Sᴜɴʀɪsᴇ Oᴀᴛʜ

Experimented and created. Know this, you know who robs you of sight. Meaningless, said the Preacher. Meaningless. There once was an older girl, a younger woman, who saved me. On her good advice, I quit my job. I gave my notice at summer’s end, and Alain set me free from Génoise et Thé. “You can’t be kept, mon gars .” He patted my shoulder, and we shook hands, a parting between men. Waiting outside, Selene took off her sunglasses and dabbed her eyes. I cleaned my room, fussing over details she fixed sooner and better. The curator was a lovely guest, bringing gifts and Charlotte. We were in bright humor from the change in the season, the shift in the wind. I did well as a host, as a man. I shaved my face, brushed my teeth, wore my shirt, and owned my life. At the Old Port, we sat on a bench. She spoke, and I learned. I asked, she asked further. We leaned into mystery, and tackled the snake, fang and venom, as it was. The questions multiplied, as she said they would. Questions — at the ca...

I have a problem where any tool that is not directly attached to my Google account is doomed to either be forgotten about, or depreciated in ways that I do not appreciate . (Punny as ever, even after a long hiatus from public longform writing.) I figured that I need to start putting my thoughts out there into the world, lest I become too insular with my journaling. So here I am. This will be written as off-the-cuff as possible, so that I can actually get this out there instead of second-guessing it. We are in the age of thinking sand, the dawn of genius silicon. This is a special time to be alive. Let us revel in our words, and think to the future that shall be ours. I have a thing where I like to alternate the styles of my paragraphs to see if there is a way to develop a new rhythm in all the thoughts that I produce. Someone reading this aloud might see how much my writing follows the pathways of an inner monologue. Indeed, I wrote this post in almost one shot without thinking too mu...

I encourage all my piano students to write. When I give this suggestion, many of them looked confused. (If their parent is in the room, I sometimes catch them checking the time.) It is already an oft-stated fact that writing is learning, so I will not convince you of that here if you have not encountered this idea. Those who do write, whether for others or for themselves, quickly see that it is the best way to audit your inner life. If I am writing in a steady rhythm, it all becomes a sort of musical verse that fits together in a strange and magical way that we cannot express in simple terms. Many young people, especially among the population of students whose parents send them to extracurriculars, lack a strong direction for what they want to do in the future. Often they are learning the piano to beef up their university applications, so are focused mainly on taking exams and joining festivals or competitions. The room for them to explore their own artistic interests (or to even know...