No problem, Bev! That book/movie freaked me out for years, and I clearly remember those scenes/that particular form of torture. Shudder. It's a wonder Sybil survived at all.

I'll be doing my own piano drabbles, I think you can bet safely on that one.

This one's not, though. A memory from early July 1969:

Flamenco Variations On Top of the World

The apartment's a two-room bubble on a Riverside Drive rooftop. My father called in a favour from his trumpet-player friend. My mother and I are trying to kill each other, 24/7. I need sanctuary.

That first night, I wander over to the Village, eat, see my sister. I'm revelling in my freedom; I'm fifteen, I'm in my own separate universe, high in the sky for summer. I'm free.

Three in the morning, finally asleep, something drifts up through the plumbing: beautiful, mournful trumpet, hitting a frenetic note, spiralling up and down. I pound on the pipes.

"Miles! I need sleep!"

Deb, you told me that story when I visited at Halloween last year, and I absolutely loved it then, and I still do now.

Tep, there was no room in the drabble for his reply, right back up through the pipes at me: "Shut up, bitch, it's MY HOUSE."

Another, from 1973 or thereabouts:

Don't Bother Me With Numbers

Frustration, thy name is Student.

It's not his fault. I have zero patience, and his way of teaching is explanation. He's a friend, lead guitar for a rock band and killer acoustic player. He's been trying to show me how to play this particular song for hours.

"Full scale, up the octave." He does it, too fast for me to see. "Basic math."

"Fuck math!" I'm on the edge of tears. "Show me, and slowly. Just show me!"

He smiles suddenly, and does. I watch, absorb, and move. Suddenly, we're singing.

"Another man done gone, down on the country farm...."

More. I did warn you, you must admit.

Cowardice

"Do you want to jam?"

I look up at him, startled. He's at the Steinway, regarding me over the ten feet of piano lid.

"Why?" Jam? With him? "Um -"

"You were humming." He plays a few bars of one of my songs, effortless, river water. "So, get your guitar - we'll work on it."

"No!" He's lost his mind. I'm a decent musician, but - play with him? He's kidding.

"Oh, come on." He plays the riff again, nearly eviscerating me. "You've seen my scars. Come share your music."

I swallow hard, gather my courage, and get my guitar.

A Session at SIR, 1977

The blond with the ponytail is running the studio single-handed today. He's asked if he can sit in with me; seems he's a bassplayer when he isn't handling this place.

Everyone's signed out; I'm the only paying customer left. It's just past six.

He plugs in his bass, a battered cherrytop Guild long-scale. "You're in D modal, right? Let me tune up."

I wait, idly run a riff on my guitar. The bass, mellow thunder, replies.

Oh my god, his music? Tastes just like mine.

Six hours later, we finally stop playing and I realise I may be in love.

OK, here's a cheesy high school drabble. (Even worse if you know the song...)

"Let me hear you tell me you love me…"

Sitting in the dark, singing along with a tape. Where did everyone go? Somehow, it’s just the two of us, lights off, singing along with the duet. It’s intimate in a way we’d never be with the lights on, would never be in our own voices. We’re too young, too busy protecting ourselves. Too busy believing in high school reputations.

"Make it last forever…."

A couple of weeks later, we go to the Prom together. A couple of weeks after that, we’ve broken up. Not that we were ever really together

I've got one, but I've got a thought that I'm not sure if I'm expressing, you know.
Sometimes life would be simpler if there was a score like the movies or TV, to help us figure out which episode we’re in. No more “Is this a date?” if when you saw each other, Al Green started to play.(Good thing you shaved your legs.)Maybe a blues for when it’s the end of the month and you’re scouring for change under the couch. Yes, again. Sigh.Work days might go faster under the driving beat of “Money’.The local news, home of “If it bleeds, it leads” should be accompanied by “Boom, Boom, Boom” And I really missed Bruce at the union hall the other day, “My hometown” maybe.

Jesse, I love that entire thing, but the last line is superb. Sums up the whole experience.

I TOTALLY know what you're saying, erika! I mostly notice when the real-life backgroud music IS what would be on the soundtrack, just then.