May. 12, 2003 - 22:27:32
Dear Vincent,
My Aunt used to swear by the tale that, before it rains the leaves on the trees curl. I used to think that the Chinese dogwood in the front was just confused but my neighbor has informed me that the leaves are always curled accordingly on Chinese dogwoods. Who knew.
I don't believe that I mentioned it before, and maybe you have discerned it on your own anyway... but I am a very tense person. I laugh and I have a lot of fun, but there's not a great deal of relaxation involved. One place the tenseness manifests itself is in my hands. They have never had the steady air of a painter, nor been prone to the fluid grace of a musician. For eight years, I played the piano. It was, and remains my favorite instrument. The piano has always seemed to have the most complete sound of all the instruments to me. It seems to have no real emotional assignment. Only when mastery on an instrument is achieved can the emotional assignments be defied. For instance, the flute is a lovely instrument but rarely does it play something directed to sound 'thundering' or 'furious' without the deep throated more ominous voices of the brass instruments to fill it out. The flute is air, flitting and touching and tantalizing and teasing. It is the fire, licking. It is the water undulating and rain drops and miniature waterfalls cascading. But the flute is not earth. It is not boulders or clods or mudslides. And it is not the water crashing and snatching. It is not fire roaring in conflagration nor is it gale force winds toppling and groaning. The flute has a certain sound and is saddled with an emotional assignment with regard to that sound. Likewise, the other instruments are also thus. The piano is not so easily classified. The piano can resound- it can fill a concert hall with booming, rich tones. Or, it can warble and wheedle tip toeing quietly in the upper register no louder than kept secrets. It can be jazz, or classical. It can be melodious and fluid or gnashing and staccato. For eight years I wooed sweet tones from the piano. No matter how I cajoled or practiced it was not a well chosen partnership. Any child can learn the scales, the basic rhythms and memorize what the terminology and flats and sharps are. Such things should be automatic after a certain period of time. They never became automatic with me. Let it be said, that I learned how to interpret my piano teacher's presence very shrewdly. I always knew when I played a wrong note- not because I could necessarily hear it, but because she would stiffen and sometimes faintly clear her throat. There came a point when because I was unable to master certain basics I could really go no further. Chopin was the end of me. It was a short but breakneck (vivace) sonata. In the dead center of the piece, there was nothing less than a whirr up the scale with a turn in the middle before hurtling the rest of the way up the scale. I could get to the turn, and every time my hand would freeze and hand motionless, clueless above the piano. My hands were too tense to handle the pace of the piece. After months of torturous pieces by Chopin I was finished with the piano. I loved the piano, I did not love playing it. I quit, with silent promises to myself that I would go back to it eventually and never did. On occasion I sit down and test a few notes on it and try out a few old scales, tidbits of pieces that remain in my muscle memory for better or for worse. I find myself hopelessly attracted to piano music. This week's mentionable music is anything by Ben Kweller, or Ben Folds, or Ben Harper. For short, anything by 'the Bens.' They all play piano and sing, though they are in no way associated with each other. Part of the allure of the band 'Something Corporate' whom I have fallen in love with, is that practically every song they play has a melody supported on the piano. So you see Vincent, not only am I tense, but actually very predictable, at least musically.
I profess to know nothing about music. I know what I like (there is very little I refuse to listen to.) Rob scolds me about this. He, being a hard core musician is quick to explain to me why the bands I listen to 'suck.' Mostly Rob and I don't talk about music.
Since I don't always have time to peruse the internet seeking out new bands to listen to, I find other ways to keep up with music. There's a bin of two dollar c.d.s at the local Record and Tape Traders. I take chances on 'bin bands' a few times a month. I meet with equal parts auditory assault and battery, some of the most terrific music I've heard in my life as well as the type of music that would equivocate to a trite love poem, not bad, but done. Trading books for c.d.s with my friends is another good way to listen to new things- I also seem to actually get my books back when it's a trade, as opposed to a loan. And then there's the scan button on my car radio- which flips through every receivable station, lingering on each for about five seconds. 'Scan' was how I found the greatest jazz station. I can only listen to that jazz station for a space of about 22 miles starting roughly by the mall. By the time I hit the outskirts of town and go four light posts past the 7-11 I loose reception on the jazz station. It's worth all 22 miles. (23 if the wind's blowing in the right direction...)
I was half wondering how to tell you how my voice sounds, how I walk etc. and so forth. It seems an impossibility to describe though. Believe it or not, it's hard to answer the question, how do I walk? I don't know how I walk- I don't know how I look when I walk. No more do I really know how I breath. I just do. There's irony in that. For all the observing I do, and listening in on other people's affairs, it seems that there are certain things that I can easily learn about other people, but chances are will never know about myself. It is all too easy to tell you that Diane strolls, and that Brittany walks hips first settling with exaggerated jolts onto her feet like she's on the runway. Arthur seems to be in a permanent state of poised to run a race, walking as if he may dart off at any second. I don't know if I stroll, or strut, or saunter- couldn't tell you. It would take an outside observer.
It's too early to tell with 'Atonement.' I only got to page 52 last night. Certain things have caught my fancy though. "Self exposure was inevitable the moment she described a character's weakness; the reader was bound to speculate that she was describing herself." That is a great observation about writing. "What other authority could she have?" Indeed? What authority can she draw from but her own? All of this speculation on the perspective of the outside observer makes me wonder, what, if anything could you tell me about myself from these letters that I would not have noticed about myself? Something interesting to turn over in your head. I think that this novel, in true Vincent/Meghan tradition is going to be a great novel for perspective conversation. What do the characters know about each other that they don't know about themselves? And it seems that organization will be a theme- the first 52 pages focused on a great deal of organization, anything from Briony's toys to Cecilia's flowers.
By the way, the cast party story, as well as the anecdote about 'Paul' were great.
Vainly,
Meghan
what they said - what they will say
