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.