Room Number 7

i just returned home from my first piano lesson since the one lesson i took at the age of 8.       in Room 7 at the Old Town School of Folk Music. the teacher, a former punk rocker, asked me what i wanted out of the lessons. and i tried to explain that i am a composer, and i thought that maybe after 30 years, now might a good time to learn something about how to play an instrument and something about reading music.

my teacher had this hyper-intensity that was a little intimidating, more so to my left hand than to my right. but it’s about time my left hand developed some confidence and inner strength. the left side of my body is really dragging in those areas. it might be too co-dependent upon my right side.

this might partially relate to left brain/right brain theory and dominance of my right brain. but it was the left side of my body that took the brunt of my bicycle mishap of 2008, and piano lessons are another strategy for achieving balance. balance has always eluded me.

I did ok on Yankee Doodle. My Row, Row, Row Your Boat was an embarrassment. My Catch a Falling Star approached languid and my Russian Folk Song had a certain soulful incompetence.

It was only a 30 minute lesson, and then my teacher rushed me out the door. I realized when I returned home that I had left my shoulder bag in Room 7, the very bag that contained my tattered copy of The Brothers Karamazov. Which means I must add one more day to the months i have been reading TBK. I’ve reached the epilogue, and each time I make it to what is supposed to be the final page, Dostoyevsky manages to add another 30 pages.

About The Lost Pedestrian

In my wanderings throughout the moments/days/years, I try in earnest to find the mystical within the mundane and the mundane within the mystical, oftentimes confusing one from the other. I have wandered and roamed through many a city, many a town, in a state of wonder and bewilderment, without necessarily going anywhere. I am easily lost, but eventually found. (I am guessing you have just found me). My sincere hope is that you will find Something in this warehouse of thought, memory and false memory, words, numbers, tangents, murmurs, echoes (lots and lots of echoes), voices, dreams, and other paraphernalia.
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