smudges have eroded the mastic-varnish. a thin veil of dust lingers over the black and white hammers. the fingers stretch gingerly, a tad clumsy, but still an octave and one key.
feathered notes used to flow from these ivory keys.
mendelssohn, op 19 no.4-lied ohne worte. i was told my playing was so emotive it touched my audience, but as usual, my rhythm was off. they didnt know it was the lack of measured movement that gave my playing its character; emotions metamorphosed into music. song without words indeed. it needed no words from me. for each different time, the same song never sounded the same.
it was my sedative; i would play away till repose took hold. i've almost forgotten how it feels. it all came back today.
