The World Vs Richard Young

Welcome my friends, to six a.m.

As I sit in a fold out camping chair on my front porch with a fresh ziggy and the seemingly sweet soothing sounds of Oscar Peterson's piano pushing my fingertips into the keyboard in a sort of misunderstood jazz percussion form of their own and ponder both the ins and outs of my -to press the overuse of it- "humble abode" (and my, does it seem extra humble this morning) and the ins and outs of the musical timbre chosen for this specific piece a peculiarly loud dark burgundy SUV rolls by and threatens to ruin the mood, but as with a very nice bar of music is gone in only a second. A roommate arrived but moments ago, and there lies only another few of those very same moments before another will arise and begin his everyday preparations for yet another long so-called 'grueling' day at work with the knowledge that the weekend is only once again, moments away. The weekend that for me at least, still seems much more than mere moments from being here.

A peculiarly not loud low riding clean white truck drives by and reminds me that the music has since stopped and the playlist must restart. I double-click J.S. Bach and away we go again. Two things of course come to mind, first being: why is Richard listening to such music that only those of scholarly stature would be expected to playing within their spare time, and why on earth have you not prepared a breakfast for your awakening comrade; surely it would be a nice gesture. The latter of course, has no answer, perhaps I would have and still may if I finally decide to give in to the inevitable coming of seasons weather and return to the coziness of indoors or if I feel like I have written enough. I pause to crack my knuckles in the way a pianist may do so before the performance of his life as if my own penmanship was worthy of such a crowd and pause again to consider whether or not the digital remake of buttons being pressed holds the same truth to be called 'penmanship' when being compared to either the quill or typewriter, where the physical proof of the authors ideas are immediately given a place in history, be it in great libraries or just a stuffy old attic.

With a quick click n' flick sparks fly and once again the idea is back on track. The reason behind this quick culture shock into the world of music and out of the fantasy world of dragons being slain to the sounds of a bass drum being hit with two separate kicks is an upcoming test for a class which turned out to be a lot more difficult than I could have ever imagined. The only studying I may truly achieve is doing quite precisely this: listening. Upon deciding to take a break from the assigned listening I find myself still craving more of it, and proceed to throw on Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata" feeling that it is the ideal choice for the mood and setting I am currently surrounded in. Somehow the first few notes send chills up my spine and no it is not from any recognized 'beauty' in the music (I am still not that far off into my faux-enjoying-it-because-I'm-artsy) and no it is not derived from the near-freezing air of a soon to be crisp morning, but instead waves of visions from my childhood have flooded my mind. Unfortunately like all precious moments it is forced to come to an all to early close as an image appears in the bottom right hand corner of the computer screen warning me of battery life and assuring me that if the proper action is not taken within the next fifteen seconds the computer, and all penmanship with it, will no longer be. Within but another (but different type) precious moment I am whisked away to my dimly lit bedroom and cannot help but wish that I was armed with nothing but a quill and ink, and the dim Christmas-light illumination was in fact a candle with the only chance at malfunction being whisked out by my running past it. The images which still linger in my mind are still here as the song ends, the sight of my own mother playing this song on our piano back at home. This had to be one of her favorite pieces to play yet I have never asked her what she did like to play, and it seems these days the piano, like the relationship between 'penmanship' and the digital image(which I cannot seem to get out of my head), is only for sights and slightly out of tune. Another song from my childhood (this one from the world of midi sounds and video games) comes on through the youtube playlist which I was unaware I had chosen when I had clicked the "Moonlight Sonata" link.

"In the hall of the Mountain King", one of my favorites from 'back in the day' draws up memories of a good friend rather than any of my relatives (yet this friend being close enough to be one) and not only because of the composer's name which is displayed on the tab above this (Edvard Grieg) but because of an event from years ago. I remember finding a tab for this song in my early years of bass playing and being very excited about it, and when I relayed my excitement to him about it he responded with not disgusted but distaste for the song. I do not know why this has stuck with me, I was not really disappointed with the opinion -in fact I have trusted this man's opinion on most situations over my own- but for some reason I can remember almost every detail of this situation, down to which poster lay behind him in my room at that time. It is these small things which help me cope with the idea that he is overseas and shall not be physically 'here' for quite some time. It is now half past six, I have four hours of 'studying' left before the test, I have missed my chance at doing something nice for my now gone-to-work roommate, and I have now resumed my original assigned playlist.

I wonder if a famous composer ever sat back half way through a composition and decided right then and there that this would be his most masterful piece, never again will he be able to achieve such perfection, and only goes on to finish it poorly such as this.

With perhaps a little too much into the simple mind of me,
-Richard