Look but don’t touch. That phrase sits in a parent’s tool belt as long as a nail does a carpenter’s. Sophie’s mother had used it and reused it and reworded it more than any other mother in the Mid West, but that’s all little Sophie knew how to do; touch. The phrase was nonsense to her, however. How else could one truly assess their environment without touch?
Now 26 years old, Sophie didn’t have her mother spewing nonsense at her but an Asian woman in a suit. She was in San Francisco at the Museum of Modern Art stroking the turquoise oil Matisse applied to his painting, “Woman with a hat.” When Sophie continued, undeterred, the Asian woman had two men wearing ties give her a complimentary tour of the rotating doors. They were a ’95 steel work by Botto.
Sophie remained grateful. She had experienced the art in a manner others were blind to. A smile grew and she began to run her fingers along the brick wall as she walked barefoot down Third Street. You see Sophie appreciated a sense that was gravely undervalued in her culture. People were so oblivious to their surroundings; precariously relying on sight as their guiding mantra. Sophie welcomed her vision, but received much greater satisfaction from touching things. Still, she was aware enough to know there were yet undiscovered dimensions to life that she desired to recognize – dimensions she would explore through touch. A dirty man, bare from his waste down, mumbled something to her. She nodded as she passed. Sadly, this man was more sentient than most.
In the park Sophie spotted a longhaired young man near her age waving his fingers madly onto a Casio keyboard as he sat. He performed across the grass. An empty shoe sat beside him. Her eyes exhausted she approached. The Casio man was so caught up in shouting and banging he didn’t notice Sophie until her fingers began running through his lengthy locks. But unlike so many meetings in her past this man allowed her to touch as she pleased until his song was finished.
“I like your hair.”
“See why I have such a hard time getting rid of it?”
Sophie knelt to his level and guided her fingers down to his keyboard, stealthily sliding it from his lap into her own. She stroked the keys and closed her eyes, gently pressing – feeling – each one.
“You feel the life in this, don’t you?”
“Don’t look. Feel”
He thought for a moment. She smiled, opened her eyes, and handed it back to the young man, who remained transfixed.
“You’re speaking through the keys. Instead allow the keys to speak through you.”
Sophie stood up, waved, and spun sauntering back across the grass. Curious, the young man closed his eyes and felt. Each. Key.
Cars honked as she absently crossed the street. It wasn’t 48 hours later that Sophie, dissecting with her fingers a half eaten sandwich, ran into the young keyboardist again, this time in Union Square. And this time he was sitting, eyes closed, not shouting, but singing. Not banging but feeling. And the shoe beside him contained more than one green piece of paper. As she approached, Sophie noticed something in the man’s voice. Frustrated by her inability to identify the sound she ditched lunch, sat behind him and began to rub his shoulders. Again, the man finished without flinching.
“Thank you,” He whispered.
“You’re now aware of the keyboard, but not yet feeling it’s essence. Close your eyes and tell me what color it is.”
…
“Black. White.”
“No.”
She quickly stood up.
“What’s lacking? What is it you can’t hear?”
“Be true to yourself.”
Sophie turned and left, patting the skull of each pedestrian she passed on her way. The young man remained silent and still. His eyes closed. He caressed the Casio.
Another week passed but Sophie had noticed something different about the streets of San Francisco. They seemed a lot more noisy to her. While as grimy and golden as ever, she began to notice bits of conversation. But like a French film, she could only admire the beauty of it, without truly understanding. Near the wharf, an interaction between a child and his father caught her attention and she sat to observe.
The father was pointing across the bay at a ferry mumbling nonsense. The child’s eyes followed, but for a moment a sunflower left lying near the water’s edge captured his attention. He cautiously brushed it with his foot and waited a moment before grabbing the flower and thrusting it upward towards his father’s babbling face as an offering. The father stopped speaking, momentarily absorbed by his child’s curiosity. He took the flower, gazed at it, pet it, smelt it, then kneeled to the eye level of his son.
“Thank you.”
“I love you, daddy.”
The two hugged…
Sophie, transfixed by what she had just witnessed and heard was startled when someone began massaging her back. It was the young keyboardist. Slowly she succumbed to the manipulation of her muscles by his weary fingertips. It was rare for her to be the touched, but she liked it. A lot.
The two sat in silence for a while, communicating by feel alone. Finally, she turned, relaxing his grip. Their gazes met.
“I want you to listen.”
The keyboardist sat back with his instrument, now painted a golden yellow, closed his eyes, and laid each finger slowly onto the keys. With a deep breath he began to play. His fingertips gently sank and rose – in harmony with every note. As he opened his mouth and music flowed outward something powerful and soothing fell over Sophie.
She could hear.
copyright 2010 thomas fitch
