A little boy a the piano

It was so long ago, this thir­teenth year of my life, that I dare not speak of mem­o­ries. A few weeks ago, my moth­er gave me a piece of piano music I had writ­ten at that age.

I can remem­ber the old piano that it already was ; it now resides in the base­ment of the fam­i­ly home, total­ly out of tune. It was already a hun­dred years old when I sketched notes on it.

The found man­u­script has three small pieces. Sim­ple major chords and prob­a­bly wrong here and there. The table of con­tents on the inside cov­er announces three pieces : Reposante, Irène and Qua­tre mains. How­ev­er, the man­u­script com­pris­es the first two titles, while the third is enti­tled Jacques.

What sur­prised me more was my writ­ing style for that age. My sig­na­ture was already in large waves that pre­vent­ed access to my inner world, a sig­na­ture all the more expres­sive than mine fifty years lat­er, which still has its walls but few incur­sions into the depths.

I have lit­tle mem­o­ry for life. Some are ele­phan­tine scribes ; my brain is more selec­tive, made of more or less clas­si­fied present moments, sed­i­ments slumped on the silent bed of my impressions.

Made of repet­i­tive chords, most­ly naive, these pieces betray what I still seem to be : a frag­ile soul sur­round­ed by pride, a vol­un­tary heart, already con­cerned with pro­tect­ing itself from the wounds that life imposes.

I am not Pisces ascen­dant Can­cer for noth­ing. I have Jupiter and the Moon in Sagit­tar­ius, that’s all, madame, with­out for­get­ting Sat­urn in Capri­corn, Sat­urn, the school­mas­ter who thinks he’s Con­fu­cius and who does­n’t hes­i­tate to make you feel old. And then I have Venus in Aries, very high in the sky, the fiery artist, the bum­ble­bee lover. Final­ly, Mars in Gem­i­ni, the will­ing to do every­thing at the same time. Good at every­thing, there­fore good at noth­ing and vice ver­sa. I for­get Plu­to and Nep­tune. But that’s for anoth­er story.

I was, of course, pleas­ant­ly sur­prised to find this pianis­tic desire. I have tried a lot in my life, and I have explored some pas­sions that are still a bit mine.

Music, pho­tog­ra­phy, writ­ing, loves, work, work.

One of my aunts recent­ly wrote that she had reached the win­ter of her exis­tence, and that’s a nice way to think about the cycle of her breaths.

Some­times I should remem­ber more and not be so quick to throw the past away. I retain very lit­tle of my exis­tence, per­haps too busy try­ing to grasp the present that nev­er­the­less eludes me.

The astrologer in me makes me look more at what is to become, a reminder here of Sagit­tar­ius with its arrow point­ing to the sky and Capri­corn cul­ti­vat­ing the soil.

I am com­posed of tra­di­tions and rev­o­lu­tion­ary ideas. But as a work­er bee, I am far from my queen’s throne, a stranger to prop­er hon­ours, swim­ming against the cur­rent of a riv­er in hopes of lay­ing my eggs upstream.

I have the priv­i­lege of hav­ing my par­ents still alive. In my aun­t’s words, they have become win­try now, but their pres­ence still warms my veins.

It is no won­der that fifty years ago, I offered them a few ten­ta­tive chords. The love of qui­et peo­ple is not a sym­pho­ny, but an ear­worm con­stant­ly played in the are­na of our certainties.

I could def­i­nite­ly throw away this worth­less man­u­script. It has made its way to me as if it need­ed to knock on my door one last time. But then I have to keep singing, chang­ing, and being the cater­pil­lar suf­fo­cat­ing in its cocoon, ready to die once it has flown away on its wings while intox­i­cat­ed by the dan­ger of being ran­dom­ly caught by a bird or a car headlight.