Apr 16 24
Our piano teacher left in a rush; she was late to pick up her son — it seems his need had temporarily fallen outside of her focus. Her departure was so sudden that she hadn’t had time, or even the thought, to shut off the metronome we were using.
Feeling a bit adrift from the instant freedom, the idea of continuing scales along with the transcendentally regimented knocking was completely unappealing. Instead, we simply put our head on our forearm — which was already resting on the overhang of the open keyboard cover. Our face, right above the keys — feeling like we were inside a giant, empty clock.
We lightly pressed a single key. For us, the effect of the tapering off of a singly struck piano key has always had a weird effect. We suppose it has something to do with the specific interaction of the wire and felt hammers — the initial strike is rich, but with an almost too intense upward curve, followed by a diminishment — a too-quick narrowing to nothing. Duuuoooiing.
Occasionally, we would try and alight a theme (a sequence of keys) — but the purposelessness of the situation wanted no anthem — we kept on returning to singly struck notes. All the while counterpoised (never in rhythm with) the knick-knock, knick-knock, knick-knock, knick-knock, economy of the metronome. Duuuoooiing! Knick-knock! Knick-knock! Duuuoooiing! Knick! Duuuoooiing! Knock!
Eventually it all became rather disorienting, so we shut the piano lid, switched off the metronome and made our way to the kitchen.
The purity of focus (of sight, of thought) is impure as it relates to everything else. The friction of this failure to unite the world in a personal unity (casual or formal) is perfect desire.
Feeling a bit adrift from the instant freedom, the idea of continuing scales along with the transcendentally regimented knocking was completely unappealing. Instead, we simply put our head on our forearm — which was already resting on the overhang of the open keyboard cover. Our face, right above the keys — feeling like we were inside a giant, empty clock.
We lightly pressed a single key. For us, the effect of the tapering off of a singly struck piano key has always had a weird effect. We suppose it has something to do with the specific interaction of the wire and felt hammers — the initial strike is rich, but with an almost too intense upward curve, followed by a diminishment — a too-quick narrowing to nothing. Duuuoooiing.
Occasionally, we would try and alight a theme (a sequence of keys) — but the purposelessness of the situation wanted no anthem — we kept on returning to singly struck notes. All the while counterpoised (never in rhythm with) the knick-knock, knick-knock, knick-knock, knick-knock, economy of the metronome. Duuuoooiing! Knick-knock! Knick-knock! Duuuoooiing! Knick! Duuuoooiing! Knock!
Eventually it all became rather disorienting, so we shut the piano lid, switched off the metronome and made our way to the kitchen.
The purity of focus (of sight, of thought) is impure as it relates to everything else. The friction of this failure to unite the world in a personal unity (casual or formal) is perfect desire.