RPlog:Shape of My Heart

It has been several hours since Paul stretched out to go to sleep. Despite his fatigue, he finds himself restless. Most of the night is spent tossing and turning, and the few times he does fall asleep, he is awakened by unpleasant nightmares. He finally throws off the blanket in annoyance, realizing he'd probably better off just not trying to sleep at all. Research does not prove to be the balm it usually is and Paul rises and paces about the cargo bay restlessly. He spies Shen's guitar near the ladder where he left it and pads over quietly. He picks it up and looks at it thoughtfully for awhile before he sits back down on his discarded bedding and begins to work on a song that he'd started to write many years ago, but then abandoned. He plays quietly so as not to wake Shenner.

Shenner's dreams have been restless ones, though not such that they've kept her awake this night; you have, perhaps, occasionally heard small shiftings from her, during your insomniac vigil. The girl does not seem to rouse, though, as you get up and emerge from behind the crates, though she does make one small interrogatory noise before subsiding again with a soft sigh when you begin to strum.

Delicate guitar tones ring out lightly through the cargo bay - a descending string of picked notes followed by strummed chords as if punctuating the end of the sentence. The melody is soft and slow, with a slightly folk music quality to it, quite the contrast to most of the music that Paul plays, except for the one other piece that wrote and played the day before. It has a haunting quality, but not melancholy or tragic. There is almost a romantic practicality to it - a piece of music that tells a truth but tinges it with faded memories of times bittersweet. Paul begins to lightly sing the lyrics that he thought he had long forgotten, and begins to puzzle out the rest which he never had finished.

For awhile Paul struggles with the fingering, pauses and tests out finger patterns and chords, trying to capture the essence of the inspiration. He bows his head closer and closer to the body of the guitar, his expression growing increasingly absorbed. The guitar becomes an extension of himself - the music reflecting his emotions and the instrument becoming a natural part of his hands. He finally gets what he wants down, and the music begins to flow as it is supposed to, with only a few breaks and refinements here and there.

_Music?_ is her first conscious thought, as Shenner finds herself climbing slowly but unavoidably up out of slumber. Then, _my guitar..._, as her eyes open to the dimly lit hold. Taken aback, she listens for a time, awestruck, not daring to move, lest she interrupt.

Paul's voice begins to echo more firmly throughout the hold, his rapture at rediscovering his own voice in music makes him forgetful of the hour and the place. He pauses briefly and then begins to run through the piece again, from the beginning, and his rich tenor voice rings lightly through the air.

He deals the cards as a meditation, And those he plays never suspect. He doesn't play for the money he wins. He doesn't play for respect.

He deals the cards to find the answer, The sacred geometry of chance. The hidden law of a probable outcome. The numbers lead a dance.

Shenner can't help it; she lifts her head, and props herself up slightly on one arm, turning to find Paul's form in the gloom.

He takes a deep breath and goes into what sounds like the chorus ...

I know that the spades are swords of a soldier. I know that the clubs are weapons of war. I know that diamonds mean money for this art, But that's not the shape of my heart.

The melody line sings out like bitter almonds and honeysuckle. Paul's voice rolls like honey.

He may play the jack of diamonds. He may lay the queen of spades. He may conceal a king in his hand, While the memory of it fades.

I know that the spades are swords of a soldier. I know that the clubs are weapons of war. I know that diamonds mean money for this art, But that's not the shape of my heart. That's not the shaa-aaape, the shape of my heart.

Shen pushes herself up into a sitting position, a paler shadow against the darker ones in the hold, and stares transfixed in Paul's direction.

Paul's voice drops in volume, but not in intensity, the lyrics gliding through the air effortlessly as swallows on wing.

And if I told you that I loved you, You'd maybe think there's something wrong. I'm not a man of too many faces, The mask I wear is one.

Those who speak know nothing, And find out to their cost, Like those who curse their luck in too many places, And those who fear are lost.

I know that the spades are swords of a soldier. I know that the clubs are weapons of war. I know that diamonds mean money for this art. But that's not the shape of my heart. That's not the shape of my heart.

Shenner thinks, only briefly, _He woke me up, but I don't mind..._, as she just listens to that quiet, rolling singing, and the flowing chords beneath it. She swallows, conscious of a tightening in her throat, and a slight heat in her chest, and still she doesn't dare make a sound.

Paul lets the melody play itself out till it ends and then it is very quiet, as if he were taking a final sample of the song and seeing how it tasted to his palate.

Only after it's clear that you aren't going to continue does Shenner finally whisper, "Hi, Paul..."

There is a slight sound of fingers jangling strings, as if surprised. Then you can hear the sound of the guitar being placed to one side and Paul's head peers around the side of the crates, his face barely visible in the dim light. "I'm sorry," he whispers, "I didn't mean to wake you."

Shenner answers softly, "It's okay... that was really somethin'." She pauses, then offers, "I, uh, I don't mind if you wanna keep goin', I could listen to that all night."

It's hard to tell what Paul's reaction to that comment is. It is too dark to see the flush that comes over his face. "Well," he replies, still whispering for some reason, "I think you'd get a little bored if I just kept playing the same song over and over again ... besides, it still needs some work ... I need to write a break to go in after the second chorus ... something to give the lyrics and chance to breath before getting to the meat of the matter." He pauses again. "I guess I could try to write something from scratch ..." his voice trails off ... "if I can any more ...."

"Do you mind me listenin'?" Shenner asks you, shyly.

Paul shakes his head. "No," he replies softly, "I don't mind you listening ... I don't think I've ever had anyone who's listened to me much before," he adds, not noticing the multiple implications of that statement. "But I don't want to keep you up either," he murmurs with a touch of concern in his tone.

The kid chuckles, huskily. "Ain't got nothin' to do on the morrow, pal." Then, shyly again: "Could you... tell me how to write music?"

Paul sits still for a minute. His voice is soft and uncertain, "I don't know if I can teach you how to write music ... it isn't something I've ever been taught myself ... you just sort of do it ... you hear it in your heart or your head and then try to capture it on the strings." His tone is wistful and enchanted, as if he'd been carrying a token from a lover in his coat pocket for years and had only just now placed his fingers on it again.

Shenner rises, dropping her blanket aside and padding over to sit down at the corner of your nook of crates, where she can hear and see you better. "Do you hear a lot of music?"

Paul pulls himself away from the crates some more, the dim light reflecting off his face and collar bone. "I haven't heard music in a very long time now ... I think I either had forgotten how or had stopped listening."

Shenner murmurs, "And you heard something again tonight..." It's not quite a question, not quite a statement. But she sounds pleased.

Paul cocks his head to one side and smiles a mysterious little smile. "Well, I can't say I heard the music tonight ... but I remembered the music tonight. The piece I just played was the last one I can remember hearing ... and I didn't keep listening long enough to finish it before tonight." He sounds charmed and relaxed.

"I'm glad..." Shenner tells you. Her face is a pale shape against the darkness behind her, and her gaze rests on you, now that she can see you better. "You sound happier."

Paul's eyes watch Shenner, the ever so slight curve of the corner of his lips indicating his contentment. "I used to just do research as a balm ... the music had become more of a skill to develop than a passion to pursue ... but of course it had been tainted ..." his voice trails off, as his musings drew him back in a circle he hadn't planned on traveling. He breaks off hesitantly, unwilling to continue further. As if in defense, Paul reaches over for the guitar and settles it on his lap, touching the strings lightly.

The girl scoots a little closer, hopefully, murmuring, "Do more?"

A small flash of relief passes through Paul's eyes and he bobs his head at the kid. "Sure, what do you want me to play?"

Shenner asks, eagerly, "What's your favorite song?"

Paul sits back, his fingers strumming the guitar randomly. "Now that's a tough one ... there are so many. You mean the favorite one that I know, or the favorite one I've written? Even that's a tough one ...."

"Either? Both?" Shenner leans against the crate beside her, watching you intently.

Paul leans back for a moment, his hands behind him, bracing his torso, and he stares at the ceiling for a moment. The guitar slides down his body to lie in his lap, the dim light gleaming off his chest slightly. He then sits forward again and picks up the guitar. "Well, here's something ..." he murmurs softly, chewing his lip. His hands test the strings briefly and then begin to play. The piece is extremely complex ... very little strum work is involved, but his hands move over the instrument in a flurry that belies their size. His chord hand twists and contorts and fast paced rushes of notes fly about the air like a swarm of bees. The piece is light and airy, giving the feeling of a bright spring morning, with sunlight dappling through tree branches, birds flitting about from bush to bush, and everything gleaming with dew - sharp quick and reflecting gems of light. Paul is hunched over the instrument, his eyes watching his hands and his features simultaneously frowning in concentration and smiling in success.

The girl leans forward a bit as you play, her face lightening visibly even in the gloom. For a moment her gaze lingers rather higher than the guitar and your hands' dance upon its strings, then she jerks her attention down to what you're doing with the music. Transfixed, she grins widely.

Paul has eyes only for his fingers which keep flying along until the song final ends, trailing off like the calls of birds back and forth to one another through the trees fading, fading, fading, gone. He rests there for a moment, his eyes closed, the last tone ringing out through the hold.

Paul takes a deep breath and opens his eyes. "Lots and lots of practice and a slight case of insanity helps." He raises his head slowly and looks back at Shenner.

"Ain't never claimed to be fully rational," Shenner tells you, grinning. "Teach me?"

Paul chuckles and shakes his head wryly. "Well, you're a glutton for punishment, but if you insist. However, first things first. I've noticed that most of your playing is strummed chords, right?"

Shenner bobs her head, settling round to get a better look at you and the guitar. "That's what I been able to pick up so far, I mostly just sing, you know?"

Paul nods, his hands resting to the body of the guitar. "Right. Well, you should learn how to finger pick ... not only is it a different way to play the guitar, but you can then play pieces like the ones I tend to play, and you can intersperse fingering into the strummed chords to change the pacing. So, what I am going to do now is show you a simple song that I wrote awhile back that only uses fingering. The thing that is nice about this piece is that the fingering is done in a constant pattern, so once your fingers memorize their position and their timing, then you can concentrate solely on the chord work of your left hand."

He lays his right hand over the strings and demonstrates. "Now watch - my thumb and middle finger pluck at the same time, the thumb on the 4th string from the bottom, the finger on the bottom string, followed by the thumb playing the third string, then th e pointer finger playing the 2nd string, then the thumb playing the 4th string, middle finger the 1st string, and then again the thumb playing the 3rd string and the pointer playing the 2nd ... and then you start the pattern over again." He plays it a few times, plucking the strings individually and slowly ... and it sounds weird and awkward. Then he picks up the pace so the strings ring one after the other in a rhythmic pattern and it begins to sound like music. He then stops and hands the guitar to Shenner. "Here, now you try to copy that ... don't bother with your chord hand, just play it open for now."

With the guitar handed to her, Shenner settles down to pluck at it a bit, as if to tell her fingers where the strings are in the darkness. Then, her head bowed slightly, she begins to pluck her way through your piece, at half the tempo. Save for one or two missed notes, she duplicates it well, and you might catch a glimpse of a grin beginning to flood her face.

Paul watches her hands work on the strings, hesitant at first with the unfamiliar fingering and then growing in confidence and ability. Paul whistles low, "Okay, you're gonna out play me in about a few weeks I think." He gestures to her left hand. "Okay, now just for grins and giggles start trying out a few chords on those strings and keep your right hand repeating the pattern and wait till you hear what it sounds like."

Shenner lifts a glowing face to you, when you praise her, and immediately moves her other hand to do as you suggest. Her brow crinkles as she tries to fathom how to make each hand do something different at the same time, and she staggers through a few false starts... but she glows again when at least for a measure or two, the chords and the plucked notes fall together in harmony.

Paul watches Shenner's hands for awhile, but once she has gotten the swing of it his eyes move to her face. He smiles at her, his eyes containing a hint of wonderment that anything he could do could please someone so much. "You can see why most people strum .. finger picking is a lot harder because both hands are an active part of creating the melody lines. Wait till you start changing the chords in patterns and changing the fingering patterns and the strings they pluck ... then your head will really spin."

The girl looks up again at you, distracted by your words. "Will you show me?" she begs, tone hopeful. "Teach me more?"

Paul stares into Shen's eyes for a moment. He nods, his eyes never leaving hers. "I would be happy to show you whatever you want to learn about," he replies softly. "The thing is, you want to practice it too ... if you try for too much too fast you won't get a good strong base of skill to work off of, and you won't be able to develop further. It's okay to go slow sometimes ... making good music isn't something that should be rushed." His eyes drop to her hands and then back up to her eyes. "I want you to play around with this much for awhile and think about the following things - you don't have to stay on the same strings, you can subtly change a chord -during- the picked pattern so there is a mid-stream change, and you can change the pattern that your fingers run in." He smiles into her eager face. "I want you to discover some of this for yourself, because then it will mean that much more to you than if I just show you how to do it."

"I'll practice, I promise...! But you have to show me more, before you g--" And abruptly, Shenner's joyous expression falters somewhat.

Paul looks into Shenner's eyes, his expression faltering somewhat along with her words. He stares down at the instrument between them and then slowly raises his gaze to hers. "There will be time," he reassures her huskily. "You learn fast and I think you'll find that pretty soon there won't be anything that I can teach you that you can't figure out for yourself."

Shenner considers, then lifts a hand off the guitar to tentatively touch your shoulder, and she confesses softly, "I'm... still thinking about what I want to do, and... oh, Paul, I'll... miss you if you go without me, yah know?"

Paul sits perfectly still, staring at Shen with no small look of astonishment on his face. The shoulder under Shen's hand quivers slightly at her touch. "You'll miss me?" He then shakes his head as if putting his thoughts back into perspective. "No, you won't miss me much ... after a few days you'll forget I was even here to hassle you in the first place." He gives her a teasing grin.

The girl shakes her head solemnly and maintains, "I'll miss yah."

Paul's smile slips from his lips for a moment, but then regains it's footing. "Thanks kid," he responds, "I'll miss you too."

Shenner shyly smiles, and moves as though to lift her hand from your shoulder, but it's a slow movement, one that first lifts her palm and leaves her fingertips there; they trail off you slowly, as if reluctant to break contact.

Paul's smile fades slightly, distracted by Shenner's innocently caressing fingertips. Another small shudder ripples through his frame and his eyes seem very dark and intense, but he doesn't move.

Finally, Shenner averts her eyes, and murmurs, "Maybe... I better practice in the morning?"

Paul clears his throat and nods. "Sure, you probably should get at least a little sleep tonight."

Bobbing her head, Shenner lays the guitar aside, then gets to her feet. But she pauses, and, impulsively, clasps your other shoulder with her other hand. "Good night..."

Paul works up a smile for Shenner but still doesn't move. "Night Shen, sweet dreams," he responds.

She draws away... then, softly, pads back to the place where she had been sleeping, to settle back down there and return to slumber.

Paul sighs after he hears the kid settle into place and runs his hands through his hair. He reaches for the guitar but places it to one side, running his hands over it appreciatively. He fluffs up his pillow and pulls the blankets up around him and settles himself in for the night. He is asleep within seconds of his head hitting the pillow, and this time his slumber is dreamless and peaceful.

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Mimi Noyes - mimi@murkworks.net - Last Updated: 4/3/97