You are the coolest person, Robin. I'm glad to have met you (albeit not in person).

That's gorgeous, ita.

I've got a couple of drabbles lurking in corners of my mind, but they'll have to wait until I get my partials ready to go out the door.

a day in the life

It's not music, whatever it is. Noise, cacophony, chaos.

She's new on the drum kit, so it's taking her a while to find the groove. The boys don't really want to practice, they're just messing around on the guitars. And whatever song they're playing from the song bank on those cheap keyboards I've already heard one million times. The bassists are working, but that four-finger exercise doesn't exactly sound like Patitucci.

And then, unexpectedly, he raises those teenage boy eyes to me and says, "I don’t want you to go." My heart breaks as symphonic glories swirl around my head.

I love this line, erika:

I’m taking too long to get started, and you finished too fast.

(When I was in college, the local newspaper editor took the college newspaper's editorial board out to dinner each year at a fancy restaurant. Few of us were used to fancy restaurants and even fewer to ordering drinks, but we all wanted to appear adult and sophisticated. As we fumbled about trying to order, one of the other students ordered Southern Comfort on the rocks. We looked at her, and she said, "If it was good enough for Janis Joplin, it's good enough for me.")

ita's Pied Piper drabble is a thing of wonder.

Deb, insent.

Thanks, ChiKat, I debated not writing that one because I was afraid it would come off like teenaged litmag necrophilia(you know what I'm saying?) But, you know, fuck it.

Another....

In the winter, my mom and I do jigsaw puzzles on the dining room table, listening to her music -- the McGarrigles (That’s the sun, son, shining on the water, it’s not Cairo, New York or Rome), Joan Baez (Jesse, I won’t cut fresh flowers for you/Jesse, I won’t keep the wine cold for you), Bette Midler (And my mother’s eyes are with me, in the darkness that’s been paid for). We laugh, cry, sing along, dance, in the cold dark of winter. I’m too young to understand most of the lyrics, but I always know what they mean.

Jesse, I loved the McGarrigles.

Um. Okay. This isn't a drabble. It's more of a circuit dump. But it wanted out and it's on topic.

Memories of an Easier Heart

I remember.

Curled up on the too-small sofa, watching you, listening, feeling the warm-up music of choice on any given day, moving along my nerves. All three cats doing the same, after their peculiar cat fashion: your boy Pig, all twenty-plus pounds of him, crouched on the half-open lid of the Steinway, stalking the hammers as they hit the strings, never fast enough. Fluff, useless and ornamental and pleasingly silly, staring up at you, freshly bewildered every time you used the soft pedal. My girl Tekla, blue eyes calm as lake water, on my lap, on my shoulder, glancing up at me, sharing the moment.

Damn, the moment.

Some days it was Chopin, played with the lightest hands on earth. I never cared for Chopin before you played him for me, but you changed that; I stopped despising the romantic, began to value the dreaming behind it. I remember that you played Chopin most often when you felt the healthiest, when the heart wasn't doing something off, when the kidneys weren't acting up, when you weren't in any real pain, at least not pain that was louder than the music. Yet it was Chopin on rainy days, too, when the sky was soft and the weight of the weather came down like cheap tears.

Some days, it was rock and roll, pure thunder. You'd get a half smile going, the fingers would start smacking really hard against the ivories. Bo Diddley, Chuck Berry, all over the scale on the full gamut of lowest bass to highest treble, all the octaves there for you to use, and honey, you used them. Pig looked eerily like you at those moments: same gleam, snaking out a foreleg, never catching up. I never caught up, either.

And some days, the best days, it was the blues, barrelhouse, nothing like it on this earth and no one ever played it better. My memories of those days, perching at the edge of the bench, singing - I was a better singer than you, by far, oh man, those memories. Stop breaking down, baby please stop breaking down.....

It's nothing and everything, that so much of what you did is available to me. But these moments, they'll never be caught anywhere else. They can talk about you, write about you, and they know nothing, nothing at all.

They weren't there.

It was just us, and the cats, and a Steinway in the A-framed main room of the house on Erica Road.

And now? It's just me.

Grammar question:

"Ultimately, she decides to act as if the child WAS her husband Sebastian’s, conceived just before his death."

or

"Ultimately, she decides to act as if the child WERE her husband Sebastian’s, conceived just before his death."

I know sometimes "if" gets a "was" and other times a "were," I'm just not sure whichi is appropriate here. But, hey, once I've figured this out, the synopses are done, and all I have left are the cover letters and a last read of the partial itself.

"Ultimately, she decides to act as if the child WERE her husband Sebastian’s, conceived just before his death."

Were. Condition contrary to fact takes the subjunctive. If I were you. If I were a carpenter.