(no subject)
It's a crazed week--the craziest week thus far this year--VIcky (huzzah!), labs and my turn to present in HiPs, a Master's event AND a final event for my kids at the smART, etc., etc., etc. Not that I'm complaining, not at all. Busy has not meant negative to me, usually.
But all I want to do, for the rest of my life, is play piano. I don't know why. There is no rationale. It is just delicious to learn this utterly, utterly foriegn language--minors, majors, triads both diminished and augmented, etc., but even more so, I have never been so . . . in time. Time has never been a facet of my life. Drawing erases it, reading denies it, karate just pushes it (faster, faster). I have never, ever been lost in the music before; I am one of those people whose minds just wander to their chores and thoughts, never able to keep listening. But with piano, I can concentrate in time. I am ephemerally caught in the momentum. There's no going back, no stopping, not when you're in the piece itself, not when you're actually playing.
And today I heard the jazziness of changed fifths, all by myself. Felt like Newton validating Kepler's laws, finding underlying cause,expressing it in a language. That trill of discovery.
I do a lot of . . .things. Things that have shaped me, things you continue, kind-of-skills-kind-of-languages, things you constantly have to keep from crumbling: karate, which I've let go somewhat, chess, drawing, cooking, Hebrew, now piano, etc. And I often get weary of keeping up with them all. To be truly good at things requires practice, and practice often feels like it erodes the spontaneous pleasure of the momentum of living. I really only keep up with things as long as I naively have that first and flaring affection for them--I hear that once you work through the dull days, there's a comfortable, beautiful understanding pleasure on the other side, but I've never really gotten there. I'm not good with routines. I don't know what to do about this. Ah, well, for now: I'll just keep playing, clumsily but lovingly.
But all I want to do, for the rest of my life, is play piano. I don't know why. There is no rationale. It is just delicious to learn this utterly, utterly foriegn language--minors, majors, triads both diminished and augmented, etc., but even more so, I have never been so . . . in time. Time has never been a facet of my life. Drawing erases it, reading denies it, karate just pushes it (faster, faster). I have never, ever been lost in the music before; I am one of those people whose minds just wander to their chores and thoughts, never able to keep listening. But with piano, I can concentrate in time. I am ephemerally caught in the momentum. There's no going back, no stopping, not when you're in the piece itself, not when you're actually playing.
And today I heard the jazziness of changed fifths, all by myself. Felt like Newton validating Kepler's laws, finding underlying cause,expressing it in a language. That trill of discovery.
I do a lot of . . .things. Things that have shaped me, things you continue, kind-of-skills-kind-of-languages, things you constantly have to keep from crumbling: karate, which I've let go somewhat, chess, drawing, cooking, Hebrew, now piano, etc. And I often get weary of keeping up with them all. To be truly good at things requires practice, and practice often feels like it erodes the spontaneous pleasure of the momentum of living. I really only keep up with things as long as I naively have that first and flaring affection for them--I hear that once you work through the dull days, there's a comfortable, beautiful understanding pleasure on the other side, but I've never really gotten there. I'm not good with routines. I don't know what to do about this. Ah, well, for now: I'll just keep playing, clumsily but lovingly.