This has got to be one of the saddest songs ever written. As the story goes, Beethoven realizes that his love Theresa never would have cared about his deafness and is crushed as he realizes what might have been. Lord knows I would never want to be in this position. Nor can I ever let it happen! This video of the song by the Trans-Siberian Orchestra captures this song perfectly!
Here are the lyrics:
Time only time could never take me away from you And why should it try time never cares just what we do It just sits on a star and gazes down Dropping its moments all around And if I could wish upon that star I would find what you dream and then ask god to grant it
I wanted to say this long before this dark would fall At night I would pray this then wonder if god heard at all For the chances I've had are now long gone And that star is no longer wished upon For on this night it seems too far away
Try I have tried to pretend that I don't care But then sleep arrives and in every dream I find you there But I don't want the past to be my life And I don't want to live inside this night But I don't want to see your shadow fade So I sleep and I dream though I don't understand it
I wanted to say this long before this dark would fall At night I would pray this then wonder if god heard at all For the chances I've had are now long gone And that star is no longer wished upon For on this night it seems too far away
You can live your life in a thousand ways But it all comes down to that single day When you realize what you regret What you can't reclaim but you can't forget If I could just fall back into my life And find you there inside this night and let eternity just drift away
This is the first "real" story I ever wrote. I was in a beginning Fiction class and people were writing all sorts of stories, mainly sci-fi, stuff that was at least somewhat violent and had orks in them ect. I was about to drop out of the class, I just couldn't write like that and my classmates could write rather well, how was I to compete with that? So a germ of an idea appeared to me while sitting in the commons on a rainy day and that weekend I locked myself in an dingy motel in the middle of no where, the rain continued to pour, and here is the result. It was make or break as far as I was concerned for this class as it was so different than what others were doing, I was going to drop the class the next day. Somehow it was well accepted and I was shocked! Its even going to be in our College's literary Journal coming out next month!
Here is my first story ...
Those Summer Dresses
Another rainy evening finds me sitting by the window. I am watching the drops of water as they fall
against the glass, the streaks of light as the streetlight shines brightly. The
pane is cold to the touch; my fingers leave a small vapor from their trace. There is the tinkling sound of wind chimes
coming from the porch. My cat Izzy has somehow found a spot to curl up in on my
shambolic bed and Charlie dog is snoozing in front of me with his chin on my
feet. What is it about rainy days that make you feel so alone?
the table a small candle is burning sweetly in its light as it flickers slowly.
I have a very warm cup of coffee, not so much because I need it, but because I
love to feel its warmth in my hands as it flows into the coldness of my
fingers. The TV is on atop the small wooden dresser with the sound off, and the
stereo is playing this Coldplay tune. “Look at the stars, look how they shine for
you.” I’m listening to music as it seems the only thing that relaxes me, for a
while I don’t have to really think of anything. Glancing at the tube I can’t help
but notice a cute young looking brunette actress, flouncing across the street
in the rain, wearing a fluttering red and white flower print sundress. Damn. What
is it about summer dresses that breathe their life into a lonely man’s soul?
back in my overstuffed recliner, I recall sitting on a graffiti scared park
bench, with the summer heat on my skin, and glorious treats filling the senses.
The summer dresses would pass by; they would sway and voice their concerns to
the playful wind. They would soak up the daylight and were worn like the
sunshine itself. They would light up the world with their amazing colors of
yellow, pink, green and white, dancing in the sun with the grass and wind.
There is no music but I feel it flow through me and come alive. How many are
hoping for someone to dance with? What is it about summer dresses that make a
man want to get up dance? A smile cannot help but to cross my face …
yes, I remember back in high school when I met an angel named Judy. She bought
this dress, made of the lightest green with little white flowers all over. She
wore it from dusk to dawn, sometimes for days at a time. She danced in it,
drank in it, ate and slept in it. She sometimes did things we sure as hell
didn’t want her Daddy to know about in it. It was a billowy, spaghetti strapped
dress made of cotton that was perhaps a size or so too loose. She oh who she loved
it! Memories, drifting like feathers softly
through my mind. Never will I forget Judy and that simple green dress!
remember another one, a taller one, a clean sleeveless white, with ruffles down
the side with a touch of lavender embroidery at the hem. I couldn’t help but to
wonder if she is wearing anything under it. She still believed in magic,
unicorns and fairies. It is so easy to imagine her, with perchance a small
white headband to support her auburn hair streaked with grey, capering through
the woods. She probably took a penny with her, or maybe a special quarter,
hoping that perhaps that whatever she was wishing for would come true just a
little bit faster. Everything about her seemed so childlike. “Dreams are
priceless”, she said, and you can’t argue with that I suppose. For a moment the
vision was perfect. Then again memories can make things that way.
remember a third, a blue and white one, which would flare up about her knees
when she spun around. I would see her by a massive oak tree, the one with the
smooth little bench that was under it, writing about thoughts, desires and
dreams. Oft times she would ask me to join her and the warm summer breeze would
gently sweep leaves about us. The writing would stop so that she could take it
all in. I look up to the sky, let my hands reach over my head and I feel the
grass with my fingertips. Time would be delighted in looking at those lofty
clouds, as free as the open air ourselves. Sometimes you would kiss me; sometimes you
would run your fingers through my hair. Sometimes we would sit there in
silence. Silence with her was beautiful too. Eventually she would put her
pencil to paper again, and the words came out evermore enchanting.
though it was only March, the end of March to be fair, but still March, she
thought she would be optimistic about the weather and try for once to make an
effort. Feeling a bit down it was decided that wearing her scruffy jeans, the first t-shirt on hand and washed-out
grey hoodie, wasn’t going to make it yet again today. This dress has never been worn before, not
even on vacation, despite how much she loves it. It is cream colored sun dress
with blue flowers, tight at the top and then floats outwards, the skirt part of
it was gently ruffled to give it more shape. She also chose her thickest pair
of black tights, it was March and it was pouring rain after all. Though still a
bit edgy and kind of close to tears, (though probably no more so than usual),
she tried her best to smile and be chirpy. Like the way she used to be. An
acquaintance of hers does the same, acting as if she's confident and happy and somehow
it seemed to help. I have to wonder sometimes, how many people are acting? Sure
some people thought that what this girl was wearing was daft, but there seemed
to be a change. She didn't particularly remember consciously being miserable, but
the world around her seemed to become a lot sunnier.
people like to say that looks don't matter, that they're not important. I
thought that as long as you are comfortable that's all that mattered. But I think
I may have to change my mind. It cheered me up a little to find that sometimes,
when all hope seems lost, that a simple thing like dressing nicely can really
cheer someone up, even me. What’s up with that? Obviously I'm not going to go
and wear a dress now, though it may sound like fun in an odd sort of way, but I
might try making an effort to look my dashing self someday and seeing what
happens. But alas, today wasn’t that day …
wind stands still, and clouds roll across the sky. I take a stroll outside,
getting myself wet on purpose so that I could sit by the heater and look out
the window. There was this itch to dance. The sky begins to darken, shadows
seasoning underneath. Izzy and Charlie doze on. The rain continues to beat a
tempo on the windowpane, though now appearing more soothing … calming. “Dreams
are priceless”, she said. It sure does seem that way I reply. I get up to and walked into the kitchen to ponder
… What is it about summer dresses that breathe their life into a lonely man’s
Another story ... This time from my first fiction class ...
Girl on the Metro
Hello ... A whole
month and I’m still walking around on glass. But people wouldn’t believe me if
they knew, even though they see me every freakin day.
You know, I’ve always hated the phrase, “I’ll believe
it when I see it.” Those words give way too much credit to humanity methinks.
Seeing to believe? How much do we really,
really see? Shouldn’t people really say, "I’ll believe it when
somebody can show me rock solid evidence, when it actually matters to me?"
Leave a message at the tone … beep …
People see every moment. Yet no one can surely, truly
believe what they see. No one recognizes people for what they are, or the
experiences they wear on their skin like a tattoo. No one seems to ask for a
name today because no one can see right in front of them, much less remember a
few moments later. Why bother with formalities when there isn’t even time to
look at someone. Anything can start with a hello, can’t it?
There is not-a-one, yet we all continue to see and
place people in the tidiest of boxes, the emptiest of labels, in the simplest
way. Fat Guys, Hot Girl, Baldy, Wino, Ugly, Gangster, Skinny Chick, Mother of
Seven, Dude, Lesbo, Baldwin, Dead, Zombie. The list goes on and on and on, some
names more interesting than other ones. Some seem more intimidating.
I have the honor and privilege to be one again for you
today good, kind-eyed Sir.
Pleased to meet you, I’m just the “Girl on the Metro.” (But
I would feel much more interesting if I were The Zombie.)
I see you every day, week after week, but have not
spoken to you. You’ve seen me every day, week after week, but have never spoken
to me. I haven’t said more than two words to anyone on this train for a while
now. It doesn’t matter to you how this damsel ended up here in Metropolis,
boarding the “E” every day of the week at seven in the morning. It doesn’t
matter why I prefer to stand instead of sit, even though my orange JanSport
pack weighs over twenty pounds. Heaven forbid I have to sit down by someone.
You never wonder how I can afford that mauve leather
bag I clutch to my chest, or the handmade canvas protected by two sheets of
cardboard I snatched from outside by the dumpster. It seems to bother you that I
don’t wash my hands, like I’m some kind of Street Waif. But I do wash! Two,
sometimes three or more times a day, under scalding hot water until I turn
Don’t worry good sir, its only pure pigment from
mixing tempera on my fingers. Egg yolks are good for the skin you know, though
I probably can’t say the same for the pigment. Now, if you could get past the
stains, you would realize how enjoyably soft they really are. You can only
guess I’m one of those Crazy Bohemian Chicks, minus the dreadlocks. You think
you know the ones; they don’t eat meat and brazenly dance naked in the rain
shamelessly. WooHoo! Rain exists to dance off the ground don’t ya know. There
you go seeing again. Knock it off! Sheesh! Why do I have to be so discombobulated
… so wary … so quiet when I find a guy interesting …
For a spell, maybe you just chalked it up to my
wearing headphones. Possibly that’s why the girl is so silent. Oh no! Don’t
worry. It’s not an attempt to ignore anyone (well, yes it is), it’s just my way
of performing the unapproachable ‘Girl on the Metro’ you’ve got locked inside
your head. Sir, Maybe I didn’t have the
cash to plug them in to anything, so I just make up the songs in my head. Take
it as my Mad Bohemian Poet nature and not anything too important. I wouldn’t
want to ruin your image, you know. The phones keep out unwanted questions – no
one wants to bother with someone who shows as much interest in them as they do
I see you Metro Boy between Glitter Girl and the Man
with the Magazine. I can’t help but feel tense from your chance casual looks my
way. You have a smile that could brighten my day, making it about the only
thing I see as natural and untainted in my stained world. My heart is going
b-dump, and begins to gallop. Still you continue with your discreet glances.
Still I catch myself beginning to blush with every look you take. Does he think
I’m pretty? Does this count as an admirer I wonder … Or perhaps I just look
weird? Trying to act natural, not daring to take in your profile, well not too
much. A peculiar and wonderful muddle of fear, hope and happiness churn within.
You know, I really must find that necklace my guardian angel left behind! My
fingers clutch tighter on the shiny hand rail as I turned to focus out a window
towards the rear of the bus. The Bald Guy two seats back seemed unaware that my
eyes were stealing his window outlook.
Everything looks grey out there ... The sidewalks, the
windows, the roads, the sky. It’s wet too, the kind of damp that makes your
Converse do the slight squeaking sound on the pavement thing. The grey
pavements mind you. Then suddenly something’s there; colors that stand out
against the grey! Spray paint, Art! Coming in from the outside and then knocks
on the heart. Not sure what it says or means, but there is a history
nonetheless. Maybe a Girl wrote that, or a Boy. Maybe Dropouts, maybe they’re
Aspiring Writers. Possibly they’re Potheads, Photographers, or Freaks. Who
knows? Who needs to know? With art,
everyone’s the same, and still not the same. I recognize the value of how I can
ignore parts, yet let it pour out slices of me alike. Could it be a Lawyer maybe
or a Lover? It may possibly be a Surreptitious Judge or ‘just’ an Offender?
Hmmm …. Maybe it does matter. But hey, art is hard to interpret. Like people …
Like the Metro Girls and Boys …
… Like me. I’m happy, quirky, kindhearted and caring.
I’m also sad, lonely, depressing and barely here. I say every line is yet
another note in my symphony of colors. I’m all sorts of broken pieces,
insecurities, and half-finished characteristics fleetingly blended together,
here to give a little shading to the surroundings. I’m in the bargain bin, the
finished product will be sent out next Thursday if you please. In the end which
is more real? The little ole me that everyone sees every single day, or the one
that only I know? What is seen, what you all think you see, is not what’s in
front of you. You see what I want you to see, what I want you to see. And that
girl is not me. I hate her! If seeing is believing and I only appear when the
lights are out or the doors are all closed, why doesn’t someone start banging
on the door! Come on; get a crowbar … something … anything! Yeah, maybe it does
I wish that you’d get the nerve to ask me why you
rarely see me smile, to investigate me. I’ve always had this fantasy, a sweet
dream really, of someone being so kind as to inquire. They’d take me away from
this routine “E” train ride, to somewhere quiet and ask me if I was okay, ask
me anything. Ask me over coffee perhaps at the cute little French Café on the
corner. Yes, that’s the ticket, that’s how it would happen.
“I see you every day and I never see you smile. Are
I’d slowly shake my head. No words yet. Can’t look anxious.
I’d stare at the swirls in my coffee. It feels hot on my fingers, fighting the
temperature of my vintage country mug. I puff on the steam rising in
spirals. “It reminds me that I want to
There. Now I’m interesting.
“How come?” And then it would happen, “Tell me …”
But you won’t …
Best for me to build an uninviting fence I tell ya. No
one would care to climb over or crawl under it when they think they know what
is on the other side of it. Like a nasty Rottweiler snarling, licking its chops
or something. No one will know I have a story. And if no one knows, I don’t
have to tell it. So I’ll reserve myself until my time comes. I was stupid to
think you could see Sir. I don’t blame you. You’ll just go on knowing nothing
about me and its best it probably stays that way. What was I thinking? Hell, I
don’t even like coffee!
I don’t want anyone to see anyways, unless they are
willing to look. It would only be then that it would be worth the risk of seeing
a face without seeing someone’s back again. Suppose what you will, I’ll always
be ‘that’ girl to you Sir. Kind, reluctant and forgettable. You don’t have to
listen, oh no you don’t. In fact I know that you won’t. I’m just that Bohemian
Girl on the “E”. You know all there is about the Girl on the Metro, don’t cha
But you know nothing about these: The Survivor girl,
The Abused, The Sick, The Beaten, The Hurting, and The Muse. Therefore, my good
Sir, you know so little about me. You don’t have a clue about the nights I
spent under my bed and under those men in whom I should have been able to
trust. Do you understand what it feels like to be bent in half or snapped in
two? Wham, bam, thank you mam. Do you Sir, have a clue what it feels like to
not feel truly human. I open my mouth as if to say, “You’re still beautiful.”
But we both know that’s not true. And the thought makes me want to cry, just a
little, but I hide it so very well.
It really is wrong of me to think that because you see
me every day that you are responsible to dig at me, and find the better parts
of me. I shouldn’t think that of anyone. Everyone has secrets that they long to
hide, hoping that they will not be exposed by anyone. Burying them in the backyard,
veiled behind umbrella drinks in festive colors, and keeping them behind
meaningless conversation, hidden by flowers and barbeques. I am the secret and
I want to be free. I want to be known! I want to get rid that that girl who
pretends to be me, sweet, gentle, smiling and ever so kind. The one you forget
about when you are in the same room as them, and on the same goddamned train
Goodbye Sniper. Do not think I owe you anything, and
you’ll forget all about me and the words I’ve never said. I’m ready to break
the rules of the ‘Girl on the Metro’. I wish you would make an effort, I’m so
tired of being ‘hard to get’. I’ve tried to call out for so long but can never
find my voice. No one is listening again today anyway; they only believe what
they see. Well you know they all see me, why aren’t they looking?
The “E” slows to a gentle stop in front of the Café
Toi et Moi. It’s her stop. Beneath the Tuesday morning traffic, the laughter of
the teens in the back, and the flurry of activity of the fellow Metro-ites
clambering to get on and off the train, there was a voice. It was a cautious
masculine voice reaching towards the Bohemian picking up a handmade canvas,
protected by two sheets of cardboard.
“See you tomorrow.”
I gather my ‘art’, dangling my bag over my shoulder. I
didn’t look back as I stepped of the train into the milieu. Nor did I look back
as the train drove off down its tracks, leaving the busy sidewalk as my
companion. I dare not see what look his face might show, apprehensive at what
emotions his eyes would betray. Does he find me interesting? Or would his face
reflect disgust? Or worse yet, it would be nothing at all. Better to live in
uncertainty, than face what his face might display. Now I can save my hopes,
fears and anticipations, for perhaps the next train ride.
The “Girl on the Metro” walks a few paces, peeks in
the toy store window and then abruptly stops. Suddenly apprehending, and nearly
getting rear ended by another bumbling pedestrian with an unpleasant word or
two to say in the process.
Here is a story I written for a Fiction class at school I would like to share .... Enjoy! .... Let me know what you think!
The Violinist’s Wife
holding her intimately again, gently and warmly, as he has held her every
single day for several weeks now. Without a doubt she is his one true love.
From the doorway of his studio I stand back and watch him embrace her. I covet
the way he lays her body against him, the way they seem to seamlessly fit
together, the way they seem to be made for one another. Eavesdrop on her scream
and whisper in crescendos, singing high, low, and every note in between. Teddy
told me before we were married that he couldn’t possibly love another more than
me, but I’m afraid I just can’t see it. He absolutely adores her. And truth be
told, how can I deny him the pureness and beauty of his love? When he glides
his bow over her strings, the singing of the vibration, the burning of the
notes, there is nothing else like it. Theodore’s violin is the woman he pines
for, the one he desires. Late at night after we make love, I know her harmony
fills his dreams.
playing in legato enhanced by vibrato, the notes flow like streams, one over
another. As I lean against the entryway to watch, I see he is unwilling to part
from her. As I turn to leave, he sees me from the corner of his eye, and looks
up abruptly. He is still sliding the bow across her strings, his fingers
hovering over the delicate curve of her neck. He pauses …
“What is it
Nothing.” I recognize my reply is
He narrows his
eyes. “Sugar? You seem …” Whatever it was that he thought I seem he doesn’t
finish. He exhales and turns back to the sheet music in front of him. “I should
practice a while longer. Why don’t you get dinner started?”
Oh sheesh! I nod.
Dinner. It’s what the violin cannot provide. I turn reluctantly to go to the
kitchen. The music resumes to breath over me. The sound is so clear it fills my
chest. I long to be Theo’s violin, I ache to be a part of it all. I never have
had the head for the wonders he and his violin can create. Although I love it,
when I tried my hand at music, I could not throw myself fully into it with
passion. Writing was more my thing. Now I wish that I could, to save myself
from the loneliness. When Theodore is not creating music with her for himself,
he is performing for the Philharmonic.
His love for her
has taken him farther than his love for me ever could. Far, far from me. The
music he makes is so beautiful; I can sense his romance with her with every
single note. The slow concertos are like a fairytale love story, in which you
anticipate the prince to find his princess. When Theo plays a daring suite, I
can see the dancers in shimmering dresses throw sparkles across the spotless
polished wood dance floor, the stuff of storybooks. That is the potency of
I know that it is
silly, always very silly, to be resentful of an inanimate instrument. Who could
I tell? Who would listen? But she seems to be alive under Theodore’s touch, and
he is unwilling to part from her. From the studio, I can hear the mood of the
piece he is playing flawlessly change. The notes rise and become sharp and
quick. This new melody is upbeat, almost has a bounce to it. The bow slides
quickly, the violin moans from pressured strings, notes tremble in the air,
breaking silence into sparkling shards.
Ambling into the
kitchen, opening the refrigerator, I realize how low we are on anything that
can remotely call healthy. We, well mainly he, make good money. However, he is
so preoccupied with her, he hasn’t bothered to grocery shop, and I have been swamped
for the past month. Today, really, has been the first day I haven’t had pages
to mark up, change, and re-edit for all of January. Releasing a weary sigh, I
walk towards the front door of our flat.
“Theo,” I shout.
continues to spill out of the studio.
“I’m going to the
grocery store,” I continued perfunctorily, knowing that my words were drowning
under the melody. His performing is ceaseless. I turn and gather my coat from
the nearby rack and grey scarf. I open the door and stare. The hallway is nippy.
*sigh* I have zero desire to shop. I quickly realize. I have no desire for
anything. I step back and close the door. I do have a desire. I want my husband
back. Theo has been seduced by the magic and mystery carried in his music.
Biting my lip, I turn away from the door and toss my scarf and coat on the
floor. I proceed towards his studio. He has paused momentarily, and is leaning
over the gorgeous mahogany violin to scribble a few notes to himself. He looks
up and sees me in the hallway.
“I thought you
were going shopping?” He sweeps a strand of hair that has fallen loose from his
ponytail behind his ear.
“I’d rather you
came with me.” The words fell out quietly. “It’s freezing outside, and the city
is so…” my voice trailing off when I see the look on his face. “Forget I said
anything,” I say stupidly. What the hell else can you say to a musician?
But the look he
gives me is not what I expect. His eyes hold me captive. It brings to mind the
first time he caught my look from the stage long before we were married. He was
playing a Paganini Violin Concerto. And
I remember the way he played her, as if just playing for me, just me alone. The
auditorium dimmed, the symphony orchestra became soft, and it was only he and I
and the music. The sound ... of the violin ... so brittle and innocent ... with
a touch of bittersweet and longing ... made my heart ache and remember ... many
things. She was not a figure at all, but an instrument for our love. I believed
we glowed that night. The intensity of the gaze he is giving me, in silence, is
the same but, I cannot read its intention. I am anxious about what he will say
“I’ll order out
and go shopping tomorrow, ok?” My voice is pleading, I’m not sure what for …
Theo breaks his look and nods, “That’s
fine.” As I turn to go, he begins to play differently now. He is playing her
spiccato, hitting her strings with his bow, notes being bounced off. The song
he is playing sounds downcast, yielding eerie memories. My mind conjures up the
impressions of storm clouds, amassing to form a funnel over some distant plain.
I leave the room
and wander down the dimmed hallway. Our flat is considerable, painted in warm
tones of deep red, and muted orange.
We’re the sort that decorates with fresh cut flowers and candles, and
with paintings blended so beautifully with colors, and no lines to tell me who
I should be or where I have to end. But despite all of our best efforts, there
is a chill in the place that apparently cannot be lifted. Even Theo’s love for
his violin can’t exorcise the concealed threads of ice. I pick up the phone and
speed-dial the number for the pizza parlor a block and a half away. I order a
large half- California Club and half-Hawaiian. Sometimes compromising is the
easiest. And besides, I don’t want to interrupt the music any more than I can
help it. But damn …
I decide to head
for the bathroom right across the hall from me. It has a large, spacious
bathtub, the kind with the soothing jets. I scarcely ever use them, but their
comfort is not lost on me. I usually shower, so I don’t waste valuable time I
could be spending on changing tenses, and amending ‘there’ to ‘their’ on a
sloppy manuscript. Besides, this bathtub seems to be full of memories. I turn the handle and soon steam rises off
silken water, with bubbles floating through the air. Sitting on the side of the
tub I take my slippers off and dip my feet in the water.
It was just about
a year ago from this very place that I had rushed to show Theo the plus sign on
my pregnancy test. He had loved me then, and he had loved the new life inside
of me. Two and a half months later I felt something was terribly wrong, so I
crept to the bathroom. Soon enough I had discovered it; blood, lots of it. I
knew I was losing it. You can’t lose this much blood and expect it to still be
alive, still be breathing … of course not … it is impossible. The pain, the
cramps, they were unbearable, the vomiting, the dizziness, all of it ... too
much to take. I took some medicine, lay in the bed, and eventually slept the
rest of the day and night out.
The next day I
spent the entire afternoon in this tub, contemplating how my body had become a
tomb. I was devastated and inconsolable. Theo had sat on the toilet next to the
bathtub, leaning over me, rubbing my hand. There was nothing for it, nothing
was said. He left the room and silently came back with his violin, and sat
there and played. Quietly weeping, the violin moans from pressured strings. He
played for me then, but I think he was playing for himself as well. The notes
fill my chest as my tears would not stop. His music has always been where he
has thrown himself, and the way he played her that day, we shared the
lamentation. Before long, tear drops stain the mahogany one by one …
I would not
return to that day for anything, but he used that violin to love me. Now he
only loves her. I suppose I cannot blame him. After that day, several months
later, I had another. Children cannot grow inside of me. It’s like I was poison
to them! And it was Theo who became inconsolable. He had never verbalized he
wanted children, not aloud, anyway. But he way his face lit up when I told him,
and the way he played when they passed from me … I knew how very much he aspired to be a father. Perhaps that is why
he prefers her to me. With his violin he can create. She is superior where I
have failed. Sometimes fate is so cruel.
I turn off the
jets and kick my feet softly in the warm water, Theo’s playing has stopped. I
hear the front door shut. There is
silence for a moment. Then I hear footsteps coming closer to the bathroom.
“I guess you
didn’t hear the door Hun. It’s on the counter if you want any.” He pokes his
head in the doorway then pauses before speaking. “Carly, is something wrong?”
I look down at my
feet making small ripples in the water and finally shake my head.
“Have you … Have
you been crying?”
I keep looking at
my knees above the bubbles and don’t answer. I want him to take me in his arms
and hold me, but I know very well that he won’t. I wait a few seconds which
feel like minutes. At long last he grips he door face, tightly, before turning
away. “Don’t let it get cold,” he says half-heartedly as he begins to amble
down the hall.
He never eats in
the studio so I know that he is sitting at the table, or at the very least
hovering over the counter. I get up to rinse my hair then drain the bathtub.
Dinner together, even in this state is more appealing than the alternative,
dinner alone. I step out onto the floor. “Crap! There are no towels.” While
puddles form around my feet, I slip on my robe that was still hanging from the
door, and proceed to make little footprints on the hardwood floor as I walk to
the kitchen and dining area.
As I supposed,
Theo is leaning over the kitchen counter, munching on a piece of Hawaiian while
looking out the window at the wall across the alleyway. He has a plate set out
for me beside the pizza box. I open and take out a piece of the California
Club. Trying to smile at him, and then giving up, I pick off a slice of avocado
and pop it in my mouth, taking the plate and the pizza to the table.
“Carly?” he says
after a while.
I look up at him.
He walks up to the table and sits across from me, a vase of tired Peonies
between us. He’s got the look on his face of a man grasping for words. He seems
to mentally shrug and continues, “The new piece is difficult. I keep getting
distracted, slipping into older pieces. More natural I suppose …”
I nod slowly. “It
sounds nice from what I can hear.”
“It’ll be better
when I can play it smoothly, of course”
I stare at my
plate, picking at the peppers and chicken distractedly. Then I stand up. “Do
you want anything to drink?
“Yeah … Sure … Is
there any orange juice?”
refrigerator, I am again instantly reminded about how low our supplies are. “I
guess I really should have gone shopping. There isn’t any.” I pour two glasses
of water and bring them back to the table. We both sit. We both eat. Neither of
“How is the
manuscript going?” Theo asks after wiping his face on a napkin.
I shrug. “There’s
nothing to write home about.”
“Well maybe you
Why don’t you
actually take up writing instead of just tearing other people’s to pieces? You
always can find just the right words!”
strikes me. I’ve thought about it many times, but the excuses then begin, real
and imagined, and those in between, to avoid actually doing it. “Oh please,” I say, trying to sound casual and amused.
“One artist is quite enough in the house.”
“I’m sure you
would be good at it!”
I shake my head.
“No … No … I’m … I’m content.”
“But are you
I force a smile
as I look up at him. “When I am not, I know that this too shall pass. You
should just be concerned with getting that piece prepared in time for the
He rises and picks up his plate and carries
it to the dishwasher with a sigh. After standing for a moment he turns and says
softly, “It’s not a piece for the Spring Concert.”
I cannot hide my
confusion. “Are you not playing? You are almost always first chair. You are
expected to be there. You can’t possibly be thinking of sitting this one out!”
“I can be!” he
declares, rubbing his bottom lip with his long thin musician’s fingers. “Come
Theo takes my
hand and leads me back to his studio and sets me down on the window seat, the
one with the decidedly better view. With extreme care he opens the violin’s
case, and lifts her by the neck-gently. Caressing the smooth varnish upon the
carved surface, he lifts her to his shoulder, and the tension heats. Horse hair
placed at rest upon strings. All thoughts leave my head. With a silent sigh of
anticipation, and an inward breath and preparation, with a flicker of light in
the dark of clover eyes, he begins to play. I have heard him play all day, but
this time he has made it clear that he wants me to listen. And so I do.
composition without poetry would be hard not to do. The violin plays my soul as
my heart glides across the strings. The beat of my existence represents a sad
tale, of loss, pain, and suffering that can only be freed through the
expression of string and bow pressure momentously singing notes. There is a
passion, an immense terrible passion that overcomes me, it crescendos
throughout my being. I can see it in the shift of his expression, in the
concentrated frown of his mouth and in the sincerity of his half-closed eyes. I
could almost hear the words in every touch. The song trails off into a sweet,
deep melody, and then jumps up into lightness with sudden staccato.
I’m sure that
this piece is not one I’ve heard before, but there is something intimate and
familiar to it. It wraps around me, filling me with is deep vibration. I feel
the song binding me up, but softly, carefully. What makes Theo’s playing
different I realize, is that he is not playing it to hear the sounds she makes.
He seems to be waiting for something in the playing, and when he is finished,
he looks up at me. The decrescendo lingers in the air.
“That was … That
was …” I begin standing up.
“For you.” He
said quietly. “Carly, are you going to leave?”
“I’ve seen the
way you … Like he rooms you are in no longer matters. Like you are planning to
get out, to get away … Of all of this.”
I am taken aback.
I look down toward my toes and shake my head. Looking up I reveal, “I don’t
know Theo. I’m going around and around in circles.”
He puts his
violin back in her case and closes it as she has completed playing her part in
this. Then he takes my hand and pulls me close. We embrace, and the warmth of
it that rushes through me is far greater than any music, or perhaps borne of
it. Holding on to him, and bury my head in his chest. My heart is beating fast,
allegro. I could swear I am hearing symphonies …
I was up in the early hours of the morning a night or two ago and came across, in my more or less random surfing on the Internet, a pair of poems that totally moved me. Here is the first one whose author I wish I knew the name of to credit it ...
loved you for too long now Do you know what you mean to me? Do you know
that my heart bleeds for you? I need you to know now more than before You
may never know how I feel Never give me a second glance But what I
need Is to tell you I’m here for you We are far apart Too far away from
you You should know tonight Know right now That I want to be there with
Who knows but the author of course, what the situation was. But I know that there are times when enough is enough and the truth, this feeling of heartbreak and emotion, just must come out. One would hope that for whom this poem was intended received it. Who wouldn't want to have been given it! And you just never know ....
This next poem was found on an Arabic site ...
were the earth that envelops your form,
were the fire that kept you through winter warm,
were the cloud that gave you shade from the sun,
were the spring from which you washed for the One,
were the turban that your blessed hands had spun,
were the sandals that protected your feet,
whole soul would sing and my bliss would be complete.
Just one of the many joys of life, as I find, is cracking open those crispy
little fortune cookies,with the crumbs going everywhere and scooping out the
small bit of paper inside. There are those odd times where they tell you things
you weren't ever aware of before.
And so I said: "What is it that it
tells you?" to my smallish friend. Her name was Charlie. I called her Charles.
It sounded much more sophisticated, in my mind.
"It says: good luck and
good fortune are coming your way." she said, and ate the cookie shards all in
I carefully halved mine, and used my ring finger and thumb to
pull the fortune from it's hold,trying not to make to big of a mess. And so, I
looked at it. And it told me.
"The rubber bands are headed in the right
To which I, and my friend, so very intelligently
house sat alone, down a dirt road in the middle of a rolling field. Her lawn
consisted of dazzling yellow dandelions that were blooming in full. In her
garden were fruit trees and climbing Romano beans, every kind of tomato,
numerous vegetables ripening in the warm summer sun. Off to the side of an
octagon cedar gazebo was a particularly noticeable raspberry bush.
porch was a single stone path that ambled straight through corridors of
lavender, chamomile and an assortment of mint. It met a small koi pond that had
blooming lilies floating on its surface.
she had on was silk, very fluid and perfectly white like fresh snow, or perhaps
a swan’s wing. The skirt was full length and golden ribbons served as a belt
and trim to the neckline and hem. Her mahogany hair had been curled and hung in
long loopy tendrils past her shoulders to her mid back. She looked in a word
stunning, and yet …
the gentleman in and showed him her cottage. It was hand built of stones and
bricks, with wooden rafters from which there were thousands of scented leaves
and sprigs drying. There were large glass windows which let in the moonlight
and stood open to let in a gentle breeze tickling the Scottish Lace Curtains.
Her bookcases were filled with knowledge, adventure and mystery. A river rock
fireplace took up a wall of the kitchen, a large stone basin stood next to it.
The lady had
counters of polished blonde oak, and cabinets full of dishes, some brightly
colored, some of simple clay, all of her hand. She smiled at him and produced
an old copper pot, which was filled half full and set over the stove. She
turned on the burner as she rolled fresh Moroccan mint and buds from the
lavender and set them afloat in the water. After it had boiled, she strained
the moss colored liquid into two simple clay mugs ….
This was a short story done for my fiction class a few months ago. My instructor made the comment to class no one should ever end a story with "and I woke up," or something like that. Of course I had to try ...
As we look forward to our week of remembering 9/11, I offer the following hymn of peace for your consideration today.
“…and they shall beat their swords into plowshares,
and their spears into pruning hooks;
nation shall not lift up sword against nation,
neither shall they learn war anymore;
but they shall sit every man under his vine and under his fig tree,
and no one shall make them afraid,
for the mouth of the Lord of hosts has spoken.” (Micah 4:3-4, ESV)
I can’t believe its coming on 10 years since that day. I think the real message in September 11 is that there is a lot of pain and anger in the world. This world really needs hope and love. This morning I finished reading Philip Yancey’s “Where is God When It Hurts?” and he had something in there that startled me. In India only 3% of the country is Christian, yet Christians in India are responsible for 18% of the health care. In India when you ask someone what they think of when they think of a Christian, they think of love, compassion and graceful health care to the poor. Wouldn’t it be great if it were like that in the United States?
God of peace, bring your peace to our violent world: peace in the hearts of all men and women and peace among the nations of the earth. Turn to your way of love those whose hearts and minds are consumed with hatred. Amen.
All is quiet on this Monday after Pow Wow, and normality, such as it is, has return to our usually quiet mountain town. But allow me to share with you some photos from Saturday afternoon's Grand Entry.
I'm a 55 year old college student majoring in fine arts, with 4 children (12, 18, 25, 26) and live in the metropolis of Chiloquin, somewhere in the mountains of Oregon. I am planning to go to Portland State University in Spring 2012 and major in Graphic Arts. My interests include photography, camping and other outdoor activities, as well as writing and a new interest in watercolor.
This blog is just stuff I've been writing about, some thoughts, articles I find interesting, Christianity, stories and lots of quizzes .... My it challenge, inspire and make you laugh on occasion as well! Life really is interesting!