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new awesome word: filibuster
14 Jan 2007 12:18 amTwo weeks after the divorce, the tiny numbers ruined everything.
At the beginning of some of the pieces of music he played were suggested tempos (t=90) and he just had to glance at them to find the beat pulsing in his head. Handy. But one day, perched on a chair with a frown on his face and his small hands steadying the cello, Kenneth found himself trapped by it. His teacher quickly picked up on this and said: you've always had an amazing sense of rhythm for your age, but you'll never be a good player if you don't learn flexibility, emotion. Play around with the tempo. Drag it, push it. But his eyes (once his fingers knew the notes by heart) kept returning helplessly to the tiny number at the top of the page. That number was everything, a painful insistence. One two three four. One two three four. Slow down, Kenneth, his teacher said eventually, frustrated, and put her hand over his to guide the bow. She'd done it a hundred times, but this time - this time - Kenneth, thirteen, felt the pressure of her hands as a combination of dirt and deviation from the beat.
He screamed.
~
In other words: WHOO WASTELAND BACKSTORY. I've missed Kenneth. I've added words to about three different works of original fiction this evening, but my utter lack of focus isn't bothering me as much as it usually does. It just feels good to create.
I have also continued with my steady progress through The West Wing, which I would condense into liquid form and drink with every meal if the option were available to me. I love it. It's perfect. It draws on my emotions effortlessly, and you know that my emotions are not easily drawn. It makes me care about issues! It makes me want to be a better person! All television should be like this.
Tomorrow I plan to clean like a madwoman in preparation for the arrival of![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
stars_like_dust.
Life is going well :)
At the beginning of some of the pieces of music he played were suggested tempos (t=90) and he just had to glance at them to find the beat pulsing in his head. Handy. But one day, perched on a chair with a frown on his face and his small hands steadying the cello, Kenneth found himself trapped by it. His teacher quickly picked up on this and said: you've always had an amazing sense of rhythm for your age, but you'll never be a good player if you don't learn flexibility, emotion. Play around with the tempo. Drag it, push it. But his eyes (once his fingers knew the notes by heart) kept returning helplessly to the tiny number at the top of the page. That number was everything, a painful insistence. One two three four. One two three four. Slow down, Kenneth, his teacher said eventually, frustrated, and put her hand over his to guide the bow. She'd done it a hundred times, but this time - this time - Kenneth, thirteen, felt the pressure of her hands as a combination of dirt and deviation from the beat.
He screamed.
~
In other words: WHOO WASTELAND BACKSTORY. I've missed Kenneth. I've added words to about three different works of original fiction this evening, but my utter lack of focus isn't bothering me as much as it usually does. It just feels good to create.
I have also continued with my steady progress through The West Wing, which I would condense into liquid form and drink with every meal if the option were available to me. I love it. It's perfect. It draws on my emotions effortlessly, and you know that my emotions are not easily drawn. It makes me care about issues! It makes me want to be a better person! All television should be like this.
Tomorrow I plan to clean like a madwoman in preparation for the arrival of
stars_like_dust.Life is going well :)