i could fly,
oh yes, i could.
but i would rather
sleep instead.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Sex.
That’s what it’s like.
The way his fingers found their way around the keys, like lovers. There was a silence in the hall, a silence you never heard, will never hear again. A silence not made up of whirring minds counting off twenty four full bar rests, minds running through the next entry, minds tensing up for the conductor’s glance and baton twitch that will cue you in. a silence not made up of nicotine craving minds in the audience, impatience to give the flowers, for dinner, for the inevitable sleep when it was over and you got home. Just enraptured faces staring on, swallowing everything greedily, everything, everything in case you missed out on a single moment.
We watch like voyeurs, violinists and woodwinds and brass, all as part of the audience as the audience as he, with a name no one can pronounce, let alone remember, made love to the piano the way we could only dream about, making love to our girlfriends, our boyfriends, our spouses. It would haunt me forever, whenever I lie in the dark with a warm body next to mine, that it would never be as great, never be as good as all the porn in the world, which would never be as good as that nine minutes I still remember from six years ago when I saw an ugly, skinny man who could not speak a word of English spoke in the language of angels with his piano.
Love. I am in love with that man, and what he could do, what he had done in that single encore as the last note trailed away and everyone stared at him like he was god, a god who couldn't speak, a god whose name we don't know and never will, a god who stood up and strode off in the silence after that miracle.
That’s what it’s like.
The way his fingers found their way around the keys, like lovers. There was a silence in the hall, a silence you never heard, will never hear again. A silence not made up of whirring minds counting off twenty four full bar rests, minds running through the next entry, minds tensing up for the conductor’s glance and baton twitch that will cue you in. a silence not made up of nicotine craving minds in the audience, impatience to give the flowers, for dinner, for the inevitable sleep when it was over and you got home. Just enraptured faces staring on, swallowing everything greedily, everything, everything in case you missed out on a single moment.
We watch like voyeurs, violinists and woodwinds and brass, all as part of the audience as the audience as he, with a name no one can pronounce, let alone remember, made love to the piano the way we could only dream about, making love to our girlfriends, our boyfriends, our spouses. It would haunt me forever, whenever I lie in the dark with a warm body next to mine, that it would never be as great, never be as good as all the porn in the world, which would never be as good as that nine minutes I still remember from six years ago when I saw an ugly, skinny man who could not speak a word of English spoke in the language of angels with his piano.
Love. I am in love with that man, and what he could do, what he had done in that single encore as the last note trailed away and everyone stared at him like he was god, a god who couldn't speak, a god whose name we don't know and never will, a god who stood up and strode off in the silence after that miracle.
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