mysublimephases-blog

[mysublimephases-blog]

“Never love a wild thing… He was always lugging home wild things. A hawk with a hurt wing. One time it was a full-grown bobcat with a broken leg. But, you can’t give your heart to a wild thing: the more you do, the stronger they get. Until they’re strong enough to run into the woods. Or fly into a tree. Then a taller tree. Then the sky. That’s how you’ll end up… If you let yourself love a wild thing. You’ll end up looking at the sky.”

Breakfast At Tiffany’s

[mysublimephases-blog]

Burning

just putting this story into sleep; been stuck in my head for days. it’s annoying.

It was a sunny afternoon when I catched a ride home. The train was caught up with the golden hour; my favorite time of the day where everything you see is painted in yellow sunlight like in an old film or an old photo from a box kept under the bed of your grandparents. If you look close enough you’ll see tiny particles dancing around you. 

I like the world better that way, old and simple. I grew up with my grandparents so I got used to old things and tradition. My mom back then was still looking for a job in the city so most of my days were stuck playing around the farm we call Pecuaria.

I chose to sit on an empty compartment by the window, alone. The ride will take about an hour until I get there so I put on my walkman and listened to Beethoven: Piano Sonata No. 14 in C-sharp minor. I’ve been studying this piece for about a month now. Miracle but I call her Mir; my student was getting ready for her recitals and she told me she wants to play this piece; she said it reminds her of a fictional character she looks up to so much, she said something about kousei arima? I cannot quite remember its name, probably Japanese. I never knew it would be this hard though. I put my satchel beside me; sat straight and closed my eyes. I lifted my arms and then the song started playing, my fingers in motion like playing a real piano in front of me. I could hear it ringing, every key was delighted with the touch of my fingers. They were so loud, I could hear them singing. In the back of my mind I remember the first time I saw someone played the piano.

I was six years old back then and my grandmother was cleaning her grand piano at home. We were very close so I got to call her Rou. She doesn’t agree that she was that old; enough to call her grandma but she was indeed, my grandma. We talk about musicians a lot. 

Yup, she was cool.

 “Rou?” I asked her while she was wiping the piano clean and I was playing with my toy car, a gift from Thanksgiving, I don’t remember who it was from.

“Hm?”

“So if Beethoven was completely deaf, how did he compose?” I wondered.

“He’s just that great.” She said and laughed.

“But how?” I said, persistent to know the secret beyond his legendary name.

“He would sit at the piano,” Rou said and then grab for my shoulder and made me sit in front of the grand piano, “Put a pencil in his mouth,” she took a pencil from a table near us and put it on my mouth, “touching the other end of it to the soundboard of an instrument,” she said and played something random on the keys and I felt a tingle in  my spine that made me close my eyes, “to feel the vibration of the notes.” she finally said. I opened my eyes looking straight at Rou and we both knew it was the most magical thing we’ve ever stumbled upon talking about. 

“Please teach me, Rou.” I said, pleading for more of where Beethoven came from and she smiled at me. That smile lasted for a long time while she was playing a song I will never forget, Love’s Sorrow.

I went on, with all my feelings clasp into one note into another. In the middle of the song, I could hear footsteps approaching; probably the conductor, I think, so I didn’t let that take me away from the sonata itself. I closed my eyes tighter and the footsteps stopped and I went on with it again, my fingers dancing spontaneously until the song was over and I was into an end, exhaled and opened my eyes to see a woman sitting right in front of me. She was smiling and clapping her hands. She was..well..pretty too, the yellow sunlight suits her well. 

“That was beautiful.” she finally said.

“Thank you.” I put down my arms hastily and sat straight. She must think I’m a freak. 

“I’m guessing Ludwig?” she asked, still smiling.

“Ludwig.” I said, quite ashamed of the show I have put up a while ago. 

“I’m sorry,” she laughed. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t.” I said and she smiled at me.

She then grabbed a book from her bag and opened it from a page with dog ears. I couldn’t see what book she was reading from there but I noticed her fingers, she was swiveling this keychain of a violin.

“Mozart?” I asked, she looked and I pointed out her keychain.

She smiled.

I then heard the conductor of the train saying that Coldspring is up next so I started fixing my things. I noticed her gaze and followed it, she was looking outside. It was nothing but plain trees and the sun setting. At the edge of my eye, I saw her smiling and heard her whisper in her breath, “beautiful.” The rays of the sun suddenly struck her eyes and it turned me back to the day I first met this girl.

Sunday afternoon, just  as sunny as this day when someone knocked at our door; I was playing with my toys and if I remember it correctly my mother was making us a snack. I heard the door open and there began conversations about our new neighbor. I don’t even remember their names; that day was very vague. Though I remember the pie they gave us as a housewarming gift, it was delicious. I believe they were just in our neighborhood but I don’t see them very often and the house looks like it wasn’t occupied at all. In the midst of them talking my mother suddenly called out for me, “Luke, would you come here please? I’d like you to meet someone.” I heard her say it from my room. I went downstairs and saw a woman, not so old, just the same age as my mother and a girl hiding from her mother’s lace dress. My mother introduced us to one another and I don’t remember saying anything to the girl who knocked by our door but my mother did tell me that I said some unusual things that day. She then put the pie to a small table next to our door and looked at me.

“Honey, staring is not rude when you have something to say afterwards but just staring is rude.” she said and then laughed, “which is what you did a while ago, what’s wrong buddy?” she asked. 

My mother is a very sweet and charming mother. She and I share an interest in animals, especially pets. We’re so close that she would let me feed our dog, Hayes, in between meals. My Dad would always disapprove. 

“Her eyes.” I began.

“What about her eyes?”

“It was burning.” I said. Like a painting.

“Her eyes were burning.” my mother repeated, trying to understand my unfinished sentences, “Uh, honey I’m pretty sure eyes don’t just burn up.” she laughed.

I couldn’t make her understand. How could I? I didn't understand it either. I  paint; I listen to my teachers when they talk about colors but this was a different hue. No palette I have ever seen in small vintage shops. It would always be monochromatic.

“When you were busy talking to Mrs. I don’t know who, her eyes were struck by the rays of the sun and it turned into a color I do not understand.” I said, “It was beautiful,” my mother was looking straight at me, shocked. “But it was burning.”

I ran up to my room and I left my mother wondering that day. But she wasn’t the only person left wondering that day. And that was exactly what I felt right now, seeing her eyes. I feel like I’ve been washed up to the shores; drowning from a vague memory of a girl I once met.