Saturday, August 18, 2007

Saturdays with.

Michael Franks once made a music album entirely dedicated to the late Antonio Carlos Jobim. A beautiful album titled “abandoned garden”, which tells the story of a lovely garden filled with fragrant blossoms and tender shrubs delicately mourning the absence of their gardener.

This is no story of death, but in a way I wish I had the talent to express how much I miss my piano teacher, who has been sick now for many months. I would usually drive to his home on Saturday mornings with a bebop tune playing, because I used to believe that if I got the tune in my head it would make up for my lack of practice. I would sheepishly say to him that I haven’t practiced, and he would laugh me off, shove me some cookies, and after a little chat we would play.

And as we play, him on the right piano, me on the left one, my worries would drop off me one by one, little specks of dust suddenly unsure of their place on my mind. He would rock his head and I would sway my shoulders, we would talk like that, converse, without saying a word. In between songs he would tell me stories of how jazz is like life, like everything you will ever encounter in life. The science, the emotions, and most importantly, the journey one must take to find their own original melodies.

I remember coming to see him one day, after his wife died of cancer. We sat down on our respective piano seats in that little room with bright coloured walls and a clutter of memorabilia on the shelves and sunlight streaming in through the window, muted by a strange sadness in the air. But he wanted to play solo. He played “The Nearness of You”. He played with his head tilted back and his eyes closed, and as I watched him my eyes welled up because that day the usually pretty song was of sorrow. I never really forgot the way he played that day.

I think, although I’m not sure, that his health slowly deteriorated since then. And I’ve been so busy I must have skipped his classes dozens of times. And now he’s in no condition to teach. In my mind I had a lifetime of Saturday jam sessions with him. In my mind, I still do.

I hope he gets well soon, and tends to his garden again.

Thursday, August 09, 2007

Of purple fingers and swaying furniture.

Wednesday was a family day
We all set out in holiday bliss
For it was governor elections day
We surely did not want to miss

I dressed in jeans that were near decay
(cared not that mom was pissed)
to keep away neighbour’s moms who may
consider me for their match-making list

So we voted then we went away
But first dipped our fingers in purple mist
So odd it was, and the colour stayed
I’m glad it was my finger and not my fist

Later on, as night replaced the day
And fingers had undergone a thorough rinse
An earthquake occurred, I saw furniture sway
T’was shocking, I haven’t felt the same way since!

Oh what an ordeal was yesterday
But in retrospect I can hardly flinch
I slept a lot and all was gay
Except for the little earthquake glitch.

Tuesday, August 07, 2007

Grass (conceptually) gets greener. Amen.

Let it be known that I am typing this while pretending to listen to the secretary recite a detailed chronological narrative of how she found her third cat and what her husband thinks of the cat. I assure you this is no easy feat, but she is convinced that I am listening, because I pretend-giggle at precisely the correct moments.

This month I celebrate my 1st anniversary. Of starting what might be defined as “joining the labour market”. Of being fully employed, in other words. Of being paid a monthly salary, in even more words. A year that feels like ten, in summary.

By certain unorthodox standards, I believe I’m doing quite well. I haven’t gained weight. I haven’t developed an obsession for branded (or fake) monogram leather bags. I have traveled to Russia. I have learned to keep a straight face. I can now alternate between an American accent and a Javanese accent, depending on my audience. I haven’t (yet) faked a doctor’s appointment.

But to be sure it is an uglier world. A world of the ebb and tide of stacking papers, the rhythmic snapping of staples, the steady tapping of keyboards, and the chaotic cacophony of the secretary’s phone (and cat stories). My little corner in this world is a cluttered desk that is forever filled with unfinished business. My excitement over new business outfits and free stationery have long saturated. And then of course, there are the Unmentionables.

So the turmoil of the past year, at times a frenzied storm of deadlines, at times a dwindling breath of boredom, comes down to this: I want a new job.

Happy anniversary.