Sunday, November 20, 2005
by Carol Ann Duffy (1955)
Somewhere on the other side of this wide night
and the distance between us, I am thinking of you.
The room is turning slowly away from the moon.
This is pleasurable. Or shall I cross that out and say
it is sad? In one of the tenses I am singing
an impossible song of desire that you cannot hear.
Lalalala. See? I close my eyes and imagine the dark hills I would have to cross
to reach you. For I am in love with you
and this is what it is like or what it is like in words.
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Thursday, November 10, 2005
You type the way you used to play - chaotic, running wild and untamed with cheerful disregard for the rules of fingering... free.
And at times those thin fingers, so slender and almost elegant - shaped by years of music and a lifetime of genetics - pause and rest slightly curved and perfectly poised, the tips itching to move forward in a flash of agile conversation.
The nails at the end of your fingers have grown to make you slightly clumsy; the muscles pampered by the pliability of this new musical instrument, are now weak. Somewhere in your mind you justify this gross decay with the practicality of life, of economics (which you've always hated studying and now won't have to bother with after you got your B at the 'A' levels). You promise yourself you love the music enough to sacrifice hours each week enjoying the pure delight and magic beyond all the fantasy books you read, you promise those lazy muscles that one day you'll go back to the orthodox instrument, the one you struggled (and coaxed) and loved (and hated) for a decade.
Between promising and fulfilling lies a chasm of excuses. With those hands on that new keyboard, you begin to play a serenade.
Sonata: Words in G minor.
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Monday, November 07, 2005
Sigh. Hurray for my first 'D' grade.
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:: Photo by National Geographic Society Copyright © 2002 ::