Prose

Between The Cracks

Between the cracks of the piano keys, where the quarter and eighth tones lie, invisible gems are to be found.

Whole tones (normal notes) have no business here…no one likes them… they just seem whole, they’re really broken; like a million notes in smudged ink all over the page.

I long for these sounds to break the cacophony around me.  Dissonance? They are consonant to me.  They fill my cup in a parched closet, old wood, dry and brittle, thirsting for moisture.  Dusty, unpopular, unseen, unheard by most human ears…

I love those places.  Ah…let me sleep there.

“Grand Opening Here”, I run the other way.  I’ll come in the middle of the night thank you-when no one is around but the ghost of my Grandpa, and maybe his friend with him.  I can write then. Dusty basements, hidden shops, in between dimensions, cracks and mortice hide the doorways.

I long for these places to break up the routine of my day. 

Little antiques stores, old forgotten thrift stores where mom & pop still sit in the chair from 1926, gems are to be found.  Patina so thick you can taste the smell of it, musky, soil, brackish dark. Cobwebs everywhere-but it’s all new to me.

I’m looking for…my friend…a part of my soul that is tragically invisible to the surface dwellers, so odd, so unexpected that it thrashes my back.  So impossible, so inconvenient, so much…so very good!

It feels eternally old and yet new to me; New to me because it doesn’t “fit” in my brain; in my plan.  My well ordered, hip, sharp, cerebral, sassy, punkish, cavalier brain brutishly, insensitively mocked your old stories, your tradition, your nostalgia, your mischief.  I’m not really laughing.  I just really, really like the texture of it all-and you.

It has been said, “Your heart is a fickle leader!”  Then I am the crumbs in the bottom of the toaster-like the host crumbs in “the cup”.  Drink me.  I am altogether undone.  So be it…

Move to the old that is new!

Take a leap…what seems old is new, what seems new is old.  What’s up is down??

It just is.

It aches to feel like a foreigner on my own planet…Always seeking a creative space that is misunderstood, mysterious, and forgotten.

Gorge on my grief and run for cover then…

Nothing is lacking; ever…all of it.  The devil is in the details they say.  His ears shriek when he hears quarter tones and eighth tones between the cracks; and time is no more.  When the notes become whole, he is undone.

Lisa T.

2/14/10

walking-on-a-piano

 

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