This is the first day, sloping up before you like a whale:
takes a while to start trekking, takes a whale to put
you in perspective.
How reflective, how self-reflexive: me I walk, to you I talk;
and the day becomes the moments you’re told will stay
with you.
This is the moment where you say you want it:
take off the claws and use the giant padded paws,
soft and dextrous grab.
Start the plait: make strong the ties that will lie
underneath you; the roots of the ropes you use to
hold you.
© Sam Rodgers 2009
Monday, January 18, 2010
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Another String To Your Bow
You know you don’t care about this arrangement, or who the composer was or is. You are here for the culture, you are here to get out of the house, you are here to get dressed up once this week.
You shift in your seat: that violinist is shifting in hers too, as if playing that instrument requires every muscle to sing. And it probably does – that’s as much as you know about classical music. Her bottom rises off her chair and when she slides her bow upwards. Such a lithe, taut body she has, like she exists on rose petals, wine and the music. Every muscle tightly pulled violin strings.
This is not your body.
Your body: not quite the fun park that detractors of the body/temple faction celebrate. Your body, half toned from self-hate, half lumpy from self-hate. At least you have the gym membership, another status card, next to the platinum credit and that expensive Swiss restaurant.
You look around and are disappointed to see that most other women here are with a man, or that the men your age that can dress in something unpredictable are probably gay. The men musicians probably aren’t but you hate a man with a limp handshake.
You’re here with a couple of friends, one of which is the one who would be able to read the sheet music. You look at her and she is making that face people make when they want to convey to others that they can, actually, really understand what’s going on. You dated that guy once – though his thing was ‘the cinema’.
It wasn’t a surprise to see your boss, Helen, in the foyer on the way in. Her hair left naturally grey and she seems just so OK with being the age she’s at – what is it, at least 54 – with the Oxfam colourful and exotic dress sense. Your boss of that job you find yourself in ten years later without knowing why. Your job: paperwork for an essential oils company, just expanded, big in the States, maybe exciting job opportunities there... one day.
You wonder what it’s like to be a musician, travelling the world, garnering respect from every town hall you fill. You imagine what it’s like to carry your cello case through customs, with your back straight and serene composition, flitting between English and French, drinking champagne not to get drunk, but because, well, you do.
You wonder what it’s like to do something you love for a living, and whether these musicians actually do. Of course they do, you think, or they wouldn’t have put in hours and hours of practice, surely. Though you’ve put in hours and hours of overtime, it doesn’t make you love your job any more. But look at their smiles in between pieces, and when that applause washes over them, cleanses their whys, makes it all worth while. You’re lucky to get a card and chocolates at Christmas, but then, everyone does. Even Kylie.
You won’t think of Kylie. Not anymore. It’s such a waste of time to get consumed by jealousy with such a hack. You glance at your other friend, the one who’s just as supportive, yet clueless, like you. She has her head bowed; you’re not sure whether in boredom or whether she’s concentrating on listening, making mental notes of certain parts of the compositions that she can relay back to musician friend to show she’s interested. You used to think that was important but now you have no idea what you could be interested in.
You think of the apartment you’ve bought and the mortgage that makes you feel as impoverished as a university student again, and boy, wasn’t that degree worth it? You think of the empty apartment waiting for you, the failed attempts at taking care of plants, because that’s what the other women at work do, and you sure know taking care of a baby is not a task soon on the horizon. You think of the women at work who Helen organises baby showers for, and all that money you could have happily spent on boutique muesli instead of another pastel stork mobile. You think about the men in your phone you could have sex with as soon as you gave the green flag to and wonder if having a fuck buddy is like having a gym membership.
You try not to, oh how you try not to think of that last failed relationship. You were almost getting engaged and he always seemed to say the right thing even though he had that far off look in his eye. You told yourself that at least that look wasn’t falling on other women, but in the end it didn’t matter, because it wasn’t falling on you. The selfish prick.
You realise the music is now melancholic – was it like that before or after you started thinking of Brian? That big piece of shit. Oh, it’s so hard not to feel like he made you feel loved to spite you. You rearrange your facial muscles into a frown; it’s easy to get away with, if your friends saw you now they’d think you were responding to the music. This always happens, and it was almost six months ago, but now you’re grinding your teeth replaying the fights and the romantic moments, each a lie and a truth and you’re not sure which was what anymore, or if you ever were sure. You just found out he had moved away, and though that helps you walk around the city without stressing about coincidental crashes, it makes you angry. You are angry that he moved on, that he had the guts to take that work in Dubai, that you’re still here, you’re still here in your empty apartment
with the same job,
the same friends,
the same haircut...
You get distracted by your hair, and this daydream calms you down. You are ready to get the chop, and your friends have recommended the perfect place where they serve you coffee and give manicures if it so takes your fancy. You just haven’t made the appointment, but you will. You will when you really want to pamper yourself. When you have the money. When you’ve found the perfect style:
though you can
never find
your face
in the celebrities
in those
magazines they keep
in reception
at work.
The notes are now staccato, like Jaws:
so insistent – or is it incessant? Maybe both.
Insistent,
incessant,
insistent,
incessant.
You wonder if this was the eighteenth century version of heavy metal, man, it’s really getting under your skin. And when you think it’s ebbing, they start that Psycho shower scene again and again. Whatever point the composer wanted to make, he sure is making it.
You wonder why there aren’t many female composers, or why there aren’t any you’re familiar with. Surely they’d never have written this aggravating din. And what makes it worse is a smugness to it, that you’re sure you can’t comment on or criticise.
God, it’s making you angry again.
What are you doing here? You don’t even know who blahdeeblah is. You don’t care, and you have a block of chocolate at home and the box set of Sex and the City to get through. You try to identify with those women, but none of your friends fit the archetypes and there are months where you never randomly bump into Mr. Wrong, let alone Mr. Right. Fucking Brian. You know he’s not a bad person and that makes things worse, and you just don’t like this music. That fucking cellist looks like she’s crying and about what? The long, deep notes? It’s just sound, bitch, and it is making you infuriated. You now focus your anger on the musicians who look rapturous in their playing, and you can’t help but feel every movement and flourish mocks the very core of who you are. You grip your chair until your knuckles turn white. You feel claustrophobic. You feel hemmed in by people who just don’t get it – they’re just pretending and they have no idea why they’re here.
You stand up quickly and scream.
Your friends are shocked and shout at you as you make your way to the stage, climbing over the people and chairs in front of you. You are bowling over everyone in your path and you continue screaming until you notice the musicians have come to a stop. You climb up onto the stage and stomp up to the cellist and rip her bow out of her hand. Your foot smashes through the f-holes and you turn your rage onto the violinist with the cello attached to the end of your leg. You push down the men musicians as they try to manhandle you off the stage and run at the pretty violinist who shrieks as you snap her bow in half.
You are nudged out of a daze by your friends. You feel your eyes are hot and there’s salt water encrusted on the edge of your mouth. Your friends ask if you’re OK and you say that you are. Your head fills with the sound of the end of a round of applause and chairs being pushed back and the sound of people’s conversation rising like someone turning the volume down, then up. You see the cellist’s dress flick out from behind the wings of the stage. Your friend says, “I found that really moving.” And you nod. You nod and say, “Me too.”
©Sam Rodgers 2009
You shift in your seat: that violinist is shifting in hers too, as if playing that instrument requires every muscle to sing. And it probably does – that’s as much as you know about classical music. Her bottom rises off her chair and when she slides her bow upwards. Such a lithe, taut body she has, like she exists on rose petals, wine and the music. Every muscle tightly pulled violin strings.
This is not your body.
Your body: not quite the fun park that detractors of the body/temple faction celebrate. Your body, half toned from self-hate, half lumpy from self-hate. At least you have the gym membership, another status card, next to the platinum credit and that expensive Swiss restaurant.
You look around and are disappointed to see that most other women here are with a man, or that the men your age that can dress in something unpredictable are probably gay. The men musicians probably aren’t but you hate a man with a limp handshake.
You’re here with a couple of friends, one of which is the one who would be able to read the sheet music. You look at her and she is making that face people make when they want to convey to others that they can, actually, really understand what’s going on. You dated that guy once – though his thing was ‘the cinema’.
It wasn’t a surprise to see your boss, Helen, in the foyer on the way in. Her hair left naturally grey and she seems just so OK with being the age she’s at – what is it, at least 54 – with the Oxfam colourful and exotic dress sense. Your boss of that job you find yourself in ten years later without knowing why. Your job: paperwork for an essential oils company, just expanded, big in the States, maybe exciting job opportunities there... one day.
You wonder what it’s like to be a musician, travelling the world, garnering respect from every town hall you fill. You imagine what it’s like to carry your cello case through customs, with your back straight and serene composition, flitting between English and French, drinking champagne not to get drunk, but because, well, you do.
You wonder what it’s like to do something you love for a living, and whether these musicians actually do. Of course they do, you think, or they wouldn’t have put in hours and hours of practice, surely. Though you’ve put in hours and hours of overtime, it doesn’t make you love your job any more. But look at their smiles in between pieces, and when that applause washes over them, cleanses their whys, makes it all worth while. You’re lucky to get a card and chocolates at Christmas, but then, everyone does. Even Kylie.
You won’t think of Kylie. Not anymore. It’s such a waste of time to get consumed by jealousy with such a hack. You glance at your other friend, the one who’s just as supportive, yet clueless, like you. She has her head bowed; you’re not sure whether in boredom or whether she’s concentrating on listening, making mental notes of certain parts of the compositions that she can relay back to musician friend to show she’s interested. You used to think that was important but now you have no idea what you could be interested in.
You think of the apartment you’ve bought and the mortgage that makes you feel as impoverished as a university student again, and boy, wasn’t that degree worth it? You think of the empty apartment waiting for you, the failed attempts at taking care of plants, because that’s what the other women at work do, and you sure know taking care of a baby is not a task soon on the horizon. You think of the women at work who Helen organises baby showers for, and all that money you could have happily spent on boutique muesli instead of another pastel stork mobile. You think about the men in your phone you could have sex with as soon as you gave the green flag to and wonder if having a fuck buddy is like having a gym membership.
You try not to, oh how you try not to think of that last failed relationship. You were almost getting engaged and he always seemed to say the right thing even though he had that far off look in his eye. You told yourself that at least that look wasn’t falling on other women, but in the end it didn’t matter, because it wasn’t falling on you. The selfish prick.
You realise the music is now melancholic – was it like that before or after you started thinking of Brian? That big piece of shit. Oh, it’s so hard not to feel like he made you feel loved to spite you. You rearrange your facial muscles into a frown; it’s easy to get away with, if your friends saw you now they’d think you were responding to the music. This always happens, and it was almost six months ago, but now you’re grinding your teeth replaying the fights and the romantic moments, each a lie and a truth and you’re not sure which was what anymore, or if you ever were sure. You just found out he had moved away, and though that helps you walk around the city without stressing about coincidental crashes, it makes you angry. You are angry that he moved on, that he had the guts to take that work in Dubai, that you’re still here, you’re still here in your empty apartment
with the same job,
the same friends,
the same haircut...
You get distracted by your hair, and this daydream calms you down. You are ready to get the chop, and your friends have recommended the perfect place where they serve you coffee and give manicures if it so takes your fancy. You just haven’t made the appointment, but you will. You will when you really want to pamper yourself. When you have the money. When you’ve found the perfect style:
though you can
never find
your face
in the celebrities
in those
magazines they keep
in reception
at work.
The notes are now staccato, like Jaws:
so insistent – or is it incessant? Maybe both.
Insistent,
incessant,
insistent,
incessant.
You wonder if this was the eighteenth century version of heavy metal, man, it’s really getting under your skin. And when you think it’s ebbing, they start that Psycho shower scene again and again. Whatever point the composer wanted to make, he sure is making it.
You wonder why there aren’t many female composers, or why there aren’t any you’re familiar with. Surely they’d never have written this aggravating din. And what makes it worse is a smugness to it, that you’re sure you can’t comment on or criticise.
God, it’s making you angry again.
What are you doing here? You don’t even know who blahdeeblah is. You don’t care, and you have a block of chocolate at home and the box set of Sex and the City to get through. You try to identify with those women, but none of your friends fit the archetypes and there are months where you never randomly bump into Mr. Wrong, let alone Mr. Right. Fucking Brian. You know he’s not a bad person and that makes things worse, and you just don’t like this music. That fucking cellist looks like she’s crying and about what? The long, deep notes? It’s just sound, bitch, and it is making you infuriated. You now focus your anger on the musicians who look rapturous in their playing, and you can’t help but feel every movement and flourish mocks the very core of who you are. You grip your chair until your knuckles turn white. You feel claustrophobic. You feel hemmed in by people who just don’t get it – they’re just pretending and they have no idea why they’re here.
You stand up quickly and scream.
Your friends are shocked and shout at you as you make your way to the stage, climbing over the people and chairs in front of you. You are bowling over everyone in your path and you continue screaming until you notice the musicians have come to a stop. You climb up onto the stage and stomp up to the cellist and rip her bow out of her hand. Your foot smashes through the f-holes and you turn your rage onto the violinist with the cello attached to the end of your leg. You push down the men musicians as they try to manhandle you off the stage and run at the pretty violinist who shrieks as you snap her bow in half.
You are nudged out of a daze by your friends. You feel your eyes are hot and there’s salt water encrusted on the edge of your mouth. Your friends ask if you’re OK and you say that you are. Your head fills with the sound of the end of a round of applause and chairs being pushed back and the sound of people’s conversation rising like someone turning the volume down, then up. You see the cellist’s dress flick out from behind the wings of the stage. Your friend says, “I found that really moving.” And you nod. You nod and say, “Me too.”
©Sam Rodgers 2009
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