This video is an experiment in piano four-hands. Normally, for piano four-hands, two players sit at one piano, with one playing the high part and the other the low.
Instead, here I video myself playing each part — one at a time — and then combine them.
A GrailHeart story.
The village blacksmith was
a man of steady heat and hand.
With a few quirks no one quite understood.
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Music, like the cosmos, has its hidden symmetries.
Turn it over, and it tells you the same truth – yet not the same.
Right becomes left, above becomes below,
but the song still breathes.
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(Poem & Music)
There is a kind of longing that does not chase.
It does not run or reach.
It simply stretches — quietly, openly
— toward the possibility of something unseen.
Like branches.
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I stepped into the old stone chapel,
its door half-swallowed by ivy,
its windows dusted in the hush of years.
A single beam of afternoon
cut through the dusk like a blessing.
Dust floated like memory,
and the stones exhaled
a silence older than prayer.
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From her earliest days, Nia could hear them:
the murmurs of other lives she might have lived.
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The 19th century was drunk on certainty.
Steam power, steel, calculus, colonialism – humanity, it was said, could conquer anything. Science would solve all mysteries. Mathematics would explain the universe. There was nothing, it seemed, we couldn’t measure, map, and master.
But the 20th century put an end to that illusion.
There was once a tailor who lived on the edge of a city that was always on fire.
Not literal — but as if people were running from flames day and night: in the racing footsteps, the wild, panicked eyes over market stalls, the fevered cacophony of deals struck in haste.
The people lived fast, spent fast, aged fast.
And whoever slowed down was swept away like ashes. (more…)
No map marks its location, and yet many find it.
Some say the Library appears only to those who have lost something they cannot name.
It has no sign above its door, no carvings on its lintel. The stones are old and slightly warm to the touch, as though remembering sun from another world. Its wooden door opens inward, with a sigh like silk over skin.
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No one saw the Stranger arrive.
One autumn morning, as mist unspooled itself from the hills, he was simply there—seated at the dry edge of the old fountain, scribbling in a thick, weather-stained book. His boots were worn, his coat dark and plain. He neither begged nor bargained. He only watched, listened, and wrote. (more…)