When people ask me what I do I tell them the truth. I tell them I’m a piano player: the next Tom Waits, the next Randy Newman, don’t mind the valet uniform, or the callouses on my hands from my wonted skills as a carpenter, a trade I learned not only for the money, but to build stuff for my dear sweet Grandparents because Darby Kane has a loving soul, a boundless love for classic film and actors like James Dean, Marlon Brando, Bette Davis, but also accepts the beautiful truth that some do not have—the luxury? the burden? of—a television, and the old black and white ripped from the old dead tree is the way they obtain that dirty, chic realism, the veracity others fear: a mirror with more cracks than expected, more dust and spots of old toothpaste they might have to clean after all, heal and fix their fresh wounds they paint red on their flesh with sharp jagged rocks they find on the bottom of their soul, just as I did, but gems such as Ask the Dust or Wait Until Spring Bandini by John Fante’s own Arturo Bandini, “Lover of man and beast alike” or Death in the Afternoon by our old pal Ernie, good old Hemingway and his strange obsession with the bull, sword, life, death, entered my world and I soaked in the words of these lyrical and tortured lovers of our lost and unspoken words as the virtuosity of Mozart and the poetry and prose of my Spanish guitar glows and serenades the bombs in the heat of Iraq
**This is a paragraph from a novella (which means short fiction, but not short enough to be a short story) called “Elephant Tears.” I wrote the 20,000 word story in this last year sometime. (The amazing feature photo (piano mouth) is NOT mine. Below is the website I got the piano mouth from to use for this blog and nothing else.
The photo below was taken by the ever so lovely, Alycia Vreeland