First times for everything, how about writing and posting text matter from the piano bench? I’ve been using the piano tablet as a regular computer these days, having dedicated its purpose almost solely to being a sheet music reader since its arrival maybe 4 years ago. My involvement with some of the classical music Facebook groups has had the effect of drawing me to the piano so I can play music excerpts at the piano when people post them to the site. By extension I have thus been at the piano longer than has been normal for me the last, I don’t know, few years. There is no normal with some things, and time spent at the piano is one such behavior lacking specificity.
Writing at the piano like this seems like a natural enough evolution. I spent countless hours at numberless pianos, plowing away at the music of other people, and at my own mediocre compositions. This posture is not natural and that should be a good thing, though I have felt a little sore in spots since making this subtle move from the desk to here.
Up and awake since 6:30. 7:15am at this moment. No wacky dreams to recount, and The Team is fast asleep after what I assume was yet another night of relentless dancing.
I posted a picture of my father’s typewriter last night. That’s the device I believe he used to write his suicide note. I never saw the note so I do not know if it was typed or handwritten, and no bit of treacly connection will move me to contact Daytona Beach police to inquire. It’s been too long, though I assume records of that sort are retained, somewhere, indefinitely.
I’ve been told I should see the note. I do not disagree, but then I do. It’s just paperwork, and I cannot imagine there would be any hidden messages. The detective who called me that day read some of the note to me. All I remember is something like “I do not want to live like a vegetable,” which sounded about right. He hated hospitals, that’s for damn sure. He had some kind of minor surgical procedure done, I think to remove a monster blemish from his face. He blamed his rugged facial bumps on overexposure to tropical Florida sun. I think he meant subtropical but that’s no matter. He hated everything about having that procedure done, starting with having to be there at something like 6am. When he was clear to leave he called John, who lived downstairs from him, begging him to come ASAP to get him the hell out of there.
The typewriter is gone. I left it at a local thrift shop after inspecting the device for content that might have resided on its internal memory. There was none. It was a Smith-Corona word processing contraption, the likes of which I possess but dad’s was a somewhat more advanced model. It had a removable battery compartment, making the 30-pound behemoth “portable”. It also had a larger screen compared to mine, which allows for just a single line of text. I could have upgraded my typewriter by getting rid of mine and keeping his, but I did not.
I took pictures of most things that I got rid of in the last several months. Seeing those pictures makes me want some of those objects back, but only for a hot materialistic second. I want everything to be here, the past, present, and future. There exists a dimension, or a temporal realm where the tree that once stood on this spot still exists, where the woman who lived here before me is walking around in the living room, where the man who lived here before her is washing dishes in the kitchen. I can hear sounds of radios and car horns from the 1930s, when this building was erected. Out the window I can see not ugly low-rise buildings but unretractable horizon, its pasture vanishing with the years.
