ARM

I went to physical therapy for the first time today. After asking me questions about my habits and pain, the woman hooked me up to a bunch of little patches that were attached to a machine. I was told to just lay there with the little hot patches on my arm, neck, and back. I felt waves of warmth shoot up and down my arm and neck, and my muscles went back and forth between spasms and relaxation. Kind of an arm orgasm. She left me there for twenty minutes and I began to think about all the work my arm has done for me in twenty years of being alive. I've climbed trees, written stories, made friendship bracelets, hung Christmas lights, learned to play musical instruments, and given hugs. It's been pretty good to me, but after ten years of playing cello it's letting me down. As soon as I was feeling confident and finally getting some compliments as a musician, my body said "fuck you." I said "fuck you" back but it won.

All I've done for the past ten years is try to overcome the physical difficulties of playing my instrument so that I can... inspire crowds of people. That's what you're supposed to do, right? Tonight at the KSO concert, I watched Midori fly around the violin as if she had motors in her fingers and for a second, the sounds coming out of the instrument weren't nearly as beautiful as the muscles bulging from her neck and the way she took deep, intense breaths after difficult passages or the way her feet seemed to be bolted to the floor.  Every cell in her body cooperated. Mastering an instrument is the wrong way to describe it. She has mastered her body and the instrument is just there. As I always do when I see musicians perform, I thought about the hours spent practicing... which requires a pot of coffee, ibuprofen, and maybe ignoring the crying baby for a little while longer. We often work hard to ignore our bodies so that we can concentrate on.... on.... something more magical and meaningful? I've had dreams in which I'm sitting down playing Rachmaninoff painlessly and beautifully. Then I wake up and I decide that the beauty can wait- for now I just want to feel the strings digging into my fingertips and the weight of the instrument on my chest  and I want to make loud, offensive, powerful sounds. Would Midori approve?

Single(ish)

As I was biking down Western this afternoon, I found a way to completely enjoy the feeling of vulnerability within the traffic and the cold wind and the solitude. My alone time is saving me. I read and watch TV and write music and cook and study, and most of what I do just comes and goes without me ever reporting the details to anyone. Maybe that's the most significant part of being single- at the end of the day, nobody really cares that I read three chapters of my musicology text book or that I got lost on the way to feed my friend's cat or that I dropped a glass container of juice at the store and it made a huge embarrassing sound and mess. And as single life rolls on, I'm starting to love keeping my mundane secrets to myself. But then sometimes I try to convince the people that surround me that my boring shit is important. It's not.

I can't even look at your face
without wanting to shove my tongue down your throat
or rip your eyes right out of their sockets.
I can't decide which one, so I'll sit here.
But anyway, how is your day going?
Mine is fine too, but I forgot how you feel
Our fucking vacation photos are slowly replacing
the smell of your armpits and sound of your breath
You look so warm and alive
but how can I be sure when you're five feet away?
I want to call you terrible names
I want to shove you into the wall
I want to taste you and spit you out.
You need to go?
It was nice running into you here.
Let's catch up sometime soon.
Great.