Girl Anachronism
I Was Crazy
My piano instructor raped me last year. That's how I learned by ear. I didn't want to. To this day I'm still a bit tone deaf. It wasn't too hard, really. Back when my mom was still, you know, a mother figure to me, she would sit me on her lap in front of her precious Steinway and I would learn her finger patterns. That was before my older sister, Alyson, showed me up at everything. Music was my passion, my drive, my escape, and probably my therapy. Both creating and listening was rejuvenating. Besides, it's not like there's anything else to do in Boston. Not to mention while being pretty much friendless throughout high school. But that was only the case if you didn't count the teachers I talked to during my lunch hour. My drama teacher in particular was very kind to me. She was the only one who helped me with my production of “1,682 Minutes of Wasted Inspiration”.
Without previewing anything I had written down or planned to do for the talent show, my high school allowed me to set up a projector reel of pictures from my childhood and early teenage years. As the pictures shuffled themselves through, I ranted and raved, on and on about my significant under appreciation. My anger and creative frustration I had against myself for not taking the time to write down ideas and put them to music or any kind of creative production. I truly did hate myself then for my incredulous laziness as an artist. Most of the pictures on the reel were family photos I'd taken. I was in almost none of them. They were pictures of my dad, my mother, and my older sibling, Alyson. Having family time in the living room, eating dinner together in the kitchen at the kitchen table. Together, they were a family. And I was on the outside looking in through my camera lens. I was not clearly visible on stage, however. All the crowd could see of me was my silhouette behind a sheer white curtain I'd borrowed from the drama room. Less did the audience know, I was completely naked behind the curtain, covered in fake blood saved from Halloween.
When the reel finally came to an end, I tore down the white curtain, blinded by fury. I stood upon the stage shamelessly and screamed on and on about how much time I wasted. How much of my life I wasted on not making music or art or anything to entice my creative abilities. The entire auditorium was stunned. People starred with their palms covering their mouths as if to silence a scream of horror, shock, or disgust. Their eyes were wide open. I don't think a single soul blinked for fear of missing a second more of my act. When I was finished, there was silence. Like a famous person who needed no introduction, I was a rageful performer who needed no applause. My parents were terrified of me after that. They didn't want to have anything to do with my artistic endeavors. Not that my family ever reacted differently towards my existence. But this performance in particular confirmed what my parents and sister always thought of me to be true: I was crazy.
Without previewing anything I had written down or planned to do for the talent show, my high school allowed me to set up a projector reel of pictures from my childhood and early teenage years. As the pictures shuffled themselves through, I ranted and raved, on and on about my significant under appreciation. My anger and creative frustration I had against myself for not taking the time to write down ideas and put them to music or any kind of creative production. I truly did hate myself then for my incredulous laziness as an artist. Most of the pictures on the reel were family photos I'd taken. I was in almost none of them. They were pictures of my dad, my mother, and my older sibling, Alyson. Having family time in the living room, eating dinner together in the kitchen at the kitchen table. Together, they were a family. And I was on the outside looking in through my camera lens. I was not clearly visible on stage, however. All the crowd could see of me was my silhouette behind a sheer white curtain I'd borrowed from the drama room. Less did the audience know, I was completely naked behind the curtain, covered in fake blood saved from Halloween.
When the reel finally came to an end, I tore down the white curtain, blinded by fury. I stood upon the stage shamelessly and screamed on and on about how much time I wasted. How much of my life I wasted on not making music or art or anything to entice my creative abilities. The entire auditorium was stunned. People starred with their palms covering their mouths as if to silence a scream of horror, shock, or disgust. Their eyes were wide open. I don't think a single soul blinked for fear of missing a second more of my act. When I was finished, there was silence. Like a famous person who needed no introduction, I was a rageful performer who needed no applause. My parents were terrified of me after that. They didn't want to have anything to do with my artistic endeavors. Not that my family ever reacted differently towards my existence. But this performance in particular confirmed what my parents and sister always thought of me to be true: I was crazy.