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Aug. 2nd, 2016 05:40 pmLang stared at the old piano. Her arms were crossed over her chest defensively as if the piece of furniture had said something offensively insulting. In actuality, the piano hadn't spoken in months. And now, it couldn't speak.
She unfolded her arms and leaned over the keyboard, playing a riff from the first sonata that came to mind. Immediately, she was met with several dead keys and in frustration, smashed her fists on the keyboard. Those dead ones remained silent, almost like they were mocking her.
Pulling the bench out, she sat. In a lot of ways, this piano was the manifestation of her life. Worn, beat up. And now partially silenced. She walked her fingers along the keys, mentally keeping track of each one that didn't play. Her husband had made it seem like it was only a few notes, but as she reached the bass keys, she realized it was a significant number.
Lang bit the inside of her lip. Her pulse picked up.
She felt like her hands were tied.
This piano needed to be replaced. But she didn't really need to replace it with something as expensive as a Victorian-era Steinway. Or a Steinway at all.
Did she really feel so badly about herself as to think she's unworthy of a quality instrument? The voice in the back of her mind, the one she's constantly fighting against and gaining no ground, insisted she could get by with an instrument that doesn't meet professional standards.
Self-sabotage is passive-aggressive. She’s admitted and accepted she doesn’t want to play with the orchestra. Making do with a substandard piano would ensure the opportunity with the New York Philharmonic never comes to be. Or any other opportunities, for that matter.
She wants to tour. That bug got under her skin and she needs it. She needs the energy and the excitement and the ability to share her music with so many different people in so many different places.
But no, she had been talked into walking away from that life. She’d agreed to a temporary separation, but she knew that wasn’t the case. Deep down, she knew it was permanent.
She’d been bound to this piano for her own good. Handled with kid gloves and shackled up like someone deemed mentally incompetent. What made this better than the other? Who were they to make that decision for her?
It hurt, ached in her chest like a red hot clamp squeezing her heart and lungs.
Walking away from something that had been as much a part of her life as pianos had been felt like deciding to remove her left arm when the alternative was to remove the right.
Except she didn’t need the orchestra to survive.
She needed the piano and she needed the band. That’s all she’d ever needed.
And now she had neither.
Slow tears rolled down her cheeks and she grit her teeth. She wanted to rage against everything. Because it didn’t matter how many circles she went in or which direction she started out going, she always arrived back at needing to replace this old instrument.
New songs were born here. Melodies were sussed out of poetry. Until it had been silenced by weather and age and poor craftsmanship.
She felt like it deserved some of the blame. If only they hadn’t bought a cheap piano. If only it hadn’t broken. She felt like the only way she could justify getting a new one was to stay in job she didn’t want.
Her heart beat in her chest, rapid thumps against her ribs. She needed a release, a way to let the frustration and anger out. In the past, her first instinct would have been to take a razor blade to the flesh of her thigh and bleed out the agony.
But as she’d grown up, she’d learned to trade the razor for a pen and her skin for a pad of paper. She’d string words together, anything that came to mind, and then the notes followed quickly, one after another. She could hear all the parts in her head, the strings and the bass and of course the melody which flowed from her fingers and sung with the voice of her piano.
Lang swiped at a tear hanging from her nose and laid her fingers on the keys. She forgot, for a moment, about the broken keys. She played the first few bars of a song from the band’s unfinished album. Almost immediately, she ran up against those broken keys like a brick wall.
Quickly, she stood up, tipping the bench over as she moved, and as if on autopilot, she went to a hall closet. Buried in a dark corner amongst the winter coats and umbrellas was an old metal baseball bat from her days on a softball team.
She wrapped her shaky fingers around the neck of the bat and gripped it firmly. Her pulse raced. Her legs felt weak, like she might drop to the floor, but she returned to the piano. She blinked, clearing the tears out of her eyes, and with a scream from deep in her belly, took a swing. The bat connected with the front leg, sending it flying across the room. Wood splinters flew like confetti.
Lang adjusted her grip and adjusted her stance before taking another swing. The bat connected with the other leg, sending it in a shower of splinters to the other side of the room, tumbling end-over-end. It came to rest not far from the first.
Without pausing, she took aim at the front of the cabinet. The tears were making it difficult to see her target, but it didn’t matter. She didn’t care. She swung the bat again and again, screaming and crying each time the bat made contact.
Suddenly the front panel fell off, exposing the pin block, the root of all her problems. It was amazing how one piece of wood made so many keys useless. Just the sight of guts of the piano was enough to stoke the fire in her heart. She was just as damaged, never good enough.
Lang again adjusted her grip and started bringing the bat down on the keyboard. She could hear each dying note as she smashed the cheap plastic keys. The keys shattered with each blow, easily leaving the keybed and landing scattered across each other like black and white pickup sticks.
Another smash and another and another. She couldn’t catch her breath. With the next smash, the keybed let go on one end and hung at a slight downward angle, but it was enough to bring the destruction into focus. The bat fell to the wood floor with a clank-clank and rolled away.
Her heart was racing and she still couldn’t catch her breath. Lang pressed a hand to her chest and sank to the floor, defeated and crying. The more she tried to fill her lungs with air, the harder it got. Maybe it was time to call someone.
She unfolded her arms and leaned over the keyboard, playing a riff from the first sonata that came to mind. Immediately, she was met with several dead keys and in frustration, smashed her fists on the keyboard. Those dead ones remained silent, almost like they were mocking her.
Pulling the bench out, she sat. In a lot of ways, this piano was the manifestation of her life. Worn, beat up. And now partially silenced. She walked her fingers along the keys, mentally keeping track of each one that didn't play. Her husband had made it seem like it was only a few notes, but as she reached the bass keys, she realized it was a significant number.
Lang bit the inside of her lip. Her pulse picked up.
She felt like her hands were tied.
This piano needed to be replaced. But she didn't really need to replace it with something as expensive as a Victorian-era Steinway. Or a Steinway at all.
Did she really feel so badly about herself as to think she's unworthy of a quality instrument? The voice in the back of her mind, the one she's constantly fighting against and gaining no ground, insisted she could get by with an instrument that doesn't meet professional standards.
Self-sabotage is passive-aggressive. She’s admitted and accepted she doesn’t want to play with the orchestra. Making do with a substandard piano would ensure the opportunity with the New York Philharmonic never comes to be. Or any other opportunities, for that matter.
She wants to tour. That bug got under her skin and she needs it. She needs the energy and the excitement and the ability to share her music with so many different people in so many different places.
But no, she had been talked into walking away from that life. She’d agreed to a temporary separation, but she knew that wasn’t the case. Deep down, she knew it was permanent.
She’d been bound to this piano for her own good. Handled with kid gloves and shackled up like someone deemed mentally incompetent. What made this better than the other? Who were they to make that decision for her?
It hurt, ached in her chest like a red hot clamp squeezing her heart and lungs.
Walking away from something that had been as much a part of her life as pianos had been felt like deciding to remove her left arm when the alternative was to remove the right.
Except she didn’t need the orchestra to survive.
She needed the piano and she needed the band. That’s all she’d ever needed.
And now she had neither.
Slow tears rolled down her cheeks and she grit her teeth. She wanted to rage against everything. Because it didn’t matter how many circles she went in or which direction she started out going, she always arrived back at needing to replace this old instrument.
New songs were born here. Melodies were sussed out of poetry. Until it had been silenced by weather and age and poor craftsmanship.
She felt like it deserved some of the blame. If only they hadn’t bought a cheap piano. If only it hadn’t broken. She felt like the only way she could justify getting a new one was to stay in job she didn’t want.
Her heart beat in her chest, rapid thumps against her ribs. She needed a release, a way to let the frustration and anger out. In the past, her first instinct would have been to take a razor blade to the flesh of her thigh and bleed out the agony.
But as she’d grown up, she’d learned to trade the razor for a pen and her skin for a pad of paper. She’d string words together, anything that came to mind, and then the notes followed quickly, one after another. She could hear all the parts in her head, the strings and the bass and of course the melody which flowed from her fingers and sung with the voice of her piano.
Lang swiped at a tear hanging from her nose and laid her fingers on the keys. She forgot, for a moment, about the broken keys. She played the first few bars of a song from the band’s unfinished album. Almost immediately, she ran up against those broken keys like a brick wall.
Quickly, she stood up, tipping the bench over as she moved, and as if on autopilot, she went to a hall closet. Buried in a dark corner amongst the winter coats and umbrellas was an old metal baseball bat from her days on a softball team.
She wrapped her shaky fingers around the neck of the bat and gripped it firmly. Her pulse raced. Her legs felt weak, like she might drop to the floor, but she returned to the piano. She blinked, clearing the tears out of her eyes, and with a scream from deep in her belly, took a swing. The bat connected with the front leg, sending it flying across the room. Wood splinters flew like confetti.
Lang adjusted her grip and adjusted her stance before taking another swing. The bat connected with the other leg, sending it in a shower of splinters to the other side of the room, tumbling end-over-end. It came to rest not far from the first.
Without pausing, she took aim at the front of the cabinet. The tears were making it difficult to see her target, but it didn’t matter. She didn’t care. She swung the bat again and again, screaming and crying each time the bat made contact.
Suddenly the front panel fell off, exposing the pin block, the root of all her problems. It was amazing how one piece of wood made so many keys useless. Just the sight of guts of the piano was enough to stoke the fire in her heart. She was just as damaged, never good enough.
Lang again adjusted her grip and started bringing the bat down on the keyboard. She could hear each dying note as she smashed the cheap plastic keys. The keys shattered with each blow, easily leaving the keybed and landing scattered across each other like black and white pickup sticks.
Another smash and another and another. She couldn’t catch her breath. With the next smash, the keybed let go on one end and hung at a slight downward angle, but it was enough to bring the destruction into focus. The bat fell to the wood floor with a clank-clank and rolled away.
Her heart was racing and she still couldn’t catch her breath. Lang pressed a hand to her chest and sank to the floor, defeated and crying. The more she tried to fill her lungs with air, the harder it got. Maybe it was time to call someone.
