Measure 33.
Actually, I remember the faces of my mother and father well. She is a dancer with a light smiling movement. He is a composer with a dark stormcloud face, but strong as it is it becomes cheerful for me. I have many good memory of them both. They were very in love and they say to me each day, "Machi, you are a light of our lives."
Many happy day pass with my father teaching piano. I do not have to wonder what they think of me, I know they proud to be pianist now. I never wonder.
The day they die, I am filling with the tears completely. No one can console me. After that day, I think I must really do this thing, be a pianist like my father. So I do. Lucky me, to have been taught so young, the talent comes naturally.
Yes, I think of my parents fondly. In the fantasy I make in my head of them.
Really, there were no such people. One nun teach me to play after she hear me fussing on keys, she find I good. She take me all over town, get donation so I can take lesson from real pro. I never take lesson. She continue to teach me, I get better, she take more money. Things never seem to get better, still the children are sickly and hungry. When we get more food they still steal it from me and punch me. I freak to them. Cannot punch back, cannot play rough, could hurt my hands. Always... fearing to hurt my hand.
I run away because it is my talent, damn it, it is mine, for me only. I take a job at a jazz club, just to wash dish and watch and learn. If I get in the way of owner, he kick me, just like I his own child, funny, huh?
So that's why you need to give me a little money tonight - oh no sir, I promise I not drinking. I get hungry, please, you can spare a coin or two. The owner of the bar, he such a bad guy, he crack me over the face and I see a star. I cannot go back there tonight, I just need a little for something to eat, please?
See how easily I can tell that kind of story and make it seem true?
I hate piano, actually. With all my heart. I hate that it is all I can be, do or think. Would you want that for you? If it mean you could write amazing music, if it mean you famous, would you want to always hear music in your head, hear it so much you hate it when people talk over it? Would you want to never climb a tree for fear to hurt your hand?
But this is me. This is what I do. If I play, then they are happy. Someone see me, if I play for a moment and it touches their face, then finally, someone is listening to me. I can't stop. No matter what, she is there for me. Play for that sense of calmness. You feel the admiration of others. They won't like it if you stop. You are nothing without me. And I'm not, so I won't stop ever. Because I love it too much. The music is in my head, my veins.
Many happy day pass with my father teaching piano. I do not have to wonder what they think of me, I know they proud to be pianist now. I never wonder.
The day they die, I am filling with the tears completely. No one can console me. After that day, I think I must really do this thing, be a pianist like my father. So I do. Lucky me, to have been taught so young, the talent comes naturally.
Yes, I think of my parents fondly. In the fantasy I make in my head of them.
Really, there were no such people. One nun teach me to play after she hear me fussing on keys, she find I good. She take me all over town, get donation so I can take lesson from real pro. I never take lesson. She continue to teach me, I get better, she take more money. Things never seem to get better, still the children are sickly and hungry. When we get more food they still steal it from me and punch me. I freak to them. Cannot punch back, cannot play rough, could hurt my hands. Always... fearing to hurt my hand.
I run away because it is my talent, damn it, it is mine, for me only. I take a job at a jazz club, just to wash dish and watch and learn. If I get in the way of owner, he kick me, just like I his own child, funny, huh?
So that's why you need to give me a little money tonight - oh no sir, I promise I not drinking. I get hungry, please, you can spare a coin or two. The owner of the bar, he such a bad guy, he crack me over the face and I see a star. I cannot go back there tonight, I just need a little for something to eat, please?
See how easily I can tell that kind of story and make it seem true?
I hate piano, actually. With all my heart. I hate that it is all I can be, do or think. Would you want that for you? If it mean you could write amazing music, if it mean you famous, would you want to always hear music in your head, hear it so much you hate it when people talk over it? Would you want to never climb a tree for fear to hurt your hand?
But this is me. This is what I do. If I play, then they are happy. Someone see me, if I play for a moment and it touches their face, then finally, someone is listening to me. I can't stop. No matter what, she is there for me. Play for that sense of calmness. You feel the admiration of others. They won't like it if you stop. You are nothing without me. And I'm not, so I won't stop ever. Because I love it too much. The music is in my head, my veins.