You think we're dancing? ... That's all we've ever done.

 

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My novel 2004.. My novel 2006.. My novel 2008..

(diaryland) October 16, 2006 - 9:58 p.m.

OK OK. What a week. What a motherfucking week.

So busy.

This happens in October.

I've still avoided starting a three-thousand word essay, among other things.

On Tuesday, I was forced at gunpoint to play harpsichord in a concert. It is safe to say that I bungled it. It is also safe to say that there was practically no audience so it evened itself out.

More importantly, on Thursday, I had my Big Moment In The Sun, which was the piano student concert at university. It was a big deal. Practically nobody I knew came to that either because they either couldn't be bothered or were too boiling to get their arse off the couch, or had a husbandly birthday, which is the only legitimate one. Oh, yeah, or they were going to get measured or something. I am especially sore about that one.

So I played Sposalizio by Liszt. I played almost every note right. My Mum was petrified every second I played. It was cool. There was a time when I forgot whether the next chord was an E chord or a B chord. It was a very emotional time. For me, it felt like four hundred years. I was playing the thing without music, which is more manly. The problem with that is you can't tell what the hell to play next sometimes. Then it flashed into my mind. E CHORD! E CHORD!

Goddamn, I was right, and the whole ordeal only took about a quarter of a second real time.

Anyway, I was sort of thinking a lot instead of emoting, which is what excellent pianists should do in a concert. The good thing is, though, that the emoting is usually so carefully planned out that you sound like it even if you feel like you're wondering about angles or some shit.

Afterwards, it feels good. You bow and people clap and then you run off and think, thank Christ, I don't have to do that again until November the fourth. Done and dusted.

Some chick came up to me in the interval and said she cried during my performance. She cried, man. I made a total stranger cry.

SATAN! SATAN! SATAN!

I gave her the thumbs up and said, "Awesome!" Later, I thought that's probably not the response to do when someone has cried at your lovely piano piece. I'm like Tom Jones though now because I have the power to work middle-aged women into a frenzy. I am a real man. My thrown underwear collection begins now.

Also, some famous pianist guy was in the audience and said I was the "best one before the interval." Thius is a dubious honour.

I will talk about the twenty-first birthday party later.




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