by T. CLAIR

Nobody would haul off the thing, so Erich was left with a hunk of wood and steel string stubbornly occupying some prime space in his new basement. It was an old upright from 1917, royal blue and peeling. You could ping at the thing, running through the broken octaves, creating reluctant melodies with dead metallic clinks, but what once was beauty had become ravaged by the years and stood now in Parthenon-glory.

He tells me it was around three when he began, after the unsuccessful phone calls to the music stores and movers, after trying to cart the thing off. I’m not sure what tools he used. Screwdrivers. Wrenches. Hammers (I cringe). Regardless, he set into it with vigor. His son came to him confused.

“What are you doing, Papa?”

“I’m taking apart this old piano. It’s old and ugly and nobody wants it and they won’t even take it away unless I pay them. So, it’s easier to take it apart, piece by piece and then haul it away, and burn it or dump it.”

He wanted to save the soundboard with the however-many strings laid out in out-of-tune succession. He banged out some melodies with his screwdriver. “Amazing Grace.” “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” There was some gusto there yet. But it wasn’t worth the trouble. He snipped each string—ting, ting, ting—all the way through the scales.

The piles were nice and neat now, the instrument’s rugged beauty raped and scattered across the stained carpet. It was picked apart and destroyed, systematized and understood. “This goes here, and this goes here, which connects to this which makes this happen.”

The music was laid out like a grid. This sized panel with its brother and sister and this one here and this one there spread out like math. The keys were piled nice and neat, almost stacked, a tattered edge concealed by the overlap of the next. And the room was silent. There was not the sound of music. There was not the creak of the piano bench, shifting from its occupants repositioning. There were hands on hips, sleeves on brows, eyes staring weary at the aftermath. Whatever this was, good or evil, it was done.

There were hands on hips, sleeves on brows, eyes staring weary at the aftermath. Whatever this was, good or bad, it was done.

And here’s another thing:

I would rather be wrong than not care.

A buddy of mine sees everything in extremes. He does not have opinions. He has absolutes. Basically, he thinks he has the mind of God. He never dislikes something; he “abhors it with every fiber of his being.” There is no such thing as a good band, there is only “Jesus Christ, Ghandi and Buddah wrapped up in rock and roll and served with a side of Nelson Mandela.”

Admittedly, some of this is that youthful tenacity I am slowly weaning myself from. Much of it is a result of being pissed-off at parents for no real reason in particular but just because it’s what you do when your in your twenties and finally thinking for yourself.

Because your thoughts have to be revolutionary. They have to be new. They have to be avant-garde or all vigor for life will disappear. In other words, it’s rebellion.

But for this guy, I know it’s more than that. It’s a passion. It’s an assurance that this is right and this is wrong and I am here where there is good and why are you not along with me? You must be a fool.

And frankly, I love it.

I might add, we rarely agree.

But I would rather he be wrong than not care.

If truth is held simply as truth, as “this is what is,” then what benefit is there in knowledge of it?

Or, let’s look at my friend’s piano in another way. If you could break the thing apart, unscrew the screws, pry away the boards and pile them nice and neat, if you could understand how this beast works, what good is it to you? Will it make any noise? Can it fulfill its purpose now that you have it apart and strewn about your living room? No. Because pianos were meant to be played, pounded, and sung to.

We could just play.

We could just see the thing and punch this key and that and experiment.

And see what happens.

Or we can take it all apart, and understand, and never put finger to ivory.

What good is that knowledge?

Which is to say, just play the damn thing.

Which is to say, create.

t clair is a senior contributing writer for Into the Hill. In addition to arranging letters and words on a page to create meaning, he also draws funny pictures and tells people about God. Read his blog: www.iblogodei.com. Argue with him at miraclevalley@gmail.com.

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