Pasithea | Audrey Williamson (dorveille) wrote in monte_rpg, @ 2012-04-27 21:11:00 |
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Entry tags: | hera, pasithea, thalia |
five.
[Filter: Hypnos Private]Are you Do you thinkSometimes I hope that
My name is Audrey Williamson. I used to be someone else. Someone to you. Now I live with my grandparents and I have never eaten sushi. (I find there to be something alarming about uncooked fish. Which is probably an unfair generalization, but) I'm going to be twenty next week. I play the piano, but I've never been very good and I always much preferred to sit underneath when my grandmother played. There's something in how the notes echo and hum like the inside of someone's ribcage. It sounds better. More alive.
Your name is always lit up in red and I've only said it out loud exactly twelve times.
I think, maybe, that I am waiting to hear you say it. To see if I have the colors right. I'm almost certain that I have the colors right.
I don't think I'm nearly as pretty as I was last time and I never take the medications my doctors have prescribed. My mother has two daughters that she likes much better than me and sometimes, when I forget where I keep my voice, I only speak with my fingers. Which is probably confusing. But I think the world is lovely that way. When it's gone all quiet.
I miss you. It's silly. But someone asked and I do and I have never seen very much point in prevarication. So I miss you. We haven't met, but I miss you. My therapist likes to say that I am a romantic. That maybe I have read too many books. Oh, but that's not a bad thing. At least, I don't think so.
I don't mind if you're eight or eighty or not anywhere yet at all. I just - I think that it is nice to have someone somewhere that loves you misses you thinks of you. So I do. In case you ever wondered.
I think about you a lot.Do you Goodness, I should not talk to people
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[video] [Filter: Public]
[The picture that fills the screen is a view down and along the black and white expanse of piano keys. The tableau of silenced scales is, eventually, interrupted by the careful placement of her hands - delicate things, but by no means masterful, thin and pale and patiently waiting for some unspoken cue to begin.
There is no shuffle of papers, no sound at all but the slight shift of material as someone rights their posture, a huff of air that could very well be tinged with the sheepish flavor of laughter. She has no illusions about the areas in which her talents lie. But then the song begins and it honestly isn't terrible at all - a little bit uncertain, and certainly halting in places - but lively. Bright in an unpolished and genuinely joyful manner. It sounds, quite thoroughly, like someone's good mood set to music.
She pauses the music for a moment, picture levered upward (a jostled flicker of blonde curls, the wide slash of an eager grin) before it is lowered to rest on the ground immediately under the piano itself. There's a stack of books, a precariously leaning pile of records, thin slats of light from a window somewhere higher up and along the far wall, and a worn pair of Chuck Taylor's - one shoe high-topped and the other not, left lace come undone - that rest on the pedal before she takes off into the conclusion.
The volume isn't on high and her fingers are soft on the keys, but the sound does sound better underneath. Like the song comes from all sides and all around to top it off. She had spent hours there when she was younger, curled up with her books and her papers and with her grandmother humming something slow and soft from just above her. It was very nearly her favorite place in the whole house. In any house. It's the one part of the discarded message that's salvageable - and so she salvages it as comprehensively as possible with her wavery musical ability.
As the last note hangs - reverberates and echoes in the shaded space beneath the burnished wood - she slides from the bench to sit cross-legged in front of the screen, a crooked grin on her face and her fingers brushing at some phantom itch along the bridge of her nose. She shrugs up a shoulder and stays silent - lets her hands flutter into a sequence of signs to take care of the speaking for her: I didn't sing. So I thought that I would play instead. The second half was better, yes? Under? It sounds like a heartbeat might from the inside. Like an orchestra. I think.]