Patting his bowling ball belly, my Hungarian violin teacher would say, “This is my integrity!” then laugh and point to places in the music where it was OK for me to blink.
It was a perfectionist problem, he declared, knowing better. “A perfectionist problem!” why I kept my eyes open, why I cried when I played, why I was “Masterful!” he said, at shoving my shoulders into my ear canals—why he trotted out his “integrity” regularly to buy my smile.
Trust your bright hands can handle things when you need to close your eyes. He rested his celebrated fingertips on my right shoulder.
“You don’t have to go any faster than this.” He rocked with me like he used to with his lucky daughters and sons.
And he sang,
“doe-mi-so so-mi-doe doe-mi-doe…”
Another one I found buried deep in my notebook. I miss this man. If only I could do a Hungarian accent! Hear me read it:
I am an essayist and poet. My work has been rejected by some of the finest journals in America. Fortunately, it also gets accepted from time to time and has appeared in equally fine journals such as Word Riot, Inlandia, Brew City Magazine, and SageWoman, among others.. In 2002, I won the Academy of American Poets Prize for Vanderbilt University.
For no good reason, I possess an unnecessarily dark humor which is why being third generation California Inland Empirian delights me so. My gods are weird. I once won $350 for writing a smartassed essay on “why the wise use of water is important in my daily life”. I am undoubtedly the Greek god Hermes’ special snowflake. I’m pretty sure I got into college via a series of fortuitous clerical errors.
When I had to grow up and get a real job, I decided against it and stayed a writer. I have worked many odd—and I mean odd—jobs to support my habit: PR writer for country music hopefuls, resume massager, WalMart fitting room attendant and switchboard operator, and telephone psychic, just to name a few.
I am also albino. That's why my psychic gifts are so strong. I traded in my pigment for magical foresight, because that's how it works. It gets all technical. Trust me. That's totally how it works.
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One thought on “So-Mi-So (poetry)”
I looked at doe as C and thought: C C# D# F D# C# A A# C F# F D# A# . Interesting if you want to stay in the octave or go strategically down one. More melancholy down next octave a A. I have a silly old keyboard, don’t have a violin. But everything is sad. Isn’t it wonderful to close the eyes when emotion overwhelms.