A Piano for Charlie
One of my great regrets is that I had absolutely no inclination to learn music when I was young. My dear, beloved, sainted, mother tried to get me to take piano lessons, and I did have some, but it really was not productive, since I wouldn't practice and I was a terrible menace the whole way through the process.
Even now I remember why I hated piano lessons; that painful plucking one note at a time, all of the mistakes I made, and the fact that all of my mistakes and virtuosic inadequacies were broadcast to the whole house by that treacherous instrument. One wrong note and everyone in the house knew you made a mistake! The horror.
This peculiar neurosis of mine was not in any way fueled by my parents, who always told me that trial and error were part of learning, and that it was okay to make mistakes--don't know how many times I was told this--but little single digit year old me was not about to allow himself to be lured into mediocrity in the hopes of someday being good at something. What if that day never came?
Handwriting was another thing that I struggled with. My handwriting was unlovely--one girl in kindergarten mocked my handwriting and I still remember it, and now that I think of it, I was teased pretty awfully all through kindergarten--and my knowledge that my handwriting was poor from a young age made me frustrated when I practiced. I would hide in the corner of my room with the Smith Hand and a sheet of paper and end the sheet of paper fuming that I couldn't make the letters right. What was wrong with me that I was not immediately good at this? On an off note, I took hundreds, well over a thousand, pages of notes in school and my handwriting is still some of the worst I've ever seen.
I would love to pretend that these strictures extend only to things that I legitimately lack talent in, but no, it is a little worse than all that. For example, I've always had a decent knack for writing, but as stated in our last issue, I have 111 (now 110) blog drafts that I never published. A quarter of the pieces I've ever written simply did not pass muster, even after I went to the labor of writing them out. Emma asked me last night if she could read those drafts. And what next? Watch me dance naked in the street? I think not. It was for this same reason that no professor of mine ever read a genuine rough draft of mine; everything I do must have some level of polish--that level is 'a lot'--before I consider it fit for human consumption.
This same characteristic makes me work like I'm driven, because I can't stand to have my name attached to something half-assed; the thought of it galls me.
Now, I am better now at relaxing this about the things that don't matter. Sure, here is a sample of my handwriting for you to not be able to read. Knock yourself out. I also am to the point where I no longer care if I am bad about most recreational pursuits. Cranium drawings? Okay, let's go, but this won't be pretty. My idiosyncrasies only extend to things that I take seriously anymore.
So we got Char Char a piano. We thought it was a good idea/symbolic gesture to replace the TV in the main room with a piano. We found a gorgeous instrument being sold by an incredibly nice couple, at a price that felt like a steal. He had a small organ he was looking to move into the space, and the place where his organ was previously was going to be a hobby space for his wife, and they just did not have room for it anymore. The idea was very pleasing to them that the main purpose of this instrument was so that Charlie would learn to play; I think that gave them more comfort in parting with it.
Poor Charlie will be expected to be truly accomplished; a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, and besides all this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions.
But what kind of role model am I if I don't give it a shot as well. I have resolved that I am going to work on relearning the little bit of piano that I knew and push myself to learn more. I spent lunch practicing yesterday, and I am going to do so more in the future with one caveat, at least in the interim:
You can only expect me to change so fast, and you can't honestly expect me to practice when anyone else can hear,
Even now I remember why I hated piano lessons; that painful plucking one note at a time, all of the mistakes I made, and the fact that all of my mistakes and virtuosic inadequacies were broadcast to the whole house by that treacherous instrument. One wrong note and everyone in the house knew you made a mistake! The horror.
This peculiar neurosis of mine was not in any way fueled by my parents, who always told me that trial and error were part of learning, and that it was okay to make mistakes--don't know how many times I was told this--but little single digit year old me was not about to allow himself to be lured into mediocrity in the hopes of someday being good at something. What if that day never came?
Handwriting was another thing that I struggled with. My handwriting was unlovely--one girl in kindergarten mocked my handwriting and I still remember it, and now that I think of it, I was teased pretty awfully all through kindergarten--and my knowledge that my handwriting was poor from a young age made me frustrated when I practiced. I would hide in the corner of my room with the Smith Hand and a sheet of paper and end the sheet of paper fuming that I couldn't make the letters right. What was wrong with me that I was not immediately good at this? On an off note, I took hundreds, well over a thousand, pages of notes in school and my handwriting is still some of the worst I've ever seen.
I would love to pretend that these strictures extend only to things that I legitimately lack talent in, but no, it is a little worse than all that. For example, I've always had a decent knack for writing, but as stated in our last issue, I have 111 (now 110) blog drafts that I never published. A quarter of the pieces I've ever written simply did not pass muster, even after I went to the labor of writing them out. Emma asked me last night if she could read those drafts. And what next? Watch me dance naked in the street? I think not. It was for this same reason that no professor of mine ever read a genuine rough draft of mine; everything I do must have some level of polish--that level is 'a lot'--before I consider it fit for human consumption.
This same characteristic makes me work like I'm driven, because I can't stand to have my name attached to something half-assed; the thought of it galls me.
Now, I am better now at relaxing this about the things that don't matter. Sure, here is a sample of my handwriting for you to not be able to read. Knock yourself out. I also am to the point where I no longer care if I am bad about most recreational pursuits. Cranium drawings? Okay, let's go, but this won't be pretty. My idiosyncrasies only extend to things that I take seriously anymore.
So we got Char Char a piano. We thought it was a good idea/symbolic gesture to replace the TV in the main room with a piano. We found a gorgeous instrument being sold by an incredibly nice couple, at a price that felt like a steal. He had a small organ he was looking to move into the space, and the place where his organ was previously was going to be a hobby space for his wife, and they just did not have room for it anymore. The idea was very pleasing to them that the main purpose of this instrument was so that Charlie would learn to play; I think that gave them more comfort in parting with it.
Poor Charlie will be expected to be truly accomplished; a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, and besides all this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions.
But what kind of role model am I if I don't give it a shot as well. I have resolved that I am going to work on relearning the little bit of piano that I knew and push myself to learn more. I spent lunch practicing yesterday, and I am going to do so more in the future with one caveat, at least in the interim:
You can only expect me to change so fast, and you can't honestly expect me to practice when anyone else can hear,
I love you, Patchy. I wonder if growing up with a frustrated perfectionist for a mother is one of those cases where actions speak louder than words.
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