Strauss

My fingers played Strauss today. Also Handel, Debussy, Mozart, and Donezetti, among others. But they mostly loved the Strauss: big, thick pianistic chords, chromatic finger-busting passages that beg to be moistened with pedal, and melodic octaves chock-full of drama and passion. Pianists salivate for such music, but oft times we must settle for orchestral reductions. (I am not a violin; I can't vibrate. Nor a flute; I can't support with my breath. I can't blare like a trumpet or rumble like a timpani. Neither can ten fingers do any of these things simultaneously. BUT. That is what we pianists are requested to do with an orchestral reduction, for goodness sakes.
Rant over. I promise.)

My fingers played Strauss today. A singer that can really sing carried the soaring melody, and we told a tale together. Many years ago, the poet told Strauss. Then Strauss wrote the music for us. We learned it together, and then told the audience. They listened and our tale was complete. For what is a tale if only shouted into the empty dark?

My fingers played Strauss today. Now the music has returned to the shelf and the audience has gone out to dinner. They are listening to other things now, like the clink of dishes in a low-lit cafe. Or the tumble of laundry in the dryer. Or cars whishing by on the highway. But I? I slip under the cool cotton sheets of my bed and still hear Strauss.