A reader called my writing, “raw.” I don’t think she meant it as “half-baked” just like other friends have agreed my work is not “thin” but “spare.” “Raw” and “spare”. Not such bad things to be. (My old employer told me, “In short, your articles are tending toward the thin and generic.)
I’m watching the Pianist. Talk about raw and spare. It’s taken me months to watch the whole thing. It demands emotions that I frequently do not have to spare.
There is a scene in which he is placed in an apartment where he can hide. It has a piano. He is instructed to stay as quiet as possible, but as soon as the man leaves, he strokes the piano and caresses the keys. The look on his face is a moment any artist recognizes. He is in front of what he loves, he is at home, but even better than at home because he is not sure of what he will create yet. He risked his life and the lives of his benefactors all for the sake of his art. The piano is not what does him in, it’s a shelf full of dishes shattering on the floor. Am I so compelled towards anything? I love the piano, but I play very poorly and haven’t put the time into learning how to play it properly. I love to write, and sometimes writing puts me in a place where I actually “get it”. Things makes sense, or are beautiful or are deadly. I’ll find scraps of paper that I have written on, and, although it is my handwriting, I don’t remember jotting it down. One example is the last post. It occurred to me that, although I’ve seriously considered suicide, the one near-death experience was completely an accident. Do I unfold when I write, though? Is it life transcending? I’m not sure. I don’t know that I “need” to do it, but I feel more complete when I do it. I’ll work with shiny eyes and walk around with a high and no one can touch me.
With his piano, Szpilman went through all kinds of horrors. I know that I will never be able to compare to him. I would not have escaped or survived in the times he lived. I’ll never be as great or as strong as he. My bipolar disorder suffering is what hurts me the most and it’s just a minor thing besides any of his difficulties. I write anonymously, to avoid the difficulties of feeling like I have to lie or water down things. In that since, I am a coward, something Szpilman could never be.