with pianos it begins (a long marching of notes) not slow but not fast but rather (and more specifically): t eh way life happens at a steady even pace on and on however much we turn the other direction or move end over end into whatever-comes-will-come-ness.
I am happy about that.
Things are perfectly paced and placed, a virtual chess board for human interaction and the displaying of tiny devotions of loves and adjustments and angers and fuels and labels for every one anywhere to feel or see: this is the way of moving things: actuality: growth: happiness.
It is turning over, more and more, with the pianistís fingers into more than mythos or pathos a vile and putrid growth and deception that yields happiness or such things in reverse. The piano player tells all stories from all sides and I am there: quiet, hoping for the wind to blow through and take the ache from my head so that all quietness can come into me as I finish up these scribblings. This weight in written not in ink but in lead and I getting the best of it little by little by finding out more sincere truths written in the way any one person holds a pen or pencil than all the math books and sacred texts every splayed before the brain-busters and mensa-addicts and kabballah students. I am stringently in pursuit of the next beginning but never at the expense of any one moment. This is where some writers, some note-takers, which is more closely what I am or what I resemble, would have pulled the ending in and wrapped it up, but I forging onwards as long as this pen holds steady and the aching persists. These words are stronger than the crumbling mountains in my mind.
Enough. An ache fades and I am glass in hand towards the door where the piano player is resting and I will and can buy him a drink for making such soothing sounds come forth from such a plain box of wires.

2004-10-22 | 11:24 a.m.
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