But how to write about the multidimensional happening of meaning-making that takes place in a musician's practice? (Perhaps the performance itself is the most efficient way of speaking about it.) In the process, many different things are happening simultaneously, and the problem with words is that they can only deal with one thing at one time. When I play, various senses work in a parallel manner, sight, touch, hearing. I am living in the present tense, but also already perceiving what will happen in the next seconds, much like walking on a nature path and using perceptions to accommodate my body to the changing surfaces. At the same time, I form meanings in my thoughts: I notice tonal relations, intervals, rhythms, and they all mean something. Their meaning mixes up with the sensations of hearing and touching: a quart, for example, is a measurable ratio, but in the context of these other notes, it has a colour, a direction and a feel in my body. The meanings become more pictorial, more metaphoric, I search for them actively and let them change the way I play. My articulation and timings will be affected by a picture of, say, a limping dog, or being lost in a dark room, being contentedly in love, saying thoughtfully “but”, cursing, or imagining a sticky, viscous material. There is no story, no need for cohesion, I can jump from a dog to mortal jealousy. Actually, often I must change idea immediately and completely forget where I was the second before. This imagining is very fluid. In fact, again, writing it down makes it appear fixed like the written music. The next time I play, the dog may have changed into a landscape with fences. But the dog has done what it was supposed to do to my playing: it has helped me approach the object of my desire a tiny bit: to play with a meaning and, perhaps, to be able to share my embodied version of this toccata with other people.