コンサート
Brian’s eyes are in flight. They are pinched like cookie dough, his shoulders permanently arched toward his neck. My own eyes are pinched, they swat away the more capricious rays, funnel inward. I carry them in a haze, and drive.
But as the sonata progresses, the cats stir and slink around the piano. Mimi, Goma … even Kawamura are there, the pianist’s fingers alighting on the keys tickles their interest. Layers of dust waft through four gentle lights illuminating him. My vision clears a bit. Students clap, whip out their cellphones.
Amlin’s Eight Variations greet me like an old friend. Unspoken hues I see when distractions fade, move me. At once I want to be far away, with people, with life.