NYT Writing Prompts
Feb. 3rd, 2025 05:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tippergreen So, the NYT does writing prompts. Did I know this? No. But I need to get back on the horse on DW, so I thought I'd see what was out there and lo and behold...writing prompts from the venerated and amazing New York Times. So, here goes, starting with February 3:
"What are your childhood memories of music?"
My father and his speakers. His huge, enormous, completely absurd speakers. They were taller than I was, and didn't seem to produce much noise, but I'm pretty sure he was convinced I was going to fall into them so he'd yell at me whenever I got too close. The music, now, that was less memorable. It was nearly all classical, the sounds of strings and brass and piano and winds all blending together into a very pleasant but, to my young mind, unremarkable set of sounds. I don't really know why children can't appreciate classical the way they can appreciate, say, "Row, Row, Row Your Boat," but Mozart, Berlioz, Faure...Whatever. it was all the same to me. Except Wagner, thanks to Warner Brothers. But as for the rest, all I knew was that the music was pleasant.
The thing about the speakers is, they were so big and so impressive, I kept expecting more to happen when dad played his records. I wanted a sound that was intense, thrilling, maybe a little scary. I wanted sound as big as these speakers looked to me.
I didn't want pleasant.
My older brother, when he became a teenager, played Dio, Pink Floyd, Iron Maiden and Kate Bush. But even those monsters of music sounded unimpressive when pouring out of those huge speakers. It was as if there was no sound big enough, massive enough to merit their existence.
I still, to this day, have never found speakers that seem sufficient.
I know now it's because we had a piano. When dad played it, and I sat under it, the music slammed into me, unrelenting. I felt every chord, every wrong note, every pump of the peddles, every singular strike of a key ringing through me like someone was ringing bells inside my chest. It spoiled me.
When they sold the house, the speakers went away. So did the piano.
I really miss that piano. I miss my father playing it.
I do not miss the speakers.
"What are your childhood memories of music?"
My father and his speakers. His huge, enormous, completely absurd speakers. They were taller than I was, and didn't seem to produce much noise, but I'm pretty sure he was convinced I was going to fall into them so he'd yell at me whenever I got too close. The music, now, that was less memorable. It was nearly all classical, the sounds of strings and brass and piano and winds all blending together into a very pleasant but, to my young mind, unremarkable set of sounds. I don't really know why children can't appreciate classical the way they can appreciate, say, "Row, Row, Row Your Boat," but Mozart, Berlioz, Faure...Whatever. it was all the same to me. Except Wagner, thanks to Warner Brothers. But as for the rest, all I knew was that the music was pleasant.
The thing about the speakers is, they were so big and so impressive, I kept expecting more to happen when dad played his records. I wanted a sound that was intense, thrilling, maybe a little scary. I wanted sound as big as these speakers looked to me.
I didn't want pleasant.
My older brother, when he became a teenager, played Dio, Pink Floyd, Iron Maiden and Kate Bush. But even those monsters of music sounded unimpressive when pouring out of those huge speakers. It was as if there was no sound big enough, massive enough to merit their existence.
I still, to this day, have never found speakers that seem sufficient.
I know now it's because we had a piano. When dad played it, and I sat under it, the music slammed into me, unrelenting. I felt every chord, every wrong note, every pump of the peddles, every singular strike of a key ringing through me like someone was ringing bells inside my chest. It spoiled me.
When they sold the house, the speakers went away. So did the piano.
I really miss that piano. I miss my father playing it.
I do not miss the speakers.
no subject
Date: 2025-02-04 05:08 am (UTC)I’m trying to picture how huge those speakers must have been.