Heather S. Ingemar's Blog, page 27

Thunderheads

I stand outside

Watching

Thunderheads build

Like great, snow-covered mountains.

They make me feel hot,

Hotter,

In July

Because there is no snow.

(2012)

It is July, and the last week has been ugly. Triple digits? Every year can’t wait for summer to arrive, and then when the heat really hits, I can’t wait for autumn… I guess that’s what I get for living in the West. I don’t know how the pioneers did it, walking day after day in the stifling heat, no place to cool off, and going on water rations because they didn’t know where the next river might be. Amazing.

And the lightning! An awesome, terrible sort of beauty. I find myself praying and praying for rain in this weather, only to make the land wet enough so we don’t catch fire again should a bolt touch down somewhere. So far, we’ve been lucky. The last storm we had roll over, I had to run outside to put some things in the shed, and in the five minutes it took me to run out there and back, I was soaked. A drowned rat. I’m knocking on wood that it stays this way.

Best Anniversary Present EVAR

Demon’s Music IX: Temptation

Maren wandered into the silent wings at the end of her rehearsals and looked out at the empty audience seats through the parted curtains. Closing her eyes she envisioned herself on center stage, playing for Cal as she would tomorrow, and then, playing before a full house. Even the idea made her feel faint, but she persisted with the fantasy. Music rolled from the instrument, filling the hall.

With a start, Maren realized the music wasn’t anything she knew. And, she was truly hearing it. Carefully, she crept back through the wings toward the rear of the stage, following the sound. As she maneuvered between the spare sets, the lovely solo grew louder. Her stomach twisted, thinking about the strange apparition she’d seen the last time she heard mysterious music, and she didn’t know whether to hope to see it (him?) again or to find it was another act getting in some last minute practice…

It was him. His fingers danced over the keys, not missing a beat. “Come closer, Maren,” he said, without looking at her, and she felt faint. Against her better wishes, she followed his instruction.

“Who — what — are you?” she asked, feeling faint. This could not be happening… The world seemed to spin as she watched him play, and she struggled to maintain her mental grip on the here and now. Music rolled from beneath his fingers, honest-to-Buddha music she could hear with her own ears, and she was not insane.

“I know what you want, and I would like to make you a proposition,” he said.

“How do you know what I want?” she countered.

“Everybody wants something and our desires are the same,” he said, suddenly facing her. His mercury eyes glittered as he held her gaze. Maren couldn’t look away, and abruptly, he was standing in front of her. She backed up until she came up hard against a set piece and could move no further. He invaded her space and Maren couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move as his fingers touched her cheek.

The world melted away and was replaced by a lavish opera house. Candlelit lamps lit the stage, and she saw him, center stage, performing a complicated piano solo in front of hundreds. Not just hundreds, Maren realized as she peered through the golden haze of light. Kings, queens, dignitaries… They hung on every note dropped from his long fingers. Then the vision melted, and she was once more in the dark backstage hall of the slightly run down Brisby Theatre, facing the all-too-close apparition of a music man she was both frightened and intrigued by.

He leaned in with a seductive smile, his pleasant scent of wood and paper overwhelming her senses. “You will be better than all the greats put together with my help,” he whispered in her ear. Then he was walking back to the piano, leaving her with a sense of desperation.

“Wait,” she said.

He paused, looking back over his shoulder at her.

“My… My stage fright…”

“Gone,” he said, prowling back and forth across the space in front of her.

To be able to play, to be more than just another frustrated pianist in a dead-end little town… She could feel the music in her hands, in her fingers, and she ached to loose it upon the full auditorium. She balled her fingers into fists at her sides. “What’s the catch?”

The look in his molten eyes was reproachful. “I merely don’t want to see another talent wasted. I want to hear you play.“

Maren hesitated. “I–”

A door slammed in the lobby, breaking the spell. Maren edged along the set piece. The silver man followed her.

“What’s your decision?” he pressed, stepping in front of her.

“I… I don’t know,” she said, dodging around him, only to find he had vanished. As she stood there perplexed, she heard Cal speak from behind.

“You ready for tomorrow?” He smiled at her as he hunted for a key on his keychain.

“Maybe,” she murmured, following him to the back door. She stole a glance back at the piano, which had taken on a sharp sparkle in the dark.

* * *

This is part of an ongoing serial story — catch up via the Serials page!

Soul Music

I went to a funeral for a little child the other day and I was struck at how powerful music truly is. Sometimes, being a musician, I wonder if I am too close to it, in a way… I’ve always understood how I feel — music is my ‘safe place,’ my haven of peace when the world gets too rough. I’m not a religious person though I am a spiritual one, and music puts me back in touch with the wonderful forces of the higher power that makes this world spin. Music restores my harmony (no pun intended).

But I’ve never really paused to think how music affects others.

During the musical portion of the service, I saw the entire congregation rise — not in a scripted maneuver, but in response to the beauty of the song filling the rafters. Feeling music reach inside me much as it reached inside everyone else and pulled them to their feet brought tears to my eyes. The song knew no borders, it’s message of peace and love knew no hesitations, no doubt. And everyone rose to greet it. Everyone heard its call, and answered… For a few, wonderful minutes, everyone in that room sang together, held out hands to one another, helped one another. The building literally seemed to vibrate with the strength of solidarity between us. No one was left out.

How can there be so much pettiness, so much ugliness, and hurt and hatred with something so good and so powerful as music? If all it takes is one song to grab every soul by the ear, if all it takes is one verse to reach in and change people for the better, remind them of the beauty we all have inside… How can any of that bad stuff survive? We wander around and wonder where we went wrong, why life is heading so far south… We’ve lost sight of what’s important. Of what’s good. Of what’s right, and true, and the sad part is, it’s right in front of us and it’s been there the whole time.

I’m not foolish nor idealistic enough to think that all the woes in the world can be fixed with a song. Life isn’t nearly that simple.

But it makes me think: when did we stop listening? When did we decide that the good parts of our soul aren’t worth the fight?

When did we give up hope?

Recovery

Well, my wisdom teeth are out now…

… And I feel like someone hit me upside the head with a sledge hammer. Ow. I’m very glad they prescribed me some high-power pain meds otherwise I’d be laying in bed right now doing my impression of an animal in death throes….

So, for the next few days, it looks like I’m catching up on my reading, putting some time in on that soundtrack for the heritage group. Might go out and work with my calf, Ochs. Or, I might just sleep.

The strangest thing about my appointment yesterday? When they had me sign a form verifying they were only pulling four teeth… and when I was done they handed Hubby six teeth….?? I mean, WTF? My regular dentist took a look in my mouth for me because we were paranoid and said I have all the teeth I’m supposed to have, but I’m going to have a chat with the surgeon anyway, lol. What if I ended up with someone else’s chompers????

The best thing about my appointment yesterday? When I was sitting in the recovery room, still way loopy from the anesthetic and my Husband came in and sat down next to me because I murmured I was cold (side effect from the drugs). I leaned over, smelled his arm, then smiled and said “Hubby.” Then, when the surgeon came in and greeted Hubs, he said “I don’t think I’ve met you before –” and I drunkenly slurred, “This is my Hubby. He’s a nice guy.”

Demon’s Music VIII: Hunger

The piano watched the singer from its favored spot in the shadows. It hated her, couldn’t stand her shrieky soprano voice. It watched as the woman berated her new accompanist for some imagined slight, arms waving akimbo and her myriad bracelets making the most obnoxious racket with her dramatic movement.

She needed to be gotten rid of. And it was hungry. It worked out nicely.

“You, lady, you’re crazy! You’re lucky anyone will work with you!” The young man pointed a direct finger at her and advanced. “After this, I’m done. And don’t you call me again!”

The young man stomped off, clearly as ‘done,’ with her as he claimed. The irate diva chased after him, her graying hair coming loose from its bun. “Where do you think you’re going, you ungrateful wretch? I’m not through with you — we still have to go over the coda!”

The pianist rounded on her and gave her the finger. “Not today we don’t,” he spat, and slammed the stage door in her face as he left.

The diva reeled back, shocked and angrily appalled. She started cursing in some eastern European language. Possibly Czech, but language had changed so much since the piano had been there last, and really, it didn’t care. It crept forward, using the stage curtains as cover.

The woman raged about the back stage, kicking set pieces and screaming obscenities at the air. The piano could almost taste her as it neared…

“Miss Poulan, I’d really appreciate you taking your fit elsewhere.” The manager stood with his arms crossed at one end of the backstage. The piano hadn’t heard him approach, and it hated being caught off guard. It shrank back into the shadows.

“This theatre stinks! No decent musical talent, no one with any work ethic! I cannot believe you aren’t bankrupt!” she hissed.

“I’m sorry you feel that way. Now, leave. Please.” The manager pointed steadily at the door, and his expression booked no argument.

The woman made a rude gesture and flounced out. The piano seethed. Foiled! The manager sighed, rubbed a hand through his dark hair. Where he had been stern and steely man a moment ago, he seemed to shrink into a worn out boy. The piano watched as he slowly turned, and headed back the way he came. Weak! It thought with a sneer.

The piano rumbled as the manager stepped out of earshot. It momentarily considered attacking the manager, but that would draw unwanted attention. And the weakling would taste bland, anyway, it reasoned. The rumble grew until it was an eerie, low growl. It needed to hurry and win the piano-girl to its cause.

Before it perished of hunger….

Music Notes: When your parents don’t let you Play

Welcome to my first Music Notes installment! If you have suggestions for this young lady, please leave them in the comments.

And, as always, if you have a question, send them on down!

* * *

Hey Heather please help me out. My name is Aastha… I belong to a very musical family. My mother made me join a classical vocal music class when I was 7. I liked the teacher. He wasn’t bad. Now I am 13 going to be 14 this December. As I grew up I began to dislike this type of music so I gave up singing and asked my parents to let me attend a guitar class. They didnt agree and are still forcing me to attend those classes. Wherever I go I am sick of listening to people telling me to continue singing as it is in my blood and all. I am not singing since the last 3 years. My parents havent given up either. I really don’t know what to do.

Please help me. Aastha

* * *

Dear Aastha,

I am very sorry you are going through this. Being forced to do something you don’t care for is never fun.

That said, I would encourage you to talk to your parents again about it. Try to find out why they don’t want you to play guitar. They may be keeping you in vocal music because they don’t take your interest in guitar seriously. A guitar is a big investment, whereas you already own your voice. They may not want to get you a guitar if they think your interest is only going to last a month or two (in which case, they fear having wasted time and money on a guitar that won’t get played again). The thing is, you have to find ways to show them that you’re serious about it and that guitar is something you’re passionate about. Tell them how much you really want to play. Offer to help find a reasonably priced instrument. Offer to help find someone to teach you (If you have friends who play guitar, that is an excellent resource for getting started!).

If you try all of these things and they still won’t budge, consider this: all music is related. You are learning musical skills which will help you when you do get the chance to play guitar. The concept of notes, music structure, and rhythm are universal. Everything you learn now will make you a better guitar player in the end. Just stick with it and don’t give up. If you *really* would rather play guitar than sing classical, take heart that eventually you WILL. It might not be right away — you may have to wait until you are an adult — but if it’s something you really want to do you will find a way to do it. Opportunities have a way of showing up when they’re needed.

Thank you for writing! And best of luck!

Heather

Demon’s Music VII: Talk

Maren hustled down the hallway toward Cal’s office. She had to do this before she wimped out. Butterflies jammed her stomach. She could do this. Cal was a good guy, she had nothing to fear from asking him to put her on the show schedule. Nothing to fear at all…

Her steps slowed, then stopped as her mind related all the thing that might happen if she went through with it. Music, gone; fingers frozen on the keys; the first, terrible snickering from the audience as she fumbled over the keyboard in vain, trying to reclaim some semblance of professionalism… Her, running off stage under Cal’s disappointed stare… It would be worse thsn her failed senior recital at the end of her college days, and worse because she lived in Brisby — she couldn’t escape the pity, the derision… A cold sweat broke out on her brow, and Maren leaned her back to the wall. God, she was hyperventilating just considering being out of the pit! How could she even begin to think she could perform a solo? How stupid was she?

Then, she thought of her dream: commanding that powerful Steinway, the way the music rolled from her hands…

You will sound stunning…

She straightened her shoulders. Now or never. She marched down the paneled hall and rapped smartly on Cal’s door.

“Come in,” he called, and she stepped in. Cal was up to his elbows in papers; it looked like a tornado had rolled through. He glanced up. “Maren!” he said in surprise, and he leaned back in his office chair. He pulled his reading glasses off and set them on a precarious stack next to the telephone. “What can I do for you?”

“I wanted to talk to you about the show.”

“Oh, yeah, I’ve been working on the schedule–”

“I want to do a solo,” she blurted.

Cal said nothing. Maren slowly opened an eye to see him looking at her, mouth agape. Inwardly, she cringed.

“Um… Ah…”

“See, I was thinking you could put me on right after I get done with Vic and Marty, and then you could put Miss Poulan on right after since she’ll have her own pianist and it wouldn’t disrupt things too much.”

She waited for Cal’s response and felt her heart sink as the silence stretched thin.

“Ah, Maren,” he began, hesitant, “Maren, what about the… your… You know the…”

“Stage fright?” she supplied, miserably.

“Uh, yeah. What if–?”

She flopped down in the overstuffed leather chair next to him. “Oh, who am I kidding?” she wailed. Maren looked away, closing her eyes against the sudden, irrational tears that threatened to spill.

“Hey hey hey, relax, okay?” he said gently. “I didn’t say no. You took me by surprise. I just wanted to know if you had a plan.”

His hand found its way onto her knee, and Maren found it unusually comforting. She paused. “A plan?”

Cal thought for a minute. “Yeah. Listen: why don’t you work something up and play it for me first, and the. We’ll go from there.” He gave her an encouraging smile.

Maren felt a tiny flutter of hope in her chest. “Okay,” she agreed.

* * *

This is part of an ongoing serial story — catch up on the plot via the Serials page!

Composition

It was the end of my first year in band. Mr. Wilson had just assigned a “composition project” — kind of like a term paper only for music students, where you had to write a short song. At first I was a little scared, but the more he explained the project, the more I got excited. I wanted to do this.

I can’t remember how long it took me to come up with something, but I remember it wasn’t very long. It was like the music just sat down next to me and said, “look, kid. This is how I work and let’s see how we’ll make me sound. We can do this.” Putting note after note on the page just built my excitement even higher. I loved this. I could do this. I got an A+ on my project, but I wasn’t done. I downloaded some free notation software (Finale NotePad) and got to work. I’d come home and work on new songs when I had the chance, when I had time and the notes in my head. I got involved with a group of composers on a music message board and we traded songs back and forth. One of the adults on the board told me I had a good sense of melodic line, way good for my age. It was like he’d given me a gold medal. I began to wonder if I could do this for a living when I grew up.

Then, I was dissuaded in the name of practical reality. Pressured and cajoled by those I trusted until I quit thinking I could do it. Quit thinking I even had it in me. But funny things happen when you’re dealing with creativity. Like the steps to a pre-determined dance, every step has a specific direction. So even though I took a rather… circuitous route… on my career journey, at last I am back here. Doing the music thing.

And I got a composition job the other day for a local history documentary. They want something original, something unique they can call their own, and they have asked me to write and record it for them. Instrumental. Traditional. I sat down at the piano last night, my head full of notes, and pounded a few things out. It’s a challenge because it will be so different from my songwriter-style. But I can hear all the parts. I can hear how they fit. And it’s unbelievable how good it felt to scribble notes on manuscript paper again. For the next two months, I get the fantastic opportunity to do just what that music-enthused, 12-year-old me dreamt of: write music.

And I’m thinking I can do this.

Demon’s Music VI: Wants and Needs

She didn’t breathe a word of what she thought she’d seen. Over the course of the next week she dreamt, night after night, about performing. Maren saw herself at Carnegie Hall with the dark bulk of a twelve-foot Steinway spread out in front of her. She saw the stage lights, felt the heat of their golden glow on her face. The dark piano was responsive and powerful under her touch. The audience was non-existent beyond the lighted stage, and in her dreams, it didn’t matter — the sickeningly familiar grip of stage fright was absent.

When she woke, the urge to play, to make startling music live under her hands was borderline painful. She found herself practicing twice as long as normal.

Flicking on the rehearsal room lights, she walked over to the piano and dumped her stuff in the corner. She checked her watch. It would be a half hour before her 4:00. Maren pulled out the bench and riffled through her music, looking for her warm up sheet. The tattered corner of an older piece of music caught on her finger and she paused, looking at it.

Beethoven’s Sonata Pathetique.

The hair on the back of her neck rose. When had she put that in there?

She stared at the worn page for a few long moments, then, on a whim, yanked it from the briefcase and spread it across the stand. She rolled the dust cover back from the keys, carefully, as if she didn’t want anyone to hear…

She took a breath. She felt awkward there on the piano bench staring down a solo — the solo — as if she were a beginning student with no ounce of rhythm in her body.

But she could hear it. Every note of it, perfect and pure in her mind.

Raising her hands to the keys, she began to play. Maren let herself fall into the spaces between the notes, and the melody poured forth from her hands like water from a fountain. Her hands knew the notes, she felt them rolling out of her in perfect waves of delicate sound. She played and played until she was confident and powerful. She played until she resolved to perform at the Variety Show. She could do it. She’d ask Cal and he’d say ‘sure,’ and she could make that piano sing. Swaying in time with the music, Maren gave herself completely over as the sonata swirled around her, eating her up as she worked toward the climax.

I know what you want and I can help you get it.

Maren stopped, the residual chords taking on a eerie cast in the quiet. “Who’s there?” she asked.

I know what you want.

She turned on the bench, casting her gaze around her. She felt watched though she was the sole occupant of the small room. “How do you know what I want?”

Everyone wants something.

She stood, walked into the center of the room. The heating system kicked on, and the rush of air through the vent was like a touch on her arms. She jumped. “I am perfectly content with my life, now come out where I can see you. I’m tired of these games.”

A dry chuckle like moving papers reached her ears. Are you, Maren? the voice asked.

“I am,” she said, and tamped down the hollowness in the words. Goose bumps prickled up her spine. “I am content.”

The eerie feeling passed and she rubbed her hands over her face. She felt shaken and strange and wondered if she really was getting enough sleep…

The stairwell creaked outside the rehearsal room and Maren flinched, whirling to face the door. Kylie, the shy high-school alto paused on the threshold, her stare questioning. “You okay, Miss Thompson? You look like you’ve seen a ghost…”

Maren let out the breath shed been holding. “Yes, I’m fine, Kylie. Let’s get started.”

* * *

This is part of an ongoing serial story — catch up on the tale via the Serials page!