A battygirl Diary Page...
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The CompetitionI pound the pillow, curse the clock and mock injunctions
to rest. The sun finally rises and its rays slantwise fall
through the curtains as I dry my hair. A meal, like a
forced dose, we soak ourselves in wasted, nervous time.
Finally! The competition. Tension is here and tireless
pressure. The players waiting stiff as straw, tongues
playing over dry lips. Teachers and coaches unapologetic
in their pallor.
Music drifts behind us and occasionally gasps as
imperfections play like daring circus tricks.
The sparkling prodigy returns disappointed, grimace
of a smile, stricken, he stares away as we search for
words, oh! Clumsy, unrepairable prince.
Suddenly, its time and I wonder why we are hurrying,
feeling weak, momentarily frightened to go there.
On this stage in this great, hushed hall, enormity
suddenly dawns with mass enough to crush me.
At last I sit before this odd music machine, my only friend.
A tremble with old reflex resisted, the work of mortal
afternoons, endless practices fruit. Eyes closed I repeat,
unheard, "Nothing is perfect under heaven".
I prepare my best self and begin, I hope, to recreate,
one note at a time, Mozarts ancient impact. With
hammered melody, crazily exact math exam arpeggio
explosions, pushing all fear, all doubt, to the margins.
With hands flying, like tethered birds, I finally end
and stand, joyously, nearly crying..
The world hasn't ended.