contemplated her afflictions and could come up with no alternate justification except that the world is unjust. I guess that's why I wrote this, because I'm disgusted at times with the way things turn out and unavoidably someone who deserves better is forced to accept below par. Yes, I think that's why I wrote this.
I also had the equisite experience of regret this week. How did I not figure it out sooner? All the lost time. I rarely regret things, truly. But I think this time I have really regreted the time that I never spent.