1. i think only the fact that I can pull off the B section of my prelude compensates for the fact that my feelings of importance as a person are inversely proportional to what they were this time last year.
2. i console my fact with the fact that i am in a business where novelty is key. all i must do is be cool and aloof. the less i care, the more attractive i seem. this sadly strips me of any possibility i have of meaningful relationships with Real People, but what can one do?
3. these are not the kind of people i want as fans. i don’t WANT fans! i want people with attention spans! staying power! interest! no one is interesting all the time! we are selling love here… not beer and potato chips and laugh tracks and pressed cheese. i’m a piano player.
4. yes. it is time to practice.
5. i think i am finally getting fat again. rather than being a cause of relief, as i thought this eventuality would be, this is just pissing me off. i am always getting thinner when curvy is in and when little-and-vulnerable is the rage i’m poking out all over the place like a Thanksgiving Turkey. Well, whatevermonkeys!
6. you really have no idea how fast my left hand has gotten. i need to compose something cool double quick, because no one wants to hear me play Rachmaninoff. I think this feels good because my aunt loved Rachmaninoff. So it feels tributey. Next I will tackle some Liszt and keep fixing my Chopin. There is something about banging out frustration of an entire year of encroaching mediocrity and the eventuality of total loss with the Romantic Period. It’s lush and over-brimming. You can really force people (and yourself) to feel. There is not a high incidence of people in the world who can pull off the piano-skills necessary to play these pieces. And the more you play them, the more fun ones you can do. And the more you LISTEN to them, the more you want to do them. And the more your ear craves things that are more complex. You want jazz. You want moderns. You want fugues and chant and medieval things – chansons, dances, folk music – which are strangely complex.
You notice that you don’t care anymore that nobody really notices that you are off to the side and that you are the box of macaroni stuck in the pantry. It’s assumed that you’ll keep for another few months.
the hell you will. the hell you will.