“Is it time?”
“Another ten minutes sir. Don’t worry, I’ll come and get you.”
Pacing. Always pacing. I can’t play. This is impossible, nothing works. My hands feel swollen and obtuse. Maybe I practiced too much – Ha! “Such a lazy boy” – my mother’s voice. No, I never practice too much. Why am I doing this? I am not sure I enjoy being a pianist anymore. I always said – “I am not a Pianist. I am a musician. The playing of the piano doesn’t interest me. Music does.” So sickly. Terrible interview. No idea why I said that. She smelled of peaches though. Who cares? Don’t pull on that thread. Remember the therapist – stage fright is about accepting your limitations. Focus on your strengths – or did she say ignore your weaknesses. Never mind. Concentrate. Deep breaths. Oh God! I need a program - what comes first, Schumann or Mozart. My hands are getting colder and colder. I need some hot water to put them in. No first stretches, then hot water. No - stretches, breathing exercises and then hot water - get my hands really flaming before I walk on to the stage and into the sarcophagus. Buried alive. Having sex with the dead – Mozart, Bach, Chopin – all the same. Necrophilia. Or is it Narcissism? Must be both. Better read through the scores one last time. How many people? Six hundred too many.