I sit down at the piano. I’ve never been one much good at lessons, at the learning of things, at giving myself time to learn things. If my eyes to my brain to my hands can’t immediately interpret and do whatever it is they’re supposed to be doing, then I won’t do it. The lazy approach, maybe, the distracted way, the inability to fully concentrate aspect.
When I sit down at the piano, it’s almost too much. At least ten things could be happening at once. That’s too much, too much is expected from the piano, from piano music, the history of the instrument, and those who have played it before me.
The first instrument we all learn is our voices, and it’s also the first to frighten us away from using it.
I took recorder lessons when I was five. On a one note instrument, expectations are different. Simpler, which doesn’t mean less, but there is almost a purer sense of focus, it’s more direct and less splintered out into portions.
I played the flute, an extension of recorder woodwind thing.
I played the violin, and was awful at it. Should’ve played the cello.
Tried the guitar. I can’t play bar chords. My hands are too small, and my wrists won’t reach quite that way. Never really made sense to me, either.
Took piano lessons, loosely termed, for about five years. Serious and not serious. I like to play, I just don’t like to read music and practice practice play. I’m not so good at the repitition. I tend to zone out and lose track of what I’m doing. And I’m a perfectionist, so it’s stressful to try to play something perfectly.
The piano is an instrument with way too much history and magnificence surrounding it. The symphonies and concertos and whatever pieces that have been written on and for them. Ten notes at once. Ten! That’s a lot of harmonizing.
I should start writing songs on the glockenspiel or something. Would it let me be ok with the fact that I will never be a glockenspiel virtuoso, or when I sit down, little glockenspiel mallet in hand, will I wither at my complete lack of originality and inability to be the best and most respected glockenspiel player in the world. Who is also the most amazing piano virtuoso ever. Who is also the most amazing singer ever. Who is also the most extraordinary accordion player ever.
Why is it never enough? I don’t even want to be a virtuoso. I don’t want to dedicate the time, and I know I don’t have it in me, I just want the words. I just want the recognition of being good at something, instead of being half-hearted at way too many things. I am not actually full of this drive, I want to be happy just sitting there a glockenspiel in front of me, little mallet in hand, happily making up three note songs about trees and the shapes of leaves and our lips of imperfection. Yeah. Lips of imperfection, no idea where that one came from, but it demanded to be said.
It’s interesting though, because when I imagine myself having achieved this astounding level of success, the daydream isn’t about the creation and presentation of something extraordinary. And it’s not just about hollow recognition, either. It’s about existing in this state of meaningful beingness, and knowing I can do something. And it’s about the people I am surrounded by, and talk to, and have relationships with. I daydream about the people I could meet, these amorphous, foggy shapes that I can’t fill in, not knowing who they are or what they do or what they have to say. Only that they do something important. And I do something important. And we are all important together. Not overimportant, or full of ourselves, though. Just doing things that do something. Something.
I just can’t stand face to face, and look eye to eye, because I feel like I’m not doing good enough. Not not being good enough, but not doing good enough. This world of drive, of ambition, of accomplishment, of product, these are the only things that can be actively, or rather, easily, shared in a minute of fast and disinterested conversation. You can’t pass along the essence of a moment of silence, or introspection, or distilled happiness from stillness in a few moments of bar chatter or party talk.
And I’m all about the introspection and the essences. That’s why I’m an introvert. It even says that I like “introspection and the essences of things” in various breakdowns of my personality type. I’m an introvert. I love talking to people, but not too many. It’s difficult for me to meet new people-not the act, but the experience. I can’t sum myself up in simple gestures and speech. I always feel like I have nothing to sell in the shopping mall of being well-socialized.
Socializing is a little bit like playing the piano, I guess. When it’s kept simple and without unreasonable expectations, it’s fun and interesting and lovely. When it’s trying to be all fancy harmonics and witty conversationalist, just so much yuck. So much yuck. I like to be the girl at the party who tags along with all her nifty friends, and can kind of hide, until something not too scary or overwhelming interests her. Or better yet, just bring a small party to my house, and make sure I know at least half of the people who are there. So, if ten people show up, and I know 5 of them, chances are that, by the end of the night, I may have actually spoken to at least 2 new people. And probably only if they speak to me first. Shyness and introversion cross over into each other’s court, unknown queen. They’re different, but I have both.
I just don’t like feeling defective about my temperament and behaviour. Which I do, when I compare myself to my extroverted and well spoken friends. Which is almost everyone I know. I’ve managed to surround myself with the most outgoing, well socialized, amiable people ever. How did I manage this? A case of I attract what I want to be? Which is fine. As long as you don’t tell me I’m boring, or predictable, or uninteresting, or unsuccessful, or ridiculous, or cumbersome, or anything else that falls into any of those categories because I don’t behave the same way you do, and say no to going out places, and don’t want to live a chatty, wild, adventurous life of more of everything. That’s just not me. It’s not boring to me. I just hate that snarky, judgmental, glassy look that people give me when I don’t live up to their expectations of funness and excitement. The dismissal. I don’t need to be dismissed by anyone, I already started ignoring myself a long, long time ago. I really don’t need help.
And I realize that this is not most people I know personally, and am close to. It’s more of a grand social scheme to make me, and every other shy person in the world, feel bad about ourselves, and insignificant. And I don’t like that. At all.
Hmmm….that was all a bit angry and ranting-like. Good.
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