Why was Satie’s Gymnopedie No. 1 my favorite piece
to play when I was ten and always dreading
practicing the piano? Was it the melody—his
melancholy lines, like verse, had such clarity,
their notes syllables I didn’t need to try
to understand. Yet tonight, when the auditorium’s
bustling and whispering, now when it’s my turn
to play the Conservatory’s Steinway, its keys
seem alien undifferentiated rows, un-dotted
looming dominoes, so I ask you please to place
my fingers on Satie’s first notes when I sit down.
Maybe then—I hope—Satie will rescue me. If not,
here’s my cockamamie plan: to look “professional”
as the house lights dim, wait out the expectant
welcoming applause, then take a deep breath—
and then, pretend to faint! I think you agree
this passes for a course of action. In my ur-dream,
the ultimate shirk’s refined, I practice it
as diligently, as desperately as work itself.
I’m at the keyboard now, my gooseneck hands,
their long fingers my old teacher praised—Octave
plus one!—are hovering, the hall’s gone silent
but you’ve disappeared! Where are you? I tell myself
Satie said to play gravely. I watch these hands
faking over the unintelligible keys. I look for you,
it’s dawn, my feet aren’t pedaling, you’re not here,
or anywhere—there’s only our room, its cool air
noiseless, hushed as an audience holding its breath.