Defiant Daisy #3
"You’ll never be good enough, you’ll never be smart enough, and you’ll just keep causing problems, because that’s all you do.” My father’s words continued to echo through my head as I ran up the stairs and slammed my door. Problems. Yea, I’m the one causing problems. Like saying that to a teenager isn’t causing enough problems in itself.
I laid on the floor of my room and stared at the ceiling. I couldn’t even question what I had done to get myself into this mess. It had never taken anything to get into a fight with him. I knew how to get out of it, but, damn it, sometimes I’m just too proud to sit and listen to things that are mean and completely untrue and say, “Yes sir”. So, I ran. I don’t even know where I planned to go. I always laughed at the heroines of bad horror movies when they ran up the stairs to escape the homicidal maniacs. I mean, really, where is there to go? You get upstairs, but then you’re just trapped. My dad isn’t a homicidal maniac; he’s just a jerk, but I guess I’m not really a heroine, either.
I wish my piano could fit in my room. I’ve spent more hours stressed and cussing over the piano than anything else, but it’s my safe haven. It’s the most frustrating thing in the world, and I’ve never worked so hard at anything in my life for such a small reward, but, somehow, it’s not small when you’re there. The soaring chords of a Rachmaninov concerto or a Gershwin etude or a Beethoven sonata are enough to make me forget wherever I am. I can be alone in my study or at a lesson or in front of hundreds of people, but it’s all the same. It’s freedom. As much concentration as it takes, when my hands hit those keys, my mind goes completely blank. It’s like the rest of the world stops turning so that it can sit and listen. I focus on nothing but moving my hands, but it’s almost like they move themselves. My fingers fly over the keys, and I really manage to create something beautiful. The problem is, like everything beautiful, the music is transient and temporary. At the same time, creating something like that, something so universally touching and beautiful, is amazing.
It’s become my coping mechanism, and I don’t know what to do without it. I play plenty of other instruments, and most of them – my violin, my harmonica, my djembe – are in my room, but it’s just not the same. Maybe it’s because my inexperienced hands and lips just can’t conjure the same dulcet tones out of the ridges of a harmonica or the strings of a violin that they can off of those ivory keys. Maybe it’s the comfort thing – the piano has been there for as long as I can remember, always a challenge, but always a sanctuary.
After about an hour, I sneak downstairs. I don’t really know what the point of sneaking is when I’m going to play an instrument whose sounds fill the house, but I just don’t feel like seeing anyone right now. The sonata starts slowly, with a mournful bass arpeggio that is quietly joined by solemn treble chords, but it builds quickly into running scales that leap around the keyboard. As tears stream down my face, I push myself harder and harder to reach the notes. The obbligato soars and my fingers fly faster than they’ve ever flown before. I’m not even looking at the sheet music. I’ve forgotten where I am, and who I am, and what this is, and what it’s for; it’s just for now. As the obbligato comes to a crashing halt, thunderous chords fill the room in anticipation of what’s to come. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. This has never worked, but maybe it’s the time for it. Maybe the fact that nothing else seems to be working in life means that I’ll actually be able to handle this. The theme reenters, slow and plodding, but quickly builds into a respectable allegro. Much to my amazement, my fingers continue to fly effortlessly into the stunning prestissimo until, finally, and suddenly, the phrase ends with the resolution chord, and it’s over. After a few seconds, I open my eyes, and it’s over. The room, once filled with sound, is empty, and all I can see through my tear-filled eyes is a silent piano and sheet music staring back at me.
I laid on the floor of my room and stared at the ceiling. I couldn’t even question what I had done to get myself into this mess. It had never taken anything to get into a fight with him. I knew how to get out of it, but, damn it, sometimes I’m just too proud to sit and listen to things that are mean and completely untrue and say, “Yes sir”. So, I ran. I don’t even know where I planned to go. I always laughed at the heroines of bad horror movies when they ran up the stairs to escape the homicidal maniacs. I mean, really, where is there to go? You get upstairs, but then you’re just trapped. My dad isn’t a homicidal maniac; he’s just a jerk, but I guess I’m not really a heroine, either.
I wish my piano could fit in my room. I’ve spent more hours stressed and cussing over the piano than anything else, but it’s my safe haven. It’s the most frustrating thing in the world, and I’ve never worked so hard at anything in my life for such a small reward, but, somehow, it’s not small when you’re there. The soaring chords of a Rachmaninov concerto or a Gershwin etude or a Beethoven sonata are enough to make me forget wherever I am. I can be alone in my study or at a lesson or in front of hundreds of people, but it’s all the same. It’s freedom. As much concentration as it takes, when my hands hit those keys, my mind goes completely blank. It’s like the rest of the world stops turning so that it can sit and listen. I focus on nothing but moving my hands, but it’s almost like they move themselves. My fingers fly over the keys, and I really manage to create something beautiful. The problem is, like everything beautiful, the music is transient and temporary. At the same time, creating something like that, something so universally touching and beautiful, is amazing.
It’s become my coping mechanism, and I don’t know what to do without it. I play plenty of other instruments, and most of them – my violin, my harmonica, my djembe – are in my room, but it’s just not the same. Maybe it’s because my inexperienced hands and lips just can’t conjure the same dulcet tones out of the ridges of a harmonica or the strings of a violin that they can off of those ivory keys. Maybe it’s the comfort thing – the piano has been there for as long as I can remember, always a challenge, but always a sanctuary.
After about an hour, I sneak downstairs. I don’t really know what the point of sneaking is when I’m going to play an instrument whose sounds fill the house, but I just don’t feel like seeing anyone right now. The sonata starts slowly, with a mournful bass arpeggio that is quietly joined by solemn treble chords, but it builds quickly into running scales that leap around the keyboard. As tears stream down my face, I push myself harder and harder to reach the notes. The obbligato soars and my fingers fly faster than they’ve ever flown before. I’m not even looking at the sheet music. I’ve forgotten where I am, and who I am, and what this is, and what it’s for; it’s just for now. As the obbligato comes to a crashing halt, thunderous chords fill the room in anticipation of what’s to come. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. This has never worked, but maybe it’s the time for it. Maybe the fact that nothing else seems to be working in life means that I’ll actually be able to handle this. The theme reenters, slow and plodding, but quickly builds into a respectable allegro. Much to my amazement, my fingers continue to fly effortlessly into the stunning prestissimo until, finally, and suddenly, the phrase ends with the resolution chord, and it’s over. After a few seconds, I open my eyes, and it’s over. The room, once filled with sound, is empty, and all I can see through my tear-filled eyes is a silent piano and sheet music staring back at me.
posted by defiant daisy at 12:57 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home