pianos raze "it's magic down here. to me, pianos are real things. real beings. this one and i aren't really communicating that well. i mean, we don't have an incredible vibe. it's okay. you're not gonna date every guy you meet. that doesn't mean you can't have a cup of coffee with him or something. we understand that it's not a marriage." — tori_amos 240522 ... ovenbird I’m flying home to a place I’ve never been. My town is at the bottom of a bowl hemmed in by snow covered mountains. I’ve been on tour, promoting my newest novel, and I’m exhausted. The plane has to make a tricky landing because the runway is lined with pianos: uprights, keyboards, clavinovas, player pianos, organs, a wurlitzer, a spinet…weathered wood and warped keys, piled on top of each other, discarded. The pianos are silent but alive. They are relatives waving at us as the plane comes to a stop. They are music in a state of raw potential. I’m looking for the one who could coax a whole life from the keys, but no such person emerges from the forest of strings and hammers. This is what I know: coming home means emerging into a place where songs are possible. I can feel a humming starting in my chest, like a purr, a sound that heals and soothes. The plane engine vibrates the strings inside the pianos so they are humming too. There’s a voice missing, but I’ll wait. When you’re lost the smartest thing to do is stay still. It’s your best chance of being found. 251123 what's it to you? who go blather from