How to Leave a Note
How to Leave a Note

What matters is how you leave a note

A musical note, pressed down by your fingers, hammer to string to sound, will echo what’s in your head while you play it
So accuracy first, because you want to get the right sound
Then phrasing and dynamics, less mechanical (less thought, more feel)

Then, a moment before you lift off, before an end (break or pause)
How do you want to leave?

Do you want to
let this note linger in the air, only two sounds then — silence and music
Marcato, you know you’ll be remembered
Dolce, caress your listener into the finale

What’s in your head when you play?
Listen for the sounds between your playing
Between your fingers when they’re lifted up
Who plays when you don’t?

The important thing is to allow your note to sing its goodbye
Note
How the air is punctured
Punctuated by percussion

The important thing is to know when the note has sung
Sunk
The important thing is to know when to let go.

Sanaya

Sanaya is a lawyer in Bombay. She currently spends most of her time reading and drafting documents. If she’s not doing that, she’s playing music, writing, or planning what to eat, next.

Ouevre

Victory Dance

Poetry by Sanaya

Let me dance my Victory dance around the anarchy that crumbles Inside me. Rubber band arms stretch far out Collision Rejection Dismantle this machinery of misery, let each bolt fall...
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Morning Sunshine

Poetry by Sanaya

Morning sunshine hugs my bones Light that trickles in slowly And then drenches Alive, and hot But a love that melts in my mouth Tickles the tops of blades of...
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Mindful

Prose by Sanaya

I’m trying to be mindful. Imagine a body filled with wide, brown eyes, searching for secrets. Imagine a hand yearning to feel a drop of sunlight on its palm. Now...
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Anthology

आकाश नीचे उतर आया

Poetry by Omendra Ratnu

आज एक आकाश नीचे उतर आया करने आच्छादित मुझे, मेरे उपरान्त भी ,   अस्तित्व हुआ तरल झीनी चादर सा, चित्त हुआ सरल , जो था कातर सा,   तन...
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In Between

Poetry by Sanaya

I live in the space between sound I live where you can’t hear the sound of your heart beat I live in pause and rest I live between the staccato...
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Portrait

Poetry by Frank Golden

Oughtmama and the mists of late February fade Turlough Mountain and Moneen to a landscape of silhouettes in sheer cascade, only the immediate clear and nameable. I live here now...
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