I've got this thing about keyboards - have to sound them out. I don't actually play them, more like they play me, lead me into avenues, dead ends, retreats and forays until something evolves. It's probably not pretty to anyone in earshot, but for me its awakening something in both the story the notes hold and myself. This 100 year old foot pump organ towers in the corner of the lounge of a Hoekoe Valley home in the Klein Karoo, where we'd stopped off Route 62. Lida gave me the go ahead to open the lid - she'd bought it at a nearby antique dealer after falling in love with the craftsmanship. But it requires some serious foot pumping to get air through the pipes. Levers and hinges start clacking, you widen your knees to hold the wooden paddles apart for better sound, pull the knobs out and start smacking those keys, getting involved in a full body workout. You're up and running, powering a loose Mac truck through the living room!
Exhausted, I retired to the wingback chair for a recuperative fireside whisky. I'm sure there are many more secrets the century old Boston Mass. organ holds, but I'll need a few serious step classes if I'm going to find them out.
Deon
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