so intricately,
delicately
assembled.
a coming together
of layers,
a plethora of unique parts,
made from different materials
in various shapes,
each part with its own designated purpose.
alone, there is no sound.
ah, but when the parts come together,
when they touch each other boldly
without hesitancy
or apology,
or even explanation, for that matter
such beautiful music
is born
and the world is
never the same.
to repay andy for his kind assistance,
i started today by tidying up his shop.
just kidding.
~~~
today i
fetched tools
(so many phillips-head screwdrivers
and nary a phillips-head screw in sight.)
and i made my first
surprise discovery:
this piano once
served as a cabinet
for a bar of
english leather
soap.
perhaps there
was once a little boy -
an adorable, enterprising little boy, no doubt
who
did not want to practice piano
any more than he wanted to
take his bath.
what do you do when an idea latches onto you?
you listen.
what do you do when you need a piano to take apart?
you ask.
it’s as simple as that.
i spend so much energy being embarrassed by myself.
apologizing for myself.
shushing myself.
shielding myself.
protecting myself.
but, i ask you: what good is a crazy idea
if it’s not harebrained through and through?
so i did it:
i asked on facebook if anybody had an old piano
they were looking to get rid of.
and within 3 hours,
a long-time friend i seldom see
answered back that she had one i could have
if i’d just pick it up.
and she lives less than 10 miles from me.
~~~
we picked the piano up on a
fine sunday afternoon,
and i can’t tell you how quietly
excited i was.
i’ve been craving an adventure,
you see,
an adventure that fit my
pocketbook and my geography.
this was big.
in the 3 weeks that passed between
when i first saw the piano
and when my husband
could go with me to pick it up,
i fantasized
romanticized
visualized.
i imagined getting the piano into the shop
where i’d take pictures, lots and lots of pictures,
and keep a journal within arm’s reach,
ready to capture whatever
insights bubbled their way to the top.
what i looked forward to most of all was
taking the lid off.
i’d remove it
with great reverence and tenderness
then peer down inside
to see what secrets
were hidden there.
i’ve long wanted to know how the pedals
on a piano work.
to know how one sustains the sound
and another dampens, softens, quietens the sound.
before long,
i’d have my answer.
yes, yes.
symbolism and metaphors
were already ripe for the harvesting.
i’d take the lid off
then work my way
through to the pedals,
taking it apart from the top
to the bottom,
from the inside out.
~~~
my husband backed the truck
up to the shop double doors,
getting as close as possible.
it’s a spinet piano,
not nearly as heavy as a baby grand
or that old upright player piano we once owned,
but still too heavy for me to be of much help.
i offered to call my brother,
but husband said no, no need.
he’s an engineer, you see.
he knows all about leverage
and things like that.
he got one end off the truck,
sat it down,
then asked as he walked out of the shop,
“you’re going to take it apart, right?”
and with that,
he
drove the truck out from under the piano.
the front cover fell off.
some small decorative, accent pieces
flew off.
the pedal mechanism
separated completely.
“that was easier than I thought it was gonna’ be,” he said,
delighted with his accomplishment and ingenuity.
i excused myself to come upstairs
where i would remind myself that
literally, he was right:
i was just going to take it apart.
when i went back down to have a look,
with hopes of seeing that it wasn’t really
as bad as i’d first thought,
he proudly told me about how he’d just
taken off the lid
and beckoned me to have a look down
inside.
“isn’t that an amazing sight?” he purred.
~~~
epilogue:
he’s still the one.
oh yes, he is so
still the one.
just so you know.
i can’t explain it.
it’s just one of those things.
one of those crazy things i have to do
i just have to:
disassemble
a piano.
yes, a piano.
i’ve tried to get to the bottom of it
to satisfy inquiring brains
that work and wonder
that way.
maybe it’s because
i read
grand obsession: a piano odyssey last year . . .
but i don’t really think so because
perri was looking
to purchase a piano
not deconstruct one.
maybe it’s because
i need a hobby . . .
but i don’t really think so because
i have trouble stuffing everything
into my days as it is.
maybe it’s because
i need an outlet
for my frustrations . . .
but i don’t really think so
because i’m not looking
to destroy the piano,
i just want to take it apart
carefully
attentively
inquisitively
and
con grazia . . . with grace.
in her memoir, grand obsession, perri knize writes of her year-long search for The Perfect Piano. she eventually finds The Piano, refinances and remodels her house to accommodate it, but alas: when it arrives, the magical sound is gone. but the memory of that sound and the way she felt when she played that particular piano fuels her as she embarks on a journey that takes more than three years years, fills her with a plethora of knowledge about things she’d never heard of, and enlists an impressive cast of characters to “fix” her piano, to restore it to its rightful sound.
its rightful sound.
last friday, i started writing a post about the arts, and as so often happens when writing, i wound up writing something totally different. instead of a little ditty extolling some of the oft-overlooked benefits of participation in the performing arts, i crafted what i can only call a flapdoodle on what, exactly, constitutes power. is it letters after a name? a title? a hat? the number of people you have on staff? your appearance and how you carry your pocketbook?
perhaps it was the spring fever of writing that had me feeling near ready to explode, to break out, to lose the lid. in person, i’m, well, not to jinx it into dried-up dust, but i’m funny.* and a bit on the irreverent side. the things that other people are too nice to say have a way of parachuting right out of me. that’s when i’m audible. when i write, i’m ever cognizant of who might be reading this and how it might be received, so when i turn funny in writing, it kinda’ goes flat on account of over explaining every teensy little ole’ thing.
i like making people laugh, and i happen to believe there can be much important stuff like perspective and philosophy cloaked by humor. anyway, there i was, writing seriously serious about the often unseen value of performing arts when my fingers turned flapdoodle on me, and i have to tell you we had ourselves a big time, my fingers and me. then i up and mashed the “publish” button before i could talk myself out of it, and i smiled my way through the rest of the day.
see, usually i’m a little too tentative, too scared of smackdown to post anything i feel like isn’t going to be well received. but since being on twitter, i’ve met women who make me feel comfortable enough, safe enough to mash “send” because i know they’ll be patient and accepting . . . even though they might actually wonder if i’m in dire and immediate need of an exorcist.
still smiling and riding that wave of powerful confidence, i read julie daley’s post and cut loose with my heartfelt comment before i could stop myself from sharing a story that has chapped my butt since it happened. julie sure nailed it when she said it sounded like i was having a fireball day. fireball friday: yes, yes it was.
i rode the night out feeling this surge, wondering if it was really power i was enjoying, not caring what it’s called, just delighted to have it trespass. friday night i happened upon an upcoming writing workshop that required participants to submit some 20 pages of a memoir for discussion, and i – the one who consistently says “pass” when it’s my time to read, to share – i printed out the registration form, determined.
but then came saturday morning. oh lord.
i had to make a decision, and i made the wrong decision. wrong because i didn’t listen to myself. i heard that songbird of confidence – i even stopped the guy’s hand as he was going to note my selection – but i talked myself out of it, and let me tell you: i crashed and crashed hard. for 24 hours i replayed the scene over and over and over, knowing i could not undo it. it was nothing short of agony.
the good news is: it’s an inconsequential decision. totally, absolutely inconsequential as far as end results go.
the bad news is: that sweet surge of confidence is questioned, diminished, and bruised. the full-body smile is gone, dissolved into a vague memory. i listened to myself on friday and soared. didn’t listen to myself 24 hours later, and splat.
what went wrong? did i cross the line from confidence into cocky? i don’t think so. did i over-rate friday’s post? well, maybe it wasn’t my best writing – it reads a bit on the manufactured side in spots – but no. was it just the full moon? i certainly am positively affected by the full moon, but no, this was clear: i took a risk. i did something i wouldn’t normally do, and i was absolutely okay if it wasn’t well received. for the first time since becoming a word traveler, it was enough that i wrote and published it.
what do i do, i asked my manchild last night. the first paper i wrote in grad school cracked the faculty up – shoot, they asked me to submit it to literary journals for publication. (i didn’t.) do i forget funny and stick to serious, reflective tones? do i keep trying the funny, knowing that writing humor is different from doing humor? do i do both ’cause i am both?
can both humor and reflection be my rightful sound, or do i have to choose cause it’s now freshly documented: choosing is not something i’m ‘specially good at.
* now that i’ve called myself funny, we both know i’ll never again get so much as a smile. sigh.
my thesis semester found me managing my daughter’s campaign for state legislature. she was one of 4 candidates, and she wound up in a runoff with the older male career politician, an election she lost by the barest of margins. and by the time the last runoff votes were counted, i had 10 days to write my thesis. because it felt right, i worked from the table located in the center of our home – the chrome and glass table that was the first piece of furniture we bought as a married couple. every morning i’d light a candle, push everything and everyone else aside, and get to work. i had no time for angst or indecision. no time to argue with myself or let anything come between me and those notecards.
it was wonderful. you know what i’m talking about – being in that place that defies description where time and doubt don’t exist. that place i never wanted to leave.
but all too soon the thesis was turned in . . . and the first draft approved with only a note from faculty saying they were staying out of my way, leaving it up to me to massage if and as desired.
i wish that’s how i worked all the time – and lord knows, i wish i could get there without all the stress of having to fit it in, but alas. though i come up with more ideas than i can say grace over, and though questions are my native language (next to southern, of course), i have this annoying tendency to think them right out of existence before ever letting them fully hatch. or to run right over them with a ridiculously overloaded to do list.
that’s probably why i collect these stories about people who plunge right into something, making it up and deciphering it as they go. (there are at least 2 more right now begging me to give them some post time.) it’s how i want to be – just follow an interest without having to define, justify, or explain why it’s a good idea, why it will not be a waste of my time. i long to be a story in my own collection.
for more years than i care to count, i’ve carried around ideas for several books and plays, working on them and entertaining myself . . . but only on the inside. now let me be real clear here: nobody’s telling me i shouldn’t be working on these projects. nobody is telling me my ideas are ridiculous or that i’m wasting my time or who do i think i am. i am my biggest wall.
this morning, though, i leapt.
i wasn’t sure which project i’d work on when i got to the studio, i was only sure that it’s time. and without slowing down enough to even begin a thought, i started transcribing newspaper articles about the bank robbery. my maternal granddaddy was the county sheriff, you see, and my paternal granddaddy was the town’s banker, (yep, i couldn’t do a damn thing.) when my daddy was 5 years old, armed bandits came to town. because the vault couldn’t be opened on their schedule, the highwaymen (as the newspapers called them) brought out the whiskey, kept out the guns, and held my daddy and his family prisoners in their own home for more than 10 hours. it’s something that doesn’t happen to just every family, and yet it’s a story that was told surprisingly little around our dinner table. i don’t know that i’ll uncover reasons for the reluctance to talk about it, but i already know that it’s time to tell this story.
and i can’t – i won’t – wait.
p.s. that picture? it’s my granddaddy’s banker’s chair – in its original green leather – and it will be my constant companion as i discover this story.
fast forward several years . . .
daughter moxie and i are visiting the antique extravaganza that comes once a month. i spy this blue thing that i find intriguing, captivating.
i have to have it.
the woman who selling it is cute in that cute-as-a-button sort of way, and french, so i ask if i can call her frenchie, explaining that anything other than english and southern eludes me. flatout eludes me.
“it’s glass,” she tells me, and as as i stand mesmerized, she continues . . . “years ago i was visiting the new england states when i came upon this big blue blob on the ground. my entire body told me i had to have it.”
“i want that,” she told the man as she pointed to the blue blob on the ground.
“that? do you even know what it is?” the man asked in reply.
“no,” she said, “i only know that i want it.”
“what on earth are you planning to do with that, that whatever it is?” asked her husband.
“i don’t know yet,” she said, “i only know that i have to have it.”
“don’t you even want to know what it is?” the man persisted.
“okay, fine,” she said. “tell me what it is.”
“it’s glass. it was supposed to be windows for a big office building, but there were bubbles so they poured it on the ground and went back to make more.”
“so this is flawed glass?” she asked, now even more sure she had to have it. “how much?”
the day came when it arrived on her doorstep. for the briefest moment after the shippers unloaded it, she wondered what on earth she had done, why she hadn’t thought this through a bit more – especially given that, as it turned out, she’d only seen the tiptop of the blue glassberg that clear summer day in new england. this chunk of glass was ginormous, and now it was hers, so without spending another minute thinking about it, she found her biggest hammer and set to work. she had no plan – not even a skeleton of an idea. she just hammered away, and eventually she’d busted the huge chunk of glass into smaller glass chunklets. somewhere along the way she pursued another wild idea and got a blacksmith to build her some stands. then, not knowing that else to do, she rented a booth at the once-a-month antique market, and, well, in less than a year i am buying her last 2 pieces – one for me, one for my boy, slug.
now i promise we’ll tie this all together tomorrow.
or the day after . . .
(p.s. in the picture, that “whiteness” at the bottom of the top glass chunklet is where the molten glass met the earth.)
today i worked more on the scrying cloth, and as the needle moved steadily, rhythmically – quieting my brain chatter to the point i could hear myself feel – i pondered knots. like most fluent needleworkers, i was taught that the best and finest pieces don’t have knots, that the most skilled and talented needleworkers don’t even knot the end of their thread.
but most of the time now,
i knot the end of my thread,
simply covering my knots from view
with another piece of cloth
when the piece is finished
because the way i see it: knots are inevitable,
and sometimes necessary.
there was a time when
i did macrame,
tying knots to create
pocketbooks,
and plant holders,
and even a headboard.
there are knots we create as anchors
to grab onto when we feel
about to slip over the edge of the cliff.
there are knots that
hold skin pieces of skin together
so they can merge and heal.
and there are knots that indicate
the desired swelling after a spill or a fall,
letting us know that the body is healing itself.
there are knots that create fishing nets,
attach ski ropes to boats,
and the proverbial knots
that indicate two people’s commitment to each other.
scouts learn to tie knots to pass certain proficiencies,
and i’m here to tell you that
knowing how to tie those knots
is something you never forget
and one of the most valuable things to remember.
then there are the knots felt in the stomach
indicating there’s something needs attention,
that something that needs to be righted and resolved
to untie the knots.
and there are the seemingly inevitable knots
that form in relationships.
knots that aren’t as easy to untangle
as knots in necklaces
because these knots require
two people working together
to remove the knot,
and sometimes one person
yanks hard on their end of the rope,
making the knot tight and firm,
wanting the knot to provide separation
- at least for a while.
and until both people are ready,
the knot remains.
we’re snowed in, living on a diet of popcorn and oreos. oops – scratch that. husband just finished the last oreo. looks like it might be another 2 days before we can get out of the driveway, or so says my husband who looks forward to being snowed in, but is quite susceptible to early-onset cabin fever.
i am seldom without my computer
and never without a pen, paper,
and all the bits of cloth and thread
i can get in a quart-size zip-loc bag.
for a change of pace,
i picked up thread and cloth.
the in and out,
the over and under
creates a soothing rhythm,
a salve for my soul.
it grounds me in my matriarchal lineage,
it is the calamine lotion to my inarticulate itch.
here on planet jeanne,
the beginning of a cloth piece
strangely resembles
the beginning of a word piece.
first: the itch
followed closely by: the yearning,
an unnamed longing.
then comes the pondering and circling;
then, finally
finally: the starting.
beginning with only the vaguest notion of what i am trying to create,
the barest whisper of what i am going to say.
it has been a tough week with many words exchanged. i’m feel i’m over my allotment, that it’s time to slow things down, drop out, take a breather, rest.
so i pick up needle and thread because, really, sometimes i just think better with cloth than with words. doesn’t mean i don’t initially imagine the cloth as voodoo doll and needle as stabbing device, mind you, but ultimately bringing together odd-shaped, different pieces of fabric helps me bring together stray thoughts and sometimes make sense of strange occurrences – one of the many things i know to be true, though i can’t explain the how or why. and so another project begins . . .
