Not to be outdone, my ballet mistress in Munich, Germany, who had been premiere danseuse with the Paris Opera (the even MORE wicked Frau Frank) covered my nails with mercurochrome and slugged me in the shin with a stick every time I bit my nails. I still have the dents...come look! I don't have a Hah-HAH! to that tale, except she's dead now, and I'm alive, still biting my nails. Oh, and I do a wicked tour jete. And the only place she's "touring" is around in her grave.
My piano teacher in Berchtesgaden gave up on me because anything he played, I just played right back. I figured I didn't need to look at the paper for the "Here we go, up a row, to a birthday party" and "Dolly dear, sandman's near, you will soon be sleeping" ditties of TEACHING LITTLE FINGERS HOW TO PLAY.
So, for my final in English Literature at the University of Kentucky, I composed and wrote an interpretive piece based on a poem by Dylan Thomas, aced the class, and continued to compose incidental music for theater.
All to say, I guess Iwas supposed to be contrary in order to find m y own way. And all the teachers are playing with the Baby Jesus, while I am playing with all the Kimlets on the Internet!
I broke my cello, lost my flutaphone, had my guitar stolen, and never owned my autoharp. But I play them all...by ear. As well as comb and wax paper. Music's in my blood (she said, defiantly), if not in my list of formal schoolin'.
