What happened that Tuesday

The worst part was the sound.

At the moment, I heard a car horn,the thud of impact, and the crunch of invincible steel. I felt the sudden off-beat twisting of my steering wheel, and the helplessness of the brakes, and the terror of the wheels as they slid. I saw the road and the cars swerving in blurs, and the landscape drifting out of control, and my body went numb when I realized that everything, all at once was too late.

But all I remember was the sound. It couldn't have been for more than a split second, the impact, and the moment before it. It was that instant I braced myself - and I heard it: that low, primal reaction that is more of a scientific absolute. It was the anti noise, the silence that only happens in chaos. It was the swing of the sword of Death. It does not growl like a beast, beasts vainly attempt to roar like it. It is the sound of the leopard's paws leaving the ground, and the abrasive in its bones as it pounces; it is the mechanical click of the trigger sparking the powder and the whir of the bullet spinning; it is the dripping of the oil and the and the cackle of the fire. Soldiers go insane from the ringing in their heads. Prey will hear it. It creeps on those who freeze, and traps those who drown. It is all that catches those who fall. It is what is felt instead of the knife blade. All will know, eventually, this: the Sound of Fear.

Blackened Eyes

Because this blog needs the traffic.

Don't leave me behind, December
Don't end beyond my reach
Don't miss the wish you wanted
Or forget any lessons you teach

Tapping out silent rythms
On the other side of the state
The only way I know to find you
Is after I find it's to late

The bruises and blackened eyes
Reddened with fights we've won
And the signs the good is fading
Are missing when our time is done

And the death of the innocent artist
And the birth of a psychotic rant
And the life of a long lost lover
And the skeptics who said we can't

Don't leave me behind, remember
Don't fade in the curtain call
Don't hide behind hours and days
Before the time will come for us all

And the end of a created wonder
And the start of a God of the rose
And the spark on a trail of powder
And the fire at the end of the shows

Temperance

Eat not to dullness, drink not to elevation.

I spent the first day trying not to eat much, until my father pointed out that this one doen't actually apply to me. Not really. I can eat whatever I want to and my metabolism can take ANYTHING. That's admittedly a bad habit, but I've basically been told I may as well enjoy calorie invincibility while it lasts. (I suppose I could've changed the focus to "Graditude" in that case.) So how I took it this week as a focus on health, or, really, not scarfing down piles of candy like I usually do. It's bad for my teeth, if anything. And I didn't even go through with that. So I give myself a "T" for effort this week, not that it mattered.

A Quest.

Another school year is upon me, and... I don't think I'm ready. I'm quite frankly a very, very lazy person. I'm unorganized and unwilling to get off the couch to do something about it. So this year I'm setting out to change that. Starting today I will be devoting a week to each of Benjamin Franklin's 13 virtues, as he put:

Temperance: Eat not to dullness; drink not to elevation.

Silence: Speak not but what may benefit others or yourself; avoid trifling conversation.

Order: Let all your things have their places; let each part of your business have its time.

Resolution: Resolve to perform what you ought, perform without fail what you resolve.

Frugality: Make no expense but to do good to others or yourself; i.e., waste nothing.

Industry: Lose no time; be always employed in something useful; cut off all unnecessary actions.

Sincerity: Use no hurtful deceit; think innocently and justly, and, if you speak, speak accordingly.

Justice: wrong none by doing injuries, or omitting the benefits that are your duty.

Moderation: Avoid extremes; forbear resenting injuries so much as you think they deserve.

Cleanliness: Tolerate no uncleanness in body, clothes, or habitation.

Tranquility: Be not disturbed at trifles, or at accidents common or unavoidable.

Chastity: Rarely use venery but for health or offspring, never to dullness, weakness, or the injury of your own or another's peace or reputation.

Humility: Imitate Jesus and Socrates.

I've even put a small, folded paper in my wallet to chart the times I mess up on that week's virtue. I'll try to post every Saturday to report on experiences and troubles I ran into while doing this. I'm already wishing I did this earlier. Wish me luck, all of you. I'll need it.

Piano Method for Beginners

The piano is easy. Your first step is to sit down. Obviously a well made bench is good, but a chair or a stool will do, for this once at least. You'll replace it later. Wipe the dust off the top and make another mental note to get a good rag and finish the job in an hour or two. Wear good socks for this. The sustain pedal is too cold for bare feet and too clean for shoes. Press it twice, once gently so that your foot is used to it, once a dash quicker so the piano is used to it. Hold it that second time and listen closely - hear it ring, the string's soft pulse magnified just enough so that the human ear can sense the forgotten memories that others have left there.

You now have permission to touch the keys, but only to make sure they're in tune. If some aren't, it's too late now, but remember to avoid the offending keys. Now look around. Melodies are everywhere. look under your seat, behind the couch across the room, in the painting next to you. You should keep a few with you everywhere, just in case, too. Put them in those socks you're wearing. When you find one, a good one, don't grab it. You need its permission. If it comes down for you, hold it gently between your fingertips. Slowly, gently, reverently, touch a note. Any of them. Now let that melody work for you.

It's always nervous starting out, touching just a note at a time, tapping out a subtle rhythm into a small chant. At first it might just be your right hand, softly floating over the ivory and defining its personality in a flurry of whispering movements, an infant realizing things for the first time. Now it will pull your other hand into the fray - either strongly, a power introduced that the music didn't know it had, a new force that further pushes the piece into a symphony, or, it will be more subtle, one more string of keys, at first being one with the right hand, then slowly pulling and stretching the tone into a double entity, not at peace or at war, not at tension or at comfort, but at something those terms don't understand: Harmony. Either way the music grows, and expands, and matures. It has now become fully conscious of itself, and this is where we have elements of danger. Don't let it get too big, This is not the end or even a climax. That's later, and if you peak early you stand a solid chance of losing everything.

If you manage to tone is down - which is the mark of a true pianist - then your right hand will begin to climb. Let it. It starts on the ladder of keys and deftly moves to a higher rhythm and your left hand begins to bow, perhaps in total submission, to a sense of superiority. Remind the left that it isn't worthless, but this is the right's shining solo, and jealousy is pointless. Now bring it back down again, not all at once, small , individual steps that cascade into a solid cadence once the finger join together. Add one more melody between the hands to make it bigger than it was before.

This is where the melody begins to fight you, and this is how music escalates into a war. It's a battle of fingertips and piano keys, a flurry of knuckles in black and white. The sound separates itself from your hands, doing things whether you wanted to or not, and just when things seem beyond your control, withdraw -

and the music will stop. The piano is in submission once more. Allow a few seconds for silence to reverberate through the room. Take a breath, because you're nearly there. Press that first note again, then again as though you were starting piece over again. But don't. Go the opposite direction, catching the Melody in a deep bass voice as the right sings its chorus to remember, to paint the picture of what it once was. Finally, let the essence of the song - that weary spirit that grew for you and let you tame it - let go of it. It no longer has room to grow, but will settle into your lap. Comfort it, caress it one last time, and end on a chord.

Written at Writer's at Harriman

The Grey Haired Man

The grey haired man stood, staring out the 12th story window, blinds opened to flood the room with the evening light. Massive panes of glass, across the room, made believe they were invincible, guardians against the city lights. The setting sun turned shadows from the buildings into darkened claws that would no doubt consume people, cars and streetlights, feeding them to a black monster past the horizon. The desk behind him, normally so tidy, the product of obsessive dusting, polishing, arranging, now so lonely, covered in crumpled papers stained by coffee rings and an untouched nametag. Jeremiah Kingston. He hadn’t slept in the last three days, showed in his in his bloodshot eyes and worn face. Dark stubble on his chin had begun to thicken. Three weeks- three weeks of writing and signing and calling and heaven knows everything he’d worked on. And it ended in nothing. The deal had been broken by the associate company. There had been full out war between corporations, with Jeremiah at the front lines. He told the directors that he had the upper hand, that he had an unbreakable case. But with such surety in his company comes the risk. If someone is that certain, stakes inevitably go upwards in the hectic, business defined world of Wall Street. And someone like him- at the height of his game, at the peak of his potential- he wasn’t allowed to fail. He knew there would be consequences worse than death in this gambit. The city outside was hushed, and the earth began to slowly recede from him. Up here, in the darkened New York skyline, he was alone, a failure society had thrown in the windy cloudless summits. A knock on the door behind him. A pause. The man didn’t turn to look and see who entered without invitation. It didn’t matter. The sound of a paper sliding onto his desk, then the click and knock of the door closing once more. The man had one more thought. He wondered how simple it would be to break the window’s reinforced glass.

Written at Writer's at Harriman

Word for Word

That box is still buried in my closet somewhere. I find it when I'm cleaning or rearranging things and I'll spend a few minutes pulling out all the little knick knacks and things I collected in a past life. And while it gathers dust today, the story at the bottom of that box is more valuable than almost any other earthly possession of mine. Because in that box there is a note in a handwriting only slightly neater than my own. This is the story of that note.

The exact moment we met is lost in time, but so is most of my early childhood. She had a soft round face and golden blond hair that changed styles every day. She was a fan of everything fantasy that matured into a love of anything Japanese. She had a look that could kill you and a smile that could break your heart. She lived on the left side of the street with the four annoying dogs and if you saw a black cat, it was hers.

In elementary school she always was in the back ground, and later, as we got placed in the same classes, we became really close friends. She picked up the clarinet when I found the trombone, and we were in an advanced placement class together. This was sixth grade, and we were twelve. I miss those days. Once, while we were walking down a hallway, poking and laughing and giggling, the school's gossip (though I was probably to thick to notice) asked us if we were going out. Love? I'd never thought about love before. I couldn't sleep that night. I couldn't sleep for months.

Weeks went by. I'd look at her. She'd giggle. She's look at me. I'd laugh. We kept at it. Looking back, it was probably pretty pathetic. I could only think of her. But summer was upon us, and sadly, both of us were moving. In opposite directions. Posters were being put up about the End of School dance. While it wasn't really a date dance, I wasn't in the mood to care. It's not like I was at all rational. I was only formulating ways in my already too big sixth grade brain to ask her out. For a few days before the dance I would see her and all too literally run. I wanted to write a note, but I couldn't get the words out. All of my friends thought I was radioactive, which, wasn't too far from the truth. In the most embarrassing moment of my entire life, I scratched illegible words on a notebook and threw it. And ran again.

She knew what I meant, and her reply- a short sentence and a big smiley face- is still in a box in my room.