Curt Siffert's Piano Musings

That guy Leonard, down by the corner. Ratty clothes. Always making quips. Funny guy. Has a limp. He's not a beggar; he just... holds court. He's not a bum, seems he has someplace to go at night. But the next day, back at the corner, joking around... I guess he's just part of the neighborhood.

This morning, the bells rang again, each on their own. But then it seemed they listened, and connected, and rang together before softening.

At that time, the painting was the waters. An unseen hand splashed color across the surf of waves, the splash of falls, the stillness of ponds, the murk of swamps. No one was around to see it, but it didn't matter.

The scaffolding from where treasures are stored and later forgotten.

She got them in Guatemala, and kept them next to her matryoshka dolls. At night, the worry dolls would dance and try to offer comfort to their counterparts.

Think of the opposite of erosion. Sand and swamp, to soil, rock, and clay, and finally vegetation and peaceful structure.

That church is always humming to itself a bit. It comes from deep inside the walls. But you can only really hear it after the congregants all leave.

It was a young planet, taken too quickly.

Something horrible happened the night before. Can the meadow not acknowledge that? Sometimes when morning breaks, there is a rudeness to the peace.

The rush of the storm has passed. The only things that got washed away were those things you can do without.

Some kind of storm is coming. You have to tie down everything that is loose. Because you don't know what will happen. Something. Might as well tie yourself down, too. Then just wait.

Sometimes we get pulled apart slowly. We might not notice it at first.

The kingdom was mighty. Great gates, wide courtyards, and deadly intrigue... but falling into disrepair.

Rusted metal and twisted gears, but still kinda cheery - he limps around the junkyard helping other contraptions to better themselves.

A dark bird is flying, testing the cold air just before spring. Some life might emerge from the still-frozen ground, but it might be too early to survive.

There is a stillness after destruction that is peaceful and stunning.

Start with a loose tangle. Find two ends, and start pulling them in opposite directions. Make them want different things. Force through the tangle, fight against it. Turn it into a knot, make it harder, as hard as metal. Then remember, how could metal ever become a knot? To untangle, remember where it started. With softness.

It's a strange structure, new. She moves around it tentatively, slowly assembling the pieces in her understanding and movements. It's a careful embrace, but ultimately whole and secure.

She's there to protect the spring and the lake. She moves smoothly, gracefully, arranges the moss and lilypads just so, makes sure the moonlight glints at the right angle, keeps the water clear. The problem is, she got knocked up. And her daughter, who just hit the terrible twos, is running around trying to "help".

I'm trying to drive this car, but it doesn't steer, it has no brakes, and the doors don't even open. There are wrecks all around me, cars and trucks turned upside-down, but none of them appear damaged. The traffic rules don't make any sense. And just when I think I'm getting somewhere, this giant toddler reaches down and grabs me.