- space and the idea of a universe that stretches past infinity, but yet, sometimes, it feels as though the only thing that matters, is how to play the crescendo best, how to switch from pizzicato smoothly, how to capture the essence of a scene properly on paper, how to jump higher, run faster, get further
- the smell of chlorine
- putting rosin on a violin bow
- the bounce of piano keys underneath fingertips, when the piano is still new and untouched
- and the familiarity of an older one that feels far wiser than yourself
- running so hard, your lungs are on fire
- shutting your eyes and listening to raindrops drumming down on windows
- the sound of a volleyball or basketball hitting the floor
- the feel of the ball in the palm of your hand
- the sound of traintracks
- the quiet of the morning
- and the quiet of the night
- when you play piano with freshly cut fingernails
- the feeling of graphite on paper
- clear desks
- the ache in your muscles after a really good practice
- touching the ice in the ice rink on a really hot summers day
- ignoring the metronome, just for a moment, and playing how you really feel
- lying down, on your back, in the middle of the court, in the middle of the practice room, in the middle of a field of grass, staring at the ceiling and counting; the lines in the net, seconds against a metronome, the stars in the sky; pulses, breaths
- violin and piano duets
aug 2 2016 ∞
feb 8 2017 +