Friday, September 27, 2002

Piano Plinkety Plunkety

There's a little girl playing piano -- she's practicing -- I'm imagining it's a little girl, all I hear is the plinkety plunkety noise of it in a lovely light blue color. It's a sound that reminds me of water and the ocean and the whole world.

And on this rainy almost-autumn afternoon, I'm thinking about the whole world. I'm thinking about our big secret. We are busy living with this big secret and it's so transparent -- you can see right through it -- but we don't talk about it. The secret is: we all die.

And she is slowly plunking out the melody now, a pretty thing. And her mother's leaning over her, making sure she practices so some day when she grows up, she'll be a big girl who knows how to play the piano.

But really we all learning these different things -- how to play the piano, how to paint, how to tie our shoes, how to whatever -- for no good reason at all. We learn these things as if everything will just go along swimmingly, we'll all go on and on and won't it be lovely. But actually, did I mention, we all die. Everything the little girl's fingers learn about the ivory keys she's touching so gingerly today will go with her when she goes. Shouldn't someone tell her? No, I guess not. Her mother should tell her to keep practicing.