Three Vignettes of No Particular Order (sixth in a series of 10)
I. Piano Player
You play piano like a madman savant. Jerry Lee Lewis wishes he were you. Your features are awash in the sweat of performance. You pound the keys. You hang from the rafters and play with your feet. You are an enigma. Controlled as Dean Martin. Insane as Jim Morrison. Hair hanging in your face.
I see you walking in the mall, arm in arm with a beauty and her two children. You leave a trail of Cool like lava. It is remarkable that you do not seem out of place, foreign, in your shin-length shorts, baggy shirt, and embarrassing lime green shoes. But no. You glide like the 1950s. Like a Cadillac on the strip.
Everything you pass is spent. Window displays. Manufactured greenery. Skylights. The walls, having bookended your passing, shake and slide to the floor which having been consumed by your lava trail fade to nothing behind you.
And you do not mind because forward is the only direction you know.
And the piano is your lover.
II. Trash Day
Trash Day tomorrow.
From the porch he watches the green container he wheeled to the curb earlier. It stands patient by the mailbox.
From the porch it looks like two strangers waiting for a bus.
He wonders absently what secrets they will share once he obliges them, rises, and finally retires for the night.
III. My Mother’s Living Room
I do not know if the memory is real or imagined but it resides within and has lent itself to several retellings. The memory is that of several musicians in my mother’s living room playing the finest bluegrass music ever played. In truth it was probably a guy or two with guitars noodling and messing around. In memory it was a full tilt bluegrass event complete with picking and stomping and dancing. Either way it has remained pleasant in my head for over 30 years.
Forget that my mother’s small living room likely could not accommodate the folks from my memory—nor barely their audience. Forget that.
It is true that my memory has never been among my stronger attributes. But usually there is simply a void, a blank slate where the memory should be. It is uncommon for me to have a sustained recollection at all. Much less so for me to embellish it. But this bluegrass thing is different. It is clear. Clear in the sense that it occurred. But also it is typical for me in that it is like looking at a thing through gauze. All hints and shadows.
Oh the wonder of a mother’s living room and the clarity of hints and shadows.
You play piano like a madman savant. Jerry Lee Lewis wishes he were you. Your features are awash in the sweat of performance. You pound the keys. You hang from the rafters and play with your feet. You are an enigma. Controlled as Dean Martin. Insane as Jim Morrison. Hair hanging in your face.
I see you walking in the mall, arm in arm with a beauty and her two children. You leave a trail of Cool like lava. It is remarkable that you do not seem out of place, foreign, in your shin-length shorts, baggy shirt, and embarrassing lime green shoes. But no. You glide like the 1950s. Like a Cadillac on the strip.
Everything you pass is spent. Window displays. Manufactured greenery. Skylights. The walls, having bookended your passing, shake and slide to the floor which having been consumed by your lava trail fade to nothing behind you.
And you do not mind because forward is the only direction you know.
And the piano is your lover.
II. Trash Day
Trash Day tomorrow.
From the porch he watches the green container he wheeled to the curb earlier. It stands patient by the mailbox.
From the porch it looks like two strangers waiting for a bus.
He wonders absently what secrets they will share once he obliges them, rises, and finally retires for the night.
III. My Mother’s Living Room
I do not know if the memory is real or imagined but it resides within and has lent itself to several retellings. The memory is that of several musicians in my mother’s living room playing the finest bluegrass music ever played. In truth it was probably a guy or two with guitars noodling and messing around. In memory it was a full tilt bluegrass event complete with picking and stomping and dancing. Either way it has remained pleasant in my head for over 30 years.
Forget that my mother’s small living room likely could not accommodate the folks from my memory—nor barely their audience. Forget that.
It is true that my memory has never been among my stronger attributes. But usually there is simply a void, a blank slate where the memory should be. It is uncommon for me to have a sustained recollection at all. Much less so for me to embellish it. But this bluegrass thing is different. It is clear. Clear in the sense that it occurred. But also it is typical for me in that it is like looking at a thing through gauze. All hints and shadows.
Oh the wonder of a mother’s living room and the clarity of hints and shadows.
posted by Ryan at 7:23 PM
12 Comments:
tap ... tap ... is this thing on?
!
Been awhile since you've updated. I hope all's well.
I hope you've died. You're worthless. You can't write your way out of a paper bag.
OK, I want to read more of your stuff too. Sober up and post something.
Don H.
"When I was 10, I was doing my own laundry, making my own meals, and finishing the day with the evening paper leaning foward on my knees, often with my head supported by both hands beneath my chin."
And what do you find yourself doing now, Best Ryan?
Hope all is well in your silence, and it is self-imposed rather than not.
If only we had a Ryan post ... then I'd truly have something to be thankful for. Hope all is well. You are missed.
Ry
Hey, here's a blast from the past. Let's see if I can jog your memory...Travelers Ins, Joe's Underground, Charlie Chaplin. Give Up?
M
Happy New Year! Anyone home?
I hope that everything is good for you Ryan, I miss reading :(
Happy Holidays, you.
Checking in. Where's the best place to find you these days?
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