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| waste of my 4/4 time. | 02.06.2004 | |
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 if someone were to make a list of the top five most frustrating experiences in my life, i would first ask them why they would want to make such a list. i’m sure we would argue a little about it: he or she would sit—defiant—with a legal pad resting on their crossed legs with me thirty percent curious, thirty percent stubborn, thirty percent flabbergasted, and ten percent about thirty percent hungry enough for a large taco. eventually, i would give in... because number one on my list would be for the five years i took piano lessons. and, well, i love to bitch about it. i hated piano lessons. every tuesday my mom would drop me off at this old lady’s house and would have to smell her stuffy house for an hour. either she never dusted, or dead skin cells multiply exponentially in elderly peoples houses. i remember asking her to open a window once, but, tightlipped, she refused. she was deathly scared of eagles... and didn’t want one errantly flying in through the window into her home. i also remember arguing that since the eagle would have to puncture through the screen, by the time it actually got into the house it would be too hurt to do... ... whatever terrifying thing it is that eagles do to frighten old women. as always, though, she had the perfect, indisputable rebuttal: “eagles are strong.” end of discussion. each week she would “evaluate” me on my practice assignments from the week prior. she would award a gold star for perfection, a red star for “good,” and a blue star for “sigh,” a green star for “jesus kid... you had ALL week!” finally, she awarded no star for a strange purgatory where i didn’t know if she: (a) would re-assign the piece for the following week, (b) would just skip the song with the understood “you’re just not talented enough to play this,” or (c) would put down the bowl of jiggily jello squares (that she always slurped on during my lessons) to storm out for some “fresh air.” i always thought that she could have just got some fresh air by opening the window, and letting me continue my lesson. but, i guess we couldn’t do that. because of the eagles. once, she even mentioned that she would like to someday move down to holmes county, the next county south of where we lived in ohio. she claimed that she had read in some almanac that holmes county had a low amount of eagles per square mile. none. to me, it seemed like an obvious lateral move, however... i had enough problems with piano lessons to argue with her any more. being a perfectionist, the old woman’s stringency with the gold stars was an excruciating weekly aggravation. my grimaces at red and blue star-shaped foil stickers was always met with something like “i’m practically out of gold stars, and your fingers weren’t curved enough to hold a smooth transition on the fourth bar. sorry tommy.” she would always call me tommy. when i was first introduced to her, she said “xander? what kind of name is that? that doesn’t sound like a little boy’s name.... maybe... maybe a rabbit’s name. or a bunny’s. though, bunnies don’t talk. and you are quiet one... bunnies don’t even say moo or anything like the cowfolk do... alrighty then, tommy, let’s get you inside. my jello is congealed.” and then she waddled through the doorway like she was made of it. so, as she placed the red sticker next to “auld lang syne” i shook my head. another mistake on the bass clef. my face fell, and i looked over to her. she had finished her bowl of jello, and was now placing gold stars all over her face. 
“tommy,” she said. “the bass line gets you every time. practice. practice. practice. you don’t want to mess up the bass clef. look at it: it’s an eagles eye— it’s watching, tommy. always watching... |
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| 11:38 pm | xander said this. | |
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