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The cold beneath my fingers.

I really want to play saxophone again. And immediately. It is a pretty terrible feeling when somebody asks, "Hey, I've got a big opportunity, do you still play saxophone?" and you answer honestly: "No, not really." Maybe it's the music I've been listening to lately. All jazz. Maybe it's the weather. Or some kind of identity crisis.

Again.

But the whole episode really burned me. I came home and sat on a bed with my saxophone in my lap for a while, just looking at it. Feeling it. The soft pap as I pressed the keys down. The airy buzz. The first sound that's so cold and so warm at the same time. But still so empty. Lonely. But I don't care. I'm going to play it again. And the clarinet, too. I haven't played it in forever. I saw a clarinet lamp and couldn't help but hold it. I miss it. I miss them.

I've changed, recently. Irreversibly, I guess. Maybe it's why I've had so much trouble getting back into writing. It seems like no matter how hard I try, I can't be as cynical as I used to. I just can't do it. Even if I wanted to, which, I realized, I don't particularly. It's kind of funny, I guess.

But only kind of.

Comments

Carolynn said…
Man, I know that feeling (though I wasn't great at music to begin with). I really do miss music. I bet it would take me forever to even read bass clef now.
October 24, 2011 at 10:45 AM
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