(no subject)
Can't deny it any longer...
My writing muse has almost completely deserted me. I think she got sick of the abuse. I'm going to try again. This should be a serial, of sorts. I got the idea while I was sitting around today, and I was too scared of the word processor to write it down immediately. I'm going to write it down now, and hopefully it'll be the first part to some kind of on-going saga. Feedback is, as always, very much appreciated but not required. The promise of more installments after this is dedicated to Carey, who wanted an actual story. Hopefully, this will be one.
Chapter The First: A Somewhat Grand Delusion
It begins the way it usually does: me sitting on the edge of the couch, yet another knickknack clutched in my perspiring hands, she sitting in her chair across from me, notebook in her lap, pencil in hand and clearly bored. The room is oddly dark; it's the twilight hour, it always is when I'm here, and her lamps are cheap. They suffuse the room with a dim orange glow that makes me think I'm in a movie. It also makes her expression hard to read, which was intimidating at first, but after extended observation I realized that her expression never changes and hence, it doesn't matter.
She asks me how my day went, and I am hard pressed to lie, so I tell her. She's not my friend, so I tell it to her as a short story, and not an epic--it doesn't take more than five minutes. Afterwards, she just nods.
Silence takes up residence comfortably, taking up space in the room like a rather large piece of furniture or an unobtrusive guest. Time ticks by, and she says nothing, only looks at me with her expressionless face. She is out of ideas, I think, not that she had any good ones in the first place.
"I've been having the same dream for a while now." I tell her, just to make the silence go away.
"Oh?" Her writing hand twitches, making the pencil spasm in expectation.
"Yes. I've been having it for a few weeks now." She doesn't ask me why I didn't tell her sooner. "It's kind of funny, cause I don't put too much stock in dreams, and usually they're just a nice diversion--dreaming is kind of like writing, it's usually just a story. But I've never had a reoccurring one before, and I can't understand why it would be about what it is..." I pick up a paperweight from the table and gaze at it for a moment before continuing. She doesn't care. Only her pencil does, scribbling away quietly. "In the dream, I'm onstage--no, that's not right, sometimes I start out in the wings. I recognize the theatre--it's the one in Lincoln Center that my Dad takes me to for the summer concerts. Only that theatre has no wings, so in the dream, I must have invented them. I stand there in the darkness, and I look out at the crowd, and they can't see me yet, and it always feels like they're an invading army, and I must go out and face them."
I take a moment to breathe past the tightness in my chest, and I put the paperweight down. Her eyes are on me, but she doesn't see the panic rising in my mind as I remember. I don't think she wants to. "So I walk out, and I'm wearing a tuxedo instead of a dress, which I like. There's something about flipping back coat tails before you sit down at a piano... Anyway. Nobody claps as I sit, they just stare, and I sit down at the keyboard of this enormous Steinway, and I start playing Chopin. It's not a song of his that I've heard before--if anything, it's this weird, non-sensical mix of everything I've heard of his--but I play it like a genius. And I can't play Chopin in real life. Not like that, anyway. But in the dream, I am, and it sounds beautiful. I'm so pleased, so I look out into the audience, I want to see what they think. That's when I notice that the packed audience is missing a few members--the people aren't seated as densely and some of the people look... Grey. Blurry around the edges, like someone was erasing them. But I keep playing, like I'm a wind up monkey.
"I get to the second movement, and it's like heaven. I've never played like this before, I'll never play like this again, and there are people here to enjoy it. I know right then, that no one is recording this singular performance, except for the minds of the people watching, and I love that thought. Then I look out into the audience, and now it's only half-full, and not only are most of the audience members grey, but...
"They're transparent, like they're disappearing right then. And I don't get it, I'm just sitting up there at the piano, confused as hell, but playing in a way that I never will after that. It's the zenith of my ability and it's happening right then, and I can't just go and waste it, because it will never be that way again. So I get to the last movement, and I'm playing this ungodly, unfamiliar music as if I had a point to make. And it's glorious. I don't know how I'm doing it! But I look out into the audience to see their reaction...
"There are maybe four people left, and all of them are like phantoms now. I can see their seats right through them, and only their playbills are solid, held in front of their disappearing bodies like it will hide their lack of substance. And right then, when I'm looking, they disappear entirely, and the playbills drop to the floor. But I don't freak out. I keep on playing like it's the most natural thing in the world.
"Finally, finally I'm on the last few measures, and I'm playing like a God. This is the most breathtaking music, and all of a sudden, I know. It's not Chopin. This is my piece. I was improvising. I can do this. I realize that this playing, this incredible music, it's something I can do."
I stop to breathe, because it's becoming hard. I can't tell her about that gorgeous feeling of worth. As if I had suddenly discovered that I was a DaVinci, a Picasso, a Chopin, an Einstein instead of just a me. She says nothing, only gazes at me impassively, and I can tell that perhaps she thinks that this is already the end of the story, but she'd be wrong.
"And then... Just after I realize that... Just as the last chord is sounding... I look down at my hands, and they're fading. Soon they're gone, and the emptiness is swallowing the arms of the tuxedo as well. Then...
"Then the dream ends."
I shrugged, "Kind of silly, I guess."
She's quiet for another moment before saying, "What do you think it meant."
I shrug again, "I don't know. That I like attention? That I think people don't pay attention to me? I don't know." I pick up the paperweight again, and gaze at it, trying to find difference from what it looked like before.
"Hmmm..." She says, and her pencil right now is saying more then she is, scribbling down observations that she is never going to share. I think she'd rather solve all of my problems for the sense of satisfaction she'll get, rather then to help me. As far as I know, she only listens because there's nothing on TV at this hour every week.
The rest of the hour passes uneventfully. She asks me about school, and I tell her. Just like every other teenager, this is the subject that I can expound upon forever, and she thinks that makes it important, but as for my part, I stopped caring after I told her about the dream that's been haunting me for the past two weeks. It's what's important. Not what Caitlyn thought of my new sneakers, or if Robert spoke to me in Physics. My hands fading in front of my own eyes is what preoccupies me.
For her, I might as well have already faded.
~~~
(And, just for my own reference: The beginning of Chapter the second is her stepping out of the house into the cold night air because she can't stand to wait in the hall. She waits for her mother to pick her up and wishes she had a cigarette. Night falls.)
Anyway. Hopefully, I'll keep this up. :)
Oh, and sorry I haven't been posting. I've been trying to not be online so often (hah. Hah. Yeah, I know, fat chance) and also, there's stuff going on in my life that I don't want some people with access to this journal to know about yet. Nothing bad, just BIG, and I know that a lot of people from home will be upset over it. I'd rather tell people in person then online.
ETA: If anyone correctly guesses what the dream IS about, you get a cookie and the mini-Freud award for being so smart.
My writing muse has almost completely deserted me. I think she got sick of the abuse. I'm going to try again. This should be a serial, of sorts. I got the idea while I was sitting around today, and I was too scared of the word processor to write it down immediately. I'm going to write it down now, and hopefully it'll be the first part to some kind of on-going saga. Feedback is, as always, very much appreciated but not required. The promise of more installments after this is dedicated to Carey, who wanted an actual story. Hopefully, this will be one.
Chapter The First: A Somewhat Grand Delusion
It begins the way it usually does: me sitting on the edge of the couch, yet another knickknack clutched in my perspiring hands, she sitting in her chair across from me, notebook in her lap, pencil in hand and clearly bored. The room is oddly dark; it's the twilight hour, it always is when I'm here, and her lamps are cheap. They suffuse the room with a dim orange glow that makes me think I'm in a movie. It also makes her expression hard to read, which was intimidating at first, but after extended observation I realized that her expression never changes and hence, it doesn't matter.
She asks me how my day went, and I am hard pressed to lie, so I tell her. She's not my friend, so I tell it to her as a short story, and not an epic--it doesn't take more than five minutes. Afterwards, she just nods.
Silence takes up residence comfortably, taking up space in the room like a rather large piece of furniture or an unobtrusive guest. Time ticks by, and she says nothing, only looks at me with her expressionless face. She is out of ideas, I think, not that she had any good ones in the first place.
"I've been having the same dream for a while now." I tell her, just to make the silence go away.
"Oh?" Her writing hand twitches, making the pencil spasm in expectation.
"Yes. I've been having it for a few weeks now." She doesn't ask me why I didn't tell her sooner. "It's kind of funny, cause I don't put too much stock in dreams, and usually they're just a nice diversion--dreaming is kind of like writing, it's usually just a story. But I've never had a reoccurring one before, and I can't understand why it would be about what it is..." I pick up a paperweight from the table and gaze at it for a moment before continuing. She doesn't care. Only her pencil does, scribbling away quietly. "In the dream, I'm onstage--no, that's not right, sometimes I start out in the wings. I recognize the theatre--it's the one in Lincoln Center that my Dad takes me to for the summer concerts. Only that theatre has no wings, so in the dream, I must have invented them. I stand there in the darkness, and I look out at the crowd, and they can't see me yet, and it always feels like they're an invading army, and I must go out and face them."
I take a moment to breathe past the tightness in my chest, and I put the paperweight down. Her eyes are on me, but she doesn't see the panic rising in my mind as I remember. I don't think she wants to. "So I walk out, and I'm wearing a tuxedo instead of a dress, which I like. There's something about flipping back coat tails before you sit down at a piano... Anyway. Nobody claps as I sit, they just stare, and I sit down at the keyboard of this enormous Steinway, and I start playing Chopin. It's not a song of his that I've heard before--if anything, it's this weird, non-sensical mix of everything I've heard of his--but I play it like a genius. And I can't play Chopin in real life. Not like that, anyway. But in the dream, I am, and it sounds beautiful. I'm so pleased, so I look out into the audience, I want to see what they think. That's when I notice that the packed audience is missing a few members--the people aren't seated as densely and some of the people look... Grey. Blurry around the edges, like someone was erasing them. But I keep playing, like I'm a wind up monkey.
"I get to the second movement, and it's like heaven. I've never played like this before, I'll never play like this again, and there are people here to enjoy it. I know right then, that no one is recording this singular performance, except for the minds of the people watching, and I love that thought. Then I look out into the audience, and now it's only half-full, and not only are most of the audience members grey, but...
"They're transparent, like they're disappearing right then. And I don't get it, I'm just sitting up there at the piano, confused as hell, but playing in a way that I never will after that. It's the zenith of my ability and it's happening right then, and I can't just go and waste it, because it will never be that way again. So I get to the last movement, and I'm playing this ungodly, unfamiliar music as if I had a point to make. And it's glorious. I don't know how I'm doing it! But I look out into the audience to see their reaction...
"There are maybe four people left, and all of them are like phantoms now. I can see their seats right through them, and only their playbills are solid, held in front of their disappearing bodies like it will hide their lack of substance. And right then, when I'm looking, they disappear entirely, and the playbills drop to the floor. But I don't freak out. I keep on playing like it's the most natural thing in the world.
"Finally, finally I'm on the last few measures, and I'm playing like a God. This is the most breathtaking music, and all of a sudden, I know. It's not Chopin. This is my piece. I was improvising. I can do this. I realize that this playing, this incredible music, it's something I can do."
I stop to breathe, because it's becoming hard. I can't tell her about that gorgeous feeling of worth. As if I had suddenly discovered that I was a DaVinci, a Picasso, a Chopin, an Einstein instead of just a me. She says nothing, only gazes at me impassively, and I can tell that perhaps she thinks that this is already the end of the story, but she'd be wrong.
"And then... Just after I realize that... Just as the last chord is sounding... I look down at my hands, and they're fading. Soon they're gone, and the emptiness is swallowing the arms of the tuxedo as well. Then...
"Then the dream ends."
I shrugged, "Kind of silly, I guess."
She's quiet for another moment before saying, "What do you think it meant."
I shrug again, "I don't know. That I like attention? That I think people don't pay attention to me? I don't know." I pick up the paperweight again, and gaze at it, trying to find difference from what it looked like before.
"Hmmm..." She says, and her pencil right now is saying more then she is, scribbling down observations that she is never going to share. I think she'd rather solve all of my problems for the sense of satisfaction she'll get, rather then to help me. As far as I know, she only listens because there's nothing on TV at this hour every week.
The rest of the hour passes uneventfully. She asks me about school, and I tell her. Just like every other teenager, this is the subject that I can expound upon forever, and she thinks that makes it important, but as for my part, I stopped caring after I told her about the dream that's been haunting me for the past two weeks. It's what's important. Not what Caitlyn thought of my new sneakers, or if Robert spoke to me in Physics. My hands fading in front of my own eyes is what preoccupies me.
For her, I might as well have already faded.
~~~
(And, just for my own reference: The beginning of Chapter the second is her stepping out of the house into the cold night air because she can't stand to wait in the hall. She waits for her mother to pick her up and wishes she had a cigarette. Night falls.)
Anyway. Hopefully, I'll keep this up. :)
Oh, and sorry I haven't been posting. I've been trying to not be online so often (hah. Hah. Yeah, I know, fat chance) and also, there's stuff going on in my life that I don't want some people with access to this journal to know about yet. Nothing bad, just BIG, and I know that a lot of people from home will be upset over it. I'd rather tell people in person then online.
ETA: If anyone correctly guesses what the dream IS about, you get a cookie and the mini-Freud award for being so smart.