3:56 p.m. - Tuesday, Nov. 24, 2009
The poet's head is full of it.
I felt the onset of panic. I held out my hands to determine the level of control I still had. Moments of stillness and moments of shaking. I took the key to room 106 in my shaking hand, surprised it only took me one try to open the combination lock. And I started to play. Stop thinking. Stop analyzing. Stop worrying. I did scales. I did arpeggios. I forced myself to practice as if there was nothing happening in 40 minutes. Sickness. I still had 10 minutes to the performance. I couldn't arrive early. I couldn't sit in that cold room while my hands shook and my body sweat, and I shivered. I would play Bach. As if nothing was happening. Number 6, number 8, number 13. It's amazing what Bach can do. Meditate. Concentrate. He makes my hands feel good. He makes my heart feel satisfied. I feel like a musician. Like I'm putting together the pieces of his musical puzzle.
When I left the room it was 11:41. Four minutes. I arrived with only a few minutes to spare and not enough time to revel in my thoughts of impending doom. Not enough time to self-prophecy. He looked at me and said, "Are you ready?" "Let's just do this," I replied. I smiled. I bowed. I played. I smiled. I bowed. My right hand was too loud, my left hand stumbled once or twice, and I still got that note wrong that I always get wrong. But I did it. And I felt good. And I earned my 10 points. I earned them.
Thank you, Erik Satie. The poet is alone in his tower . . .
�
�
