Benjamin believed that pure language emerged from the gaps that lay between multiple translations. If I was to strike one note, another, a sharp, a flat, what have you, the sound of that chord would represent pure language: not one strident or misplaced distinct note, but rather the sound of the different notes complementing each other. Somewhere in the gaps: pure language; complete understanding. He wrote entire treatises on the value of mistranslation.
Wishing for pure language. .
29 December 2004
27 December 2004
Gloria
I learned to read music the same year I learned to write my name.
I recently found one of my first piano books. On the front page, the book asks that the player trace their hands, so to learn how the fingers are numbered. Tiny hands.
The first text I read in a piano book told the story of young Bach, and how if he made one mistake, his instructor would make him play the song until he could play the piece ten times consecutively without error.
Players are given many practice instructions. Practice at least 3 hours a day. Play the song backwards. Play the song at each beat of the metronome 5 times, and then move up one increment, and so on, and so on. Play the song staccato. Play the song in 2/4. In 3/4. Stop whatever you are doing, run upstairs, run to the nearest piano, play once. A player must be able to play perfectly on the first try.
I auditioned for Gloria after playing for 10 years, and she accepted me as one of her students.
On cold days, Gloria would send me to her bathroom to run my hands under warm water and allow me time alone to play, warming up my hands.
Parents sat behind the glass French doors in an antique chair, with her two german shepherds. Two cats lingered in the sitting room where she conducted lessons, and one would often perch upon the Steinway. Her bay windows looked out over the hill to the grey water of the sound.
Once a year she brought down an antique harpsichord from the attic so we could play Bach as Bach was meant to be played.
She lived with a man who died suddenly, they were not married. I remember her hands. She had wonderful hands. She had a ring with three stones. The service took place at my families’ funeral home.
The audition marks the coming out of the young pianist. You practice one piece for months and perform before a panel of judges who critique you. Around the time of my first audition, I lost my desire to practice.
She allowed me to come so long as I would simply play there, even if I only played there. And, when I wouldn’t, we spent the time talking about her art. She had a giant wooden sheep which sat before the window. She and the man had brought it back from Scotland where it once sat above a tavern.
The last composer I played was Rachmaninoff. Have you seen Shine?
Right before I left she brought down a white painting. “Do you see it?” she asked me. Every week: “Now do you see it?” Little girls saw it. Everyone saw it. I could not see it. Finally she told me. There was an image, a slight off white pony.
I think of Gloria when I play Schumann and Rachmaninoff. She knew then what I would understand now. She is a piece of the woman I’d someday like to be.
I recently found one of my first piano books. On the front page, the book asks that the player trace their hands, so to learn how the fingers are numbered. Tiny hands.
The first text I read in a piano book told the story of young Bach, and how if he made one mistake, his instructor would make him play the song until he could play the piece ten times consecutively without error.
Players are given many practice instructions. Practice at least 3 hours a day. Play the song backwards. Play the song at each beat of the metronome 5 times, and then move up one increment, and so on, and so on. Play the song staccato. Play the song in 2/4. In 3/4. Stop whatever you are doing, run upstairs, run to the nearest piano, play once. A player must be able to play perfectly on the first try.
I auditioned for Gloria after playing for 10 years, and she accepted me as one of her students.
On cold days, Gloria would send me to her bathroom to run my hands under warm water and allow me time alone to play, warming up my hands.
Parents sat behind the glass French doors in an antique chair, with her two german shepherds. Two cats lingered in the sitting room where she conducted lessons, and one would often perch upon the Steinway. Her bay windows looked out over the hill to the grey water of the sound.
Once a year she brought down an antique harpsichord from the attic so we could play Bach as Bach was meant to be played.
She lived with a man who died suddenly, they were not married. I remember her hands. She had wonderful hands. She had a ring with three stones. The service took place at my families’ funeral home.
The audition marks the coming out of the young pianist. You practice one piece for months and perform before a panel of judges who critique you. Around the time of my first audition, I lost my desire to practice.
She allowed me to come so long as I would simply play there, even if I only played there. And, when I wouldn’t, we spent the time talking about her art. She had a giant wooden sheep which sat before the window. She and the man had brought it back from Scotland where it once sat above a tavern.
The last composer I played was Rachmaninoff. Have you seen Shine?
Right before I left she brought down a white painting. “Do you see it?” she asked me. Every week: “Now do you see it?” Little girls saw it. Everyone saw it. I could not see it. Finally she told me. There was an image, a slight off white pony.
I think of Gloria when I play Schumann and Rachmaninoff. She knew then what I would understand now. She is a piece of the woman I’d someday like to be.
26 December 2004
Tsunamis, Tornados and Trains
Tsunami warning signs line the roads to and from the Oregon beaches. I have always wanted one sign in particular: "Now Leaving Tsunami Danger Zone," complete with brilliant aquamarine wave. The tsunami as metaphor somehow runs thin right now. I'm rather enjoying the cable news stations use of video with bodies floating in the oceans off Thailand right now, however.
I opened my stocking and found a colorfully woven sack. "There's a wonderful story behind that," my mother says (there always is). "My friend's daughter was a foreign exchange student in Bolivia, and she was riding a bus down there, and she died." And my mother's friend decided to start a community weaving project in her daughter's memory. And the indigenous people weave these fabulous sacks. And it benefits their community. Or something. And isn't that wonderful?
My family has owned and operated a cemetery and funeral home for over 100 years. My mother always has odd stories which end with someone having cancer, someone dying, someone's touching memorial. Isn't that wonderful?
We care so very much. Sometimes I just want the pretty, colorful sack.
Today I watched a plastic bag floating in the wind. I thought about tornados and how the plastic bag would have been ripped to shreds, and I could not have watched to see where the bag would eventually hit the ground. The sky looked like beach glass or the ocean at Tulum. And an odd reflection on the side of a building created a pattern that looked like hieroglyphics.
When I remember a freight train, mostly I remember a blur of grey and red and the blaring, cacophonous sound like a distorted ambulance blaring. I want to remember the tracks, and the trees, and the faces of the passengers as they memorize the scenery.
I tried on my suit for her and she said "that's good. the fabric is very classic. I wouldn't wear heels any higher than that. and the pants are OK, but you might go one size up. it's like I was telling my assistant in her performance review. a secretary can wear a, certain, fit. but as you move up...I just wouldn't go any more fitted."
Today I stood in a dressing room before a fun skirt, a summer top, and a conservative cashmere sweater. But, I called her. I asked for her help. I told her I'd gotten the suit jacket in a larger size. And, when I got off the phone, the sweater came with me.
But, I still may get a pair of wellies like Shelley’s. I don't mind a late night walk through a storm now and then.
I opened my stocking and found a colorfully woven sack. "There's a wonderful story behind that," my mother says (there always is). "My friend's daughter was a foreign exchange student in Bolivia, and she was riding a bus down there, and she died." And my mother's friend decided to start a community weaving project in her daughter's memory. And the indigenous people weave these fabulous sacks. And it benefits their community. Or something. And isn't that wonderful?
My family has owned and operated a cemetery and funeral home for over 100 years. My mother always has odd stories which end with someone having cancer, someone dying, someone's touching memorial. Isn't that wonderful?
We care so very much. Sometimes I just want the pretty, colorful sack.
Today I watched a plastic bag floating in the wind. I thought about tornados and how the plastic bag would have been ripped to shreds, and I could not have watched to see where the bag would eventually hit the ground. The sky looked like beach glass or the ocean at Tulum. And an odd reflection on the side of a building created a pattern that looked like hieroglyphics.
When I remember a freight train, mostly I remember a blur of grey and red and the blaring, cacophonous sound like a distorted ambulance blaring. I want to remember the tracks, and the trees, and the faces of the passengers as they memorize the scenery.
I tried on my suit for her and she said "that's good. the fabric is very classic. I wouldn't wear heels any higher than that. and the pants are OK, but you might go one size up. it's like I was telling my assistant in her performance review. a secretary can wear a, certain, fit. but as you move up...I just wouldn't go any more fitted."
Today I stood in a dressing room before a fun skirt, a summer top, and a conservative cashmere sweater. But, I called her. I asked for her help. I told her I'd gotten the suit jacket in a larger size. And, when I got off the phone, the sweater came with me.
But, I still may get a pair of wellies like Shelley’s. I don't mind a late night walk through a storm now and then.
20 December 2004
Everything's gonna be alright
I keep remembering a medieval lit. professor I took a class with last year. We had a rather contemptuous relationship, but she had one glorious moment which consistently mollifies the other interactions I had with her. One day in class, she expounded on the glory of Jimmy Hendrix shouting “Everything’s gonna be all right.” So simple. So powerful. Everything’s gonna be all right. She threw her entire frame into the quotation, a throaty roaring proclamation. You could see that she felt truly touched, truly reassured by his words.
Tomorrow my first semester as a law student ends with one last exam. I will scrape by, or I will leave with the same puke inducing feeling I left with on Monday. But, I made it. And, whatever the outcome, everything’s gonna be all right. For me, for you, for all of us.
My inner core detests the idealistic, sunny haze that casts. My logic argues that everything will not always be OK. Many, many things are ugly, and brutal, and terrifying and definitely not OK. Baby’s cut from their mother’s wombs. Guantanamo Bay. 14 year olds hanging from shoelaces. Burt Reynolds.
But, how can we see the perfect without the terrible? All this? All this is gonna be all right.
Tomorrow my first semester as a law student ends with one last exam. I will scrape by, or I will leave with the same puke inducing feeling I left with on Monday. But, I made it. And, whatever the outcome, everything’s gonna be all right. For me, for you, for all of us.
My inner core detests the idealistic, sunny haze that casts. My logic argues that everything will not always be OK. Many, many things are ugly, and brutal, and terrifying and definitely not OK. Baby’s cut from their mother’s wombs. Guantanamo Bay. 14 year olds hanging from shoelaces. Burt Reynolds.
But, how can we see the perfect without the terrible? All this? All this is gonna be all right.
17 December 2004
Jumper
Driving across the Sellwood Bridge just before 2am I saw a man crouched upon the concrete railing looking down at the water. Though my car moved at least 35mph, his image seems slowed, stuck there in a warm glow. He grasped his shoes, arms about his denim knees; with brown hair above his maroon t-shirt. The choice to stop quickly passed and degenerated into the question of why I hadn't stopped as the road curved off the bridge towards downtown and still no place to pull over and start walking back. I crossed the solid white line, turning around and trying to figure out how to get back on the bridge. As I turned off the onramp back onto the bridge towards SE Portland, a cop car approached from behind, lights flashing and I couldn't tell if the lights flashed for me, or the jumper, or for some destination far beyond the bridge.
The off ramp launched me back onto 99 as Damien Rice shouted that he remembered December. I drove back towards the bridge. Lights from two cop cars circled at the entrance, and as I drove past I could not tell if the jumper remained or if they had gotten there too late.
Images of deep cuts on a slender neck left by converse laces pulse through my head. A couple of weeks ago, my shrink told me she thinks I wonder if Amanda died, and I said no. I still say no. I still think the memories make the problem. What to do with that.
The off ramp launched me back onto 99 as Damien Rice shouted that he remembered December. I drove back towards the bridge. Lights from two cop cars circled at the entrance, and as I drove past I could not tell if the jumper remained or if they had gotten there too late.
Images of deep cuts on a slender neck left by converse laces pulse through my head. A couple of weeks ago, my shrink told me she thinks I wonder if Amanda died, and I said no. I still say no. I still think the memories make the problem. What to do with that.
16 December 2004
Oh Sober Night
Fragments from clarity, and not the bottle this once...
I unlocked the mailbox before I left, and there was a moment, I caught myself thinking, 'maybe he found me this year, maybe this year he sent a card, maybe today.'
First time I've been asked out while driving, I think something must be wrong with my car, then when I hear him ask "wanna go get a drink?" I wonder if I look really sad, or like a lush.
Shelley says 'I actually really like my life,' and I agree.
Driving with Shelley, 'maybe I'm amazed,' and Damien Rice 'I remember December.'
Shivers down my spine for no one in particular: funny how we choose these songs. I don't know if it's hope or sadness. I don't think I remember what loving someone feels like.
At a party and somehow I feel prematurely aged. I'm looking down, and I don't want to be looking down.
She sees a line about permanently formed in my forehead and says "because you worry so much." I'm 24 fucking years old: too soon for the furrows I think.
So much booze abound...I don't want to be there. Not in that house, just not with the booze. I need to look forward. A sober night, tonight.
'sleepwalking...cause I'm sleepwalking...'
Driving home before midnight. I just want my bed. I don't want him or him or him to call. I don't want to pin a song on someone just to make sense.
This has not been a tomorrow day. This has been a next year day.
I unlocked the mailbox before I left, and there was a moment, I caught myself thinking, 'maybe he found me this year, maybe this year he sent a card, maybe today.'
First time I've been asked out while driving, I think something must be wrong with my car, then when I hear him ask "wanna go get a drink?" I wonder if I look really sad, or like a lush.
Shelley says 'I actually really like my life,' and I agree.
Driving with Shelley, 'maybe I'm amazed,' and Damien Rice 'I remember December.'
Shivers down my spine for no one in particular: funny how we choose these songs. I don't know if it's hope or sadness. I don't think I remember what loving someone feels like.
At a party and somehow I feel prematurely aged. I'm looking down, and I don't want to be looking down.
She sees a line about permanently formed in my forehead and says "because you worry so much." I'm 24 fucking years old: too soon for the furrows I think.
So much booze abound...I don't want to be there. Not in that house, just not with the booze. I need to look forward. A sober night, tonight.
'sleepwalking...cause I'm sleepwalking...'
Driving home before midnight. I just want my bed. I don't want him or him or him to call. I don't want to pin a song on someone just to make sense.
This has not been a tomorrow day. This has been a next year day.
10 December 2004
Beached Dolphins
I can't stop thinking about this pod of dolphins found washed up on a beach near Australia two days ago. How does that happen? A lone dolphin I can comprehend, but an entire pod? Were they members of some strange dolphin death cult? Victims of an eratic sonar short? I imagine a beached dolphin dies a death much like a human drowning. Every breath must burn as lungs filling with water, exploding. I grew up on the Puget Sound. The water, according to either truth or urban legend, causes hypothermia after 15 minutes of exposure. I grew up with a strange prediliction for late night swims. I'd swim out 'till the bonfires on the beach resembled brief lit candlewicks. I'd wait until I heard that little voice telling me I should turn back soon, and then I'd go out just a little bit further. I'd go until my limbs turned numb, until I truly didn't know if I could swim anymore. Every swim abandoning a bit of choice, of control, of fear. Perhaps two days ago, one dolphin began his duel with the beach. He swam closer, and closer, daring and taunting. Only, instead of letting him drift too far, worried, the entire pod followed. Most likely not. But I'm still wondering. . .
07 December 2004
Outside there's a boxcar waiting
Standing in the december rain, waiting for a bus, a train, anyway out of the cold of my head. I know that's not my destination, but do I really know? Yes, sometimes. Sometimes I just need the sleeper compartment for the night. Sometimes, it seems, I'm just walking down the street, minding my own business, and a car rolls up, a shiny, not a shiny, an endearing sort of well-worn, rough around the edges sort of car, and the driver asks for directions; the driver asks if I need a ride; and I think perhaps my purpose has been found.
When my train comes, I never really feel certain my train has come. Usually I rise, befuddled, and hope I don't end up in the nearest/farthest small town home to your local barber/taxidermist/funeral home combo-shop. I'm never really sure until the conductor comes on and announces the destination, and even then, the fat lady next to me is yelling at her rather obediant children, or something like that, and I still feel lost.
On and off the train...I'm just standing on the tracks, and then here comes my train again. It's warm, it's glowing, and I'm struck.
"Outside there's a boxcar waiting."
Hmmm.
When my train comes, I never really feel certain my train has come. Usually I rise, befuddled, and hope I don't end up in the nearest/farthest small town home to your local barber/taxidermist/funeral home combo-shop. I'm never really sure until the conductor comes on and announces the destination, and even then, the fat lady next to me is yelling at her rather obediant children, or something like that, and I still feel lost.
On and off the train...I'm just standing on the tracks, and then here comes my train again. It's warm, it's glowing, and I'm struck.
"Outside there's a boxcar waiting."
Hmmm.
05 December 2004
Finally emerging onto the beach at midnight with the rain pouring down,
one lone pocket of stars shining through the densest grey (because an 'e' sounds so much greyer than an 'a,' Shelley and I agree), the wind howling at our backs making red streamers fly from my lit cigarette while Shelley thrusts the bottle of wine into my cool clammy hands so to turn head first into the sand and cartwheel twice, while every pore quickly filled with rain-sea-sand-smoke-and residual snot (though quickly cleansed or numbed by repeated swigs of sweetly nostalgic then thickly medicinal then slower wine) I turned my head to the steady crashslushwhisper of the waves and felt too awed or foolish to say "everything's going to be all right."
03 December 2004
p.s.
And one day we will wake up Christmas morning together, giddy children, and there will be no parents, no parents there and no parents not there, and we will have wine for breakfast, and tears for brunch and have no broken things or ugly words but only stockings more than one and more than hope together...
And your breast will vibrate to the call of a boy who is there but not too much to smother you nor too much to bore you...
And the pieces of the puzzle will make a singular picture...
And we will laugh of times we doubted and drank away our potential...
And we will not rely on watches and jackets and cars to know when we'll see them again...
And I will forget how many years it has been since I saw my father, got a christmas/birthday/any kind of card from my father...
And we will be the grownups in the room yet feel like children, and seeing the grownups have truly grown old we will have room to forgive...
And the shoes, the shoes will only get better...
And we will not know any more, but we'll know not to worry that we don't know most the time anymore...
And your breast will vibrate to the call of a boy who is there but not too much to smother you nor too much to bore you...
And the pieces of the puzzle will make a singular picture...
And we will laugh of times we doubted and drank away our potential...
And we will not rely on watches and jackets and cars to know when we'll see them again...
And I will forget how many years it has been since I saw my father, got a christmas/birthday/any kind of card from my father...
And we will be the grownups in the room yet feel like children, and seeing the grownups have truly grown old we will have room to forgive...
And the shoes, the shoes will only get better...
And we will not know any more, but we'll know not to worry that we don't know most the time anymore...
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