My skewed stranger studies

Metronome Practice

I used to practice I used to practice wrong notes right notes I When I was little I used to I used to think the wrong notes were prettier than the right ones. But this predilection has been chiseled out of me, and I am happier more content hungrier because of it. Eventually the fog Eventually the mist Eventually the wrong notes would be lifted from Berg’s Sonata op. 1 from my Viennese tone-poem and every note would be placed with accuracy with dangerous accuracy. But presently But a few months ago, when my back was to this desk and my eyes were on the sheet music, my thumb smudged the octaves and I avoided my very useful fourth finger voices were not carefully considered. I practiced over over again over and over again to get every note every rhythm just right. Berg, no My God was rolling in his grave Austrian grave.
My thoughts were on the competition, in which I would have to perform I would have to perform three recitals, one for each stage one for each level of the competition one for each stage. A fourth The winner’s recital was an inconvenient concerto, of which I thankfully had two prepared I had two concerti thankfully prepared for the winner’s recital, an inconvenient concerto. One day in beat with my smudged octaves One day in beat with my metronome One rhythmic day One day, in beat with my metronome, came knocking. A well-dressed old man An old man in a button down shirt and a plush sweater told me his name. I was eager to dismiss him I was eager to dismiss another one of those loiterers looking for a free awkward free and awkward concert for an awkward concert. Then he apologized for interrupting and told me the Viennese tone poem was in his opinion the greatest late-Romantic composition the latest great Romantic composition the single greatest masterpiece of late Romanticism and he would pay me he would compensate me compensate for my instruction.
I said “I can’t teach it to you, I can only tell you what is wrong with your playing,” I said. When this was agreed to politely agreed to, I said, “You know it is difficult You know it is uncomfortably annoyingly frustratingly bafflingly You know it is difficult?” He said he understood.
Our first lesson was My first instructions were futile. The old man The man had no sense of rhythm!. His wrinkled freckled hands quavered over quivers quivered hopelessly over quavers. When I asked him just to play the notes just to play not thinking of rhythm at all (this is an exercise no teacher no conservatory teacher would condone) it seemed he understood the harmony the harmonies It seemed he could play the notes. The notes were all in place like a flock of deer emerging from hibernation The notes were all in place but they were played like some unintentional dirge They were played badly because they had no rhythm He had practiced but it wasn’t quite right He played. I noticed a smile that cracked from that cracked all of his wise sinking face.
I live in a difficult building I live in a building full of hipsters I live in a difficult building with loud rebellious neighbors. It was only a matter of time It was only two weeks of his rhythmless playing before we received a death threat from the drummer next door. “You snobs are going to fucking get it” the note said “You snobs are gonna fuckin’ get it with your racist with your black and white keys,” we heard him chanting. Through the taut crack in the wall of my shower I noticed him sitting on the toilet reading some fascist pamphlet reading some inflammatory conceptual art magazine sitting on the toilet not reading anything just popping out atonal popping out a beat from his puckered lips.
“What’s that all about?” the man the old man asked.
“Oh I don’t know Oh just an old lover Oh I live in a difficult building,” I replied.
I thought he would say He said He could have said, “oh you kids with your shoes with your sodomy with your cheap rent” He didn’t say anything, he just smiled frowned and continued attempting to follow the metronome follow the tick tock not a clock.
Around this time Around May Around springtime Later I achieved the polish and dramatic intensity needed in my own playing. I found myself in a certain harmony in a certain rhythm whichever you like in a certain counterpoint between between between intensively practicing and doing practical tasks practicing practical tasks. Then I passed stage one Then I passed all the stages Then I passed stage one, stage two, stage three and finally I won stage three not without a few permissible mistakes. There is no such thing as a concert as a work of art as a story as a performance without mistakes. I won money Money in my bank account Lots of money later the old man and I bought bottles of champagne champagne and we blew bass notes from our bottle that got microtonally deeper and deeper deeper in chromatic microtonal shades As the bass note got microtonally lower we got drunker. The horizon was aflame and we were tipsy The moon was milky and we were drunk. In this state of blissful intoxication blissful thirst the crazed drummer next door and the rhythmic incompetence of the man the old man’s playing created a something pleasing synthesis pleasing counterpoint. I was not drunk enough to declare myself a genius It sounded nice It sounded pretty, their fused playing their obfuscating their playing.
I awoke from momentary dozing from a momentary doze to my door being smashed down to bang bang bang. The old man was up up and about was walking smoothly walking urgently to dusty light where the door used to be and the hipster the thrilling hipster the drummer stepping into the apartment in his purple sneakers with chips of wood on his shoulder. With an angry grunt the old man and the drummer and the two of them fell to the floor fighting. The old man did not fight The old man fought The old man represents harmony he didn’t fight The old man defended The old man Rhythm  fought the old man The two of them wrestled for a while and I felt inspired I felt like practicing like writing a story like practicing.