Dim remembrance:
{Matty flew off to a string of venues in Switzerland early in the morning, and left me yearning for his touch.
He slipped out of my bed and whispered with velvet lacing onto my sleepy lips, "I'll be back in no time..."
I watched him close the door of my bedroom, and I listened for the creak of the floors. The front door clicked shut. And he left.}
//
After my classes at the uni, I go off to my starving dream
My violin case pricks me with short thumps on my thigh as I run to Bridgewater.
Bridgewater Concert Hall.
Ever since I was a little one, I've wanted to give a lonely instrument a voice, a song.
When I was eight or so, I was given a violin of my own, too big for my skinny arms to stretch, to hold up.
I played it terribly wrong, the violin cradled in the wrong arm, the bow embraced by the wrong hand.
But I was a natural.
The violin sings for me, rejoices for me, sobs for me, expresses me.
The dusty bow resonates not only the strings of the violin, but also the strings of my heart, worn thin by the disappointments that are inevitable in life.
//
"Are you ready, Miss Allard? Vous êtes en retard! En retard!" Monsieur DuPont sings to me as I fleet towards the middle of the stage.
DuPont is tall, gawky, senile, yet proud, and as pale as the chalks that line a professor's black board. His heavy french accent keeps his enormous mouth from saying too little, as he starts to pester me about my time management skills. He played the halls of musically instituted arenas all over the world, yet he still manages to keep his reeling head below the clouds of insanity and self destruction.
He is absolutely brilliant.
*play Sérénade Mélancolique (the attached YouTube video) for the full effect*
I quickly pull my heart out of its casings and delicately place it below my chin.
"Une, deux, trois...." Monsieur silently keys the piano, introducing my piece,
The Sérénade Mélancolique,Op. 26, written by Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky.
My heart starts to decelerate, thumping to the time of the piece.
My fingers start to sensationally run across the finger board and play for me.
I shut my eyes and let the music play me.
Reds, golds, forest greens, sea blues;
Swirls, sprinkles, mists, downpours;
Lightning and thunder.
Him.
His thick, soft oak curls swaying with the breeze entering from the open bay window.
His cheering, childish laugh serenades my hole of a soul.
I remember him embracing my worked hand with his long, skinny hands.
"C'mon, darlin," his dark eyes were only slits of happiness.
Shoulders slumped, laugh shaking, he started running away.
My lungs start to falter as I enter a state of complete and utter transcendence.
The rhythm, the slurs, the decrescendos, crescendos;
The cushioning vibratos all scatter, echoing in me and the concert hall.
Tears stream down my cheeks as I craft the final notes of the composition.
I'm out of breath.
I know this poor, delicately woven dream of mine can never show its gorgeous visage to the world, for she would see how despicable this world is, and ruin her appetite for happiness.
She would starve.
"Ah, magnifique! La la la mon amour," DuPont gets up to embrace me, and I can't help but think of my father.
"Did I do well?" I ask.
"Yes my little one, you will be more than ready by the time the concert comes around," he smiles from ear to ear, and pats me on the head.
Oh god, the concert. The preview of the pieces that the symphony has worked on for the past four months. This solo is the defining piece of the whole concert.
"Is it too late to opt out of the performance..?" Monsieur stares at me in amazement.
"Yes, mon amie, I'm afraid it is too late!" He starts to laugh as he walks toward the piano. "Again! From the top, chérie!"
//
Hello all,
Thank you for reading my work.
A couple things to bring attention to:
I titled this chapter, I'm trying to live life to the fullest. (Ha.)
To clarify, the paragraph wrapped in { } is a flashback, a dim hazed remembrance if you must.
I am anxious to write more for you, if you'll have me :) x
P.S.
Please vote, it would mean the world to me x
//
