Sew Tired

Today is one of those days I feared would occur eventually.  I have lots of ideas for blogs, yet I have had no time in the last few days to flesh them out for public consumption.  In fact, I prefer to save some of these topics so that I can do them justice at a time when I have focus and clarity.  Fortunately for my heart but unfortunately for my literary progress, I spent a busy day helping my nephew—who is relocating to the area for a surgical residency—to chase down convenient affordable housing (somewhat of a triple oxymoron in Boston).  Since early this morning he and I have been driving back and forth between two likely neighborhoods.  Every hour a new piece of information made one property have the edge over the other, sending us into an endless loop of negotiations and commitments.  Though the deed is now done, I am exhausted and virtually brain dead.

I checked the fine print on the original public declaration of my blog and found that I neglected to allow for the occasional personal day.  Bummer.  The written page is a harsh taskmaster.  Though today is somewhat of a milestone (having posted blog #100—only 266 remaining), there is no time off for self-congratulation.  The beat goes on.

Today’s malaise reminds me of a series of unfortunate high school events.  It was one of those days when nothing went right, leaving me emotionally spent.  After gym class, I caught my favorite bright red bell bottom jeans in the latch of my locker, ripping them down the side seam.  I had to suffer the rest of my classes with my naked thigh peeking through the flaps of red denim, exposing a prominent birthmark that was a constant focus of ribbing since childhood.   Then, when the school day was over I discovered that my bicycle had been stolen from its lockup post.   Enduring the sweltering heat and humidity, I trudged home on foot.

Once home I became concerned that my mother would be displeased at my torn jeans.  I was fairly adept at sewing; I opened the sewing machine and threaded it with a red bobbin, thinking that I could repair the damage before my carelessness was revealed.   I flinched at the sound of my mother’s key in the lock downstairs.  In that moment, I inadvertently ran my finger under the moving needle, driving the sharp metal point through the fingernail on my middle finger.  The pain was exquisite, as was the scene:  bright red blood spewing out of control from a throbbing digit, bright red thread upon bright red jeans.   The needle immediately snapped in half disabling the whole operation.

I grabbed my finger and ran to the kitchen.  By this point, my mother had caught up with the fiasco, asking what happened as we washed the wound, squeezed it tight to stop the bleeding, and iced it to numb the throbbing pain.   Once bandaged, I lay down, exhausted by the trauma of the moment and the sum total of the day’s emotions.

“What are you going to do?” my mother asked.  “About what?” I asked back.

Clearly I had been lost in a sea of self-pitying angst.  I had forgotten about an important dress rehearsal that evening with the Hollywood Philharmonic Orchestra.  The following night I was scheduled to perform Rachmaninoff’s 2^nd Piano Concerto in the Hollywood Band Shell.  Normally, this would have been enough to transcend the teen drama, but this was one of those days when all I wanted to do was take a hot bath and curl up in a furry robe with a good book.

As they say in show business, ‘the show must go on.’  There was no time to lick my wounds or feel sorry for myself.  While eating dinner, I began the mental exercise that revved up my musical machinery.   After an hour, I unwrapped the wounded finger and assessed the damage.  The cut divided my fingertip and half of the nail in two.  I trimmed the nail short, removing as much of the cleavage as possible.  Using crisscrossing band-aids, I gave the finger as much padding as I dared without losing its flexibility. 

In the car on the way to the venue, I tested my finger continuously.   The throbbing made it feel as if it were the size of a fist.  I castigated myself for my haste, for my carelessness, and for allowing myself to forget what an important day it was.  The conductor stepped off the podium to greet me, shaking my hand so hard it inflamed the pain anew.   At the piano, I began the enigmatic chords, a signature eight bars that transports the listener into the composer’s realm.  The concerto itself was the product of the composer’s personal pain, coaxed into its beautiful form by a well-documented course of hypnosis.  I followed where harmonies led me, feeling them envelope me until I had no body and no pain—I existed only in the music, to make the music, to feed off the music.

At the end of the run-through I stood to applaud the orchestra while the stage crew wheeled the piano away.  I did not notice the bloody fingerprints all over the keyboard; nor did I realize that the cut had resumed its bleeding from the repetitive force of the notes.   The conductor gaped at me, looking first at my face and then at my bloody hand.  I shrugged unconcerned.  The pain was easily assuaged by the joy of doing something I love.

And just as simply a blog is complete.  Pain is temporary.  The written word is forever.

Tomorrow's blog:  Middle Ground in the Middle East