There is nothing I enjoy more than playing the piano. I really do believe I can make a living out of it, but Aswad says that it’s way-too-freaking-hard. Maybe if it was the only thing I could, and felt as if I had no other option but to play music for the rest of my life, then Aswad would admit that I have potential. But in the mean time, I have to put up with the doubts that Aswad implants in my mind. As my thought process unwinds, whether it is about the logistics of learning a piece or writing one, Aswad is there to play the Devil’s Advocate. Aswad tries to convince to think farther ahead into the future, where the college process begins and I may or may not be ready to apply to a conservatory or liberal arts school to at least minor in music, specifically performance. But the one thing that she doesn’t know is that playing the piano enables to think more clearly in the present moment, and to not sabotage myself with certain anxieties about the next 18 months or so. Therefore, I don’t dwell about these topics as often as she’d like.
I’ll practicepracticepractice until hours have gone by, and I emerge in a euphoria unlike one anybody can get me to feel—not with words, touch, or… well, yes, emotion. Emotional could be one word I could use to describe the way playing the piano feels. At one moment I can let the sounds I play resonate within me until I feel something. Aswad might put some sort of label on the feeling like “sad”, “light”, “provocative”, or “vulgar”. However, I choose not to put a label on such things. I’d rather let them be and commit the Chopin Mazurka I’m playing to muscle memory. Enjoying the music you play can be an unfeasible task.
Aswad is the whit elephant in the room from time to time. She reminds me of the one thing I have to come to terms with eventually. All I know now is that I don’t have to-- not now. For now, just commit the Beethoven Sonata to muscle memory, and live inside the listening. Play with intention, and the rest will fall into place.
