(no subject)
After being told to stop playing the piano a confrontation ensued. When confronted with confrontation I did what I had always thought I would do. I sat there until it passed. After urging me to continue playing(while holding a baseball bat in their hands) they went upstairs. Problem solved.
I understood quite well that the point desired to be made is that they are “crazy” enough to destroy the thing/enraged enough/care enough about me not playing. However they failed to realize that I understand fully the state of things and that this piano, under the right circumstances, is nothing more than a temporary arrangement of debris. And also that it was I who bought it, not them, and that the rights of destruction are fully entitled to me alone. Also I was fully aware that one of the upper A sharp keys had stopped working and that the thing would need repairing or replacing at some point.
So, as I heard their foot steps tread heavily below cursing heaves and ho’s of the vascular bellows, I let the moment sweep me off my feet. The effect was not unlike that of the moment just slightly prior to the confrontation. The moment when I was playing upon the instrument. The bliss held in a single moment of clairvoyant reason fueled and perhaps biased by anger is a bliss I hope to meet many more times, for it is so great that I do not know weather I will ever posses the spelling of its name.
The feeling and sounding of the thuds made by the piano were a satiating force akin to orgasm and consumption. The exact deed required had been acted out and distributed to all parties concerned in the manner.
Now, as if the first confrontation had not been enough, a second one bled from the pile of a corpse it had left behind to stink in the attic closet. The second world war had been fought once before, the pattern, one we chose to bore from crust to core, in virtue and in gore, in love and the struggling fight for love.
If she had been a gust of wind I would have never known the devils flute to burn so pure. And if the wind were a wave or the wave a moon or the moon a floating fiery suggestion of a phantom, I would have never set the instrument upright again or ever ridden the sunken serpent ship: Marietta IV. Sunken from within, laden with the treasure of the world. Deeply introverted. Deeply wading in the furious ocean, the Gulf, the strait, the mid Pacific rift, a monument in the desert, a heart in a jar, a man in a coffin, a girl in a dress. And I certainly would not have tested it out again to find that the broken upper A sharp, the lone surly negro, had righted rendered itself fixed and fully functional.
I understood quite well that the point desired to be made is that they are “crazy” enough to destroy the thing/enraged enough/care enough about me not playing. However they failed to realize that I understand fully the state of things and that this piano, under the right circumstances, is nothing more than a temporary arrangement of debris. And also that it was I who bought it, not them, and that the rights of destruction are fully entitled to me alone. Also I was fully aware that one of the upper A sharp keys had stopped working and that the thing would need repairing or replacing at some point.
So, as I heard their foot steps tread heavily below cursing heaves and ho’s of the vascular bellows, I let the moment sweep me off my feet. The effect was not unlike that of the moment just slightly prior to the confrontation. The moment when I was playing upon the instrument. The bliss held in a single moment of clairvoyant reason fueled and perhaps biased by anger is a bliss I hope to meet many more times, for it is so great that I do not know weather I will ever posses the spelling of its name.
The feeling and sounding of the thuds made by the piano were a satiating force akin to orgasm and consumption. The exact deed required had been acted out and distributed to all parties concerned in the manner.
Now, as if the first confrontation had not been enough, a second one bled from the pile of a corpse it had left behind to stink in the attic closet. The second world war had been fought once before, the pattern, one we chose to bore from crust to core, in virtue and in gore, in love and the struggling fight for love.
If she had been a gust of wind I would have never known the devils flute to burn so pure. And if the wind were a wave or the wave a moon or the moon a floating fiery suggestion of a phantom, I would have never set the instrument upright again or ever ridden the sunken serpent ship: Marietta IV. Sunken from within, laden with the treasure of the world. Deeply introverted. Deeply wading in the furious ocean, the Gulf, the strait, the mid Pacific rift, a monument in the desert, a heart in a jar, a man in a coffin, a girl in a dress. And I certainly would not have tested it out again to find that the broken upper A sharp, the lone surly negro, had righted rendered itself fixed and fully functional.