Paint Me, Dreamer

If walls could talk, I would fill your ears with feelings that come in tremors. Vibrations. I keep them like heirlooms in a time capsule. ¾ time. 6/8 time. Four-on-the-floor. Flowing as it rolls around me. Entrancing. The beautiful noise simmers. Then rises to crescendo – harmony in waves. The curious fly sits and listens. A nosey little thing. Nature’s spy. Interesting tidbit – flies are actually great conversationalists believe it or not. Chatty Cathy’s. Sounds like buzzing to the human ear – that may or may not be by design. They get around too much to be trusted – as I see it – or live very long. But the noisy little spy knows well the tale I tell – of the sonic soul of the pianist.

A great performer, she was. I knew her since she was a little girl. Her rolling fingerprints memorialized as tiny, smeared dots upon my off-white face. Soft tapping against me, but brilliant thunder on white and black keys. I was with her through thick and thin as she prepared for the big stage. Those silent watchers will never know her like I do. I heard the struggles. The frustration and repetition. The mangled chords of defeat. “Again!,” she’d shout. “Again!” I encouraged her. Nurtured her acoustics. “Overcome, young one,” I would say, “Overcome.”

I witnessed the TRIUMPH! Twinkling drops, into a harmonic flood that soaks the room in an emotive monsoon of devotion. As it dries, I come down from the high. A love serenade in the key of A. Glory in C major. Revelry in E. The last dance in E minor …

Silence.

Beauty in all forms. And me still buzzing from the melodic romance of a story narrated in tones. Suddenly I was brought to life. From the big bang of sound, I breached the womb of these walls. Free of the dimensions of this space. Sober and aware of that which is boundless. Rhythm and emotion. She gave me life and in return, I bestowed her with inspiration.

During the intermission, the performer changed her paintbrush. I became the blank canvas for her dreams. I was transformed into a curtain-draped stage – surrounded by an audience of thousands. The performer, courted by light and shadow, gallantly graced the stage and took a seat. *Dry cough. Her outstretched fingers laid over the keys of a Steinway Concert Grand.

Subtle strokes. The choreography and muscle memory, honed within this room, guided her hands. Her movement was flawless, but the struck notes made no sound. Only a silent cinema of progressions and chord changes. Her head moved and swayed as her hands floated and her fingers weaved. The audience disappeared by darkness. The performer existed only as the silence between the notes. Drifting in the empty space where all things are possible. Where inspiration saturates the senses, and the heart composes its own song. The audio returned as the dreamer received a round of applause, bowing graciously.

It was in those moments that I realized where the music of the pianist lived. In the silence of her dreams. Silence is the artist of sound. The technicolor painter of the imagination. Much in the same way that dreams are the soul of inspiration. I can see the pianist’s dreams as I listen; projected on every wall of my surface. The waves of sound would be meaningless without them. The wonderful music of the renown pianist is embedded deep within my frame. It is the inspiration that I give as freely as the life it gave to me. The euphoric vibrations are how I know myself. And the silent dreams of the pianist were how I knew her.