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Lessons from the Piano

Photo by Lyn


My Piano: this oddly, beautiful instrument; he sits before me, his keys beckon my touch, black and white, (the ultimate contrast). The perfectly familiar arrangement of all of them together, ascending and descending commands my attention, without my attention. I start from the bottom and play each of his keys as, always in perfect form, he ascends in well-tempered space all the way to 88.

My figure is less straight. I move to fit this friend/foe. He doesn't yield an inch to fit me. I adjust my trained-monkey-muscles, and listen to my body cry out here and there in its own assertion of neediness. I assuage my body, but mostly, it is back to him that I turn. Up the 88 keys. Low to high. When does low become high? I wonder, philosophically. In boredom I flip these 8's on their side...

Jolt!

Double infinity.

So within these keys contain all the possibilities, doubly!

So, little magical music box man, wouldn't it be natural for me to sit down and play you, and feel myself transported into your world, the one where the stars align, where the contrast is wholly perfect, where all possibilities meet in harmonic bliss? Wouldn't it be logical that just by the act of caressing you, that we would meet like lovers, unrestrained, unencumbered by form, and even in the state of ecstasy?

Then why do you feel like a cold, heathen of a lover today? Why do my hands touch you, and you feel resistant to my passions. You turn away. What is it? It's my touch, isn't it--not deep enough, or is it too deep? Not sustained enough, too sustained? Not fast enough, or slow enough? Not enough nuance? Not enough spirit? Trying too hard? Did you just say too schmaltzy?

I leave you. Back to our worlds apart. Neither of us are satisfied. You are silent, but I hear your thundering disapproval. I feel you pacing.

The music is left unsung and the magic is spinning out in someone else's universe.

You become stingy with age, Piano, and I approach you less and less, tired of the dance.

But there is the idle, putt-putt, dream that exists...from a place that I cannot quite identify, where you and I come together, and we finally realize our love. We learn a new language together, and we speak from our hearts through the music that belongs somehow to the whole, even if buried long ago-- even if it lives now as a mere shell of its glory days.

At least it lives-- a small price to pay, even if eternity means mucking about through lackluster academic polarity, forever shallow in breath, and rigid with conformity, while other more sprightly venues are packed with screaming fans, pulsing, sweaty with excitement (and fat wallets).

You preferred a quieter life, a crisp button up white shirt, with shiny black buttons, and perfectly muted colors, except for the sassy black and white that would keep you sitting up straight.

I loved it too. That is why I fell in love with you. Your empire was elegant; graceful. Your reign too; balanced in rhythm and harmony, in humble resolution and form; always with just the right little jaunt out of the home key, and back to recapitulate-- but all in the noble name of a higher aesthetic, as to soar with angels, to dally with demons, and always to shatter the divides between heaven and earth with the magic of a final resounding boom, boom, boom. The ideals were there. I got your vision--and boy did the home key sparkle on its return, and that made way for the perfect exhale, the delicate relief that had been, ahhhh, so carefully designed.

You don't know what to make of today. All those musicians sloshing around and throwing paint at the canvas and calling it art--and what are you supposed to do? You do only what you can. You wait around for me to find it in myself to satisfy you, to find the right moves, the right nuance that might lift you to higher heights; might even give you the pleasure of sitting right outside of your sallow existence, bellowing like a wild animal--but all in the safe confines of your hallowed propriety, of course.

And you are out of luck, aren't you. A victim of a woman who has decided that it is just too hard to please you, and so she has taken her story back to the bench. She sits there and says, so, if I can't please you, I'll please myself. And she goes about it.

But ever so gradually, she feels the sensations of yearning, from that place that she can't name. And it speaks of a freedom with you, an ease that comes from deeper, almost invisible reaches, where the color bleeds into gray scale.

She catches glimpses of it, but not when she touches you.

No, it is when her eyes are closed, and there is no struggle with the physical form, with the doing, with the perfect execution. No, the secret is contained somewhere in the music. Of that much she is sure. But it isn't a language she can understand, with language.

She can almost feel the fleshy parts, that she was sure had all but decayed into relics of another time, wherein existed something beyond the architecture.

Her hands warm just at the edge of thought, where exists more--where over the jagged edges of form, is superimposed something that she hadn't noticed before. And the trying stops. And the first touch is made. And the touch is quiet.

The touch quiets.

I meet you in striations of sensation, that take the form of watercolors, ambers, blues, greens--muted just like you like. There's some yellow, soft yellow, and purple. It is from the deep purple that we hear the first sounds of our exposition. It holds us there suspended, and cradled, but not bound by its framework. Together we reach out for the other, and ourselves at the same time.

And we wait for the development, but without any expectations to its journey, or its return. This leaves us wide-open for anything. And unlike our time together before, we sit in silent wonder, with no need to race down the garden path to see what is coming, to see who can get there first. In this experience, we feel the music weave its own pathways into our firmament, leaving in its wake something that vibrates deeply, in new places. Only experience can measure the lingering frequencies.

And we realize that neither of us knew music until this moment, because you being in the driver's seat, had missed being driven, and I, never meeting your expectations, or those of mine, (which I wasn't really sure if I wanted to meet, or to own, for that matter), had never been able to hear the music.

Exhale...And so it was, that we let Essence enter our tired embrace, forming a sacred trine, and in this, the surprise, that it held all of infinity.

Comments

  1. Oh my. so many layers and layers and layers here. so many. Thank you for blowing my mind.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Absolutely your best work and play!! I'm spent-like I just had a strange erotic ride with the piano. And the double infinity? Goddess inspired.

    ReplyDelete

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