i am thankful for music. music, besides my religion and friends, is probably the most important thing in my life. i do not even know where i would be without music. i love alternative, hip-hop and rap, classical (piano, orchestral, etc.), country, jazz, rock, blues, rock and roll, pop, singer/songwriter, indie, and r&b. pretty much everything except bluegrass, heavy metal screamo, and hardcore rap. music inspires me. i have every type of music available to me to fit any mood i am in or for any situation, all in the click of a button. ‘tis a wonderful thing.
i. love. music.
i cannot even try to describe how much i love music on this silly keyboard. i have gotten some of the best advice from music. most of my biggest inspirations are musicians. i am always listening to music, playing music, whistling, humming, singing, or even listening to music in my head. i play the piano and french horn and i sing, but not in public. music moves me in a way that nothing else does. it is a constant in my life, a best friend that i can always go to to vent at, have fun with, and just enjoy life with. i can express my feelings better through music than i can through words. music can say things better than i can. i can understand people better through the music they make. i respect musicians almost more than any other type of person.
feel free to stop reading, but to semi-explain my feelings i am going to include three short pieces of writing i wrote for some english classes in high school that i recently stumbled upon. the first two go together, the first from my point of view, the second from the piano’s point of view:
When I walk in the door after a tiresome day at school, I hurry upstairs to drop my bag, books, and cares. I know I have a pile of homework ahead of me, but I have a more pressing thirst to quench first. I gallop down the squeaky stairs, and bound into my living room, where my personal corner of bliss and contentment in this world awaits. I pull the piano bench back eagerly, flinching slightly at the loud screeching sound the legs make against the tile floor. Once I’ve seated myself in the middle of the seat, the middle of the keys, I flip the switch of the lamp placed over the music of my choice. Attempting to control my eagerness, I hesitantly place my fingers over the ivory keys, then press down, and carefully begin the song.
The melody is slow to start, and as it gradually begins to become more involved, I steadily slip into the music, relax my mind, and concentrate on the rhythms, notes, dynamics, and overall musicality that goes into making music. It is what I utterly do best, and what brings me the utmost happiness in life. To me, without music, there would be no point or joy in this life. My peripheral vision picks up on the cloud changes that cause the light to shift from light to dark and back to light as the minutes rapidly pass. The music swells around me and blows all my stress away. My fingers fly faster and faster as the music gets more intense and emotional. The rhythms go faster, the drama intensifies. I feel the ache in my forearms increase, and my heart races faster.
All too soon, the last page is turned, the last line approached. My fingers decelerate; my soul fades back into my body. I play the last chord and listen to the waves ring throughout the room. My fingers slowly release and hover above the piano keys for just a few seconds more, relishing the last split seconds as my haven slips slowly away for the day.
I sigh, I smile to myself, and I think how lucky I am to have music in my life and for the joy and peace it brings me. I feel refreshed and renewed. I am calm and ready to take on the stress and headaches caused by the pile of homework awaiting me. I push back the bench, turn, and slowly begin to ascend the stairs to my bedroom and mound of mindless work.
The Afternoon Visits
I am just a tired box of wood. I have been around for many years, and have had various people sit at me and create beautiful melodies. I have also had obnoxious youngsters run frantically towards me with their grimy, sticky fingers, and then proceed to pound the life out of my poor strings. Several years ago, however, my owner, who was a very peaceful old lady, passed away, and I was picked up, and driven to a new home- her daughter’s. I then proceeded to become a vital part of this new family. The father would sit at me, and make up groovy rock songs, the mother would play hymns, and the older boys would usually just sit down and make something beautiful and utterly creative. But the girl, the girl-child, yes, she and I are especially close.
Each day when she trudges through the door after a long day at school, she heads upstairs for a few minutes, then proceeds to come and pay me a visit. This is our routine, she and I. I can always tell what mood she’s in. There are the days when she will cheerfully sit on my bench, and play some happy, upbeat melody, and I can tell she had a very exciting and pleasant day. There are days when she will get out some melancholy sonata, while silently brushing tears away as she plunks my keys, while getting all her saltwater over my nice ivory finish. Those are the rough days where she is heartbroken, and something did not go quite right- poor little kid. Or, there are the days where she storms downstairs, her face flushed, and drops herself on me, pounds too hard on my old frame, and nearly causes me to cry out in pain it hurts my insides so much!
Everyday is different, and everything she plays on me gives me an opportunity to learn more about her. She takes good care of me, that little girl. Her hands are always clean, and she keeps me polished and dust-free. I look forward to our afternoon visits, and our relationship is one of a kind. She comes to me to rejoice, to break down, to relieve stress, and to just provide her a comfy place where she and I together can make the music we both need and love.
and the third is just a small piece about the piano and music in general:
A Home With 88 Keys
On many accounts I can remember sitting on the floor of my grandmother’s living room, and watching her play her piano. I would sit there with my mouth open, intently gazing at her fingers, and the swaying of her being as she floated on the music she made.
Now, several years later, I sit at the same piano, the piano she left behind; my personal, lasting, tangible memory of her. I sit on the bench, tracing my fingers on the fluorescent orange and yellow swirls that make up the ancient seat cover she made long ago. I glance over the ivory keys, the ones slowly withering in age, the ones she played. I stare at the black spots flung across the page, position my fingers, and slowly begin to play. I find myself floating away on the chords and melodies of the flowing music. I am carried away into a place where I no longer think about the notes or what I am playing, but simply nothing. I find myself never wanting it to end, and am disappointed when it does. I am once again out of notes to play. Focusing in on the papers once again, I hold the final chord, soaking up each ounce of lingering music, until finally it releases, leaving a still serenity in the air.
To me, playing this box that provides a home for eighty-eight keys is more than reading the music. It is playing for my grandma, it is about finding myself. I can always count on journeying to that place where I can connect with the music and ultimately feeling that sense of pride in my accomplishments.
so there you have it. i love music and i am grateful that the world has been blessed to have it prevalent since practically forever, in all different forms. it is by far my favorite form of art and creativity. sorry for the rant/endless stories, but… you guessed it!
…I LOVE MUSIC!