Bare-footed children

The period of my life that I think I miss the most, was the time when I was 8.

I remember the sound, the feeling and most of all the laughing.

We were the original barefooted children who had the soles of our feet tough just like our dog. We stayed in the bush a lot with family and friends who may as well been our own flesh and blood. I don't know their names now, but I do remember their voices. I loved waking up with the sun and never feeling tired, hearing the kookaburras as we got our breakfast and not having a care in the world. We used to swim in and of the creeks and rivers in whatever clothing we had. I miss riding horses and having candles instead of electricity. Just all those little things that started to slip away as I got older.

Most of all I guess I miss the freedom of never having to worry about being conscious of myself. Conscious of whether or not these pants were appropriate or if I should be smiling more, or maybe I'm smiling too much. Maybe I should be crying at a time like this, or perhaps that's too melodramatic and they won't believe me that this is real. Because it is. Because it exist, but it's entirely and tirelessly fake. Everyone seems to be drawing invisible lines, around themselves, entrancing some, closing others off and writing messages across starless skies. That's another thing that is easy to forget. How beautiful, and full and bright the sky is when the artificial lights are taken away, and the smog and pollution don't block your view. Believe me, this sky isn't true.

And I miss that honesty of complete innocence. Lies were real, but never so petty. Surprisingly and ironic as it may seem, that's where it all went backwards. The mischievousness of being so young. And I loved it.

Something that always catches me off guard these days, is something I never really took notice of before. The sound of papa's voice. It was rough and as soft as honey. It seems so familiar yet distant and it's that sound that I truly miss. I don't remember ever liking his perfume too much yet when I opened the closet in his room when I was clearing out the room it embraced me and brought back so many memories of different days. They're old days, but far from gone. I don't remember being particularly close to him, but everyone says we were. I remember understanding the passing of time, but never really feeling it. We were immune it seemed, from time itself. I don't remember so many smiles at any other point in my life. I don't remember ever having been so ignorant yet so avidly aware of my surroundings, and what was going on.

But sometimes things happen, and you feel as though your entire life gets thrown off track. Still I believe, that it's my own fault things fell. I let them. Because at the time, I stopped believing in barefooted children and that underwear made the best swim wear and started believing in self pity. It's okay to feel sorry for yourself ever so often, but I became morbidly obsessed with it. I shut down. I hated everything to do with myself. I blamed certain people for the way I was, and refused to get close to anyone else. I wouldn't touch the piano, the shutters were permanently closed and I forgot the feeling of sunlight on my skin. This time stole a few months of my life. Things just get to the point where lying seemed pointless, and the facades of smiles begin to fade. I think things went this way when I lost focus, and found myself entangled within some beautiful lie I had created with a person who I've found to have never been real. I try to think of it as a learning experience. A lesson for my future. But that's just it, I'm left trying because I know that as much as I like to think a lesson learnt means I'll never tread that path again, I'd only be kidding myself. For a while, the basis of everything else, grew from here and not from my roots. That was another mistake I had made. Everything was magnified, I either would push someone away entirely or would never want to let them go. I lost my head for judgment and made assumptions. I had made it past the closed shutters and silence that had gripped everything I'd known, only to bump into people I had confused for my friends. They deserved better, and I ran.

It seems the aftermath of anything - a war, a race, a fire - the aftermath can have an impact almost as great as what gave it birth. My aftermath left me alone from my friends and feeling isolated. But reality teaches us, I was the one utterly confused, and that I was never really alone. I just thought I was. But it was that thought that drove me to push until it became real, because at the time it was all I knew. When all the sweet familiar comfort of old friends began to disappear, I began to measure my friendships as a comparison to every time we had smiled or laughed simply because we had been together that day and someone had done something stupid. This made me sad. I suppose because I was beginning to find that past tense verbs were creeping into my vocabulary and soon anything that was spoken about was short of a reflection of a passing memory they were reluctant to recall. I could see the change my actions had set in motion. Sometimes I wonder about whether or not it was really by my hands that this all happened, but my beliefs are always confirmed when I see that their lives outside of any relation pertaining to myself are moving forward beautifully and flourishing. I try not to wonder about if things could of been different, but rather I think about the future and have a very selective memory of my past. Trying to revive that 8 year old child, the rhythms and sounds, the feelings and thoughts of times when the biggest concern was which destination to embark on the following day.

I miss those days. I really do. I miss having those people who were dubbed as my 'best friends'. I think things will be okay though. Regardless of whether they have changed, there will be new stories and opportunities. I'm sure there has to be. I'll keep trying.

I'm finding more freedom now and more places I want to go. I want to be closer to the family I was distanced from and I want to travel and meet all those people who I would of never met otherwise. I want to find people I can truly rely on and above all I want to be able to tell all those people who I've met, one way or another, I love them.

I think it's like trying to find a song, one that fits perfectly.

Grace

We all have our dreams.


My mother wishes I play piano at her funeral. She said that that is all she wants. For me to play the piano.


My mother asked me if I loved her today.


She asked me in the most peculiar way. I couldn't place her voice.


She's angry at me, I can tell, she doesn't believe I'm anything more than a stranger.


I don't understand.


I've tried so hard, so hard to do well at school, with music, to clean and smile and be happy. I stopped hurting myself, I learned from my mistakes. I don't know what more she wants.


She asks me what I want from her.


A smile.


She says that when I hug her it isn't sincere.


That they're empty.


I don't see this.


God, I'm trying so hard.


I'm trying hard to have myself a reason to live in this.


When music is taken, and science, and english, and all the rest of school.


When your friends don't understand that some days you just feel that the whole world is enough.


That is enough, enough to have reason.


I have had enough, I have tried so hard.


I wonder if papa knows how hard I've tried.


She doesn't want to live.


She's told me so many times.


It hurts.


Now I know.


We're fighting again.


About things that don't exist.


Imaginary.


There's nothing I can do or say to change things.


There's nothing.


I'm making things worse. I always make things worse.


Why can't God take me?


I pray, dear God, please take me.

A loss of words.

Do the worst you can do. There is nothing in this.


It does not matter if we stay, none of this matters.


An image from our past, an image of our future, an image of ourselves - that is all we ever have.

Diminished

The Pianoforte

We're such pretty things.


Delightfully light, sprite-full, M.M. vivace (Mälzel's Metronome)

A small fact:
(Beethoven was one of the first well known composers to add M.M. notations to his music)

We all create the worlds we wish existed. Beethoven flew with his fascination of a rock. A really big rock.

A thought from a childhood 'friend':

"I can't remember every detail. But it's about Siegfried, the hero of the Rhine, and how he saves the maidens from the dragon whose lair is in the rock that stands at the edge of the Rhine. The Drachenfels."

I can picture it so clearly in my mind, a young Beethoven...yes, he is short in a stout way, not in a small boy way. His eyes; he is so much older than his size allows to be perceived.

I'm not too sure why I am writing so much of Beethoven tonight. I suppose my thoughts are just on him. It's nothing serious. In my mind, I am his mother, his mentor, his friend, his admirer and all the while, always his lover. But never, I could never give him that which music so avidly provided. So our love, is not that of young lovers, but it is of the raw truth that we both desire and desire only to feel, touch and hold. In this love we understand; our love is of pure depth, an understanding that we share, that it means nothing at all.

You see, I am also in love with Mozart. Beautiful gifted Mozart. Touched by God! That's what they say. An angel comes down upon him when he plays. Can you see it? A man so beautiful, still a child, yet aged with the passion creating like God, as if he possess God's hand itself, beauty and sound, pure, pure sound. His works are magic, if such a thing exists. But. He is not enough. There is something missing from this classical musician. I do not know what. Our affair is of the short lived, forever lasting kind. His music does not sustain me. We have not slept in the same bed long enough. We have not entangled limb in limb to know well enough each movement. I have this with Beethoven, but not with my dear Mozart. But I do love him, I love him as I love the harpsichord I never play. I love him for the basis he created, for inspiring other, for bringing music to life. I don't know if I could love him with the same passion I love others simply because he is of God, and we musn't touch God's celibate men. Not that he was celibate, he is actually portrayed as one who played more than just the piano. Quite talented is he not?

A Summary to give a better idea:
Classical - Mozart, Beethoven the cusp Classical-Romantic, Chopin - Romantic.

I challenge you to replay your Mozart, replay your Beethoven and replay your Chopin. Listen. Listen. Listen. But don't limit yourself! I am ashamed. Utterly ashamed of myself. I am only mentioning the names. The well known names. Whores. No one has a clue. They throw about the names of the 'greatest', but what do they know of them? Mozart had the creativity and imagination that drew a new level in the template of Classical music especially that of orchestral nature, Beethoven, his music is filled with a frustration, trying to break from the strictness of classical, a transition to romantic, and Chopin, completely free to express (He really loved minors.)

A music note (That's a pun...and not a purposeful one):
All minor keys follow the same 'minor scale pattern', which is T-S-T-T-S-T1/2-S.

A semitone is the closest distance between two notes.

A tone has one note in between.


A note on authenticity (No, this is not a pun. I did not try to think of one after my first incidental one):
I have tried my best to keep all of these 'facts' written here, actually fact. I did them off memory, so I apologise if there are any discrepancies.

Before completing this, I must mention one other name, the name of the man I will marry;

Franz Liszt.

A short biography of Franz Liszt:
1811 - 1886
- Hungarian
- Composer
- Virtuoso Pianist
- Romantic Period
People said he was 'possessed by the devil'. He practiced up to 12 hours a day to improve his technical skills. Possessed by the devil, because as he played he would put on a grand show. Can you see him? Just picture it like you did with Mozart. Imagined someone contorted-ly possessed yet fluid with movement. Brilliance at its best he was. Sinister, dark, so terribly lovely.
He transcribed Paganini's music from the violin to piano and wrote variations on it. He gave up a lot of his time to the teaching of those who did not have any money at all and to helping those in need. I could never give him the justice he deserves. I will say only this; I know without a doubt in my mind that I will die before I ever dream the thought of even expressing at all with piano or with words the sheer genius and dedication of this man.

I love him.

I love him, not solely in admiration, but in a kind of love that makes me wish I could be with him now. Be the person he wanted, be good enough for this man who I will never know, who I will never meet and who I will never really be certain of. I love the thought of him. I want him to be exactly as I picture him in my mind. Fear, passion, love. It's all so much, it's all so wonderful.


There are many more. Albeniz my friend. Mischief. But I have to stop. Stop before I become lost. Lost in another world. But it's okay because it does not exist. Never, except in my mind.I could never say these words of the living, for Lord knows, there would be no understanding. No one would understand how I love them all. I love that boy who smiled on the bus ride home, the boy with the guitar, the boy with quiet demeanor, the girl with life, the other with sensible outlawed behavior, I love her so much I can almost breathe in the perfume she wears, oh and that other! The boy who I know I will never be closer to than across a table while eating Chinese takeaway. But. These things can never happen. I'm sad yet hopeful. But I have mine. A child dear, a friend, a lover, a stranger, someone who I feel I have known for so long, but is it enough? Is it? Is he too much like Mozart? Or will he be my Liszt? Or perhaps I will never be happy with either. Perhaps we can only be in love with music.

Somewhere

Summer in England

I think we all wake up into days we do not wish to greet.


Today I woke to the rain, and the cold and the darkness of winter.


The rain battering against my window, defiantly, and the cold - just enough to make me uncomfortable. The darkness engulfed except for the slight reflection on my mirror from a distant halo of light, a hope? no, we have none. (My pessimism is in a half lie.) It is just my window from something beyond what I could see. I wasn't sure what was outside. I wasn't sure what would greet me.


Hello winter's morning,
Oh how I love thee.
I heard ye whispering in the night,
And alas I awoke!
To see your happy heart.


I do love the rain. The sound. I think. That must be it.


This morning though, was tainted by the night before. I awoke with the thoughts that had stalked me into sleep. Over and over they whisper. Threatening my day. Threatening to kill any life I was to find.


I did not want to wake. I did not want to greet the day.


I wished to fall back asleep, not a gentle sleep (it never is), but just any sleep at all, a sleep long enough so that everyone will forget, and I, join too the followers of Lethe.



I do not know what days you see, I do not think you understand mine.


No, we do not have today. We have not a single day.

songs

The world has gone insane. Utterly and stupidly insane.


Friends. What friends are these? No smiles to your happy heart.


Pathetic clowns. Those sad clowns.


Fade away sullen girl. They call me a sullen girl. My, my, if only they knew;


The scars are truth, the marks are masks.


I'm going to make a mistake.


I'm going to do it on purpose.


When the day is done and I look back, and the fact is I had fun fumbling around.


I ran where they told me not to run and I sure had fun.


So I'm going to fuck it up again, I'm going to do another detour.


And if you want to make sense, what are you looking at me for? I'm no good at that.


I want to make a mistake.


I'm always doing what I think I should, always doing everybody else good.


And what for? what for?


I wish to forget. You writing in ink, mine in lead. Dear memories they all are. I'm not afraid, is this what you mean? I mean to forget. Sometimes. Some things. No, not really. I love to remember. What are without our memories?


If you don't have a song to sing you're okay, you know how to get along humming.


If you don't have a date, celebrate, go out and sit on the lawn and do nothing. Because it's just what you must do and nobody does it anymore.


No, I don't believe in the wasting of time, I don't believe that I'm wasting mine.


If you don't have a point to make, don't sweat it, you'll make a sharp one being so kind and I'd sure appreciate it. Everyone else just goes to get big headed, why should I follow that beat, being that I'm better than fine?

My Mozart

My Mozart,


this moment is so terribly wrong


there is no sound


there is nothing


nothing. Except her.


I wish to hear the sound envelope me, to stumble at first as I learn what a great master composed in his sleep. This is suffocating. So Suffocating.


I feel old, ancient almost, a relic, this has no sense - no, none at all.


There is another, fussing about names, the pronunciation of names.


(It is pronounced 'Bahkh' not 'Bach'. 'Shoh-pan', not 'Chop-in')


But today, it is not of names. Of course, it is polite, respectful, to pronounce them correctly, but really, today is not of names.


There is something so powerful, so vividly alive that awakens me and sedates me all at once. I am alive and dead;part of something beyond, sometimes I believe, beyond living itself.


In this moment, perhaps like too many moments before this, I do not wish to live.


There is a beauty in death that I long for. A calm quiet.


There are things which must be done, modulation, key change. Those things. (This has been a ritornello).


But when they were done, they will signify the prelude to the means by which shall be met by an end.