cloudy dreams

I dug my heels deep into the maple floor and pushed. An absurd sight, but my right hand held the cellphone close to my ear and wedged between my left arm and my body was the Scriabin score I held close to my heart. The Steinway rolled slowly in an awkward angle towards the window-pane.

I am in Ensemble Room 4.

I shifted the bench and sat down. I have never practised this way before with the piano beside the window, and I could see why I was going to practise in such a manner every time I get to use Ensemble Room 4. The world zipped past beside me. And the keys and the score, for once, looked so natural and bright, mine to read and keep.

The clouds stir overhead just after 4 pages. We hardly notice it, the scars that whip across the glass when the rain comes, tiny water droplets that fall with determination in a poised angle across the outer glass. Slashes and slashes that are more or less parallel, only a few slighted ones effected by diagonal drafts, each of them a surprise.



When you tell someone they appeared in your dreams the previous night, certain responses might pop up.

what "the fuck?" what the hell can i be doing in your dream?
well that means i have a special place in your "huh...serious or not?" heart then.
"...." i don't even know you that well.

Raymond and Budi appeared in my dreams yesterday, and they both sat like kids on the floor in Ensemble Room 6, just underneath the window sill.

"Ray, what pieces are they going to play for the conductor audition later?"
"Go do your research! They're playing Debussy piano concerto."

I woke up and told myself, dickhead, Debussy didn't write a piano concerto, though he wrote a Fantasy for piano and orchestra. Go do your own research, go to NS.

That was 5am.

It's 12pm now, and I got to have my lunch.