Author Topic: Piano  (Read 93 times)

berkley84

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Piano
« on: December 23, 2019, 08:51:20 PM »
   I want the world to read my mind without having to speak a word. The best form of communication that Iíve found is through my hands, through music, hammering thoughts of cold isolation on the keys of my piano. Here I am on a warm summer morning with a cup of coffee in my hand, sitting down on the bench and playing the first chord. Usually itís C Major, or sometimes F# minor. I might work in B flat if Iím feeling jazzy. I look for something that sticks, a melody that sounds like me. There are people sleeping upstairs and I make lots of mistakes. But I donít fear mistakes here, I just push them down and roll right past them, like a young Thurman Thomas aiming for his first thousand yard season. And I donít make anything beautiful and pure. Whereís the purity in a lovely lie? I go for broke for a raw and transparent truth. Even if that is shaded by layers and layers of armored self-consciousness, I can dig through the BS later and convince myself that it is real.
   I grow up with a piano right outside the kitchen. Then I struggle through apartment after apartment with shared spaces and no musical outlet. Just my guitar and mandolin and banjo and accordion. Itís not the same. I remember, talking to your mother on the side of a soccer field, writing notes in a music notebook, just coming up with melodies out of thin air, no keys to guide me. I needed them, they just werenít there at the time.

 

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