From the apartment above the predictable Friday evening piano lesson is heard. Some of the old familiar childhood songs, as my mother (who do you suppose my mother is?) began teaching me piano at age 7 and for 2 years was my teacher. Then I was shuffled off to some other matron, gifted perhaps in technique but unable to deal with my selfish, persnickety and sullen outbursts. Those days were numbered to less than a year and from then on I had to teach myself to play.
What do "Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star" and "When the Saints Come Marching In" have in common? They annoy the Hell out of someone who has not had the experience of falling deeply in love with a repetitive tinkling of fingers on ivory and the trance state one can achieve through this process. I of course do not fall into that category. I am a Master of trance, spiritual transport, ecstasy through absorption in sensual touch, sound, intrigue and delight in entirely captivating activities unrelated to what keep the wheels of life greased.
Give me an instrument to play, a floor to spin and twirl upon! Lend me your attention and I'll press myself to the brink of heart attack to impress and delight you; perhaps even seduce you. I have ripened to the age where I understand that discipline is inevitable if one commits themselves to the river of creative flow. Practice then I shall upon your devilish keys of ivory, ebony, ringing and pounding against the tightly wound brass and steel strings. All of that tension; all of that promise and fragile, breaking, bleeding hope to find a moment where the muse delivers her wide open appreciation and bends the rules of life to enable some glimpse into immortality.
You at this point may be thinking that immortality is not really a matter of doubt for one who refers to themselves as The Devil. Well think again. Thomas Merton, Pema Chodron, Aldous Huxley, Jesus Christ etc etc etc. We all have our time of teaching and our time of reflection and our time of passing. Practice!
Yours,
B
