Snap! September 15, 2006

The piano tuner came today to get our grand piano in shape for the concert on Saturday. Dum, dum, dum, dum sounede the piano as he read the pitch-reader machine in front of him. Suddenly, TWANG!

One of the bass strings snapped and flew across the living room. I thought it was pretty exciting. The string, long and metallic, lay in front of the fireplace. I thought that it was ironic that the sting had been ringing a few seconds before, and now it lay immobile on my living room carpet. Dead.

I’ve had strings snap on me when I was practicing. (Speaking of strings, I need to change them soon.) I’d be practicing intensely when snap! My E string would tense too much and break. I would do a nervous little jump, surprised that I had that much strength in me. I was almost as bad when someone would tap me on the shoulder to let me know that someone was calling for me, or that dinner was ready. I don’t think that I have ever concentrated on something so hard as violin that when interrupted I would jump a few inches in the air. I would sometimes drop my bow.

But, back to the piano tuner. I was working on my research at home, but oddly the repetitive notes of the piano did not distract my concentration. I would imagine that it could drive someone crazy hearing the E above middle C being struck multiple times in a row. Not me. It was oddly soothing as I heard the notes shimmy up the scale, a half step at a time.

I asked the piano tuner what caused the string to snap, and he replied that it there were many factors caused strings to break and that all of the strings were as likely to break than the others. It also depended on the piano-each one is unique.

Sometimes I feel like I’m going to snap or going to break. But I don’t want to end up bent and broken. It’s only a matter of time before the tension must be released…or I change the string itself. And, if I play it just right, I can make beautiful music in the process.

Not thinking. September 13, 2006

Last night my friends and I took a trip down to Santa Cruz. We brought wood stolen from the back of Safeway; it was originally part of a pallet. Eveything occurred as it was supposed to-we took highway 101 to 85 to 17. We made sandwiches and ate them. We made a bonfire and sat around it.

But the best thing about the night was the ocean. It had been unbearably hot in Palo Alto, and a combination of the cool ocean air as well as the numb-cold waves was just what I needed. (During our car ride, I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, trying to get rid of the unpleasant sticky sensation of shirt adhered to leather car seat.) In and out, in and out they went. The night turned dark and obscured the line where the sky meets the ocean. The only light came from the garish pier of the Santa Cruz Boardwalk, a Gatsby-like green light from a lighthouse, and the twinkling of the stars.

I liked not being able to see everything clearly. I liked being in the dark, not having to scrutinize every detail or image that passed in front of me. I felt oddly comforted by the darkness around me. The soothing constancy of the waves provided a mental relief. For some time, as the water pulsated around me and I sunk slowly into the sand, I didn’t have to think. I didn’t have to worry, I could just be.

Guy joined me, and we talked. But it was a mindless chatter, for I was becoming lost in the water. It wasn’t a helpless feeling. No, I accepted and resigned the fact. My rolled up pants became soaked, but I didn’t care. It was too much to think about.

Perfect moment September 10, 2006

At the Milkpail Market, everything is fresh and organic. Today, I guided my sister around the cardboard boxes stacked high with fruit, vegetables, and roots. I grabbed a snap pea and bit into it, releasing satisfying crunch and a burst of sugar juice . I couldn’t stop marveling at how colorful the produce was! Deep red, playful orange, forest green, stained purple, pale yellow… it was a veritable visual feast. People of all ages and races shopped here, or rather, selected what they wanted.

The market itself is not that big. As a result, on busy days like Saturday, not only do the tastes and the sights vie for your attention, but so does the crowdedness of the place. Everything moved. Workers hands stacked crates of peaches, aged spotted hands slowly guided a laden shopping cart, a cashier’s hands swiftly and accurately counted out change for a customer.

Suddenly, my sister and I arrived in front of the refrigerated cheese case. Italy, France, US all had contributed their finest cheeses for the display. I said, “Look at all of the beautiful cheese!”

 A handsome, curly-haired European man with a basket full of fresh produce turned and smiled at me while overhearing our conversation as I explained the history of the cheeses to my sister. There is nothing more attractive than a man who buys organic produce by himself! I smiled back.