Write something about yourself, is a recent request from a reader of the column. I have to admit I was mildly surprised — not to be asked to be more forthcoming on a personal level, but to come across a reader who actually took the time to follow up a read with a message. Columnists are loathe to admit it but there is a secret thrill that accompanies the discovery that, amidst the sea of text in a newspaper, one’s output or outpourings are actually spotted and read.
The phrase ‘spotted and read’ brings to mind an old quote by someone a lot more erudite, who said, in a rather clever play on the words, ‘His sins were scarlet but his books were read.’
But, to the matter at hand. Not being one of the A-list celebrities who are very reluctant to part with personal anecdotes or information (some hoard their personal trivia and sell them to the highest bidder) — not being one of those, it is of no consequence whatsoever to embark upon a rumination of some event in one’s own life.
However, in sifting through the years of my existence I, like a lot of others, am prompted to ask, deprecatingly, “Why would you want to know anything about a person as boring as myself?”
I have heard that asked before, by a really comical man, and it leads me to conclude that the way we see ourselves is quite different from the way others perceive us. I look at my fingers, all ten of them, puffy in the summer heat and I wonder, “Who would ever believe these played a piano with virtuoso skill?” Not many, and not me either, for that didn’t happen. There’s a yawning gap between contemplation and accomplishment. A concert pianist is what I contemplated becoming in the dim and distant past when as a youngster in shorts I sat indoors and gave music on the radio and the record player a serious ear, while several of my more adventurous peers were scampering about outside trying to hit each other with a rubber ball.
The sound produced by a piano under the commanding hands of a maestro held me spellbound. It didn’t have to be classical, most often it wasn’t. Floyd Kramer, Russ Conway. “I want to be that when I grow up!” I exclaimed to myself quietly in private, countless times. Back in the day, it wasn’t something one articulated aloud. Nevertheless, when the great secret became too heavy to carry I confided in a very close friend, who promptly burst out laughing, shaking vigorously and wiping streams of tears as they coursed across his cheek. It is the closest I have ever got to being a stand-up comedian, albeit unintentionally.
Pianos don’t grow on trees
“Where on earth are we going to find a piano?” scoffed my grandmother when she did get wind of my secret longings. It’s true, pianos didn’t grow on trees and still don’t.
“Mrs. C can teach me, she’s the music teacher,” I pleaded.
The only piano in the entire town resided in the primary school.
“Mrs. C has fourteen children,” I was reminded, the implication being: “Don’t try and turn yourself into her fifteenth headache!” It is in these little ways that a dream is quietly laid to rest. The cemeteries of ambition are filled with the bleached bones of a million such dreams. It is all in some way a part of growing up, finding one’s self, or finding another aspect of one’s self.
Looking back now without the slightest regret I am convinced that had I found the piano I would never have encountered the pen. And we all know of course which of the two is mightier. Even the sword has been relegated to runner-up. I am content, at the end of a writing session, to turn on the music and let someone else provide the entertaining. It’s the least a talented pianist can do for a mind-weary writer, I believe.
Kevin Martin is a journalist based in Sydney, Australia.
