The Performer Shobhik Chakraborty, Massachusetts
W
hite rectangular fingers extend dully out toward my chest. They beckon, each wanting to be touched, felt, enjoyed. I press one and hear its wholesome texture. Its depth of tone and presence. I notice the vigor in which I press these fingers is proportionate to the volume of sound. A rough stab induces a similarly violent yet musical induced response. I close my eyes. As I sit, vulnerable, exposed, dabbing senselessly at these white, dusty fingers all becomes clear and vivid. Colors flutter in and out of sight, filling the dark spaces in my mind. Spaces that had long been void of music. Enticing freedom captures my mind and transfers into my reckless hands. Sparks of notes and sounds fill the noiseless room. Silence whipped into nonsensical music. Light, fluffy notes are created by simple pecking. Large, dynamic notes blazoned by impulsive fingers. Fingers, white and black alike, working in unison. Cloth spread across the ancient
seat. Dirty legs embracing the form fitting plush of its host down below. Out of place, I think. This piano is more ancient than I- more conservative. It does not approve of my apparel, or my impulsive fingers. It will judge and ridicule and tattle to a player more senior and experienced. It is now a being, a voice to be heard amongst million others in this world. Each note, each combination of intonation changing mood and tone, now reverberating through the theater hall. I am Bach, mind and soul soaked with passion and excitement poured heavily onto each piano key. No, I am Mozart, graceful yet poised, dancing and frolicking through stanzas and stanzas of syncopated rhythm and tone. White and black fingers fuse and become one. The voice is now mine, its power now placed upon my larn
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