...to describe things lately.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xdhLQCYQ-nQ
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2SfOA2M5bEY
I'll start posting again eventually!
Monday, April 27, 2009
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Just Hands
Melodies flowed from her brain to the fleshy tips of her extremities; queued up and ready to pour themselves into the aging baby grand piano. Countless years of preparation, and all she had to show for it was a sparsely-populated, dimly-lit hospital conference hall--not a proper venue for anything but lectures and motivational speeches--and a small audience of skeptical doctors and bored, dying patients.
She closed her eyes and watched as the grand staff and its lengthy measures unfolded before her like a crumbling scroll of ancient magic. A breath, and then she began. Her warm, pink skin dipped cautiously into the notes of the first staccato eighths, gaining confidence as a swimmer adjusting to a cold pond. Her journey followed a winding path, ominous yet bathed in sunlight. Her mind's music told the story of her memories, poco a poco. Playful tremolo major thirds and an impish allegro tempo marked joy, marked love, marked beautiful bright times of innocent youth; measures filled with mystery, discovery, and growth. She slowed to an andante, leading the music to a dark place filled with minor thirds and melancholy mezzo piano memories. These tones led her into the hospital; into new levels of negative emotions.
At the diminuendo end of her sadness, a single sob escaped from somewhere in the room. Smiling slightly, the pianist bowed her head as if nodding off to sleep, raised her arms to the keys once more, and unfolded her story's final chapter. Back into the reverie of memories and lost time went she, playing at last the hope-filled memories leading up to her performance. These were the secret meetings held in hushed whispers, the half-dreams half-nightmares of drug-induced sleep, and the warm touch on her face all of which led to today; to the song already in progress. Octave chords played forte and staccato eighth notes repeated from the beginning rang triumphantly through the room and spelled out the culmination of a lifetime of solitude, silence, disability, pain, and hope. The final lilting tones faded out into the corners of the room, and the pianist's eyes fluttered open.
She looked at her stricken audience, then down at the warm, tingling things on the ends of her wrists. "I wonder what I could do with more than just one pair of hands..."
She closed her eyes and watched as the grand staff and its lengthy measures unfolded before her like a crumbling scroll of ancient magic. A breath, and then she began. Her warm, pink skin dipped cautiously into the notes of the first staccato eighths, gaining confidence as a swimmer adjusting to a cold pond. Her journey followed a winding path, ominous yet bathed in sunlight. Her mind's music told the story of her memories, poco a poco. Playful tremolo major thirds and an impish allegro tempo marked joy, marked love, marked beautiful bright times of innocent youth; measures filled with mystery, discovery, and growth. She slowed to an andante, leading the music to a dark place filled with minor thirds and melancholy mezzo piano memories. These tones led her into the hospital; into new levels of negative emotions.
At the diminuendo end of her sadness, a single sob escaped from somewhere in the room. Smiling slightly, the pianist bowed her head as if nodding off to sleep, raised her arms to the keys once more, and unfolded her story's final chapter. Back into the reverie of memories and lost time went she, playing at last the hope-filled memories leading up to her performance. These were the secret meetings held in hushed whispers, the half-dreams half-nightmares of drug-induced sleep, and the warm touch on her face all of which led to today; to the song already in progress. Octave chords played forte and staccato eighth notes repeated from the beginning rang triumphantly through the room and spelled out the culmination of a lifetime of solitude, silence, disability, pain, and hope. The final lilting tones faded out into the corners of the room, and the pianist's eyes fluttered open.
She looked at her stricken audience, then down at the warm, tingling things on the ends of her wrists. "I wonder what I could do with more than just one pair of hands..."
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