I Wish I Could Play the Piano

1
I wish I could play to the piano.

Even if you're constantly exploring outside your comfort zone, you may not really be stretching yourself; maybe you're spending most of your time doing what you're not good at and will never be good at.

Sometimes discomfort doesn't mean "Try harder," sometimes it means "This isn't for me."

Only you can answer that. Consider the advice you receive, it might be very good, but in the end, it's owned by those who gave it, just as I own mine and you own yours.

I once told someone I wish I could play the piano. She was a violinist for the Grand Rapids Symphony Orchestra, and a very good one. She said, "See, your parents should have pushed you to continue playing. Everyone should be forced to learn an instrument, otherwise how will anyone ever know if they have talent?"

She was wrong.

Do I wish I could play the piano? Sure. I also wish I could fly airplanes and do heart transplants. I just don't happen to have the aptitude or desire to do either of those things, and I certainly don't want to spend time learning how to do them and then not do them.

But we need passionate pilots and surgeons so we can create more passionate pilots and surgeons.

Or piano players.

I just don't happen to be one of them.

And just because there are lots of people that share a passion about something doesn't mean I have to share it, want to share it, or feel guilty about not sharing it.

Unless y'all want to get orgasmic about declensions and gerunds and such. In that case, hand me a scalpel.

[2012-08-31]

2
Story Idea: Time Capsule

1962
In 1962, a group of elementary school children are putting a time capsule in the ground. We watch as a representative from each class contributes something significant and announces to all what each is: A newspaper clipping regarding John Glenn orbiting the Earth three times; a 1962 dollar bill; a Polaroid snapshot of the entire school; an extra floor tile left over from the new gymnasium-slash-cafeteria-slash-auditorium; a No. 2 pencil; and a letter to the Class of 2012.

Kodak Instamatics flash, Double 8 movie cameras whir. A columnist from the Erie Daily Times takes notes.

The principle, Mr Luscheon says some words and Lennie the Janitor lowers the time capsule into a hole in the school's front courtyard, next to the flag pole. Third grade teacher Miss Anderson pushes an aluminum plaque into the ground that commemorates the day and gives the date the capsule is being buried and the date it is to be opened.

Miss Anderson turns around and says, "Johnny Gumschmidt will now read a poem to close this ceremony. Johnny's poem won first place in our Time Capsule Poetry Contest." Everybody claps. There is pause. Everyone looks around. Johnny is not reciting. Miss Anderson says, "Johnny? Johnny Gumschmidt?"

2012
Fifty years later, on the very same date, the principle and teachers and students and janitor at Vernondale Elementary School dig up the time capsule.

Ms Cappozzi, third grade teacher and Miss Anderson's granddaughter, is officiating.

A backhoe opens the ground marked with the time capsule plaque and some grounds workers from the Millcreek School District dislodge the capsule. They clean it off, set it on a table, and Ms Cappozzi opens and displays the contents one by one.

Cell phones take pictures and movies. A columnist from the Erie Times-News takes notes.

Ms Cappozzi removes the letter to the Class of 2012 and begins to read it, but it's stained so badly it's mostly illegible. She reaches back into the dark capsule, says "There's something else in here," and withdraws the skeletonized hand of a child.

That is the end of the story idea.

[2012-08-18]