This Old Whisper
Brightness expanding � covering, covering. Pressure deepening, stretching lackadaisically, like a corpulent man on a chiropractor�s bench. Sweat sticks on forehead, the slight drip winding around like a carousel on the crest valley crest of that wrinkled region up there, over top of where my pulsating brain heart leeches fear, confidence, and .. fear. A false start, like an accidental I love you when you know you don�t mean it and she doesn�t know whether she believes it or not and you�re afraid she thinks no way, but that isn�t important, not at this time. Their eyes, nervous, squirrelly, lessen in size, pupils inching toward nothingness, the fierceness on their faces growing larger and larger and darker and darker. The soft velvety blackness of their tuxedos and bowties seem like an infinity in which to stare into, as if the clock is not ticking, as if no one is expecting the best from you. Everything. It hinges right there, on the double-raised hood of the ebony grand, the Grim Reaper�s bones which we play on. Our fingers, crooked, sweating rolling in pools down to the keys which will feel mushy and slippery and hard to hold on to when we finally do play. The notes on the staff in our heads on those nerve cells, passing through axons, intercalated disks, past nodes and brain matter and spinal tapping � they start to fall off into a giant heap. The spidery arm of unfounded confounded nervousness brushes misery into being where the notes used to be and now I can�t think what the first note is. Violets in a blue dawn, rockets to Planet X behind the Sun, Greek maidens teasing Aristotle mercilessly..random thoughts pass through my head, and their heads, sleepy from the night before, sleepy from now, sleepy from the hangover hungover till we keel over, sleepy from the tipsiness of living, sleepy from the rich and luxuriant cheese of destiny. My sweat tastes saltier than usual. Glares, smiles, nervous titters, laughs, enjoin into one word: Go.
Afterward, flowers, champagne, pictures, bouquets of thanks and lilies, a prudent laugh, an appropriate sigh, a glance in the right direction, silent nods to people who will disappear never to see you again, bright happy smiles to those who are important to me, us, all, teacher, snapshot together, apart, on the bench, frowning, giggling, cheering. I have a love affair with this kind of symbiosis.
All this on video. I press stop, then relive it silently without the help of visuals. I feel that old rush again, kinship of the blood and of the sharps and flats and naturals that come to pin us down and trip us over, a special brotherhood to all those that are slave to the piano. Something no one else understands. They think it�s practising or just a gift, or something just for them�but it�s not anything. It�s there, an understanding between certain chosen people. Even those that seem a part of the brotherhood (and sisterhood) are not always a part � some are left out, but only those who don�t deserve it. There are no certain requirements; it�s just a feeling. Skill, emotional flair, even beauty: cannot win a place in our select society. A secret society with no visible benefits. It overrides hatreds or jealousies. One gets mad, but knows it�s another of the Brethren. Pomposity naturally arises, for those in the group know superiority. No one is good or bad, just a feeling of mental superiority, nothing to do with skill at the piano.. King of the world, in touch with cultural mentalities. Those sheltered are not part of Us. The description�s already prejudiced in some fashion, but no one picks. No one decides. It�s nature.
I try to describe that to her. She�s not there. Just an image of a leaf reflected through the glass wall will do. I tell her � the leaf � her..everything. I imagine she can hear it silently when she�s sleeping or sitting alone, or trying to concentrate. She steps on it as I talk. Take that! And that! And that!
Cold dawn on a camp up North. Music drumming in my ears, blocking out the dead weight of 50 pounds on my complaining back, telling my body to quit because running 4 miles at 5 AM with such a burden will kill the body � but not the spirit. I picture myself in jet black elegance at a piano in some jazz cabaret with rich inane people wandering around me. They�re inexplicably beautiful but wonderfully bored. I can�t be, lugging around all this weight. The wind blows me off balance for a little while, but I regain my composure. From the military camp nearby, a bugler plays. Practices, maybe. It�s some tune that reminds me of a hunting call � twenty foxes chased by fifty hounds and a dozen hunters who know nothing else but to rush around like madmen and let their dogs do all the work. �Hup!� �Ho there!� �C�mon old sport!� Meanwhile, my back breaks. We rest for a little while, the pack and I. Our drill leader, Corporal Point: Get up, you slackass losers. We�re not here to play around. Get into formation. Double-time..quick march! I dream of Clarissa with the light brown hair..The rocks and trees and shrubs snare my eyes and feet and I let myself trip-hop over lushness of imagery and physical being, imagining Clarissa genie come to save me of this madness in the distance at that..that�s the mess hall. Breakfast, fifteen minutes to swallow the chow and it�s time to close camp before rappelling and bone-grinding torturous physical activities that are fun, usually. A military band is outside playing marching band-style pieces. Serenade to the weary. At the end of the day, it�s time to get on the bus, carrying our dirt, our memories, our bones worn to the maximum, our dreams of another lazy day in the sun and of her, giving the sarcastic brush-off one last time.