I was reading about different places around the world where space has been put aside by by people for pianos. Others go visiting, playing, and recording the music. So out amongst trees, in paddocks, amongst grass and flowers, wind and rain, sun and heat, these grand and beautiful pianos live out their days, strings pinging out, wood splitting, animals nesting in them rain splattering .
My fantasy with my old piano, bought for my daughter, hardly played, as my learning didn’t allow for a move beyond scales is to hire a crane and fling it far into the universe . Some majestic arc in a remote and difficult place, like the Grand Canyon, a sea cliff top on the Great Ocean Road, maybe a mountain, but not so high I couldn’t see and hear it. I am sure some where some one is hurling a piano. It would be the end of restrictions, of the piano’s loneliness, waiting to be played, and my guilt because it looked so beautiful, so old, and I cried when the shop assistant played it, and so bought the fantasy. Yet never was it really played .
There was some thing pure and noble in the idea of a place for pianos, an acknowledgement of the frailty of beauty and temporariness of music, it exists when played and heard. It was as though I could hear the those dead souls rising up and gathering for a deceased concert, the music played by the forces of nature, not human hands. A concert, not limited by time, space, free to who ever was in earshot, playing on and on and on.