Try it one more time, Jennifer says.

We’re working on an intro, a phrase of Cielito lindo that primes a would-be singer to come in. She plays it, adding an arpeggio at the end, a little flourish, and asks me if I want to try it. You would think she had asked me to solve a problem in advanced calculus, the way my brain turns to sludge. That I make it to the end of the phrase having hit a few right notes is pure chance.

Try it one more time, Jennifer says.

I repeat the not-ready-for-Carnegie Hall peformance, and squirm my way around an encore, saying I got it well enough to practice it at home She pencils in some notes as reminders. Neither of us quite believes me, and sure enough, those notes are untranslatable hieroglyphics when I next practice. Still, playing what I am able to, I find myself sailing. As ever, as soon as I notice this—what is it? music?— I’m grounded again, trudging in sand.


3 responses to “IT’S NOT A BEACH

  1. Just so you’re having fun! Sounds like you are. Joanne

  2. Dominic Martello

    Sand in the Squeezebox. Do I smell a future title for an autobiography?

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