to my life recently. this morning as it happens.

CLP745.

when i was younger, and probably less stupid than i am now, i was told by my parents at the tender age of 6, that i was going to take piano lessons. why? because the kid across the street (shawn mcgill for reference, who tattled on me twice for swearing. yes, zest in the mouth folks. asshole. LOL) took them.

no says i. well yes, says they. we already bought the piano.

i never practiced. and yet i managed to make my way to grade 10 in the royal conservatory ranks. who knew? all that at the age of 14.

and, i basically quit.

why? see the aforementioned stupid comment.

fast forward to 2009 when a 1959 Yamaha upright arrived into my orbit.

that is gone now. along with so many other ‘things’.

fast forward again to last year when boys mother tells me that both boy and she want to take piano lessons, and well, would i mind ‘helping’ out with the purchase of an electric apartment sized piano. no keyboard for them. they have to have a piece of furniture.

but, boy does get immense pleasure from it, and apparently he is doing well with his lessons, so…

and now, we come to today. into my life the above mentioned CLP745.

two things bring me joy. well, ok, more than two, but two that come to the fore.

a certain pair of eyes, staring into mine. and where i get lost. and music. music that comes from my fingers. i am loathe to say heart or soul because we all know that i am not in possession of either.

how i have missed the privilege of being able to create sounds that come so organically. if i had a soul perhaps i would be brought to tears. LOL.

the keyboard sits proudly at one end of my living space, like it almost has always been there. it beckons me like a siren of the sea beckons a sailor.

thank you, mom and dad, my undying, better late than never thanks, and immense gratitude, for making this stupid kid take lessons, and giving him the outlet for a gift that was truly given by a higher power, and therefore allowing it to pass to another generation.

i miss you, more than you know. and now with the ability to create music once more at hand, one more way for you to stay alive with me, forever.

with tears, and my undying love for you,

your son,

I’ve been away for a while. Well, not away per se, just avoiding life in general. Coupled with a genuine aversion to people, so away seems apropos to describe my abscence.

Memories are fallible. Well, most memories are. Mine, while still prone to the odd hiccup, is less apt to miss things than others that I could mention.

We all see life in the light that sheds the most brightness on ourselves, do we not? Of course we do. We wouldn’t be human if we didn’t, but that leads me to the topic at hand.

Memories.

Wasn’t so long ago that I was admonished for thinking (quite in error I might add this presumption) that I was getting ‘too attached’ were the words, to my ex- on one of the trips that I made to see my son.

‘We aren’t getting back together you know’. ‘Do you know why we aren’t together? You aren’t reliable’ and so on and so forth as my father was fond of saying.

And yet, when my fortunes turned, so to speak, all of a sudden, ‘well, you should send me 1/2 a million dollars so that I can buy a new flat. You do want a roof over your sons head, don’t you?

Huh.

A roof over my sons head. He has one. One that I help pay for, along with the over 10K a year for his private school.

Not reliable. Too attached. But hey, when it comes to handing over hundreds of thousands of dollars to them, all well and good, right?

And as it happens, I am not attached to her. Even if she was 21 and a centerfold I would not be attached to that again.

She is the mother of our son, and full marks and credit to her, she has done an amazing job of it. But her memory has more holes than my Microplane zesting tool. Now all of a sudden, I can’t date, although according to her she has had ‘vast sexual encounters’ and uses Tinder on a regular basis.

I guess what is good for the goose, isn’t good for the gander? I’m old, ergo not supposed to be thinking about not being alone, I should just pay the fucking bills and fund their ‘new roof over my sons head’.

We want to come to Canada says they. Great says I. And we want to go to New York says they, so that my son can see the Apple store (Huh thinks I) and I can see the Guggenheim. Ok says I, who is paying for that? You are of course says they. I see.

Not allowed to not be alone, but I have to fund the rest of their lives.

If I thought for a minute, a second, that I wouldn’t harm my child, I would fucking walk away from this and let them stew in their own juice.

And people wonder why, or have wondered why, I get pissy about money.

Not reliable. Wow.

Have a great day all.

i’m nobody.