I have always been passionate about music: I played the piano and the flute, but what I loved most of all was singing. I had a fantastically average voice, tis true, but my mother has an ethereal voice, had been a voice major in college, and I assumed as I got older, I'd blossom into a lovely vocalist myself.
Yeah, didn't happen. I even took voice lessons - all for naught. I got into an amazing choir that occasionally was accompanied by the local symphony only because I was adept at sight-reading.
My flute-playing was subpar at best: Mama had always loved the trilling sounds of the instrument and had gotten one, intending on learning to play but never doing so. I tried to teach myself how to play, which was to my detriment. Years later I took some lessons and got to sounding a bit better, but I never got sliver tones in the least.
But the piano, now there was my wheelhouse. I played for a couple of hours at least every day and could always express my feelings, whatever they may be. The afternoon of Black Sunday (when I found out the Wicked Stepfather and one of my sisters had been involved sexually), I took my grief and poured it into Rubenstein's Romance, and it sounded so wistful and haunting.
I was a piano minor in college up until all the practice affected my hands and it was too painful for me to even type. My teacher told me carpel tunnel and that I should get fitted for casts, but I knew in my bones that this was HD, even thought I hadn't been tested yet, and I just switched my minor to English.
Now, ten years later, I can't even bring myself to play...I'm so bad that it's too tragic.
No comments:
Post a Comment