I've been thinking about an aspect of art: the reality of the subject. I know that's really broad.
If you think about the respected actors we all know of, what is a common factor of their performances? I think one of them would definitely be the ability to mimic the behaviors of the people we see everyday. We admire them for being able to take a fictional character and make them relatable, and something familiar and real.
The same can be said for writing, to a certain degree. We admire those writers whose characters, among radical settings and extraordinary occurrences, are beings that we recognize, and that are "believable" because they imitate the behaviors of everyday people.
Visual art praises those who can properly and realistically portray the people they paint. Whether abstract or photo realism or anything in between, we respect those who can some how show us they understand and show humanity in an accurate light.
So what is it that separates this art from everyday life? Instead of going to a movie, one could go people watching in the city. Instead of painting, we could take a photograph.
I think what separates art from these mundanes is the environments in which we place these familiar life forms. We watch them react and experience things that we likely won't. Art allows us to live by osmosis. Art is the ultimate answer to every "What if?" question out there, and that, in part is what makes it so vital. It allows us to be fantastical and without it, I think, we would be dull and grey.
It's so very powerful, then, to be an artist. It's noble and generous, and I thank those that have affected me, and even who those that have not, because they make this world so much a better place.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Thursday, April 22, 2010
The Messenger
This story, this portion of screwed history, and my part in it, begins in Bone. Bone is a big city. The capital, in fact, with the stately grey stone building smack dab in the middle of it, as proof. I work for that building and the people in it. A spreader of the good word. The post man of the high-ups. What my official contract calls a Messenger.
I smother posters onto endless walls, making sure the denizens of Bone know what’s what. It’s dangerous work, because the rebels, they don’t like the “propaganda” or those who spread it. Treat it like some kind of political plague. So we’re instant targets, with our quivers of coiled posters slung across our backs and our rollers waiting in our hands.
That’s why the government chose people like me to be their messengers.
I’m really fast on my feet. I’m there and then I’m not. Fast, fast, fast. I grew up on the bad side of Bone (That’s a joke. Bone is a crappy city, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise or you’re screwed.). Because of that, I had to learn to run. You don’t survive long if you can’t. I know my way around a gun, too, and I’ve gotten better since I’ve taken the position. I keep a loaded shotgun in my quiver , and have to use it all too often.
I became a messenger when I was sixteen. My mom had busted her hand and had to be away from the factory and we needed money. She didn’t like the idea, but she didn’t like the idea of me starving to death either. We did what we had to do. When she died, a couple years later, of a stupid little flu that shouldn’t have killed her, I just kept the job. I was good at it. No need to fix what wasn’t broken.
Because I’m kind of a senior messenger now, I get the worst routes. The clusters of violent taverns in the slummiest of slums. Tours of back alleys and drug deals. Stringing lanes of brothels. Charming.
Anyway, it was not on one of those crappy routes when this whole thing started. I was actually in a comparatively gentle part of the city. Less muck, and therefore, fewer rebels. Oh, the irony…
I pulled a poster out of my quiver and unrolled it. The smell of the paper is so familiar it’s almost comforting sometimes. I held the poster and dipped my roller into a nearby puddle. We always go out after it’s been raining so we don’t have to bring water with us. The paper had adhesive in it, activated by water, so once you spread the poster out and glide a wet roller over it, its adhered to the wall in question. I angled my roller and pressed the damp onto the paper. And then I heard someone behind me. Someone stupid and clumsy. I turned instantly with my gun aimed in the general direction of the noise. Five rebels clad in black and those ridiculous gas masks indicative of the Great Red Company (GRC as any politician worth his salt knows) stood in the mouth of the alley. GRC’s are feisty, all noble and such, and it makes them a pain in the ass to kill. I took out the one near the front before he’d even readied his weapon, and then I was sprinting down the alley because I was outnumbered, even with one of their guys down. What a cheap move. Five men on one measly messenger. I concentrated on running. They wouldn’t be able to keep up for me for long though. I twirled and fired a frantic shot into the dark. I heard a satisfying thump of metal hitting flesh. That would teach them not to tail a girl, even if their mothers hadn’t taken the time to.
And then, I did something stupid. I was in the better part of town, remember? So, I didn’t know my way around as well. So, I took the wrong turn, and found myself staring at a dead end. Perfect. The three remaining guys, one with one of my bullets in him, crashed out from behind me, guns cocked. One of the uninjured guys suddenly straightened up.
“Dammit, that’s a girl.”
“Yeah, we know, boss.”
“I don’t kill girls”
“For God’s sake, she’s a messenger.”
Their voices were not those of grizzled old men. These were youngsters, hardly older than I was.
“If you let her off, man, you’re one of them ,” said the guy nearest to me.
“I know that Patrick. Why don’t you-“
The leader never finished his sentence because at that moment I twisted around and fired a bullet under my left arm, and turned to take out his other buddy in the same movement. He came forward and slammed me in the ribs and I grunted. I stuck the butt of my gun into his stomach and fired. Stomach wounds of that proximity are pretty fatal. I fell with him though, letting him cover me, while taking aim at the nearest enemy. The guy they called Patrick was backing away from me. .
I leapt up, pushing off the body, gun under my arm, aiming to kill. Patrick froze up and I shot him. I stepped toward the leader and aimed, but his gun was similarly trained on mine and he was in a far better position to kill than I was. Checkmate. He hesitated when he should have killed me and so I used my final trick, my last resource, and tucking my shotgun down, pulled into a perfect cartwheel, and kicked the man with my heavy boot, right in the temple. He wasn’t expecting it. I wasn’t actually either, to be honest. His gun hit the ground before he did, and it nearly went off. He was still. I was shaking and sweaty, in a heap on the ground. I breathed heavy and frightened, suddenly now that the adrenaline was fading, the bloodlust vanished. I leaned over, impulsively, and undid his mask.
I still don’t know what made me do it.
I recognized the face.
It was Gavin Redmond.
I smother posters onto endless walls, making sure the denizens of Bone know what’s what. It’s dangerous work, because the rebels, they don’t like the “propaganda” or those who spread it. Treat it like some kind of political plague. So we’re instant targets, with our quivers of coiled posters slung across our backs and our rollers waiting in our hands.
That’s why the government chose people like me to be their messengers.
I’m really fast on my feet. I’m there and then I’m not. Fast, fast, fast. I grew up on the bad side of Bone (That’s a joke. Bone is a crappy city, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise or you’re screwed.). Because of that, I had to learn to run. You don’t survive long if you can’t. I know my way around a gun, too, and I’ve gotten better since I’ve taken the position. I keep a loaded shotgun in my quiver , and have to use it all too often.
I became a messenger when I was sixteen. My mom had busted her hand and had to be away from the factory and we needed money. She didn’t like the idea, but she didn’t like the idea of me starving to death either. We did what we had to do. When she died, a couple years later, of a stupid little flu that shouldn’t have killed her, I just kept the job. I was good at it. No need to fix what wasn’t broken.
Because I’m kind of a senior messenger now, I get the worst routes. The clusters of violent taverns in the slummiest of slums. Tours of back alleys and drug deals. Stringing lanes of brothels. Charming.
Anyway, it was not on one of those crappy routes when this whole thing started. I was actually in a comparatively gentle part of the city. Less muck, and therefore, fewer rebels. Oh, the irony…
I pulled a poster out of my quiver and unrolled it. The smell of the paper is so familiar it’s almost comforting sometimes. I held the poster and dipped my roller into a nearby puddle. We always go out after it’s been raining so we don’t have to bring water with us. The paper had adhesive in it, activated by water, so once you spread the poster out and glide a wet roller over it, its adhered to the wall in question. I angled my roller and pressed the damp onto the paper. And then I heard someone behind me. Someone stupid and clumsy. I turned instantly with my gun aimed in the general direction of the noise. Five rebels clad in black and those ridiculous gas masks indicative of the Great Red Company (GRC as any politician worth his salt knows) stood in the mouth of the alley. GRC’s are feisty, all noble and such, and it makes them a pain in the ass to kill. I took out the one near the front before he’d even readied his weapon, and then I was sprinting down the alley because I was outnumbered, even with one of their guys down. What a cheap move. Five men on one measly messenger. I concentrated on running. They wouldn’t be able to keep up for me for long though. I twirled and fired a frantic shot into the dark. I heard a satisfying thump of metal hitting flesh. That would teach them not to tail a girl, even if their mothers hadn’t taken the time to.
And then, I did something stupid. I was in the better part of town, remember? So, I didn’t know my way around as well. So, I took the wrong turn, and found myself staring at a dead end. Perfect. The three remaining guys, one with one of my bullets in him, crashed out from behind me, guns cocked. One of the uninjured guys suddenly straightened up.
“Dammit, that’s a girl.”
“Yeah, we know, boss.”
“I don’t kill girls”
“For God’s sake, she’s a messenger.”
Their voices were not those of grizzled old men. These were youngsters, hardly older than I was.
“If you let her off, man, you’re one of them ,” said the guy nearest to me.
“I know that Patrick. Why don’t you-“
The leader never finished his sentence because at that moment I twisted around and fired a bullet under my left arm, and turned to take out his other buddy in the same movement. He came forward and slammed me in the ribs and I grunted. I stuck the butt of my gun into his stomach and fired. Stomach wounds of that proximity are pretty fatal. I fell with him though, letting him cover me, while taking aim at the nearest enemy. The guy they called Patrick was backing away from me. .
I leapt up, pushing off the body, gun under my arm, aiming to kill. Patrick froze up and I shot him. I stepped toward the leader and aimed, but his gun was similarly trained on mine and he was in a far better position to kill than I was. Checkmate. He hesitated when he should have killed me and so I used my final trick, my last resource, and tucking my shotgun down, pulled into a perfect cartwheel, and kicked the man with my heavy boot, right in the temple. He wasn’t expecting it. I wasn’t actually either, to be honest. His gun hit the ground before he did, and it nearly went off. He was still. I was shaking and sweaty, in a heap on the ground. I breathed heavy and frightened, suddenly now that the adrenaline was fading, the bloodlust vanished. I leaned over, impulsively, and undid his mask.
I still don’t know what made me do it.
I recognized the face.
It was Gavin Redmond.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
A Private Concert
It was quite early. The morning was crisp, and it was cold enough to be wearing a jacket in the sun, which I always find to be a rather weird sensation.
My rehearsal wouldn't start until 11:00, which meant I had three lonely hours in the city, with a cello and a fully charged cell phone. I take a bus up to the library, admiring my idea, until I come to the glass doors and realize, with a bit of a panic, that it is 8:00 and the library doesn't open until nine, and that man with blond hair is starting to make his way over to me to talk. I skirt back down the hill, my cello hitting the back of my legs and my shoes making controlled clicking noises on the pavement.
Coffee, I think, I'll go get coffee and then head back up and read. It's okay. You're safe. Safe.
The Starbucks is, of course, thronging with business people and jamming (unwieldy) through the door is no ego boost. I am also the youngest, the smallest, and wearing, in hindsight, a rather loud green plaid. I pay for a tall skinny vanilla latte (because I find things I love and I stick with them.). And then there's the awkward waiting in the queue, mistakenly reaching out once or twice for what I think is mine. They give me a grande instead of a tall and I tell the barista, who waves me off with "Do you want a grande then?".
And then I'm stuck because it's only 8:30 and I have a larger quantity of coffee then I expected and the library is still closed. I walk to the park, that overlooks the water. I sit on a bench. There is a homeless man sleeping, and a couple of others that I can make out in the distance, talking. It's silent. I sit, with my cello against my knee, stuck and a little frightened.
After a moment, I lean down and undo the zipper of my case. I slide my cello out and the strings make little muffled fifth noises. I bring out the end pin, and then anchor it into the gravel. I pull out my music and use my coffee cup as a paper weight.
And then because it is safe and familiar and wonderful, I play. I play Faure and Martinu and Bach and Grieg, and anything that happens to sound right. I'm playing handfuls of wrong notes, but these people don't know or care. I play for only me.
People wander into the park. One guy, this photographer, asks me if he can take my picture. As he does he says "I came to take some landscapes, but I didn't expect some young girl playing the cello." and I say,
"Yeah. I didn't either." I'm embarrassed then, because of the attention. Attention is nice when I'm expecting it, or wanting it. But not when I'm relishing the lack of it.
Another guy homeless guy wanders by and growls, "Sounds nice," before crossing to the other side of the park. A dog barks at me, sniffing in vain at the wood of my instrument. A group of exercising women look at me curiously.
I play until my fingers hurt, not stopping. I play scales and symphonies and solos, and riffs. And then my phone rings:
"Hello?"
"Hey, where do you want to meet?"
For awhile, I'd forgotten my rehearsal.
"Oh."
"How about the fountain?"
"Yeah, okay, see you then." I click the phone off. I sip my now cold coffee. And then I pack up my cello and leave the park, my private concert in my wake.
My rehearsal wouldn't start until 11:00, which meant I had three lonely hours in the city, with a cello and a fully charged cell phone. I take a bus up to the library, admiring my idea, until I come to the glass doors and realize, with a bit of a panic, that it is 8:00 and the library doesn't open until nine, and that man with blond hair is starting to make his way over to me to talk. I skirt back down the hill, my cello hitting the back of my legs and my shoes making controlled clicking noises on the pavement.
Coffee, I think, I'll go get coffee and then head back up and read. It's okay. You're safe. Safe.
The Starbucks is, of course, thronging with business people and jamming (unwieldy) through the door is no ego boost. I am also the youngest, the smallest, and wearing, in hindsight, a rather loud green plaid. I pay for a tall skinny vanilla latte (because I find things I love and I stick with them.). And then there's the awkward waiting in the queue, mistakenly reaching out once or twice for what I think is mine. They give me a grande instead of a tall and I tell the barista, who waves me off with "Do you want a grande then?".
And then I'm stuck because it's only 8:30 and I have a larger quantity of coffee then I expected and the library is still closed. I walk to the park, that overlooks the water. I sit on a bench. There is a homeless man sleeping, and a couple of others that I can make out in the distance, talking. It's silent. I sit, with my cello against my knee, stuck and a little frightened.
After a moment, I lean down and undo the zipper of my case. I slide my cello out and the strings make little muffled fifth noises. I bring out the end pin, and then anchor it into the gravel. I pull out my music and use my coffee cup as a paper weight.
And then because it is safe and familiar and wonderful, I play. I play Faure and Martinu and Bach and Grieg, and anything that happens to sound right. I'm playing handfuls of wrong notes, but these people don't know or care. I play for only me.
People wander into the park. One guy, this photographer, asks me if he can take my picture. As he does he says "I came to take some landscapes, but I didn't expect some young girl playing the cello." and I say,
"Yeah. I didn't either." I'm embarrassed then, because of the attention. Attention is nice when I'm expecting it, or wanting it. But not when I'm relishing the lack of it.
Another guy homeless guy wanders by and growls, "Sounds nice," before crossing to the other side of the park. A dog barks at me, sniffing in vain at the wood of my instrument. A group of exercising women look at me curiously.
I play until my fingers hurt, not stopping. I play scales and symphonies and solos, and riffs. And then my phone rings:
"Hello?"
"Hey, where do you want to meet?"
For awhile, I'd forgotten my rehearsal.
"Oh."
"How about the fountain?"
"Yeah, okay, see you then." I click the phone off. I sip my now cold coffee. And then I pack up my cello and leave the park, my private concert in my wake.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Update on Stuff
Have I mentioned that my school gives me two weeks off for Spring Break? How much awesomeness is that, eh?
I want to make sure I use the time well though. Making stuff and such. There's this craft store in town, a really good one. It's got this one section with all this "Make Your Own Pendant" stuff. Pieces of circular glass. Aluminum flux tape. And best of all, a whole bunch of packaged clock pieces. The gears and faces and hands and such. It hums with potential, but the stuff is expensive. Probably because watches, especially old ones, aren't exactly cheap items.
I think maybe I'll start writing a new story this week. I've got some ideas that are pretty well fleshed out. Although, sometimes, I find that those are the hardest to write. I want to get everything right, down to the plaid of the characters jacket, y'know? Because they've been living with me in my head, I find it difficult to bring them into something as two-dimensional as writing.
Easter is this weekend, as I'm sure many of you are aware. Sean is planning his the Hunt already and I'm getting more and more excited. I wonder if I will do something similar to the Hunt when I get older with my own kids. It seems only right that I would, but I'm not sure I would know quite how to go about it. Sean says starting backward is the trick.
I really wish that I could sew, as I think it would open up a whole new venue of artistry for me. I'm just kind of terrified of sewing machines. Needles rotating at such intervals are not exactly encouraging. And I've heard horror stories before. Maybe I'll just keep relying on my parents. (Because, yes, Sean sews. His seams are impeccable in fact.)
Northie got an iPod Touch earlier this week, and though I would never, ever let him know, I am mad with jealousy. Of course, his iPod is full to the brim with Zombie Killer and Drum Kit Apps, things I wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole, but sometimes I see glimpses of things that just drive me nots with how cool they are. But I've vowed never to get an iPod again, so I suppose I'm just destined to be envious.
I want to make sure I use the time well though. Making stuff and such. There's this craft store in town, a really good one. It's got this one section with all this "Make Your Own Pendant" stuff. Pieces of circular glass. Aluminum flux tape. And best of all, a whole bunch of packaged clock pieces. The gears and faces and hands and such. It hums with potential, but the stuff is expensive. Probably because watches, especially old ones, aren't exactly cheap items.
I think maybe I'll start writing a new story this week. I've got some ideas that are pretty well fleshed out. Although, sometimes, I find that those are the hardest to write. I want to get everything right, down to the plaid of the characters jacket, y'know? Because they've been living with me in my head, I find it difficult to bring them into something as two-dimensional as writing.
Easter is this weekend, as I'm sure many of you are aware. Sean is planning his the Hunt already and I'm getting more and more excited. I wonder if I will do something similar to the Hunt when I get older with my own kids. It seems only right that I would, but I'm not sure I would know quite how to go about it. Sean says starting backward is the trick.
I really wish that I could sew, as I think it would open up a whole new venue of artistry for me. I'm just kind of terrified of sewing machines. Needles rotating at such intervals are not exactly encouraging. And I've heard horror stories before. Maybe I'll just keep relying on my parents. (Because, yes, Sean sews. His seams are impeccable in fact.)
Northie got an iPod Touch earlier this week, and though I would never, ever let him know, I am mad with jealousy. Of course, his iPod is full to the brim with Zombie Killer and Drum Kit Apps, things I wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole, but sometimes I see glimpses of things that just drive me nots with how cool they are. But I've vowed never to get an iPod again, so I suppose I'm just destined to be envious.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Overstep
So I had this kind of revelation today, on the bus.
We were all sitting there, tired because of the standardized test that we had just taken, which pretty much melted our brains entirely. We were heading to orchestra at that point, and I was clutching my enormous puffy cello case like some sort of life raft. It was a short bus and it was the 3. The 3 is what I would classify as a shifty bus. It's not a naive commuter bus. It travels downtown every fifteen minutes, transporting everyone from blue-tooth chatting lawyers to rather dapper hobos.
Anyway, we were sitting there, kind of silent, and this man leaning in the corners, asks loudly.
"That a violin?"
We get this a lot. Which is understandable. We're downtown lugging around these ridiculously shaped parcels, trying to keep our balance. It only follows that we're going to get questioned.
"Yes," replies the girl to my left, quietly. People don't generally talk to people beyond their own party. It just singles you out. She's silently freaking out. But she's handling it well.
"My sister used to play violin in the sixth grade.I just play the harmonica and..." He mumbled something else after, but none of us heard what he said. There was obviously something up. He turned to me.
"And is that a guitar?" he asked
"Actually, it's a cello" I replied, small. I should say more, but it's awkward, and I know that you don't talk to strangers.
"Oh," he said, and then mimed striking a bow against the fingerboard of an imaginary cello, his left finger wiggling notes.
"Yep." There was more silence, and my little group exchanged that look, like, don't let this devolve into anything more, because we were brought up with stranger danger. When a dirty man with slurred words starts talking to you on a bus, when no one else will, the warning signs inside your head start flashing up.
He left the bus at the next stop without any more conversation. They all exhaled together and there was this general murmuring of "That was kind of weird."
This sort of thing happens all the time in the city. It's kind of commonplace. And the strangest thing about it is the kind of kinship I feel with those crazy bus people. The ache in my heart when we all unanimously sigh, "Freaky". Because, to a certain degree, I grew up with that sort of reaction with some of my peers. Obviously, none of them considered an 5 foot girl a physical threat, but I too got the "You're alien" look. I don't think it was traditionally a malignant thing, just kind of an instinct. But I would get it always when I was too loud or too excited, or I wore some ridiculous long dress to school. A flash of it, that made me stop and stutter, and wonder where I'd overstepped.
I'm not writing a pity post here, not trying to blame my peers for some blank stares, but I just had this unmistakable sympathy for that man on the bus today. And I wanted to say,
"Yeah, I play the cello. I love it." or "Does your sister still play?" or "What other instrument do you play." Something to let him know, I guess, that it is okay to overstep, sometimes.
But I didn't.
Because people just don't talk on buses.
We were all sitting there, tired because of the standardized test that we had just taken, which pretty much melted our brains entirely. We were heading to orchestra at that point, and I was clutching my enormous puffy cello case like some sort of life raft. It was a short bus and it was the 3. The 3 is what I would classify as a shifty bus. It's not a naive commuter bus. It travels downtown every fifteen minutes, transporting everyone from blue-tooth chatting lawyers to rather dapper hobos.
Anyway, we were sitting there, kind of silent, and this man leaning in the corners, asks loudly.
"That a violin?"
We get this a lot. Which is understandable. We're downtown lugging around these ridiculously shaped parcels, trying to keep our balance. It only follows that we're going to get questioned.
"Yes," replies the girl to my left, quietly. People don't generally talk to people beyond their own party. It just singles you out. She's silently freaking out. But she's handling it well.
"My sister used to play violin in the sixth grade.I just play the harmonica and..." He mumbled something else after, but none of us heard what he said. There was obviously something up. He turned to me.
"And is that a guitar?" he asked
"Actually, it's a cello" I replied, small. I should say more, but it's awkward, and I know that you don't talk to strangers.
"Oh," he said, and then mimed striking a bow against the fingerboard of an imaginary cello, his left finger wiggling notes.
"Yep." There was more silence, and my little group exchanged that look, like, don't let this devolve into anything more, because we were brought up with stranger danger. When a dirty man with slurred words starts talking to you on a bus, when no one else will, the warning signs inside your head start flashing up.
He left the bus at the next stop without any more conversation. They all exhaled together and there was this general murmuring of "That was kind of weird."
This sort of thing happens all the time in the city. It's kind of commonplace. And the strangest thing about it is the kind of kinship I feel with those crazy bus people. The ache in my heart when we all unanimously sigh, "Freaky". Because, to a certain degree, I grew up with that sort of reaction with some of my peers. Obviously, none of them considered an 5 foot girl a physical threat, but I too got the "You're alien" look. I don't think it was traditionally a malignant thing, just kind of an instinct. But I would get it always when I was too loud or too excited, or I wore some ridiculous long dress to school. A flash of it, that made me stop and stutter, and wonder where I'd overstepped.
I'm not writing a pity post here, not trying to blame my peers for some blank stares, but I just had this unmistakable sympathy for that man on the bus today. And I wanted to say,
"Yeah, I play the cello. I love it." or "Does your sister still play?" or "What other instrument do you play." Something to let him know, I guess, that it is okay to overstep, sometimes.
But I didn't.
Because people just don't talk on buses.
Tuesday, March 09, 2010
Rain
First of all, a big picture of this tea. Because I really, really love it, and more importantly, the packaging it comes in. It's so old fashioned and the colors and fonts are perfect. We ran out of it recently, which was really quite a sad thing. Although, I think the empty box might still being sitting in out tea cupboard (Which, now I kind of realize is ridiculous. We have a lot, a lot of tea and a whole cupboard devoted to it. Mountains of it.)We started discussing existentialism in class today. I think I like it, or at rather, I like all that I've read about it so far. It makes me feel really significant. I might change my mind in a few days, but today and for now, I like it, and am looking forward to learning even more about it. People are saying they find it really depressing. I don't, at least so far. But I'm jumping the gun even talking about it.
We're going through an unexpected dry, cold spell and it's making walking to classes hell. My nose and ears are starting to match my scarlet scarf. I hope it goes away and the heavy rain comes back. Or maybe perhaps the sun. The sun is okay as long as it's not mucky. Do you know what I mean? I can handle clear sunlight, but not muggy sunlight.
I know this is awful, but I can't wait until the summer when I start making money again. I'm having this sudden revival of my taste being thrown in my face. I can feel this definite aesthetic, and I can't really buy anything to supplement it. But I suppose I'd better get used to the feeling. I've still got months to go before the market starts up again.
Did you know that out of the 103 blog posts that I have written, only 67 have been published? I was looking through my archives last night and was totally surprised by that. But apparently there have just been a lot of posts that I didn't deem right to be seen in the light of the day. Which brings me to another point.
Somebody was saying to me the other day that one of the integral traits of a true writer is someone who continues to write without an audience in sight. I don't know if this applies to me or not. On some days, I think that I would definitely write on a deserted island. Other days I tell myself that that would totally not be happening, that I rely on an audience when I'm writing. It's an interesting question I think. I ponder it quite a bit, when I'm walking aimlessly, or looking out a window.
Have I mentioned that music theory is really, really difficult? I feel like I'm accomplishing much, and our teacher is simply the best, but dear god. Just when I start to get something, something else is cautiously introduced and my head explodes. But the class dynamic is great, everyone helping each other and working hard. It's competitive too, but in a nice way. It's more motivational than aggressive.
Speak of the devil, I'd better go work on that. Sorry for the random post.
Wednesday, March 03, 2010
Ten Great Things About This Week
1. Getting "Definitely Maybe" from Netflix. Mum watching it on the couch, finally getting to sit down, and me sitting on the floor, drinking my tea, and telling her when the good parts are coming up.
2. Winning the forum election in my humanities class, alongside my other fabulous teammates. I got to wear a bowler hat and a moustache. What's not to love?
3. Learning music in orchestra that I love, and that I want to get better at. There's stuff that I at first was leery of, but am slowly beginning to understand and accept. They are going to be beautiful things, these pieces.
4. New bad ass characters that run around a futuristic, steampunk cities in the dead of
night, plastering corrupt governmental propaganda posters over brick walls and hiding from violent rebel splinter groups.
5. Two new skirts. One floral rayon, the other tan linen. Both long and A-line. Unfortunately, I still need some more clothing. Everything in my closet has been on repeat for the last three months.
6. Tall Skinny Vanilla Lattes from Starbucks. Specifically money to buy them. And the time to go and order them between 7th and 8th period.
7. Rediscovering music because it is spring and I'm sifting through stuff I haven't listened to for months. Rock on Yann Tiersen! And thank god for the new Joanna Newsom album.
8. The grape hyacinth and daffodils that have started blooming next to each other on the UWT campus. It's hard not to want to pick them. They are the perfect color combination. Spring in one singular image.
9. The appearance of cadbury mini-eggs on candy shelves in every grocery store. Only now can spring truly be here. They too are a picture of Spring and the fairer months.
10. Good heavy books by Scott Westerfield that I am suddenly itching to pick up and read in their entirety.
2. Winning the forum election in my humanities class, alongside my other fabulous teammates. I got to wear a bowler hat and a moustache. What's not to love?
3. Learning music in orchestra that I love, and that I want to get better at. There's stuff that I at first was leery of, but am slowly beginning to understand and accept. They are going to be beautiful things, these pieces.
4. New bad ass characters that run around a futuristic, steampunk cities in the dead of
night, plastering corrupt governmental propaganda posters over brick walls and hiding from violent rebel splinter groups.
5. Two new skirts. One floral rayon, the other tan linen. Both long and A-line. Unfortunately, I still need some more clothing. Everything in my closet has been on repeat for the last three months.
6. Tall Skinny Vanilla Lattes from Starbucks. Specifically money to buy them. And the time to go and order them between 7th and 8th period.
7. Rediscovering music because it is spring and I'm sifting through stuff I haven't listened to for months. Rock on Yann Tiersen! And thank god for the new Joanna Newsom album.
8. The grape hyacinth and daffodils that have started blooming next to each other on the UWT campus. It's hard not to want to pick them. They are the perfect color combination. Spring in one singular image.
9. The appearance of cadbury mini-eggs on candy shelves in every grocery store. Only now can spring truly be here. They too are a picture of Spring and the fairer months.
10. Good heavy books by Scott Westerfield that I am suddenly itching to pick up and read in their entirety.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
A Mild Rant
So I've been thinking, lately, about social media. Particularly the idea of texting, or in my case, not texting.
My phone is a plastic brick, that could, quite possibly, double as a self defense weapon. The ring tones are ridiculous, obnoxious midi-files, and one has three choices of background photos: Flower, Soccer Ball and Beach. This doesn't matter to me at all really, (although answering to a blaringly annoying tone is rather embarrassing at times) because I don't talk on the phone a lot in the first place.
On the subject of texting however, things get a little tricky. Texting is so convenient. A couple finger-clicks and a conversation is started. It's probably less awkward and formal in comparison to a face-to-face conversation. When texting there are only words to pay attention to- the meaning is spelled out, quite literally. But it's different when having a face-to-face conversation- you read body language and have to respond to the environment around you. Lulls in conversation are more pronounced. It's a little more risky.
With texting, the relationships with acquaintances or distant friends are far more developed, I'm assuming. If you want to talk with a distant friend face-to-face, you have to devote a lot more time and energy to getting to where they are and taking time to speak to them; unlike just zipping off a text. And because the conversations are less awkward and without as much preamble, one can strike up a conversation with someone over text that they might not be able to in person. So even though you only know Jim from one crazy party and he lives in Kansas, you can still become pretty good friends.
Of course, there are some downsides to texting too. The capacity for misunderstandings is huge compared to face-to-face conversations. How many fights have started, how many broken hearts have there been because of a misread text? Plenty. And for me, the reliance that one develops to texting is something that would tie me down. It would compromise my freedom to a certain point, almost like a kind of social cigarette or pain medication . In the worst of scenarios, one's social skills would be inhibited by the fact that for a majority of the time, they speak through text instead of face-to-face interaction.
And I want the relationships I form with people to be real, true interactions. You can be someone else over text, if you want to be. I know I come out differently over email sometimes. I want honesty more than anything in all relationships, and I don't neccesarily think that texting really promotes that stuff.
But sometimes I wonder, if by not texting, I am missing out. Would the ability to be able to talk to Blu and others, without preamble, and without fright, on a whim, have made things turn out differently at all? Made me more accessible? (My goal isn't exactly to embody accessibilty, but it is something to think about...)
I think about the people who I sometimes go weeks without talking to. I feel bad about it. Guilt swells. Would I have to deal with that regret if I was able to talk them whenever?
In the end, for me and my own personal reasons, I know that I myself am better off without texting. I don't think any less of those who do- truly. It's really weird sometimes to be the only one in the room who isn't connected to some stream of conciousness that everyone else knows about.
I guess I've just been thinking about it. Texting. And so I'd write those thoughts down. That's what a blog is for, right?
My phone is a plastic brick, that could, quite possibly, double as a self defense weapon. The ring tones are ridiculous, obnoxious midi-files, and one has three choices of background photos: Flower, Soccer Ball and Beach. This doesn't matter to me at all really, (although answering to a blaringly annoying tone is rather embarrassing at times) because I don't talk on the phone a lot in the first place.
On the subject of texting however, things get a little tricky. Texting is so convenient. A couple finger-clicks and a conversation is started. It's probably less awkward and formal in comparison to a face-to-face conversation. When texting there are only words to pay attention to- the meaning is spelled out, quite literally. But it's different when having a face-to-face conversation- you read body language and have to respond to the environment around you. Lulls in conversation are more pronounced. It's a little more risky.
With texting, the relationships with acquaintances or distant friends are far more developed, I'm assuming. If you want to talk with a distant friend face-to-face, you have to devote a lot more time and energy to getting to where they are and taking time to speak to them; unlike just zipping off a text. And because the conversations are less awkward and without as much preamble, one can strike up a conversation with someone over text that they might not be able to in person. So even though you only know Jim from one crazy party and he lives in Kansas, you can still become pretty good friends.
Of course, there are some downsides to texting too. The capacity for misunderstandings is huge compared to face-to-face conversations. How many fights have started, how many broken hearts have there been because of a misread text? Plenty. And for me, the reliance that one develops to texting is something that would tie me down. It would compromise my freedom to a certain point, almost like a kind of social cigarette or pain medication . In the worst of scenarios, one's social skills would be inhibited by the fact that for a majority of the time, they speak through text instead of face-to-face interaction.
And I want the relationships I form with people to be real, true interactions. You can be someone else over text, if you want to be. I know I come out differently over email sometimes. I want honesty more than anything in all relationships, and I don't neccesarily think that texting really promotes that stuff.
But sometimes I wonder, if by not texting, I am missing out. Would the ability to be able to talk to Blu and others, without preamble, and without fright, on a whim, have made things turn out differently at all? Made me more accessible? (My goal isn't exactly to embody accessibilty, but it is something to think about...)
I think about the people who I sometimes go weeks without talking to. I feel bad about it. Guilt swells. Would I have to deal with that regret if I was able to talk them whenever?
In the end, for me and my own personal reasons, I know that I myself am better off without texting. I don't think any less of those who do- truly. It's really weird sometimes to be the only one in the room who isn't connected to some stream of conciousness that everyone else knows about.
I guess I've just been thinking about it. Texting. And so I'd write those thoughts down. That's what a blog is for, right?
Monday, February 01, 2010
The Silhouette
Just something I've been working on. Hope you like it..
The Silhouette
Petra eyed the steam issuing from the spout of the old copper kettle with a practiced eye. She hated burning her tongue. It made everything taste filmy and defeated the purpose of brewing tea in the first place. Better to have a cold cup than a scalding one. She crossed the room to the cupboard and grabbed out one of the two mugs she owned- the one with the heliotrope painted on it. She set it on the table and then, grasping it by the handle, gently lifted the kettle and poured the hot water into the cup. Leaving half an inch for milk and sugar, she placed the kettle back on the woodstove. She walked to the cupboard again, her bare feet making slapping sounds against the rough hewn, wooden planks of the floor. The sound of the crickets outside were loud and staccato and pervasive, so unexpectedly like what she heard in the movies. She had been surprised the first night out here. But by now she was used to it, of course. It would be three years in May.
She reached in the cupboard and searched with her fingers until they alighted upon the particular mason jar she was looking for among the rectangular boxes and bottles and packets. She pulled the jar out into the light and opened the top, sniffing the tea leaves and the slight scent of raspberries. She brought the mason jar back to the table and reached into the jar, withdrawing one of the cheesecloth bundles, which she had painstakingly tied up a few months prior. She dropped it into the water, and watched as the reddish-brown stain of the tea seeped into the water.
She glanced up, and noticed the silhouette.
And it was so familiar. The slightness of the shoulders, the hair going in a thousand different directions, the curved shape of his posture. So instinctually familiar, that the only sign of surprise from Petra was a small, low intake of breath.
“Hello Petra.”
She couldn’t see his features. He had placed himself carefully so that she wouldn’t be able to.
“Could you make me a cup of tea?”
“Uh. Yes,” she turned back to the woodstove and lifted up the kettle, surmising the amount of boiling water she had left. “I should have enough for another mug,”
She brought out the other mug and then sifted around in the tea cabinet again, selecting a store-bought, pre-packaged tea bag. Boring English Breakfast. She poured the water into the cup and ripped open the packet. The gauzy package floated on the water for a moment, before it was overcome with absorption and fell under the surface.
The visitor, still shrouded in the dark, gestured to the mason jar. She almost thought she could see the glint of his rings. Two silver ones, on his left hand. Index and middle fingers.
“Did you blend that one yourself?” he said.
“Yes. I grew the raspberries in the backyard. I dry them in the cellar with a dehydrator I made last winter.” She sounded so efficient. And cold.
The silhouette’s head bobbed and she knew he was nodding.
“How did you manage that?”
“With some extra wood. And time.”
“Ah.”
Petra let one hand sit on the table and fished out the homemade teabag from her mug. She squeezed it damp and then dropped it on the table with a feeble padding sound. She added milk and sugar to her tea, thinking, as she always did, it’s like raspberries and cream.
“I like my tea really weak” he said, and she pulled on the string of his tea bag, and dropped it onto top of hers.
“Milk and sugar?”
“Yes, please.” And then when she started to spoon in the sugar, “And easy with that.”
She slid the cup over the table, and he reached out and grasped it by the handle. His wrist and hand slid into the light and they were exactly as she had remembered, all thin and pronounced and right.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She said, lifting her mug to her lips.
“You don’t get too cold out here?” He asked.
“No. The stove keeps me really quite warm.”
“And you have a plethora of sweaters.”
“Yes.” she said
“And in the summer?”
“It gets really hot. Usually we just stay outside and try to keep cool. I garden… The dog nearly died this summer of the heat, though. I had to take her into town she was so sick.”
“Were you frightened?”
“Yes.” She said, and he waited for a moment.
“Do you make other kinds of tea?”
“Mostly just berry teas. But sometimes I try a rosemary blend.. Or thyme.” She waited.
“I like my thyme to be punctual.” he said, putting down his mug on the table. His hands again.
She nearly smiled and instead stared down into her tea, smooth and opaque.
“Where do you go, when you leave?” she said.
But even before she looked up, she knew that the silhouette was gone, and that she wouldn’t have an answer.
The Silhouette
Petra eyed the steam issuing from the spout of the old copper kettle with a practiced eye. She hated burning her tongue. It made everything taste filmy and defeated the purpose of brewing tea in the first place. Better to have a cold cup than a scalding one. She crossed the room to the cupboard and grabbed out one of the two mugs she owned- the one with the heliotrope painted on it. She set it on the table and then, grasping it by the handle, gently lifted the kettle and poured the hot water into the cup. Leaving half an inch for milk and sugar, she placed the kettle back on the woodstove. She walked to the cupboard again, her bare feet making slapping sounds against the rough hewn, wooden planks of the floor. The sound of the crickets outside were loud and staccato and pervasive, so unexpectedly like what she heard in the movies. She had been surprised the first night out here. But by now she was used to it, of course. It would be three years in May.
She reached in the cupboard and searched with her fingers until they alighted upon the particular mason jar she was looking for among the rectangular boxes and bottles and packets. She pulled the jar out into the light and opened the top, sniffing the tea leaves and the slight scent of raspberries. She brought the mason jar back to the table and reached into the jar, withdrawing one of the cheesecloth bundles, which she had painstakingly tied up a few months prior. She dropped it into the water, and watched as the reddish-brown stain of the tea seeped into the water.
She glanced up, and noticed the silhouette.
And it was so familiar. The slightness of the shoulders, the hair going in a thousand different directions, the curved shape of his posture. So instinctually familiar, that the only sign of surprise from Petra was a small, low intake of breath.
“Hello Petra.”
She couldn’t see his features. He had placed himself carefully so that she wouldn’t be able to.
“Could you make me a cup of tea?”
“Uh. Yes,” she turned back to the woodstove and lifted up the kettle, surmising the amount of boiling water she had left. “I should have enough for another mug,”
She brought out the other mug and then sifted around in the tea cabinet again, selecting a store-bought, pre-packaged tea bag. Boring English Breakfast. She poured the water into the cup and ripped open the packet. The gauzy package floated on the water for a moment, before it was overcome with absorption and fell under the surface.
The visitor, still shrouded in the dark, gestured to the mason jar. She almost thought she could see the glint of his rings. Two silver ones, on his left hand. Index and middle fingers.
“Did you blend that one yourself?” he said.
“Yes. I grew the raspberries in the backyard. I dry them in the cellar with a dehydrator I made last winter.” She sounded so efficient. And cold.
The silhouette’s head bobbed and she knew he was nodding.
“How did you manage that?”
“With some extra wood. And time.”
“Ah.”
Petra let one hand sit on the table and fished out the homemade teabag from her mug. She squeezed it damp and then dropped it on the table with a feeble padding sound. She added milk and sugar to her tea, thinking, as she always did, it’s like raspberries and cream.
“I like my tea really weak” he said, and she pulled on the string of his tea bag, and dropped it onto top of hers.
“Milk and sugar?”
“Yes, please.” And then when she started to spoon in the sugar, “And easy with that.”
She slid the cup over the table, and he reached out and grasped it by the handle. His wrist and hand slid into the light and they were exactly as she had remembered, all thin and pronounced and right.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She said, lifting her mug to her lips.
“You don’t get too cold out here?” He asked.
“No. The stove keeps me really quite warm.”
“And you have a plethora of sweaters.”
“Yes.” she said
“And in the summer?”
“It gets really hot. Usually we just stay outside and try to keep cool. I garden… The dog nearly died this summer of the heat, though. I had to take her into town she was so sick.”
“Were you frightened?”
“Yes.” She said, and he waited for a moment.
“Do you make other kinds of tea?”
“Mostly just berry teas. But sometimes I try a rosemary blend.. Or thyme.” She waited.
“I like my thyme to be punctual.” he said, putting down his mug on the table. His hands again.
She nearly smiled and instead stared down into her tea, smooth and opaque.
“Where do you go, when you leave?” she said.
But even before she looked up, she knew that the silhouette was gone, and that she wouldn’t have an answer.
Sunday, January 03, 2010
Willing and Reading
I believe there are two sorts of people in the world: those who skip to the last page of the narrative to read the last word, and those who don't. I'm terrible for it, always telling myself that, that is exactly what I'm not going to do, that it will only ruin the story for me, that it's a waste of a book. And yet, about 60 pages in, almost always, my resolve crumbles and I flip to the back of the book, and read, sometimes stopping in between my place and the end, my heart dropping as a much beloved character dies. It's an awful and horrid habit, and I can't stop myself.
That's a huge deficit in willpower- I think. And it's not like I'm an naturally weak-willed person, really. So I wonder if there are other factors than just my desire to know what happens and my slightly swayable will.
Sometimes, I think, it's because the plot is strong and the writing is poor. If the words are rubbish, then why bother with the author's embarrassing and clumsy prose? Because you want to know the outcome, that's why. I'm positive that some part of my inclination to read the finale of nearly every damn book I pick up is that I read books with great plots and some less-than-Markus-Zusak writing.
Maybe it's partially that I'm busy, that I don't have enough time, really, to read as many books as I want to, so I skim through novels hoping to give my story-starved brain the impression that it's absorbing as many books as it would like to.
And another thing- since I've started writing more (though, this blog is no indication of that) I found that I'm able to predict what happens in a book nine times out of ten. I've read up on plot diagrams and listened to lectures and I just kind of get where a story is going..
The things that really stick with me these days are the things that surprise me, and that make me wonder what's going to happen next. That's why SotA makes me so happy; At Kalles, I had gotten to a point where it felt I knew what was coming next- like I wasn't really learning anything that I hadn't already been told a thousand times. I knew there was so much more to learn and to know, but maybe I just wasn't absorbing what I supposed to be. There were exceptions of course, classes that always made me think, but at SotA it's like that all the time. (Can you tell that I'm sort of excited to go back?)
Anyway, back to the book thing. I have a New Year's Resolution (Which, usually, I don't really believe in) - I'm not going to read the end anymore, no matter how tempting it may seem. I'm going to hold off.
This is not going to be made any easier by the fact that I got a shitload of books for Christmas and I have less that twelve hours before my schedule goes crazy again...
But I'm going to do my best.
Afterword: I went and saw Sherlock Holmes yesterday. It was fantastic, and if you have an extra three hours and twelve bucks (stupid movie prices) you should go see it; If you're a fan of the old TV series Sherlock, I don't think you'll be as disappointed as you expect- Holmes is still a schizophrenic genius who you kind of suspect of being gay.
It really is a great movie, both leads doing a great job.
I just kind of had to give some attention, what with the Church of Avatar rapidly eclipsing Christianity as America's Religious Majority.
That's a huge deficit in willpower- I think. And it's not like I'm an naturally weak-willed person, really. So I wonder if there are other factors than just my desire to know what happens and my slightly swayable will.
Sometimes, I think, it's because the plot is strong and the writing is poor. If the words are rubbish, then why bother with the author's embarrassing and clumsy prose? Because you want to know the outcome, that's why. I'm positive that some part of my inclination to read the finale of nearly every damn book I pick up is that I read books with great plots and some less-than-Markus-Zusak writing.
Maybe it's partially that I'm busy, that I don't have enough time, really, to read as many books as I want to, so I skim through novels hoping to give my story-starved brain the impression that it's absorbing as many books as it would like to.
And another thing- since I've started writing more (though, this blog is no indication of that) I found that I'm able to predict what happens in a book nine times out of ten. I've read up on plot diagrams and listened to lectures and I just kind of get where a story is going..
The things that really stick with me these days are the things that surprise me, and that make me wonder what's going to happen next. That's why SotA makes me so happy; At Kalles, I had gotten to a point where it felt I knew what was coming next- like I wasn't really learning anything that I hadn't already been told a thousand times. I knew there was so much more to learn and to know, but maybe I just wasn't absorbing what I supposed to be. There were exceptions of course, classes that always made me think, but at SotA it's like that all the time. (Can you tell that I'm sort of excited to go back?)
Anyway, back to the book thing. I have a New Year's Resolution (Which, usually, I don't really believe in) - I'm not going to read the end anymore, no matter how tempting it may seem. I'm going to hold off.
This is not going to be made any easier by the fact that I got a shitload of books for Christmas and I have less that twelve hours before my schedule goes crazy again...
But I'm going to do my best.
Afterword: I went and saw Sherlock Holmes yesterday. It was fantastic, and if you have an extra three hours and twelve bucks (stupid movie prices) you should go see it; If you're a fan of the old TV series Sherlock, I don't think you'll be as disappointed as you expect- Holmes is still a schizophrenic genius who you kind of suspect of being gay.
It really is a great movie, both leads doing a great job.
I just kind of had to give some attention, what with the Church of Avatar rapidly eclipsing Christianity as America's Religious Majority.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Oh dear
I totally can't afford to be doing this right now; I have a seminar paper that I need to finish tonight and some cello that desperately needs practicing.
But I also have this little brown dog in my lap, who has fallen asleep and whom I don't really have the heart to wake.
So while I'm waiting for Mum to come 'round and wake him with her presence (I swear he knows her footsteps), I'm going to write as much of a blog post as I possibly can.
I have a practice with Youth Symphony until 9:00 tomorrow. I thought I minded, but maybe I don't. I like my symphony friends a lot. They're all so focused. And I'm not really so frightened of the hellish stand-partner I had at camp this year anymore. She comes off a confident, endlessly intimidating individual, but I've watched her, and she's really insecure, always fiddling with her hair, and pulling down her shirt, or adjusting her hoody or cleaning her nails. She finds a great deal of importance in the way she looks I think, and that's a weakness that somehow makes her seem less menacing.
Break is coming up. I get a whole week off at Thanksgiving, which is fantastic. Thank god for SotA Vacations. Now I can maybe get to that huge stack of homework and emails from friends, and cello practice. It will be nice to a have a clean slate for the last two weeks of semester.
I have been feeling very creatively exhausted lately. There is just so much to express and present in such a short amount of time here. I think it's just because I'm starting so many new endeavors at SotA, it feels very schizophrenic for now. I have to write a new song in the next few weeks and I have just barely digested the last one I finished. I have to do revisions on a Creative Writing Draft that I barely remember, it was written so quickly. (I'll hopefully post it when it's finished being edited. Or maybe I won't. Depends on how ashamed I am). It's just pretty tiring and there is not one day a week where I do not fall asleep the moment my head touches pillow. I love it here- truly, I wouldn't have it any other way- but it sure does keep me busy.
My sixteenth birthday is steadily approaching. I can't quite believe it. Sixteen is that age that every heroine magically happens to be. Sixteen-year-olds drive and drink drip coffee and have boyfriends and fully-formed opinions and jobs and party all night long. Or a least in books they do. I don't really feel like I could possibly be at that shimmery, always oh-so-distant age, but here I am, looking it in the face, a lot more prepared than I ever thought I would be.
Basil has just heard Mum coming out of her room and has jumped out of my lap. No more excuses. I have a paper to write.
Sunday, October 04, 2009
Update
So those first days/weeks of school have passed, and I'm settling. I know what times to catch the elusive "1" bus, so that I can avoid a truly ridiculous hill. I know that it's a waste of money to buy your coffee at Starbucks, when you can walk up the street to the convenience store and buy the same drink for a buck. I know how to spell some major chords, and I'm trying to learn the piano a little bit (it's an arduous process, I'm finding)
Symphony has started up again. We're playing stuff from movies for a Halloween concert we'll be doing in late October. Its' not anything I can really get behind. There's no organic quality to the music, because I know it all, and so I can't really find any way to connect with it. We're playing a Grieg and a Mozart though, for our real concert in November, and I like those. We're also playing a Walton for the same concert- but I can't say I'll ever like it very much.
There a lot of really talented people at my new school. It's daunting. I have a lot of homework, and am up late until ten most nights. But it's okay. The homework feels like I stuff I would be doing on my free time anyway: Brainstorm a character and answer forty-five personal questions about them. Practice the first page of a Martinu Duet. Listen to a contemporary song of your choice and identify the bridge. So even though it's still required it doesn't feel like it so much. I feel like I have a choice. It's really refreshing. But I'm so busy, what with symphony and all this homework, that I can't really look up.
I miss my old friends. My Emma is at her school, meeting new, exciting people without me and trying to figure out if her photography teacher is an impostor or not. I miss her down-to- earthness in the mornings and her quiet, creative brain. I know it can be the hardest thing to be alone in strange place, but I also know that if there is anyone who can handle it, it is her. She is one of the strongest people I know. It still doesn't keep me from missing her and wanting her to be around all the time.
Logan too. I don't have my ever-present human dartboard, and frankly, I'm starting to worry that all the malevolence in my person is going to pile up, and explode one of these days. I haven't kicked anyone in the shins in weeks. Months even.
And all the others. I hope I can see them soon.
My Father and I have been having discussions lately, about career choice. They're serious. I think, going to this art school scares him a little. It scares me. Each day, I fall more and more in love with what I am doing and what I am creating. And I know, that even though my whole heart is in it, and that I love it more than just about anything else, that it will likely never really make me a living, ever. It's a pessimistic outlook, I know. But I have to be realistic about it, or I will ruin that love I have for playing music or writing, or singing, or any artistic endeavor I pursue. To connect it with true failure would make it so much less for me. So I know I have to pick carefully, something that I will be happy to be doing, but not something that will never make me any money at all, or something that is not stable. I won't be miserable, but frankly, I won't probably have my dream job either. I don't need to be hugely successful, with big houses, and nice cars; I don't have expensive or materialistic goals really. But I want children, that I don't have to worry about feeding. I want education outside of school. I want to have time and the resources to play cello forever and write when I want to and draw and sing. I don't really think that can be achieved by choosing a wholly artistic career. I have to pick something that is needed acutely, that only I and a handful of others can achieve. I have to find that perfect fit.
And it's a tough thing to come to terms with. But I am willing. I have to be.
Symphony has started up again. We're playing stuff from movies for a Halloween concert we'll be doing in late October. Its' not anything I can really get behind. There's no organic quality to the music, because I know it all, and so I can't really find any way to connect with it. We're playing a Grieg and a Mozart though, for our real concert in November, and I like those. We're also playing a Walton for the same concert- but I can't say I'll ever like it very much.
There a lot of really talented people at my new school. It's daunting. I have a lot of homework, and am up late until ten most nights. But it's okay. The homework feels like I stuff I would be doing on my free time anyway: Brainstorm a character and answer forty-five personal questions about them. Practice the first page of a Martinu Duet. Listen to a contemporary song of your choice and identify the bridge. So even though it's still required it doesn't feel like it so much. I feel like I have a choice. It's really refreshing. But I'm so busy, what with symphony and all this homework, that I can't really look up.
I miss my old friends. My Emma is at her school, meeting new, exciting people without me and trying to figure out if her photography teacher is an impostor or not. I miss her down-to- earthness in the mornings and her quiet, creative brain. I know it can be the hardest thing to be alone in strange place, but I also know that if there is anyone who can handle it, it is her. She is one of the strongest people I know. It still doesn't keep me from missing her and wanting her to be around all the time.
Logan too. I don't have my ever-present human dartboard, and frankly, I'm starting to worry that all the malevolence in my person is going to pile up, and explode one of these days. I haven't kicked anyone in the shins in weeks. Months even.
And all the others. I hope I can see them soon.
My Father and I have been having discussions lately, about career choice. They're serious. I think, going to this art school scares him a little. It scares me. Each day, I fall more and more in love with what I am doing and what I am creating. And I know, that even though my whole heart is in it, and that I love it more than just about anything else, that it will likely never really make me a living, ever. It's a pessimistic outlook, I know. But I have to be realistic about it, or I will ruin that love I have for playing music or writing, or singing, or any artistic endeavor I pursue. To connect it with true failure would make it so much less for me. So I know I have to pick carefully, something that I will be happy to be doing, but not something that will never make me any money at all, or something that is not stable. I won't be miserable, but frankly, I won't probably have my dream job either. I don't need to be hugely successful, with big houses, and nice cars; I don't have expensive or materialistic goals really. But I want children, that I don't have to worry about feeding. I want education outside of school. I want to have time and the resources to play cello forever and write when I want to and draw and sing. I don't really think that can be achieved by choosing a wholly artistic career. I have to pick something that is needed acutely, that only I and a handful of others can achieve. I have to find that perfect fit.
And it's a tough thing to come to terms with. But I am willing. I have to be.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
A Snippet. A Flibberdigibbit.
At Music Camp, the first thing they do is put you in a room and make you take a theory test. It's difficult. And frightening. And confusing. At that point I'm usually all pink and puffy because I've been crying as my Mum leaves, and it's embarrassing. And God. I'm horrible at theory. Whoever figured out how to wiggle math into music is a dead man. If you ask me how I'm feeling when I play a song, and what the song, in my opinion, represents I'll be fine. (Useless skill number twelve, up there with multi-journal keeping and the ability to level a paladin in WoW.) But if you give me a sheet of difficult theory and ask me to solve it, I may end up crying.
Basically, the camp theory test is unpleasant.
They make you take the test so that they know which theory class to put you in. (One being the lowest aptitude and nine being the best). I'm not going to lie: Both years, I've been in shameful theory two. The first year, it was excusable. But being put in the same low level theory class twice? No. Bad.
Things like this should be getting easier for me. My teachers have always been good, and understanding. I legitimately try hard. But they still end up kicking my ass so hard, that by the end of the week, I'm starting to hate music notes. It's, by far, my least favorite aspect of camp.
But today. Today, I have found the key to all. It's this chart. And oh dear god, it makes things so, so much easier..
b's #'s
0 C
1 F G
2 Bb D
3 Eb A
4 Ab E
5 Db B
6 Gb F
7 Cb C
If I had known about this very chart, three years ago.. I would have been a much happier person. So if you know an aspiring instrumentalist, who wants to pursue music theory, or even if they don't, drag them here.
And thank God for songwriting class.
Basically, the camp theory test is unpleasant.
They make you take the test so that they know which theory class to put you in. (One being the lowest aptitude and nine being the best). I'm not going to lie: Both years, I've been in shameful theory two. The first year, it was excusable. But being put in the same low level theory class twice? No. Bad.
Things like this should be getting easier for me. My teachers have always been good, and understanding. I legitimately try hard. But they still end up kicking my ass so hard, that by the end of the week, I'm starting to hate music notes. It's, by far, my least favorite aspect of camp.
But today. Today, I have found the key to all. It's this chart. And oh dear god, it makes things so, so much easier..
b's #'s
0 C
1 F G
2 Bb D
3 Eb A
4 Ab E
5 Db B
6 Gb F
7 Cb C
If I had known about this very chart, three years ago.. I would have been a much happier person. So if you know an aspiring instrumentalist, who wants to pursue music theory, or even if they don't, drag them here.
And thank God for songwriting class.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Smoky Smell
When I'm in the city, I have my hot spots. The places I need to visit to feel like I have had a complete visit to the city.
One of the places is the Value Village. It's located in rather shady area. Violent graffiti covers the walls. Redundant posters cling every available surface, advertising a club here or a band there. The VV is right between an alleyway and a bicycle shop. I've never been in either.
When you come in, you're right away assaulted by this weirdly medicinal smoke smell. It's not pleasant, but for some reason I don't mind it. It's familiar I suppose, so I like it. The ground level is where the clothes are. The basement is for furniture and linens, and the top floor is devoted to books and housewares. I spend most of my time on the ground floor. Go figure.
There's a lot less hunting there, than in most of the thrift stores I visit. It seems like every third thing I pick up has some pattern that I like, or a shape I've been looking for or a color I desperately need. I always hate the dressing rooms. I don't know if it's a more accurate mirror or the lighting is bad, but I always, always look awful. It's depressing. But I spend like two hours in there, dealing with weirdly placed armholes, and unlocking locks, modeling clothes periodically for my mother. She sometimes drapes clothing she thinks I'll like over the door.
Most of those items end up among our final purchases. I'm a sucker for my Mum's taste, which is almost identical to mine, if a little more refined.
Once I left a note in an encyclopedia there. You had to hold it up to the light in order to understand what it said. I left it on page 56; Pipe. When I went back, a few weeks later, the book was gone, and my note was too. I always wondered who had gotten it. I had various scenarios in my head.
I've grown up being dressed in secondhand clothing all my life. I'm a fish out of water going into name brand stores. I miss the thrill of finding something truly lovely among racks of castoff ugliness. I don't like the uniformity. I don't like the way I look in those kinds of clothes. They're uncomfortable. And I'm not going to deny it, I look at the price tag, and shake my head. Once you start buying your shirts for two dollars, there's no going back to twenty dollar tank tops. Though I never liked those, so what do I know?
One of the places is the Value Village. It's located in rather shady area. Violent graffiti covers the walls. Redundant posters cling every available surface, advertising a club here or a band there. The VV is right between an alleyway and a bicycle shop. I've never been in either.
When you come in, you're right away assaulted by this weirdly medicinal smoke smell. It's not pleasant, but for some reason I don't mind it. It's familiar I suppose, so I like it. The ground level is where the clothes are. The basement is for furniture and linens, and the top floor is devoted to books and housewares. I spend most of my time on the ground floor. Go figure.
There's a lot less hunting there, than in most of the thrift stores I visit. It seems like every third thing I pick up has some pattern that I like, or a shape I've been looking for or a color I desperately need. I always hate the dressing rooms. I don't know if it's a more accurate mirror or the lighting is bad, but I always, always look awful. It's depressing. But I spend like two hours in there, dealing with weirdly placed armholes, and unlocking locks, modeling clothes periodically for my mother. She sometimes drapes clothing she thinks I'll like over the door.
Most of those items end up among our final purchases. I'm a sucker for my Mum's taste, which is almost identical to mine, if a little more refined.
Once I left a note in an encyclopedia there. You had to hold it up to the light in order to understand what it said. I left it on page 56; Pipe. When I went back, a few weeks later, the book was gone, and my note was too. I always wondered who had gotten it. I had various scenarios in my head.
I've grown up being dressed in secondhand clothing all my life. I'm a fish out of water going into name brand stores. I miss the thrill of finding something truly lovely among racks of castoff ugliness. I don't like the uniformity. I don't like the way I look in those kinds of clothes. They're uncomfortable. And I'm not going to deny it, I look at the price tag, and shake my head. Once you start buying your shirts for two dollars, there's no going back to twenty dollar tank tops. Though I never liked those, so what do I know?
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Morning
I'm going to miss a lot of things about summer.
I'm going to miss getting up late, and obscenely early, based on only how I'm feeling. I'll miss going for dim sum in the city every Sunday with my family. I'm going to miss my seasonal job at the market, and my sweet, loyal customers. I'll miss wrestling with my younger siblings. Hour long car rides and days where I sat out in the sun and only thought. Playing World of Warcraft with reckless abandon. Taking ridiculous, gritty photos to impress my Father. Sweltering hot walks through town. The world's best ice cream.
I going to miss it all.
I hope that I can be more proactive this year, so that my parents don't have to work as hard to make sure I am where I need to be and doing what I need to be doing. I hope that I will become even more dedicated to my music and that it won't be too terrifying in my new, difficult orchestra. I hope that my parents will feel the work that they've put into this new house and be able appreciate it, during the crazy, fully-scheduled school year. I hope I will find purpose in my schoolwork. I hope I will not miss my mother too much, with me at school and her at her job. I hope that I won't spill anything on white shirts. I hope that I will have my iPod always charged.
Thoughts like these always come up at the beginning of September, when letters start coming in the mail, announcing prep day, reminding me. They press. They bring a sourness and longing into these last days of August. I am, to say the least, unwilling to begin again. Usually.
This year is different. I'm going to a place where I want to be. Where I am relieved to be and excited to be. This autumn holds little of the regret and drudgery that I have come expect.
I am so ready.
I'm going to miss getting up late, and obscenely early, based on only how I'm feeling. I'll miss going for dim sum in the city every Sunday with my family. I'm going to miss my seasonal job at the market, and my sweet, loyal customers. I'll miss wrestling with my younger siblings. Hour long car rides and days where I sat out in the sun and only thought. Playing World of Warcraft with reckless abandon. Taking ridiculous, gritty photos to impress my Father. Sweltering hot walks through town. The world's best ice cream.
I going to miss it all.
I hope that I can be more proactive this year, so that my parents don't have to work as hard to make sure I am where I need to be and doing what I need to be doing. I hope that I will become even more dedicated to my music and that it won't be too terrifying in my new, difficult orchestra. I hope that my parents will feel the work that they've put into this new house and be able appreciate it, during the crazy, fully-scheduled school year. I hope I will find purpose in my schoolwork. I hope I will not miss my mother too much, with me at school and her at her job. I hope that I won't spill anything on white shirts. I hope that I will have my iPod always charged.
Thoughts like these always come up at the beginning of September, when letters start coming in the mail, announcing prep day, reminding me. They press. They bring a sourness and longing into these last days of August. I am, to say the least, unwilling to begin again. Usually.
This year is different. I'm going to a place where I want to be. Where I am relieved to be and excited to be. This autumn holds little of the regret and drudgery that I have come expect.
I am so ready.
Friday, August 07, 2009
Memoir
The book was a pale pink, ballet teacher pink. Somebody, she didn't know who, had drawn a lady in a green skirt, a tree and a horizon line on the front cover. She flipped through the already well-worn pages and savored each one. A picture of her and Erin, the girl who took karate, and wore her hair in a short, sandy bob. A picture of her and Aurora, who hugged her too hard with a grin too phony to really be believed. Herself and Ms. Fairly, standing by the pine tree. Herself and Bradley, looking slightly more demure, aware of the impending separation. .
She always got car sick, and the drive to the "States" was no exception. It wasn't particularly different here. More trees. More rain, but still the same grey colour in the sky and the same tired chill in the early morning. She wondered why such a fuss was made about coming here.
Lunches were divided in two segments at the new school. The younger grades ate first. And then, the older kids flooded into the cafeteria. They were larger and very much aware of the division between the older and younger students.
Nellie was a slow eater. Sometimes, she got stuck in the transition from younger lunch to older lunch. Not pleasant. She started saving half of her sandwich for home.
She always got car sick, and the drive to the "States" was no exception. It wasn't particularly different here. More trees. More rain, but still the same grey colour in the sky and the same tired chill in the early morning. She wondered why such a fuss was made about coming here.
***
Nellie had always liked having new school supplies. They smelled nice and they accentuated the excitement of everything being different. No one had really talked to her, but they had barely had time to. The teacher had introduced her to the class before the bell had rung and she had enjoyed that, and the shy front she put up; she enjoyed that too.
But then suddenly everyone was standing up, and the teacher (Who wasn't her usual teacher apparently, just a substitute) was coming to the front of the class. Then they were all speaking in unison. Looking in the same direction. Nellie stayed in her seat, until the rest of the class sat down again, and then raised her hand.
"What was that?"
The teacher was a pointy, fashionable sort of woman, prone to wearing turtlenecks. Her name sounded like the word nails. So Nellie fixed it in her mind that her teacher's name was Ms. Nails.
"That, was the pledge of allegiance. We address the flag every morning and on Mondays we sing the Star Spangled Banner". Ms. Nails smacked her lips and wrote the words to the pledge of allegiance up on the board.
"We'll see how you do tomorrow. Okay?"
***
Nellie's cardigan was terribly hot. She took it off. It was only April, but the sun had come out blindingly and suddenly, and the girl was uncomfortable, in this unfamiliar playground, with all it's metal. She was waiting in line to get on a bar. She didn't really understand the point of them. Girls just basically spun around on them, their long ponytails hitting the wood chips with a strange swishing sound. They looked like giant croquet goals. Maybe they were things you had to experience to understand. She wished someone wanted to be a faerie with her instead.
The bar, when she finally commandeered one, was exactly what it looked like. It made her knee uncomfortable. And she panicked a little when she was she was entirely upside down. But she had waited long enough, and she was going to take what she could from it. She had fifteen loops to get through.
A short girl was watching her from her place in the line and after a few minutes of observation walked straight up to Nellie, who was on loop number 7. She had pretty, feminine brown hair, and she was wearing a sparkly pink and brown t-shirt. Her name was Laura. Nellie envied the length of Laura's hair, longed for her own shorn curls.
"Can I use this bar?" said Laura. Nellie hesitated and then nodded. She still had 8 loops left. But maybe Laura could be a friend. They switched places and Laura did a few experimental spins. Then she looked up at Nellie, and cocked her head.
"Do you know why I asked you?" she said.
"Do you know why I asked you?" she said.
"No."
Laura blinked. "Because I knew you'd get off easiest." And then she spun in three loops, without stopping once.
***
There was so much space at the new house. Tunnels to be made in the blackberry thicket. Nests to find. Trees to climbs. Thorns to be snagged in. The yard was their kingdom.
The baby was lovely, and she didn't cry much at all. Northie loved the baby. He loved the baby a lot. But he still went on adventures with Nellie. Her faithful companion. She missed him. Always.
They had found a clearing in the thicket, hidden away from the world by leaves and stalks and blackberries. Nellie had named it Paradise. She told Northie that he could be the founder, and she would be the Prime Minister. They settled into their roles comfortably. Stuffed moss into Ziploc and bags and called them pillows. Lugged their plastic dinner sets through the undergrowth. Made tables out of play wood and sticks. No one was allowed to know the way into the clearing except Northie and herself. They had to blindfold any outsiders who wanted to visit.
***
No one really knew the Spice Girls here. They all liked someone called Britney Spears. She missed playing Spice Girls. She had hoped that she might be able to pull some strings at the new school and be allowed to play Baby Spice. But nobody knew them. So she stopped playing spice girls.
***
Her Mother always told her to put things through the filter. Do to others what you would want done to you. She said that sometimes, people had less practiced filters. People like Laura. People like Jaimie. People like Ms. Anderson. People like Ms. Nails. People like Robbie.
***
Everyday, Nellie's Mother packed her a cheese sandwich on homemade bread. Cheddar. In preschool Nellie had peanut butter and honey. And in Kindergarten. But ever since starting first grade she'd had cheese. Which she liked.Lunches were divided in two segments at the new school. The younger grades ate first. And then, the older kids flooded into the cafeteria. They were larger and very much aware of the division between the older and younger students.
Nellie was a slow eater. Sometimes, she got stuck in the transition from younger lunch to older lunch. Not pleasant. She started saving half of her sandwich for home.
***
Katie looked like a little miniature Snow-white. Puffy locks of coarse black hair. Pale, pale skin. She was tiny and she always wore a large eggplant colored duffel coat. She was brave and smart and irreverent.
But the most important thing about Kaitie was that she liked to play faeries.
***
Kaitie and Nellie spent most of their recesses fighting off the Bad Spirits with sticks they found underneath the big pine tree. The baseball diamond was full of evil winged vampires, who needed vanquishing. The lower playground was a faerie metropolis. Both Kaitie and Nellie had rabbit familiars who went everywhere with them. Kaitie was glad that someone else believed in the Bad Spirits. Nellie was glad someone else liked to do something other than swing on the bars.
***
Nellie looked up at the feathery clouds and wondered for a moment.
"If we were able to fly, wouldn't it look weird if we just shot up into the sky without any wings or anything?"
Kaitie cocked her head thoughtfully. "Peter Pan did it."
"True. But he's different. I'm thinking about Mary Poppins, with her umbrella. If we could fly, would we need something to help us steer?"
"I don't know" Kaitie said, distracted. "Let's go make a potion."
It had rained the night before and the lower field was dotted with varying sized puddles. It was an unspoken rule that you didn't go playing in the mud. So it was with a little bit of apprehension that Kaitie and Nellie knelt at the edge of the nearest puddle. Kaitie broke off the end of a long stick and swirled it through the water. It clouded as the dirt rose.
"Nellie. We more dirt and some grass." she continued to stir the puddle. Nellie turned on her knees and scraped at the moist earth with her dull fingers. She scrubbed up a handful of dirt and dropped it into the puddle. It was thickening satisfactorily. Nellie pulled up some grass and threw that in as well.
"This will keep away any bad spirits." Kaitie said, almost broodingly. Nellie nodded. They waited for awhile silently, Kaitie stirring vigorously and Nellie watching her. A shadow fell over the puddle. A sixth grader, with a brown paper bag filled with popcorn under his arm. It was popcorn Friday.
"Whatcha doing?"
Kaitie looked up at him. "We're making a potion to keep away the bad spirits."
"Bad spirits?"
"Yes. They get inside your head and control you. They're evil." Nellie nodded and Kaitie continued to stir.
"You guys are weird.." Nellie thought about the filter. The sixth grader spat the popcorn mush from his mouth and it landed in their potion. Nellie watched the pale yellow goo be swallowed up by the mud, and wanted to vomit. Kaitie watched it too. The sixth grader watched them watch the pieces of popcorn, smirking. Kaitie looked up at him for a moment and then started stirring again and said lightly.
"Perfect. That will definitely keep the bad spirits away. Thank you." After a moment of stunned silence, the boy walked away. Kaitie kept stirring and Nellie watched her.
And then they both smiled, in absolute unison, indifferent and different and happy.
Sunday, August 02, 2009
Up and away..
Last week I went to orchestra camp. Because I am a cellist and that is what cellists do sometimes.
The camp was held in the eastern part of my state, which was different from last years camp. Super hot there, and really dry. I realized quite quickly that I needed to wake up and understand that elbow length sleeves and knee high legging were not, in fact, summer worthy clothing. I stupidly didn't bring a fan either, because I didn't anticipate the un-air-conditioned dorms.
Remind me not to do that next year, okay?
My roommate will remain nameless, so I can respect her privacy. But I want you to know that she is an absolute jewel of a person. Consistently and honestly kind and brave and concerned. She was the best person a girl like me could be roomed with. She laughed when I laughed, without a hint of condescension. She was tidy, and didn't mind when my alarm clock went off at absurdly early hours. She was as dedicated to music as I was, and understood when I would decide to skip breakfast and go practice.
Understood it so well in fact, that she loyally followed me up to the music building and practiced with me.
I cannot tell you how much I appreciated having her with me. She is a remarkable person.
We played English and Scandinavian music to kick off the Youth Symphony season. Did I mention that the camp was run by the symphony? Well, it was, and I was so glad to be in an orchestral setting again. I miss it so much after the season ends in May. The camp helps tide me over until September, when we start up again. The music was the reason I went to camp, and it didn't disappoint. Our final concert was fantastic, and we managed to get the work of four months done in one exhausting week.
I was reunited with my friends from last year's camp and it was like the year that we spent apart didn't exist, we picked up right where we left off, and it was lovely to see them. Most of them were in the other, more advanced orchestra, but we ate with each other and spent our free time (Which there was little off) together always. They were all so good to me. And Logan, stubborn and excited Logan, came with me, offering up a familiarity that I relied on adamantly. They all protected me when my bitch of a stand partner frightened me to a point of hysteria. They stood by me, even when it inconvenienced them, and for that, I will always be grateful. And more than that, we had fun together and understood each other, a little group of orchestra junkies.
I missed my family terribly, as I always do. I'm quite sure I came off as a total agoraphobic to most of the people I met, whether they liked me or not. I was glued to my phone when I was allowed, calling my mother just so that I could hear her voice, and know what they were all doing back at home. Hours away from them, I reveled in their ordinary activities and yearned to be back with them all week long.
I learned a lot though, so it was entirely worth it. My fingers are practically bleeding from playing so much and I'm finding myself looking up Holst and Elgar on wikipedia, after hearing about their lives during the daily lectures at camp. Music history really interests me. The ways that musicians have helped shape cultures are surprisingly important. They rally countries and rebel against tyrants and bring joy to those who have none. It made me proud to be among their ranks.
The camp was held in the eastern part of my state, which was different from last years camp. Super hot there, and really dry. I realized quite quickly that I needed to wake up and understand that elbow length sleeves and knee high legging were not, in fact, summer worthy clothing. I stupidly didn't bring a fan either, because I didn't anticipate the un-air-conditioned dorms.
Remind me not to do that next year, okay?
My roommate will remain nameless, so I can respect her privacy. But I want you to know that she is an absolute jewel of a person. Consistently and honestly kind and brave and concerned. She was the best person a girl like me could be roomed with. She laughed when I laughed, without a hint of condescension. She was tidy, and didn't mind when my alarm clock went off at absurdly early hours. She was as dedicated to music as I was, and understood when I would decide to skip breakfast and go practice.
Understood it so well in fact, that she loyally followed me up to the music building and practiced with me.
I cannot tell you how much I appreciated having her with me. She is a remarkable person.
We played English and Scandinavian music to kick off the Youth Symphony season. Did I mention that the camp was run by the symphony? Well, it was, and I was so glad to be in an orchestral setting again. I miss it so much after the season ends in May. The camp helps tide me over until September, when we start up again. The music was the reason I went to camp, and it didn't disappoint. Our final concert was fantastic, and we managed to get the work of four months done in one exhausting week.
I was reunited with my friends from last year's camp and it was like the year that we spent apart didn't exist, we picked up right where we left off, and it was lovely to see them. Most of them were in the other, more advanced orchestra, but we ate with each other and spent our free time (Which there was little off) together always. They were all so good to me. And Logan, stubborn and excited Logan, came with me, offering up a familiarity that I relied on adamantly. They all protected me when my bitch of a stand partner frightened me to a point of hysteria. They stood by me, even when it inconvenienced them, and for that, I will always be grateful. And more than that, we had fun together and understood each other, a little group of orchestra junkies.
I missed my family terribly, as I always do. I'm quite sure I came off as a total agoraphobic to most of the people I met, whether they liked me or not. I was glued to my phone when I was allowed, calling my mother just so that I could hear her voice, and know what they were all doing back at home. Hours away from them, I reveled in their ordinary activities and yearned to be back with them all week long.
I learned a lot though, so it was entirely worth it. My fingers are practically bleeding from playing so much and I'm finding myself looking up Holst and Elgar on wikipedia, after hearing about their lives during the daily lectures at camp. Music history really interests me. The ways that musicians have helped shape cultures are surprisingly important. They rally countries and rebel against tyrants and bring joy to those who have none. It made me proud to be among their ranks.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Obsession
I think I may have a serious problem. Or fetish. Or obsession.
It comes in the form of fresh, white sheets of paper bound and illustrated, and it is presented to the world as perfect little works of art to be improved upon.
Notebooks.
I love them. They are (generally) cheap and beautiful and artsy and mysterious and oh how I love them. I have journals for lists, song lyrics, daily life, love letters, faerie recipes, towns, traveling- you name it, I have an entire notebook devoted to it.
My family and I, when we have days off, often go into the city and have Dim Sum in Chinatown. Afterwords, if all goes well, and we aren't called away, we go to a cute little bookstore, Kinokuniya. And man, oh man, do they have a notebook section. There is an entire section of the store devoted to every kind of notebook one could possibly want. They are diverse and and detailed, and they are all beautiful.
When I go in there, I am fairly delirious with happiness.
They also have pens that make your handwriting look wonderful and inch-tall pencil crayons and hundreds of themed sticker kits. It's magical in Kinokuniya, I kid you not.
I buy a notebook almost everytime I walk in that store. And now, because I just got a new french-print notebook (which I am devoting to in-class writing in case you were wondering) and because I have no other blog fodder, I'm going to show some of my favorites to you, in all their bound-up glory:
This is one of the very first notebooks I put into my collection. It's designed by a guy named Jordan Crane. He does a comic series and has designed a couple other books as well. This journal stand out the most. It's fairly bright and not as old-fashioned as the others, and I like that about it. I use this one as a day-to-day journal and I'm about halfway through with it.
This ridiculous thing. It is so damn beautiful. The pages are made of really thick paper, and the cover is perfectly smooth and the back is a multiplication table (So convienient!) And it's french! I'm using it as an in-class daily journal for next year (Such journals tend to be rash and dramatic. Watch out.) It's so much more wonderful in person, but whatever.
Gosh.
I'm gonna go write in 'em now.
They are so pretty
and I need my fix..
It comes in the form of fresh, white sheets of paper bound and illustrated, and it is presented to the world as perfect little works of art to be improved upon.
Notebooks.
I love them. They are (generally) cheap and beautiful and artsy and mysterious and oh how I love them. I have journals for lists, song lyrics, daily life, love letters, faerie recipes, towns, traveling- you name it, I have an entire notebook devoted to it.
My family and I, when we have days off, often go into the city and have Dim Sum in Chinatown. Afterwords, if all goes well, and we aren't called away, we go to a cute little bookstore, Kinokuniya. And man, oh man, do they have a notebook section. There is an entire section of the store devoted to every kind of notebook one could possibly want. They are diverse and and detailed, and they are all beautiful.
When I go in there, I am fairly delirious with happiness.
They also have pens that make your handwriting look wonderful and inch-tall pencil crayons and hundreds of themed sticker kits. It's magical in Kinokuniya, I kid you not.
I buy a notebook almost everytime I walk in that store. And now, because I just got a new french-print notebook (which I am devoting to in-class writing in case you were wondering) and because I have no other blog fodder, I'm going to show some of my favorites to you, in all their bound-up glory:
This is one of the very first notebooks I put into my collection. It's designed by a guy named Jordan Crane. He does a comic series and has designed a couple other books as well. This journal stand out the most. It's fairly bright and not as old-fashioned as the others, and I like that about it. I use this one as a day-to-day journal and I'm about halfway through with it.
This one is one of my favorites. It's also a fairly early purchase of mine, but it's more true to my general taste. I especially like the way it looks like a watercolor painting, though, I suppose you have to see it up close to know that. I'm going to use this as the second book of my daily journal. (Sometimes, with journals, I bite off more than I can chew)
This journal is designed by Nikki McClure. It's divided into various sections like, build, explore, and grow. I only write in it when I have something in my mind pertaining to one of the subjects, so right now, it's pretty bare. But hopefully, I'm going to start thinking more creatively about it, so it will fill up faster. I really love the art in this one. The lines are just exquisite.
Okay, I've been pretending that my picture quality isn't that bad, but frankly, it is. I apologize. These are much nicer in person. These are the notebooks I'm using in my school supplies for nest year. They're all the same front design, but they come in a whole bunch of different colors. I've always coveted these and now that I have them, I'm so excited to use them- I know that I'll plow through these guys.
Okay, that first one is really blurry, but this one is just a variation of the one above, except that it's for writing music. I'm going to use it for songwriting, which I'll hopefully be taking next year..
And now. Oh dear god.
This ridiculous thing. It is so damn beautiful. The pages are made of really thick paper, and the cover is perfectly smooth and the back is a multiplication table (So convienient!) And it's french! I'm using it as an in-class daily journal for next year (Such journals tend to be rash and dramatic. Watch out.) It's so much more wonderful in person, but whatever.Gosh.
I'm gonna go write in 'em now.
They are so pretty
and I need my fix..
Monday, July 06, 2009
Suburb
We were driving around this sad little neighborhood. Dusty, dismal and depressing. Broken chainlink fences. Dirt filled planters. Plywood ominously posted over windows. We were looking for Garage Sales, and we were all slightly car sick. When we passed a paper sign taped to a tree, we decided it was time to leave. As we raced up the side streets, we passed what seemed to be a roundabout. It was laden with scraggly little plants, and was about two feet across. Sean looked at it for a second and then said in a cockney accent.
"Well, it's like a little piece of England, innit?"
"Well, it's like a little piece of England, innit?"
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Working
The ice was not sticking. It was a frustrating powder that clung to my arms, and melted in the hot afternoon sun, but did not hold the syrup. I watched as the delicate shaved ice collapsed in on itself. The dismayed look of the customer. The ever growing line. I darted to the side of the cart, where I filled a plastic cup with hot water.
"Sometimes, when the ice is really cold, it does does that" I said, dumping the water into the ice machine, listening to it trickle through, sloshing like a full belly.
The ice stuck better. Well enough to be sold. But not right yet. Still difficult. The man left the money on the counter and I snatched it up before it became soggy on the wet counter-top. I worked through customers, one by one, panicking a little, as the line got longer and longer, despite my frantic efforts. My sister came to help me, fetching the hot water and shaping sno-cones. I heard water dripping near my feet. Leaks. I'd forgotten. The line slowly, painfully diminished. I dismissed my sister, who went running through the park, wood chips splashing up where she stepped.
I ducked under the counter top, checking on the pipes underneath, examining the leaks and my makeshift plugs, which were made of paper towels and latex gloves. Small puddles were forming, but they could wait for the moment. They weren't harming anything after all.
I straightened up and then fell on the chair, people-watching briefly. Two men, in short succession, holding out butcher-paper wrapped bouquets, each wearing laughably determined expressions. A woman with a three-week old baby, its face hidden under pink fabric. A child wailing as their balloon floated up towards the clouds.
A customer walked up, toting a flat of raspberries. I grabbed a cup and started shaving ice into it.
" Where did you get your berries?" I asked. The woman gestured towards the back of the park, naming a vendor that I vaguely remembered.
"I love raspberries. I'd forgotten they were in season"
"I do too" I asked what flavors the woman wanted and lifted them off the circular trolley, splattering them onto the blankness of the ice. As I looked up, to give her the total, she slid a napkin with nine raspberries on it, towards me. I thanked her, not quite knowing what to say. She didn't say anything, just smiled and went on her way, bent slightly to one hip as she balanced the box precariously.
I had a small rush of business after that. I watched a man, who looked rough, with his wifebeater shirt and tattoos, affix a flower in his tiny daughter's hair, and kiss the top of her head. I watched a magenta clad granddaughter convince her grandmother that a treat was in order. A boyfriend buy a blue and purple ice to share with his girlfriend. I watched as the market began to close and people walked more slowly. I listened as the clock chimed at quarter two. My ice was all gone, my plugs were rendered useless and I was sweaty and tired and sun burnt.
I picked up a raspberry and smiled.
"Sometimes, when the ice is really cold, it does does that" I said, dumping the water into the ice machine, listening to it trickle through, sloshing like a full belly.
The ice stuck better. Well enough to be sold. But not right yet. Still difficult. The man left the money on the counter and I snatched it up before it became soggy on the wet counter-top. I worked through customers, one by one, panicking a little, as the line got longer and longer, despite my frantic efforts. My sister came to help me, fetching the hot water and shaping sno-cones. I heard water dripping near my feet. Leaks. I'd forgotten. The line slowly, painfully diminished. I dismissed my sister, who went running through the park, wood chips splashing up where she stepped.
I ducked under the counter top, checking on the pipes underneath, examining the leaks and my makeshift plugs, which were made of paper towels and latex gloves. Small puddles were forming, but they could wait for the moment. They weren't harming anything after all.
I straightened up and then fell on the chair, people-watching briefly. Two men, in short succession, holding out butcher-paper wrapped bouquets, each wearing laughably determined expressions. A woman with a three-week old baby, its face hidden under pink fabric. A child wailing as their balloon floated up towards the clouds.
A customer walked up, toting a flat of raspberries. I grabbed a cup and started shaving ice into it.
" Where did you get your berries?" I asked. The woman gestured towards the back of the park, naming a vendor that I vaguely remembered.
"I love raspberries. I'd forgotten they were in season"
"I do too" I asked what flavors the woman wanted and lifted them off the circular trolley, splattering them onto the blankness of the ice. As I looked up, to give her the total, she slid a napkin with nine raspberries on it, towards me. I thanked her, not quite knowing what to say. She didn't say anything, just smiled and went on her way, bent slightly to one hip as she balanced the box precariously.
I had a small rush of business after that. I watched a man, who looked rough, with his wifebeater shirt and tattoos, affix a flower in his tiny daughter's hair, and kiss the top of her head. I watched a magenta clad granddaughter convince her grandmother that a treat was in order. A boyfriend buy a blue and purple ice to share with his girlfriend. I watched as the market began to close and people walked more slowly. I listened as the clock chimed at quarter two. My ice was all gone, my plugs were rendered useless and I was sweaty and tired and sun burnt.
I picked up a raspberry and smiled.
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