![]() It’s also worth noting that, when you meet someone, you never bother to ask if he’s right or left-handed.Īfter all: Does it really matter to anyone other than the person holding the pen? The optimist in me wants to believe sexuality will eventually become like handwriting: there’s no right way and wrong way to do it. Nowadays, if a teacher did that, she’s probably be arrested for child abuse. ![]() I remember my mother telling me that, when she was a little girl in Catholic school, the nuns used to hit her left hand every time she wrote with it. When you want something bad, you’ll tell yourself a thousand lies. This is what it means to lose yourself in music, to become a symphony of notes and rests and measures. ![]() There’s harmony in every breath I take the drums become my pulse, the melody is the flow of my blood. If you ask me, music is the language of memory. ![]() There’s the song that reminds me of using fake ID to get into a nightclub and the one that brings back my cousin Isobel’s sweet sixteen, when I played Seven Minutes in Heaven with a boy whose breath smelled like tomato soup. There’s another that reminds me of tagging along with my father on Sunday mornings to pick up the New York Times. There is a tune that makes me think of the summer I spent rubbing baby oil on my stomach in pursuit of the perfect tan. ![]()
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