10:08 p.m. - Friday, Jul. 13, 2012
New York City
I used to have a piano under my fingertips any time I wanted it. A little spinnet piano with metal legs. But a year ago, I moved to a small second-floor apartment and gave the piano away. I remember watching its new family roll it down the sidewalk and into the back of their pickup truck. Sad day for me, hopefully happy for them.
I've endured this year by singing daily with four-year-olds. Fifteen little voices singing "This Little Light of Mine" took a lot of the pain away from the piano's departure. And forced me to improve my guitar skills.
This afternoon, I drove an hour and a half to spend two hours in a little room with a piano. Bach has suffered greatly. Chopin is only a little worse for wear. And Satie is firmly planted in my soul, as he always has been. When the last mysterious notes of Satie's Gnossienne died away, I turned my attention to the Beatles. And played and sang and felt and stamped and rocked until I had nothing left.
Tension and release. My musical orgasm. I've missed you.
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