I feel that it's hard enough to say goodbye
I fear there's the water--should I sink or dive?
but I'm an empty playfield of my sentimental morning stars
I steal the art of putting truth in a lie
and I still want the girl that really caught my eye
but she lives in oklahoma city, far away from mewell, there's an empty hope chest
I quit the dope quest
and remain independently happyI said I'm finally
happy, happy, independently happy(blue october, independently happy)
Well.
Things have swung in the past week, again.
I'm single again. It's all pretty mutual, and it started with me realizing that I wasn't particularly happy where I was, and it was time to stop what I was doing before I started trying to sabotoge everything.
No rancor. Nobody hates each other. We're all well, I think. I hope.
And an echoing silence inside my head. No anger. No sadness. No regret.
Just—silence.
Wake up.
me, on Heinous:
Jun 11, 2000 21:54 from Glass Falcon
Last night, I went to the house of C the piano tuner. He lives in the shadow of Mount Si, east of the Seattle area. He had pianos to burn.
See, there comes a time in the life of a cheap piano when the amount of work it would take to restore it is more than the piano is really worth. And so, he decided to hold a piano burn.
A baby grand was taken off its legs and put on four logs, abour a foot and a half off the ground. A tripod of slender tree trunk was erected over the baby grand and over the baby grand was hoisted an old upright, flat on its back. Both of the pianos were doused with gasoline, and a couple of people took up brands and lit both the pianos. After they were both burning merrily, a girl with a large knife chopped through the rope holding the upright up, and the upright fell the three feet with a resounding and musical crash, flames shooting out between the pianos.
A cheer rose from the assembled crowd as the fire started working on the varnished wood. It was a *hot* fire, almost from the start. C laughed and started playing the baby grand, playing something by Bach as the pianos flamed. He quit when the upper register's strings snapped one after the other with pinging noises; the keys were getting too hot for comfortable playing.
Even cheap pianos are made out of marvelously dry, seasoned wood. We tipped the tripod over as the bonfire roared up towards the cloudy sky. Eventually, the keys caught on fire; each of the keys was backlit by its own dancing flame as the ivories cracked and blackened.
As the evening wore on, the structure collapsed, leaving behind a few jagged piano bones and the strings that had survived the fire--the thinkly wrapped lower strings, strung between beautifully curved, glowing supports.
It made me wish I had the skill (and the camera) to take pictures of fire. It was easily one of the most beautiful things I've seen lately.
Fetish:
Fire.
[Fetishes And Vanities> msg #15488
