I need season 3 of Bates right now and they won’t even start filming it until this fall.
Annoying. Netflix has ruined me for patience when it comes to shows.
When I was a brand new teenager I lived in St Louis and visited the city museum and like I somehow always did when exploring new places, found a piano. The thrill of making actual music with my own two hands was (and I suppose still is) so strong in me that it obliterated any sense of anxiety I may have had. It’s beautiful really. I have no memories of anxiety on this day just curiosity and boldness and ivory keys dancing underneath my underage fingertips. I sat down on a bench and kicked at the peddle and slowly pressed all the right keys to bring the soundtrack from Amelie to life. I played a couple songs and many strangers walked by, some stopping, one in particular noticing me and my underage hands.
He was much older than me. Nearly the age I currently am. He could drink and had finished college. He lived alone and he had driven himself to the museum. My mother was around the corner.
I wonder about him now. He was an adult and I was such a child. I didn’t know how to walk in heals or end an abusive relationship or keep my mouth shut. He gave me House of Leaves and placed a clementine on his coffee table before playing Eternal Sunshine for me because it was just the theme. I don’t know.
Nothing happened between us. It was a strange friendship. One for the books. One for the movies. He was drawn to my piano playing and he taught me about books and cult classics.
He was so significant when I was 14 and now it’s as if he never existed.
I wonder about him is all.