Dear Diary: Finger-pickin’ Good
I love maths. Well, I love digits. Actually, what I love is my fingers.
(Are, asks the pirate.)
Speaking of bad starts, here’s a really good one from the biggest book since war teamed up with peace:
He speaks in your voice, American, and there’s a shine in his eye that’s halfway hopeful.
Yes, I’ve started reading another novel: Don Delillo’s Underworld. The first chapter is a cracker and has got me all excited again about words. (Or whyeds, speaking in your voice, American.)
Overnight, Iga Swaitek won her fourth French Open and yesterday the Hawks beat GWS to flap themselves into finals contention.
Speaking of which, I think I’m back in the game, following a monster musical session yesterday morn. Using my fingers (those on my hands and in my head), I reckon I’ve picked the lock to musical freedom, cracked the safe housing sound delights.
Hyperbole or just an average amount of perbole?
Either way, my fingers are flying over the keyboard, as I play my pieces, practise scales and arr-peggios (as the pirate says) – and as I kinda improvise, kinda using the kinda knowledge I’m kinda accreting about modes.
Obviously a lot of it is physical: I’ve put in the hours of repetition repetition, playing, playing, playing. But there’s a mindset that goes with it. A devil-may-care swashbuckling parrot-on-the-shoulder walking-the-plank psychological swagger.
A looseness and a loudness. (And an allowed-ness.)
I’m feeling it in my singing and trumpet-playing too, as well as on the drums.
Thanks universe!
Today? E’s soccer, shopping, lunch with P and V, maybe some tennis with M and G, and definitely more music.
Shiver me timbres!
timm in type 