Dinner for Two

Music

The mahogany wood of the upright piano rises in front of me, shining in its darkness. The room is lit by the white light of day pouring through the two windows. I sit next to them on the piano bench, my fingers resting on the white keys. Resting. Relaxed. Hanging from my wrists as deadweight. It seems like it should be quiet. As though at this moment there should only be me in the world, me and the piano. As if everything is hushed, waiting, empty without the sounds contained in that wooden fortress. But it’s not. The noises of five people in one townhouse are everywhere. My mom is in the kitchen making dinner. Ceramic dishes ring with their not quite metallic sound, punctuated by cabinets closing with sharp thuds. My brother’s rap, hip-hop music comes beating through the ceiling. But these are the sounds of life; I don’t notice them. My attention is focused on the silence in the piano, the silence I am about to break.
I begin playing. My fingers stiff and clumsy, then gaining grace as I warm up. Out pour the notes, one on top of the other, pulled out by my playing. The world of silence becomes a world of sound. I control that sound. All my thoughts, all my efforts are engrossed in making that sound what I want to hear. It is all about controlling my playing, and enjoying what I create with it. It is about the music.

Meanderings

What does it say about our world that three people can sit at a table and read books, completely ignoring each other? Is it a vivid reminder of how far communication has fallen? That man would prefer the relationship of the characters and thoughts in a book to that of those humans sitting around him. But of course he may be more confident that he can relate to those in the book, for he is interested enough to read it, then to those around him. Perhaps they have nothing in common. Or, perhaps, there is companionship in reading together. Perhaps this is not as much a portrait of failed communication as it is a picture of a deeper communication. As fellow humans, silently, simultaneously discover new worlds.

City -- Part One

I live in a city now. I’d never lived in a city before, but I’m beginning to get used to it. But there are still times when I just stand on the balcony and watch it--the city, that is. Someday I’ll count all the balconies I can see from mine, but it’s a lot! Some of them are stark and barren. Dozens have laundry fluttering. Some are closed in with safety bars or glass enclosures. Others are homes for plants and plastic chairs suggestive of summer evening tea under the stars. What amazed me is to think that for every balcony, there is a life being lived, home being made, work being done, food eaten, sleep slept. Our neighborhood, unlike New York where I once stayed, goes to sleep at night. But it still amazed me to think that even when it is quiet and dark and sleepy, I stand there surrounded by thousands of lives barely more than a stone’s throw away.

The numbers dance fuzzily in my brain. Plus this, minus that, times everything, square both sides, and f of x equals whatever. I stare up at the clock as the numbers take a second to come into focus, and begin another calculation: How many hours of sleep will I get tonight? Not enough. I close the book and pile the notebooks, pencils, calculator and whatever other paraphernalia is keeping me from sleeping on my bed, onto the desk. Class early tomorrow morning. What was I thinking when I picked the 8 o’clock slot? Correction: why wasn’t I thinking when I picked the 8 o’clock slot? I brush my teeth and curl up in bed, my mind obsessively compiling everything I have to do. Plan research paper, write an essay, read what some dead guy wrote, do math…no, wait, I did that. But even though I accomplish so much there’s always more to learn. I fall asleep meaninglessly pondering the significance of Sherlock Holmes in Victorian England. I am a college student; this is my dream.

Diamonds in the Mud

A little girl is playing in her yard, when her Father steps out the front door. Slowly He goes over and kneels down in front of her. With all His love and joy pouring from His smile He pulls a beautiful doll from behind His back, a doll with bright blue eyes and a full, white dress. “Take care of her” the Father gently tells the girl and hands her the doll. Clasping it to her chest the girl skips around the yard, her Father looking on. She prances across the yard and, opening her arms, drops the doll in a mud puddle. Kneeling next to it she leans over to pat mud into the white dress. Her Father watches, His eyes no longer shining but dulled with pain, as His gift, so preciously bestowed, is cheapened and ruined.

In the Shadows

Standing in the dark, cold cutting through the thin jacket or sweatshirt or whatever you threw on. Behind you cars whiz past on the bypass. You glance anxiously into the shadow of the trees, unable to see the imagined dangers they conceal. The wind blows them back and forth in its chaotic strength, and they bow to its wishes. Though your mind firmly tells itself to get a grip, your emotions hijack all rational thought as your imagination nurtures subdued terror. You look up from under the oak tree; the filaments of its naked branches weave a delicate lace across the sky. Through this you see the stars, though few are visible in the glare of man made lights. And, in spite of everything, you recognize the beauty in that cold night: the power of the dark and its harmony with silver light. You gaze for a moment, a moment of wonder, and then rush back to warmth and safety.

The Night Watchman

The old man, huddled in a cloak with his hood pulled low, makes his nightly circuit around the town. He moves ever so slowly, observing everything. He watches as a child is put to bed and wishes him sweet dreams. He sees a pair of sweethearts wandering a lonely path and spies a secret kiss. He is confidant to the lonely and companion to the wanderer. Then the hood slips; his face can be seen, a face burdened with sadness. He looks as though the cares of the world were on his shoulders, as if he felt each man, woman or child's woes. He seems to understand the troubles they face. All the secrets whispered, all the dreams shared weigh upon his heart. The hood falls back; the face is obscured once again. But for a moment you could glimpse the face of the world's watchman. For a moment you glimpsed the face of the moon.

Crowded

Crowded. Dozens of people are waiting at the bus stop, even though the bus that will come is already full. The bus comes,;some get on, and some get off. The driver beeps signaling to the pedestrians crossing the road that "ready or not, here he comes." A little lady in long skirts darts across the road; I've never seen someone in a skirt move that fast. Cool-headed young men stride across the rode, looking straight ahead as if they can't be hit by a bus they don't see. A mother and child wait, and wait, and wait for a break in the traffic. They run to the median and wait, and wait again to cross the other half of the road. Where are they all coming from? Maybe from the blocks and blocks of apartments, stacks of concrete homes ten stories high. Where are they going? To the office to work, home to eat, out to shop... Everyone is going Everywhere right Now!

Contribute...

This blog is a place for its authors to publish their observations of life. They may describe a character real or imagined, a situation they noticed unfolding around them, or an ordinary or noteworthy experience. Stylistic exploration is encouraged, and each writer is welcome to write in his or her unique voice, whether it be flowery or factual. For the authors of this blog, proper grammar is a value but not an obsession. If you, the reader, are interested in contributing, leave a comment on this first post.