Ode to an Etude

I've had an etude by Czerny in my head for over a week. 

Here's the thing. I used to play the piano. A lot. Then I stopped. Not because I didn't want to play anymore, rather because in order to play the piano, one must have a piano to play. Granted there were always pianos I could have played, if I were the disciplined type who did what it took to fit that into my life.  But I'm not and I didn't.  I'm the type who wants a piano in the next room that I can play in my pajamas and bare feet, all lackadaisical like, whenever I want. I'm sure you understand.

Enter the J-dubhub and his 88 keys.  Don't tell him I said so, but I might have married him for his piano. 

A piano! In the living room!  That I can shuffle over to and play any ol' time.  Like when I should be going for a run.  Or when I should be doing the grocery shopping.  Or when I should be looking for a job. Or when I should be doing laundry.  Or when I should be making dinner.  You get the idea.

So, that's the long and short of it.  I'm getting squishy.  I still don't have a job. And the Hubs never has any clean clothes to wear or food to eat.  Because I'm playing the piano.
 
When I was at home in Texas last month I rummaged through the music cupboard to see if I could find any of my old piano books. Lo and behold. So many! It felt like an amazing discovery, the likes of which I had not known since maybe the day I found black beans in Australia. (But that's a story in and of itself.) I brought that whole stack of books back with me...which is mostly why my suitcase weighed as much as a small car. (But just a small one. A smart car, probably. That's not so bad.)

And my world is full of sonatinas and bourres and waltzes again. 

How happily they're all back in my head. Beethoven, Chopin, Bach, Haydn, Kuhlau.  Like old friends who have been away for a very long time. I catch myself singing their melodies everywhere I go.

And Czerny. He'll probably hang around for a while still.  With his etude and his octaves.

Welcome back, sir.