away message
Gaunt.
It was the first word that came to his mind that morning.
He always woke mouthing a single word, as if his subconscious was fighting to expel itself from his mind. The words were silent but harsh. Whoever lay next to him may notice the trembling of his lips, possibly a whisper of the word, but it would otherwise be an inconspicuous gesture.
To him, however, the words, powerful in their simplicity, cunning in their singularity, were like sirens. Although he was perhaps waken by the barren clang of the church bells, the words were what greeted him.
Not the sun crawling through the window blinds. Not the sound of grease crackling from a stovetop. Not the howl of an ambulance, raping the morning streets. Not the scent of lavendar from the woman who lay next to him, the woman who took a bath the night before. And not the bony, emaciated sound of the church bells… a harmony so aged and pathetically misplaced.
Gaunt.
The ceiling fan slowly turned, and as he fixed his eyes on the languid blades, he felt as if they were descending upon him. Each blade slowly cut away the veiny fingers of the word that buried itself inside of him, the word, the spore, now malignant.
Relieved from the weight of the word, he floated, as if summoned, punch drunk, to the table which bore yesterday’s paper and a cup of cold coffee from the night before. He found that drinking coffee an hour before sleeping made his dreams more vivid and lucid, and the caffeine had this reverse, placid effect on his demeanor - as if he were drinking opium tea.
He thumbed through the various sections of the paper - headliners, sports, home and garden, until he stumbled upon the classifieds. There was something desperate and capricious about the classifieds that reassured him; the words smothered and suffocated the page, words of hope, words of commerce, words trying to muster value.
Piano teacher, Hollywood vicinity, seeks beginner students for instruction. Pay per hour, at the home of the instructor.
Never disciplined enough to learn the idiosyncrasies and technicalities of the instrument, he never succeeded in piano instruction. As a child, he would boorishly press his fingers against the keys, feeling the disapproving glare of the piano teacher behind him, that piercing stream of heaviness he felt with just about everything he did in those days. “The keys seem so faraway, I feel so faraway,” he would tell his piano teacher. She looked at him, assuming he just wanted to end the lesson so that he could go outside and play, evading his confession. But he really did feel faraway, like he was being sucked through a funnel, being sifted into some ubiquitous place he didn’t understand, but a place so desirable and alluring.
He reached for the red pen next to his coffee mug and circled the advertisement. Imagining the intricacies of the notes and lines, he shuddered at the thought of returning to that wooden bench, to that faraway feeling.
Maybe she could teach me to play just one song, he thought. It would be the Trois Gymnopedies, Erik Satie, because it is the sound of the rain cascading on the other side of a window pane. It was the sound of the road in which he followed his father, furtively, as his father went to see a mistress. It was the sound of his mother smoking a cigarette again for the first time in thirteen years. It was the sound of his sister pressing her head against his shoulder, relieved the he stopped after his second glass of wine.
Could she teach him to play just one song? Would that be antithetical to the whole discipline of piano instruction? It would certainly be possible, but would she feel defeated and demeaned by jumping so hastily from one point to another?
But he had to able to play that one song. That most robust song. It would be a remedy, that melodic pressure under his fingers.
The thickness, the roundness, the voluptous sound that would bring him closer.