she might prefer to be classed as writing this as something other than poetry but I have to call this poetry to be able to excerpt this and have you read it like I mean you to:
now, I never get tired of complaining about large-limbed men who tuck their mantid knees up under their pianos and flop their long-fingered hands all over the keyboard like so many giant crystal cave spiders climbing a tiny staircase. I have, me, small soft hands like little early-born Angora rabbits. If they were strong that would be all right, but they are not; they are weak, eager, twitchy, undisciplined; and just like Angora rabbits, if you don’t train them with rigor in their first thirteen years they will never be good technicians in later life. So I get angry at my betters. Jealousy is a powerful emotion, and I believe in it. To disdain jealousy is to disdain gasoline because its dirty extraction method makes it no good for starting fires. I mean: you should disdain it, it’ll ruin the world, but once you’ve got it, however you did get it, it does work. I am F. Murray Abraham as Salieri with the firelight playing across his hard features as he shovels his faith into the furnace and curses God for giving him these tiny feeble hands. but it isn’t an affectation, I am really like that.
I have also been a rabbit-handed pianist in a previous lifetime, and winters I keep myself warm with a generator run on jealousy, so if this isn't quite as good/worth sharing as it reads to me, you'll have to make allowances.
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