Oh I see how I want to be …

I’m supposed to be napping.

I’m going to go backwards.

—

Miss J woke me up this morning so that she could drive me out to P1’s and Asterope’s place to babysit the twins.  I was doing a half-day of this.  Ever since P1 sort of sent out a cry for babysitting help (shortly after Asterope went back to work), I have been trying to set Thursdays aside to take the twins off P1’s hands so he can write his articles in comparative peace.  It hasn’t always worked out that way (sickness, rehearsals, family things … ) but today I was able to be there at 9 a.m.

P1 took his laptop into his bedroom and I kept the twins occupied in the living room.  The living room is basically the baby room; their cribs are set up in there in a sort of baby cage.

For the first time, I changed their diapers without thinking "Oh my goodness, I’m changing their diapers!"  I realized that later.  It was just sort of normal.  It took a while for that to feel normal.  I was the youngest in my family and not made to care for babies much before.

I fed them.  I liked looking at their eyes through their eyelashes while they sat on my lap, sucking away at their bottle.

I made up and played number games with them.  For some reason, simply holding up my fingers, one at a time until I got to four, and counting aloud, made them look rapturous.  I counted their fingers and toes aloud, touching each one as I did.  I could practically see the sparks of connections being made.  I counted down too; I would hold up four fingers and hide one at a time.  (I’m not sure why I never included the thumb in that game.)

I sometimes would realize that I had been singing almost constantly.  Everything became a song.  The only time I was conscious a great and beautiful silence around us was when the twins were in their chairs, munching on Cheerios, while I sat nearby and drank a tall glass of water.  Every now and then, one of them or the other would hold out a Cheerio to me and I would say "Thank you" and munch.

My nephew, who seems to have the stronger abandonment issues, woke up from his nap first, and cried.  I went to get him, so that he wouldn’t wake my neice, and I sang a German lullaby softly, rocking him.

Sometimes, I recognize my neice; she and I smile and nod at each other as if we know.

—-

On the drive home from the concert yesterday night, Miss J said, "It would have been so EASY.  All you had to say was ‘Would you like to talk again?  Here’s my number.’ and voila.  It would have been over and done with."

I stared out at the lights and listened to Miss J and Mr. Steadfast talking, but only with the surface of my brain.  Inside me music was still reverberating and I was remembering Mr. Theology’s eyes and gentle demeanour.  We’re talking nine years ago now, but that man left quite a mark on me and my personal mythology.  It was never that we were in love, exactly.  What I remember most is the feeling of exuberant fondness that couldn’t be classified, and the safety of that unclassifiable love.  He was 28, and I was 18, and for three months in Montreal, we were each other’s jesters and teachers, along with S.  His e-mails petered out around the time that I met Mr. Cosmic Clarinet – I always wondered if he stopped contacting me because I was so blunt about how I had slept next to Mr. CC, chastely.

Why remembering Mr. Theology’s eyes?  Because the bass player had them.  It was weird.  It took me a long time to figure out what was so familiar about them.  It was on the drive home that I figured it out.

Once we got home, I said half-complainingly to Miss J, "I wish I wasn’t so transparent to you.  Because if you hadn’t noticed that I was attracted, you wouldn’t have said anything, and I wouldn’t have said anything, and this could be a secret thing I keep to myself instead of this thing now that you guys know about and will want to see develop and … "

Mr. Steadfast’s cousin came over while Mr. Steadfast and I were playing Guitar Hero II – my first time, but I was pretty good at it.  I would be ashamed if I wasn’t (I am a musician after all).  And we watched an episode of Battlestar Galactica (my first time at that too) and had rums and Cokes.  I felt like I was 20 and in college.

——

The same lady that has handed out programs at recitals for probably decades offered us programs as we entered the building.  I looked around furtively in case Mr. Steadfast’s cello teachers were around.  I had a plan: If any of them seemed to recognize me I would say lightly, "Who?  Me?  Oh, no, that was my evil twin, Shmusic Shmivers … I would never sight-read at a jury at the last minute … oh no."  I didn’t see any of them and so I relaxed.

We sat somewhere in the middle (Mr. Steadfast, Miss J and I).  Miss J turned to me and said matter-of-factly, "I’m a bad person."

"Henh?"

"I don’t really want to be here.  I never really do want to be there at concerts.  Unless it’s opera."

"All that means is that you like opera.  And probably need a rest from music for a while."

"But I’ve had a month or so of a rest from music."  (Miss J has been out of school.)

"Nah you haven’t.  You live with Mr. Steadfast. He lives, breathes, eats, poops music."

She considered this.  "You’re right.  But it’s hard not to talk about music with him.  He is music."

A while later she added, "If I like this music, it might make me relax and fall asleep."

"Good.  Then you’re enjoying it your way."

The lights dimmed.  I sat back and breathed in, and sighed deeply: a sigh of nostalgia for dimming lights in recital halls at universities.  I miss that.  I hadn’t realized how much.

A bass appeared from the wings, followed by a bass player.  We were here tonight to see his graduating recital, because Mr. Steadfast had raved about his technique.

During the first piece, I was mostly looking at the accompanist.  He looked like a young U.  He was very good.

The second piece was for unaccompanied bass, so the young U left the stage and the bass guy planted himself in the middle of the stage, and faced us.  He looked up over his glasses and began.  And I was thirteen, singing in my field behind my high school, lying down and looking up at the swiftly-moving clouds.  I was six, sitting by the window and staring out at the snow falling.  I was fifteen, wandering through the cathedral in Toledo with slow savouring steps.  I was twenty-four, riding the ferry home from a triumphant audition, trumpets blaring as I looked out over the prow.  None of this is adequately describing anything.  One last attempt: I was all my best selves again.

I knew that he couldn’t really be looking at my face – he was probably just looking into his imagination, into the music, and the lights would have made it impossible to really see me.  But it felt like we were making eye contact.

At intermission I told Miss J, "This makes me want to walk into the woods, in the rain, and fall in love."

The second half was great.  Before his last piece he thanked various people and he mentioned that it had been a hard year for him, but that he had had a lot of support.  He invited us to the reception in the nearby room following the recital.

I clapped hard after his last piece.

As we oozed out of the hall slowly, Miss J said to me bluntly, "You know, I think you should ask for his number.  What’s the worst that could happen?  He says no?  Then you’d just be in the same spot you were in before the concert."

I blinked at her, honestly confused.  Had I said anything?  Did my face register the connection I felt?  Was I abnormally quiet and wide-eyed?

"Ask who?"

"The bass guy, of course."

I laughed.  "Um, I’m sure he’s happily ensconced in some kind of relationship already, and even if he wasn’t, what makes you think I should do this?"

She said, "I dunno.  I just thought about it and he’s really nice and it would probably be a good match."

I busied myself eating fruit, sitting in a corner and doodling on my program.  I drew a very rough sketch of a girl in swoopy sleeves in the rain, next to the piece that had sounded like it.  I wrote next to the first two movements of the Rota: "reminded me of Mahler … "  Mr. Faith appeared and I ran to hug him.  He sat with us, eyes beaming, and chatting happened.

Eventually the star of the evening entered the room – people started whooping and raising their glasses.  I determinedly stayed in my corner, doodling.  Miss J tried not to look at me too obviously.

When Mr. Steadfast said we should go soon, Miss J said "But we should go and congratulate … " and I said "Okay okay let’s go … "

He immediately turned to us to sort of receive us.  We said our admiring stuff.  Then when it sounded like it was over, I found myself saying, "It was real."

Then we talked.  Later I found out that Miss J actually had dragged Mr. Steadfast away (I had wondered why I was suddenly alone with the guy).  After a while he noticed my program and wanted to see it.  "What did you write about it? … sounds like Mahler?  Really?"

"Well," I said helplessly, "that second movement in particular sounded like a parody of a march … "

"Oh, that!  Yes, that makes sense … "

I found out what had been hard about his year.  I said, "You’re luckier than most; you have your music."  I was immediately worried that I’d been condescending or presumptuous.

But he nodded.  We regarded each other for a moment.  I haven’t been so unabashedly serious with someone in a while.

He said he hoped to see me around.

I grabbed Mr. Steadfast and Miss J and shepherded us out of there before I did anything humiliating.

—–

Mr. Steadfast and I are both the sort of people who do not like to talk first thing in the morning.  We left for his jury in our own modes of comfortable silence.  I wasn’t nervous at all, even though I was basically going to be sight-reading.

The slow movements went quite well.  The fast movements were … well, I lost Mr. Steadfast at one point and just made up stuff while I scanned the page desperately, looking for his line.  I walked out trying not to laugh.  I told Mr. Steadfast, "Yeah, I’m not doing that again."  The last-minute accompanying gig, I mean.

We went back to his place and conked out.  I napped on the couch till Miss J came home from work.

—–

That’s as far back as I have time to go right now.

I am full of goo.  Thoughtful goo.  Work has been hard and family stuff has been hard.  Do I even have room for connections beyond that?