Philip Glass - Metamorphosis 1
There's something about the piano that terrifies and excites me. They're full of some strange power that compels my every sense, they're full of mystery and make me breathe differently, strange.
My aunt Jeannie had one in her living room. I remember my cousin feigning to learn it but I don't remember anyone ever actually playing it. I know there were songs but I can't recall them and I don't think it was played well or with any force. I remember sitting under it and hitting its keys and wanting it to make sense instead of just noise. I wanted to speak with it, for it to speak with me. I wanted to be at a piano. I remember others in the room speaking but I didn't care for their words, I wanted the words of this thing.
I learned some basics on a chord organ when I lived by myself. It sat against the wall next to the bathroom and was barely ever turned on. It was loud so I would learn its scales late at night with no sound, finding the tones in my head and making memory in my muscles. I gravitated more toward the minor keys. And I never really learned it but found words.
I don't know that I ever want to learn it though. I fear it would lose its mystery. I have to detune my guitar and find alternate tunings to remember its appeal, I don't want that for pianos. They're too holy in my body for such things. The wood, the colour, the sound, the cities inside them. They're the most pure of instrument.
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