I wasn’t born, I was forged.
High heat. Stretched, pulled, shaped, and moulded.
Unbendable.
They forged me into a weapon.
I can’t even fly without a special permit; the government considers me a killing implement.
They created an instrument of destruction,
I made myself an instrument of another kind.
Before I met Pineapple, I told no one what I was.
That night, my tings, tongs, pokey bits, whatever you want to call them, didn’t scratch her.
She wasn’t afraid - her skin was constantly renewing and repairing anyway.
Over a picnic, I told her my secret.
Young and unsteady, I knocked into a glass.
Felt the high pitched clink move straight through me.
Setting me vibrating and feeling nothing I’d felt before.
I started experimenting.
Wooden bed post, a clunk and deeper vibration, like slow molasses pouring over me.
Battery, a snapping zapping jolt, addicting in its ability to set my mind free.
Ceramic, plastic, metals - I tried it all.
The day I went out into the rain, I finally found my sound.
Twisting, tilting, twirling, spinning, dipping,
Holding so still that a fraction of a drop of water lands precisely where I want it.
Creating mesmerizing sounds from the drops hitting me.
I am a maestro of my instrument, my body.
More than the sounds, it’s sensations I make people feel.
No one knows I’m behind the music that makes them feel those feelings.
The indescribable emotions and sounds that come out the speakers,
People see a black box and nothing that reveals the nature of the artist.
A lethal weapon.
A terrifying tool in the hands of a small child who thinks it’d be fun to poke someone’s eyes out.
That’s the instrument, the artist, that gives them the feels all the way down to their toes and bellies and heart and chest.
When I found Pineapple, I found a soul mate.
Together, we embrace the complexities of each other and the world.
