Monday, April 15, 2013

4278. CARRYING A BOOK IN THE TRAY OF MY HANDS

CARRYING A BOOK IN
THE TRAY OF MY HANDS
We walk this trail and drag these sidewalks, all as
if the world would never end : moonship starlight,
far-traveling distant voyager. My piano teacher, a
long time ago, used to catch my posture, saying,
'stance should be as if : you are carrying a book
in the tray of your hands.' Long-suffering me,
plodding through Mozart, gripping at my scales
and chords, halting at the edge of another sonata.
I never would reply, but somehow knew exactly
what she meant : all that 'conservatory' stuff can
really rub off. Now I am straight like a beam.
-
It's a long, old, world to be subservient to. It's a
moment too lost in time to try and undertstand.
From Grieg to Sibelius, and Elgar to Bartok  -  all
strange travel, all odd lands. I remain in silence,
subdued. Past my window, a few catholic school
kids are walking by  -  girls in their silly, plaid
skirts, and the boys  -  wired, crazed already,
elastic, in their dark blue shirts and pants.

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