The Spring of Me

It's been a long while hasn't it?
I'm very tired. It's the end of the semester, nearly, and almost Christmas too. I am not prepared for either event.
I feel like I am holding on to things by the tips of my fingers. Whereas I used to be able to plan things weeks in advance, I find that now, at most, I can only give myself two days. I never know what is going to come up, what pressing issue will derail me.
I'm an adult now, technically, but I don't feel like one. In fact, I feel more like a child than I have in years. I'm just kind of groping around for the right ideas, and practices, hoping that what I find will be alright, and not too costly, should they fail me.
It's not as bad as I'm making it sound. It's also exciting and empowering. It's just that I am used to being on top of my game, and completely in control. I've gotten too used to the security of it. Now, when everything is so profoundly shaken up, I find that I have no emergency plans. I'm drawing them up in trembling red ink.
In fact, I should probably be studying for a calculus retake right now. But I just kind of need to think a little. Like I said, I'm pretty tired. Exhilarated, but tired.
There is something infinitely nagging in the back of my mind lately, and I can't get it to go away, though there is much to distract me from it, more important things, I would venture. But, of course, it overwhelms me. I won't give it the satisfaction of being mentioned here, but I will admit that it is the reason I am writing. I'm combating it with other emotional thoughts, even if my analytical ones will falter against it.
My music, that which not the cello, is driving me crazy. I can't settle into anything. I'm trolling the recommendations of countless friends and pandora, scrabbling to find something to cling to, but I'm not finding anything. Maybe it's just something that I have to be patient with. Still, it frustrates me to no end. I wait all day for my bus ride home, so that I can listen, and then when I settle into the rhythm of the drive home, I find that I cannot listen without clenching my teeth.
I really should study calculus.
God.

Beetle Girl

She ran through the hall, past the great window, without a shirt on, and wondered if he were in the field behind the house. A strange thought to coincide with the fleeing, for she was a deeply innocent type of girl.

The house was preparing itself for winter, and you could feel the grey, the color and texture of an old wasp’s nest, as it wrapped itself around it and settled in the cracks of the wood. The sweaters had been brought up from the basement, where the floor was freezing. The girl, maybe we’ll call her Charlotte or Nellie, stood on her rug in the middle of that floor and pretended that the snow, and first, the cold wasn’t coming. If she didn’t step out into the concrete, it wasn’t.

She was smaller these days, and colder more easily. Winter was frightening.

She ran through the hall of the graying house now, for one of the sweaters brought up from the basement, to be a little warmer. And the thought of the boy could not be accounted for. It was ridiculous, and maybe, if we ignore it, it will hang its head in shame and go away? She brought the sweater over her shoulders and it rested on her hip bones. Nobody, especially not the boy, saw her flight past the great window.

The halls of that heathered house are haunted. In a good way. The beetles will tell you so. She watches them, and takes care of them, and sometimes, they get stepped on, or their wings get pulled off the by the children that live there, and sometimes, when she tires of one, she’ll pin it up on the wall, and pretend that it never existed alive.

She pins up the beetle in the field the most.

There’s a labyrinth in the garden, and she wanders it. It’s not a proper maze; It’s quite easy to navigate if you know the way, and if you don’t, it’s quite easy to learn. She will wander for hours sometimes, even in the rain. Especially in the rain. She thinks about herself a lot while she wanders. She tries to fix that. The beetles swirl around her head, none of them quite palpable, and she can’t decide which one to watch.

Today, when she finds the end of the maze, in her sweater, she sees, that strangely, the sun has arrived, if only for a little while, and the world is a peach again. She steps to the edge of the field and the last of the sunlight beats her hair into gold. All of the beetles have gone to the house, by now, but one, and she stands with it, hovering at her ear, for a very long time. The world is a peach, and the field is only fuzz. She sees the boy out there in it, and wonders if he can ever see her.

Sisterchild.

I round the corner and she is in the hollow of the blackberries. She looks up at me and waves excitedly. This is flagging number four. And as my sister, she surely knows the steel look in my face, the one that she has grown up watching, staring out the car window, in the middle of the night in the kitchen. Those guilty minutes while I am intent and listening. I radiate inhospitable isolation.
This, she must certainly observe, as I round the bend. But the impatient waving continues. And I react, as perhaps she knows I will.
"Not now," I growl through a sore throat, "I can't right now"
I will apologize later, in the kitchen, like a sobered drunk. But for now her crestfallen face haunts my ascension to the top of the hill. She retreats to the hollow in the blackberries. I am comforted knowing that she will wave again when I circle back. I will get a second chance.
When she stumbles through the dark of the early morning, she is rosy and warm. She forgets her timer and the time, and reads. She calls out into the porch for her cat, and coos when he arrives. Scolds him if he is accompanied by a dead mouse. Sometimes, when he gets at the birds, she still cries.
When I arrive home from school, she will have exchanged her black attire for grey. The color is good on her. I have always been a little jealous of this easy beauty, growing up against a thistle like me. It is not a jealousy potent enough to be acted on, (she is my junior of six years) but enough to make me shake my head, as I do now, arriving at home. She is industriously setting up her meal. She will probably take it out to her blackberry hollow, where her cat will try to eat it. She will probably spill her food as she lifts it out of the animal's reach. I want to warn her, standing in the doorway with my tea, but I know that she would not likely listen. In fact, it would only motivate her more.
She heads down the hill and I watch her from the window. She will come back soon, breathless and flushed and lead me down. And I will not growl.

Small Town Girl

Yesterday, I took a short bus ride to the next small town over. It is even more of a small town than ours is. The main drag, to me seems like more of a super-established crafters fair than anything else. None the less, I enjoyed myself.


There are so many strange things to be found in antique stores, and sometimes it brings me comfort; we hear the complaint ever so often, from those who collect antiques, that things are just not made the way they used to be. That products now, are made to be used and promptly disposed of and they have no real meaning. But then I see the things that are collecting dust on these shelves and I think, well, that item seems rather useless. And yet, I see it as being beautiful and useful, simply because it is more than ten years old.
Thinking that way, I have hope for the materials I surround myself with.
That's actually a concept that I've been toying around with a lot lately. Are old things really all that beautiful and quality? Or is it their age that lends them such preciousness? I read an article about the sudden need for the conservation of buildings from the seventies. The article noted that, in the past, buildings constructed in the seventies, or the dreaded "Seventies takeover" of pre-existing buildings were shunned and discounted by those that admired the architecture, of buildings built before those times. But now, these buildings are getting attention, because they've entered the realm of antiquities. But it's hard to wrap one's head around. When does something stop being merely outdated and become an antique?

And I start to think: When will I go through such a transformation?

And more naggingly: How can I avoid it?

Seattle Trip

A couple of weeks ago, North and I headed down to the city. We took buses and made many transfers. It was scary. But we had a lot of fun.

This is the little "Fix-your-coffee-you-splenda-fiend" kiosk inside of Zeitgeist Coffee. I had played a show here once and the aesthetic is identical to mine. I love everything about the place and could take photographs of everything and post them all. But I didn't because a) I don't want to bore you further to tears b) it's really hip and slick in there and I didn't think they'd appreciate my tearful gesticulating and picture-snapping. In any case, if you're ever in my city, you should check out Zeitgeist. It gorgeous and the coffee is zingy.

North and I are both playing Fallout: New Vegas lately. It's a really good game, in case you were wondering. Anyway. I wanted this poster-thing to hang somewhere. But I figured that anyone serious enough to hang such a poster on the outside of a building could probably kick my ass in the event of me stealing said poster. So I left it.

Look it's a bird. A blue bird on a brick wall. Sounds like a haiku waiting to happen!

"A blank space on a brick wall,

put a bird on it,

and don't let anyone see you,"

Finally, North and I got this thing that allows up to three people (3!) listen to the same iPod at once. And it looks like a tree! On the way home, we were listening and North fell asleep while listening. I didn't really notice until he shot up from his seat, gasping for breath. Shostakovich was screaming into the headphones. I felt bad.

We'll get the hang of it.

Difficult

This makes me sad.
This last week, for reasons palpable and also, somewhat intangible, has made me feel a disappointment in people. It's unlike me, I think. In general, I like people. They smile and say funny things. And if they're not funny or clever, at least they're kind, right? Decent.
Perhaps I'm just tired. Very often, for me, that is at the root of things. But it's a feeling that has been growing in me, I think, for a really long time.
I've been propegating this realization; that I prefer- need- to be around people who disassociate themselves from their pasts and from their self-indulgences. So often, it feels like people don't listen carefully. I leave places knowing that I have spoken but that nobody heard what I said, or if they did, they only had nasty things to say in return. Lately, this feels like it is the case. Maybe I'm just not interesting.
But again, I am tired, and this is the end of the year.
Mum and I think it might have something to do with the music too. I'm listening to a lot of Sufjan Stevens who, I think it is safe to say, thinks pretty deeply. It's hard not to want that in places other than music. Maybe, I've just got to switch things up a bit. Listen to stuff that's a little less heavy maybe? Gaga, can you hear me?
I have good plans for the summer, because, guess what, school is out. I don't really know when that happened, but I'm glad it has arrived. I have plans of things to make. Music to learn. I'll probably be working more than last year, but that is appropriate, I think. My peers have far more stressful and demanding jobs than I do.
So, the sun has come out and it's shining on things and making them clean. Everyone is upstairs and we are quiet and humming. Being with them makes me feel better, like I've finally been unknotted. I still don't really want to be with most people (save a few), but this is good.

Update

Firstly, let's look at this utterly beautiful girl.

I don't like to be one of those sisters who is gabs about how awesomely beautiful their family is (even though they are). I seriously don't. But sometimes this one takes me by surprise.

Anyway.

School got busy and then trailed off. We had our orchestra concert, which went well even though the cellos rushed terribly. Many papers have been due. Registration was a couple days ago. And now it feels like the end of the year. Sunday marked my last youth symphony concert of the season. From now on, I'll be working at the market on Saturdays. Which is nice. I miss it.

Speaking of registration: I went to a registration sleepover on Thursday! Which constitutes a social outing. Maybe I won't be a hermit when I grow up. Anyway, the sleep over was lovely. We all got up super early in order to get to school and line up so that we could get the classes we wanted. It is one of the most stressful mornings of the year. Almost more than Solo and Ensemble morning. I was literally shaking until twelve. But everything worked out. I have all the classes I need, including some that I just wanted: Demi and I are going to be in both Creative Writing and American Poetry together! For a whole semester! With wonderful dedicated teachers!

I find it weird that I will only have two musical classes next year. All year. I'll practically have more writing classes than cello oriented one. Then again, this has been a very cello heavy year. Not that I've minded. It's made me a better player. And I love cello more than ever.

I'm editing Theory out. I guess that's the big change. Although Theory/Composition has really been a struggle for me, I think I'm going to miss it a little. I really liked my last composition and finally felt like I was getting somewhere as a composer. I guess the end of the term doesn't really mean I have to stop composing. Maybe I'll write some more pieces over the summer. We'll see.

Spring Break

Spring break has been lovely. Made three trips to the city. Once with my family, the first day we've had off together in a long while. And then with Sean and Demi. We went to some of the same places my family had gone only a couple days before. And then just yesterday I went again with some friends from school. We'd been planning to go for awhile and it was nice. We brought food for each other and I ended up making peanut butter chocolate chip cookies, which I made at midnight the day before. There is something to be said about nocturnal cooking.

I also went to the Olympic National Forest for a hike, with Demi and another delightful girl from school. It was really nice to be somewhere totally cut off, although it does make you panic a little, the realization that you couldn't just call someone to make everything better. It made me feel very vulnerable. But a good kind of vulnerable.

Tomorrow we will be going to the beach to stay for a couple days. I will spend much of the time composing I think, but that's okay too. I have a big composition due on Tuesday next week. I have faith that I will be able to complete it, but right now I just don't feel up to it at all. Maybe I'll start my venture into productivity by packing first and then starting up on my actual work.

But first I have a blog post to write. I'm looking forward to the market starting up again. That means that Summer will not be far behind. Weird to think that I have only about two months of school left. But it will be full. I have a full recital of solo piece to prepare for and other concerts besides. And five more papers. And everything in between. It doesn't make me want to leave the safe harbour pf spring break. But I'm sure I will get used to it once I have started up again.

The Silhouette 3

I started working on this series a bit ago. I posted the first here, and then did some really rough stuff later, one of which I am now going to post.

The Silhouette 3
People really do mean what they say about sunsets, she thinks, as the fire sinks and bleeds into the horizon. She lowers her gaze, to his form on the shoreline, standing perfectly still, his shoulders held in a way that makes her certain that he is grinning on the brink of laughter. Like a hunter, she steps, once, lightly, and appropriately, he darts. She will not run to him, though, and he knows that. Instead she waits, knowing he may not come back, that that would be just like him.
She waits in a world that suddenly seems more dark than light, and he is gone a minute too long.

And now she begins to run, but her body is so heavy and unkempt. She runs with the momentum of panic for a long time, until it runs out, and even then, she pulls through beach forest, step by step, her chest heaving. She lands on the other side, and of course, he is not there. She falls on fours and vomits up strawberries and bile and hard candies.
And maybe somewhere, she is crying again, but she can't tell anymore, because the sun has gone down. The sun of a day that had been good, and lazy and so precious. So precious.
She doesn't hear him return, but she sees, blearily, his feet. She reaches out and touches his ankles with dull fingers and he recoils, stepping, away from her, without the expected grace. She bites her lip.

He turns away and runs again and she isn't even sure that he was there, ever. She breathes, and without meaning to, an unwelcome hope creeps up.

Because maybe he will be around to sell her things again, at Christmas. Maybe he will come back with the snow.

Valentine's Day

Just in general, I love holidays. I think I'm attracted to themes. Colors, symbols, traditions. The habitual aesthetics of holidays make me happy. I love looking forward to thing like that, too. I'm the kind of person who save her chocolate bar for days, hoping that it will taste better for waiting longer.


I like to bring things to school. I have such lovely, good friends and it's a good time to give them stuff. And it satiates a crafting craving for me. There's the Halloween party, obviously, and the subsequent handing out of invitations in October. In December I handed out little linen bags of peppermint candy. I made Valentine cookies this year, which totally was not what I had planned (Octagonal Yellow Chocolate Lollipops were the original objective. But, alas, chocolate dyes are utter crap and turn your melting chocolate into a gritty mess.)


I got a satchel of chocolate and a temporary tattoo on Valentine's Day, which I hid in my secret stash of magnificent candy. Which is, by necessity, hidden where no one can ever find it. God forbid.
Doing a lot of cello, but extra curricularly. Now that Solo and Ensemble is over, I've had everything that I was saving for afterwards is upon me. I'm doing a show at the Peabody Waldorf, with a band from my school. The frontman (is that what you call them?) wrote everything. He's come up with a lot of new content lately and it's pretty fantastic. So unapologetically different. It's refreshing. And we got to come up with some pretty cool cello riffs.
I also have Young Chamber Players concerts coming up. I'm playing a Mozart flute Quartet (with North). And I mean. You know. It's Mozart. But I'm also playing this gorgeous piece by Prokofiev. It's called Overture on a Hebrew Themes. It's a really fun and exotic piece. But it's really quite difficult, so I have to crack down on that quickly.
I want to go to the City so badly. I can actually feel it in my belly. I haven't been in a long while.
My family has been so busy lately, with so many musical obligations and renovations to the house and science fair. It will nice when we get a chance to just be around each other and go on some sort of adventure. Especially my parents. They are working really hard. They deserve a break.
Anyway, Happy Late Valentines Day. Hope yours was splendid!

Some Stuff

First things first: Look at my beautiful case! It was given to me by my former conductor, who had just bought a new case for her wonderful french cello. I love this dear thing. It's so hearty. An I've never had a hard case before. I think it will keep my Jane a little safer. Also, it has blue velvet inside. Mum says it's like a volkswagen. And I don't know how to explain her reasoning, but she is so right.
I really love it. My conductor is so kind to have given it to me. I will take good care of it.

In other news: Miniterm is over. Which leaves me melancholy. I loved the course I took, which was all about musical history during the first half of the twentieth century, specifically in Germany, Russia and the USA. It's been an intense three weeks, because the class was college preparatory, but I enjoyed myself so much. I learned things about music that have made me feel a little out place, but I think that sort of uncomfortableness is good for me, once in a while. I had to write a final paper in the last week, six pages in all. I chose to write about Shostakovich (By the way, if you haven't to his Eighth String Quartet, do. Now. Please. And try to find the Emerson String Quartet.) The paper was difficult to write; do you know when you feel too insignificant to be writing about a topic? I was writing about a giant, and at times it made me feel small. But I ended up with a good grade and some really encouraging feedback from my teachers (who were fabulous instructors, really top rate)

Solo and Ensemble competition is just around the corner. It makes me extremely nervous. But I feel more prepared than last year, which is strange because I have been without a teacher for a while now. I've had to be working through the Lalo cello concerto without a guide really, which has been kind of scary, but has required a lot more self discipline. It's been a little frightening. But due to my schedule this second semester, I'm managing to get in an hour of practice per day (At least for these next two weeks) which is helping a lot.
I'm a little worried because Concert Performance Assessments are lurking, ever present, in the future and I do not want to be overwhelmed by them after solo and ensemble.

My second semester classes are good. I wish I could get my grades back from the previous semester, just so I can take a deep breath and concentrate on the present, instead of constantly worrying what might have gone bizarrely wrong in the final minutes of last term. In typical SotA fashion, though, last semesters grades were spirited away from the online database before anyone had a chance to digest them. Oh well. Just more waiting, I suppose.

I am happy the sun has been out, which is a first for me. It is making things clean, and quite beautiful. I will be wanting rain soon, but for now, this sun can stay without me minding.

Shine in the Sun

My fingers nearly make it. As though they were climbing a building, they scale the fingerboard. But then at the last moment, they misjudge and fall off. The metronome keep ticking and I snapthe bow furiously against strings. Grating and melodius. That left over resonance of fifths. Always bringing me back, like a boy or a book.
I get back in position, bob my head for a measure, begin again. Repetition, everyone tells you, is key. It's also frustrating and defeating and leaves you feeling like it's never going to get better. Sometimes, after a day, it doesn't. Sometimes, you have start all over the next morning. It's a fickle thing.
I do forty more iterations and then look down at my watch. It's dinnertime and I weigh the pros and cons. Eating means fifteen minutes of walking, ten, more like twenty minutes of scarfing down food and inevitably getting sidetracked. Fifteen minute walk back. No extra practice time. On the other hand, food is nice.
I shake my head. CPA's don't pass themselves. I flip through some music, to the treacherous tarantella. Months from now, I will hear this in my sleep, when I come through the door of buses and whenever I play triplets. But my fingers will forget it.
I don't know when he appears in the small narrow window. It could've been a long time and I might not have noticed. But when I look up, my vision is blurry from staring at the same seventeen measures. He is smiling and it broadens when I look up, and he pushes open the door.
"You'd better go eat."
"I can't really do that right now,"
"You can't do anything if you pass out,"
"I'll grab something from the vending machine,"
He looks at me, with that sweet reproachfulness that only Sean can pull off. I sigh and put down the cello.
"Look, I'll go get a granola bar, right now," I smile and stretch. I push open the door, which is heavy, and Sean follows and grabs my wrists, yanking me down the opposite end of the hallway, toward that one fire exit that doesn't wail. I consider protesting, but, I don't know. Sean has this special brand of spontaneity that just makes you want to go along with him, no matter how unreasonable. He exudes calm reactivity. He pushes open the door and I say something about not going to dinner and he laughs. And the sun is blinding. I squint wildly and he laughs again. He releases my wrists. I'm not going anywhere right now. The light and the sticky heat is too good.
Our other friends drift by and form around us. Form around Sean. I've made myself a hermit and I suspect they all think that I am crazy. They may be acurate. But they gravitate to Sean, who will smile and laugh.
I look at my watch.
"You'd better get going. You're not going to have time," I say and Sean raises an eyebrow.
"Nope, I've got to go back," I say to the eyebrow. "See you later," I smile. He makes one more attempt to get me to go along and I shake my head. The group continues along to the cafeteria and I retreat back into the dark of the building, which has fallen silent. I can see Sean walking, through the blinds of the practice room. My dear friend, who will bring me apples and oranges later. A good, good boy.
He is the light, that boy. He is the light.

The Silhouette 3

I started working on this series a bit ago. I posted the first here, and then did some really rough stuff later, one of which I am now going to post.

The Silhouette 3
People really do mean what they say about sunsets, she thinks, as the fire sinks and bleeds into the horizon. She lowers her gaze, to his form on the shoreline, standing perfectly still, his shoulders held in a way that makes her certain that he is grinning on the brink of laughter. Like a hunter, she steps, once, lightly, and appropriately, he darts. She will not run to him, though, and he knows that. Instead she waits, knowing he may not come back, that that would be just like him.
She waits in a world that suddenly seems more dark than light, and he is gone a minute too long.

And now she begins to run, but her body is so heavy and unkempt. She runs with the momentum of panic for a long time, until it runs out, and even then, she pulls through beach forest, step by step, her chest heaving. She lands on the other side, and of course, he is not there. She falls on fours and vomits up strawberries and bile and hard candies.
And maybe somewhere, she is crying again, but she can't tell anymore, because the sun has gone down. The sun of a day that had been good, and lazy and so precious. So precious.
She doesn't hear him return, but she sees, blearily, his feet. She reaches out and touches his ankles with dull fingers and he recoils, stepping, away from her, without the expected grace. She bites her lip.

He turns away and runs again and she isn't even sure that he was there, ever. She breathes, and without meaning to, an unwelcome hope creeps up.

Because maybe he will be around to sell her things again, at Christmas. Maybe he will come back with the snow.