Conference (of voices)
6 December 2009, 1:51 am
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young artists' conventionThis weekend was a blast. I can’t believe it’s over; I can’t believe three days and two nights are just, done. In a heartbeat.
No. In a downbeat.
It’s made me sure of one thing, if anything.
I want to be a musician. I already am, really. But I want it to be my life. Not just a hobby, not just a thing to practice, to get better at.
No, the drive that’s gotten me this far is going to have to propel me into the future.
This weekend was a great teaser for college. Being in a grand scale setting with hundreds of people my own age, that I don’t really know, who all love to make music, was phenomenal.
Some people are dumb, obviously. But others are great. Others are so splendid and fabulous that you never want to leave. You want to stay and talk and hang out and sing or play or whatever, forever.
It was nice to be away from home, too, I decided. To have the freedom to do what I want was (hello) liberating. I could breathe. It was exhilarating.
I met a twelve-year-old boy who was there for a young artists’ convention. He was a pianist. He was a composer. He was a master of improv and I might even go so far to say that he was equal to (dare I hazard a “better than”?) Emma.
To be honest, this kid was insane. His name is Scott and he goes to piano school, takes lessons three times a week. He lives on Long Island (no surprise there, so do half the kids who were at Conference), but what really impressed me was the complete and total whole of himself, poured into his playing. He was very aware of the crowd of girls from our choir gathered around the grand, but just by looking at him you could tell that he was simply drowned in it. He looked up every so often as he played, and a few times he met my eyes: it was bizarre, it was intriguing. It was like he was hardly there, and it was all music, all his heart, just dripping like rain onto piano keys and into our ears.
Simply beautiful.
He inspired me, and so now I’m going to work harder. It wasn’t just him, either. It was the energy, the ambition, the talent that was jam-packed into the Radisson this weekend. It was the vivacity and passion of our conductor, Dr. Levine. (She was fab, as she would say, by the way.) It was the combination of independent, individual, brilliant, able, and strong women that made up my choir.
And it was the actual music-making: the long hours of rehearsing, the sweat, blood and tears drenching the memorization of “O Yo-yo” and the focus and energy throughout our program. It was the music that reminded me where I want to go, and where I want to be.
The truth is, I want to be at Eastman.
If I can’t, then I can’t. I’m square with that now. And Syracuse would be an alright alternative, sure.
But if Eastman likes my prescreening, then by God I am going to work my ass off and really soar with my audition rep.
I’m going to make some music for them.
Arrivederci, il mio amore
27 November 2009, 8:06 am
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yearI’m done.
I’m through.
It’s over.
I’m finished trying to run, finished trying to control, and finished trying to be independent. Trying to be a grown-up. Let fate fall where it may, and I guess I’m leaning against the old fallback of “if God wills it.”
But seriously. At this point, if God wills it, I’ll be one intensely blessed grateful dumb shit.
I’m done.
I’m done with pretending that I’m an adult. I’m not, okay? So get over it and leave me alone. I’m struggling to get into a college that I know I’m not prepared for in a competitive world that’s waiting with eager, dripping jaws to eat me alive. I’m not ready.
I’m through.
I’m through sitting back and letting my hundreds of responsibilities run amok over me. It’s partially my fault through disorganization, partially my fault through neglect. I’m doing so much I can’t focus on the important things. If something doesn’t go, I will. I’ll go insane. So I’m through being trampled by my own many loves and passions, and I’m through being choked and hung by the dramas of my friends and school life. I’ve got to distance myself from it, before it gets me. If I don’t focus, and work my ass off on the thing that is most important, I won’t get anywhere. Ever.
It’s over.
So it’s over, kids, and here I am typing as a shakily resolute and keenly terrified individual who’s not grown up and who’s ready to practice and who really just wants to stay home and love her life and her family in peace.
But Time and Nature won’t allow it. So ready or not, I’m out in less than a year. If I go to a shitty school, well hey, that’s my own fault. Goodbye, Eastman. Nice looking at your name on the website, C.I.M. I wish I would have been good enough. I’m sorry for wasting your time, Heather. I’m deeply sorry, Mrs. Ripley.
What happens, happens. If I can’t contact anyone and have them be my savior with my transcript and SAT score report today, then I am fucked. And who can or will help me, the irresponsible procrastinator who is falsely deluding herself that she can make it in the vicious world of music?
I just want to sing. And that will probably never happen now, because I’m a fucking retard.
So guess what.
I’m done.
And still singing
28 August 2009, 11:14 pm
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worldIt’s been a long day, even though I don’t know why, really. I beat Guitar Hero Aerosmith on Hard, so I felt accomplished.
The broken whammy bar started working after what might be considered one of the most magnificent hours of my life.
Today, I received a packet of papers in the mail. Within those papers, I was informed that I’ve been accepted into the Conference All-State Women’s Choir.
Soprano One, son.
I texted Emma.
Emma and Kiener called me. Emma told me she was calling Lerew.
I called Mrs. Ripley. Mrs. Ripley was ecstatic. Mrs. Ripley says she’s going to tell everyone she knows.
I texted Heather. By then it was eight at night and I was on the way to Franklinville for my sister’s football game (she cheerleads) and I didn’t want to hold conversation across spotty service areas in a moving vehicle. Hopefully she’ll call me back when it’s good for her, and if I don’t hear from her by tomorrow afternoon, I’m calling for sure. I’m so excited.
Nothing could put a damper on that news, except I’m tired. I’m just downright exhausted, so my enthusiasm is going to be shelved until tomorrow. I’ll siphon it back into my system then and do something really productive. Earlier today I decorated and established my JCC and creative writing binders, and got the rest of my materials ready and in my bag for school. As of tonight, there are only five more full days before my last first day of high school.
I just want to live it. I feel like I say this every time I blog, but dammit, I want to feel and exist in every single moment I’m blessed with. I want to feel alive, I want to experience everything good this world has to offer. And some of the bad, because otherwise there’s nothing to measure the great against.
If today was any indication of where hard work and practice and dedication and passion can get me, though, I don’t think I’ll have too difficult a time living each minute of my senior year. I worked my ass off for that one hundred on the audition paper. Puccini might have been proud of me, even.
So. Conference All State, here I come. And everything else. Watch out. I have a craving, a burning thirst for life. I plan to quench it.
Also known as: “I guess I guess I guess”
25 August 2009, 9:55 pm
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WritingHere I am again; crap.
I didn’t do anything I’d planned on doing. Instead I went down to find dad in the garage, and we “jammed” while Michelle and Tara were swimming. He’s so difficult to collaborate with sometimes, without John keeping him on track. “Can we take it from the beginning?” and he keeps playing. “Can we play a song I know?” and he keeps playing.
Whatever, though. I came back upstairs after the second attempt at “Pretty Woman” and jealously played Guitar Hero Aerosmith for a while.
And here I am now, fingers skittering anxiously across the black keys, hoping for some kind of relief or peace from the thoughts and energy and nerves that keep nagging me.
Tomorrow, I’m not going to care. I guess Mitt can make all the excuses she likes about me. I need some singing, some real singing. It’s not that “Helter Skelter” and “Heartbreaker” aren’t real, but opera is so much healthier. And, oddly enough, feels more powerful at times than the blasting-belting-breaktheglass I tend to do.
So, I guess I’m done here. I’m just restless, I guess. Itchy for something to happen. I want to be busy again. Practicing on my own and writing on my own and doing projects on my own are altogether separate from doing things because of a deadline. Because I need to. Quite obviously I still need to get them done, I just don’t have a present and looming driving force right now. (My willpower hardly counts as present, or looming.)
I suppose I’ll trundle off to bed here shortly.
It’s goodnight for now.
Unless I sleepwalk myself up here in the middle of the night. And you never know about those things, either. My subconcious makes me text and talk in my sleep, maybe sleep-blogging will be next.
See you tomorrow.
…Maybe.
As my foot falls asleep,
25 August 2009, 7:31 pm
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Writing,
yeahI don’t know what I want to write about. I don’t know what I want to do right now. I don’t know what I want to do with my life.
Well crap, talking to Brendan always makes me think about the big things. God and life, love, materialism and all of those… big things. Deep thinking. Like floodwater deep (and that’s pretty deep, kids).
Oh man, does my head hurt. It’s just beginning to start to pound. My sister has a friend over, so it’s not like I can go in my room and sing to music. Or even practice and try to talk myself out of the headache. Nope, I have to be a docile little girl and not scare the shit out of Tara with melodic lines warbling through the troposphere.
I think I might grab some cappuccino (we went to Wal-Mart today) and head downstairs anyway, turn on some Avett Brothers or Anna Netrebko or maybe Bob Marley. I don’t care about what my sister’s friend thinks about me, that’s not why I’m not going to practice. I do care that my vocal techniques might make Tara’s somewhat critical and clique-y attitude whip toward my sister. They already call me the Opera Freak… therefore I won’t make Michelle pull more excuses out of the air about me. I think she already has enough of a hard time, because so many people that know me end up meeting her. She came home from Drama Camp one day and told me I was the Devil’s spawn. Ripley called her Kim. Emma called her Kim. Everyone else called her Kim’s little sister, except for like, Colleen. I think it gets a little old after a while.
So I won’t put any more stress on her. I’ll lay low and put together my bag for school (eight days!). I might cobble together a “first day” outfit. Drink some caffeinated beverage, and organize some old story snippets.
Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. It’ll be a cozy, hopefully relaxing end to the day. Maybe.
And, I guess
26 January 2009, 11:13 pm
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wrongI suppose it was just a speculation of mine. You know, a thought. A random inconvenient fantastical idea, that floated in from nowhere. I wouldn’t sound so dramatic, but I’m practicing my writing for the stupid English Regents tomorrow.
But simply put, that means: I guess I just got my hopes up.
It wasn’t a big deal, realizing that, oh-hey, there goes a possibiolity of a fun time. Of course, nothing is really a big deal when it comes to me and guys. I don’t have big deals, or drama. I don’t get upset. It’s “whatever” and “it doesn’t matter” and “who will I take an interest in next?”
Right. Okay, so, who will it be.
I don’t want to think about that right now. I don’t really want to dwell on my failure as a girl, my failure at attractiveness, at witty repartee. I don’t ever like to sit and nurse a wound that will heal easily and soon.
But I don’t want to fail to notice my own sad attempts at femininity. The long blonde hair really does nothing for me, nor do the blue eyes, obscenely long lashes, curvy frame or even smile. Maybe it’s the laugh that turns them off, maybe my cheerfulness is just too obnoxious to behold for any length of time. Maybe the flirting was just that.
Sure. I can deal with that. I won’t think any more on the fact that I’m completely undesirable, too outspoken for my own good, and when the time is right to comment, I refrain. I refuse to pause any longer over my inadequacies as a determined but unsuccessful interested party.
So what if my laugh is too loud, my comments too sharp? So what if I say the wrong thing once or twice, or I’m less appealing than she is?
If I’m too big, I’m too big.
If I’m too smart, I’m too smart.
If I’m only a focus of amusement and flirtation, then I’d do better to focus my own attentions elsewhere.
But this could have been my chance. I let myself believe that, hey, this could be the rebound I’ve been searching for. The connection that pulled me out of ex-infested waters and into a lifeboat built with lighthearted gaiety and a less depressing spirit.
But it’s no big deal. I’ll get over it.
If I’m too romantic and hopeful, I’ve just got to suck it up.
If music be the food of love, sing on
23 January 2009, 8:14 pm
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yourAll county auditions are tomorrow. I guess, according to Robin, NYSSSA auditions are, too, because she thought I was doing one.. and I’m not. Ha ha. I wish I was. I wish I could.
But all county will be fun, and colleges won’t care if I don’t get into NYSSSA or whatever, they’re going to look and see my audition scores and NYSSMA adjudication sheets… at least, I hope so.
I am going to go practice the xylophone in my room as soon as I warm up. The dogs decided to chill (quite literally) in the woods somewhere for a few hours and mom and I were out calling for them. Then my student’s mother came and paid me, and we stood chatting in the driveway for a long while. It’s pretty cold outside.
Now I am going to practice, before nerves make me throw up. Hopefully auditions and the play tomorrow go well. Deep breaths, deep breaths, and cross your fingers.
Picking at daisy petals
27 December 2008, 7:12 pm
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willpower,
xylophoneI’ve been itchy and restless all day. I want to be doing something. I cleaned my room, and some of the barn, and I went roller skating on slick wet blacktop and ended up doing a split to keep from falling on my ass.
I still don’t feel productive, though. I’ve been singing throughout the day, on and off; I played a little xylophone earlier but then I couldn’t stand it because my room was simply too messy and needed to be fixed.
I need to do something! I can’t sit home and impatiently wait for exciting things to find me! But I was surprised, in lieu of my new resolution, that I’ve found myself scared– just at the thought of making things happen on my own, instead of idly picking at them. It’s so… so… not normal for me to think about blatantly telling someone how I feel, or hinting at it, or suggesting something to do. I know I can be persistent and outgoing, but I don’t know if I can take that step to be a motivating force in a situation. I guess I’m just used to having others be that force, unless it’s something basic and no one else is stepping up to direct it (i.e. group projects or what have you). This is different, though. This is my life, or at least my life as it is right now. I keep debating with myself: do I want to take this first step? Because for me, the first step is finding out if the kid on my mind is worth spending my time thinking about. But to have public rejection as the failed outcome? Hmm. Is it worth it is it worth it, is it is it is it? It’s like a mantra on repeat winding through my brain.
I hope it’s worth it, because I don’t know that I can do anything else now but find out. Even if my persistence, force, and willpower are being held captive by fear, curiosity is strutting free and confident.
Stress, stress, stress
17 December 2008, 10:56 pm
Filed under:
Ranting | Tags:
balance,
band,
basic,
belief,
believe,
busy,
Christmas,
christmas season,
deserve,
faith,
festive,
forms,
foundation,
God,
good,
heart,
holiday,
holy,
important,
jazz,
jesus,
job,
last,
lists,
music,
national honor society,
nhs,
officer,
percussion,
percussion ensemble,
piano,
play,
practice,
practicing,
sad,
shit,
singing,
steady,
stress,
stuff,
sunday,
sunday school,
surrender,
taylor,
teaching,
tired,
to-do,
unofficial secretary of the treasury,
vibes,
vibraphone,
xylophone,
yearbook,
zealotWant to see my to-do list? It’s longer than Santa’s right now. I’m working on completing National Honor Society forms as waell as trying to finish up presents, while balancing yearbook and singing and band and percussion ensemble and jazz and play and class officer stuff. (I am now officially the Unofficial Secretary of the Treasury, by the by.)
God, and that doesn’t even cover the God-related stuff I should be doing… such as practicing my basic piano for my Sunday Sschool Finale/sendoff on the twenty-eighth.
It makes my heart hurt to think of it. My last day of teaching Sunday school. I must really be tired, I think I might cry.
I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that the God aspect of it is important to me. God is important to me. So is faith. With the Christmas– not “holiday– with the Christmas season very, very near it seems important to be up front about that. No, I’m never going to force my religion on you .I am not, as Taylor is fond of accusing, a “zealot.” I’m honestly not even very sure about my own faith, except that I do believe in God– the God– and if I didn’t, I’d be a little less steady than I already am. Aything that gives me a foundation and a balance is a positive factor in my life.
The problem with Sunday School was, I didn’t have enough time to devote to teaching, the kids are all reaching the age where they dislike attending, and I don’t think I know enough, personally, to do a good enough job. I can’t do as good a job as they deserve.
And also, I don’t like to deal with the drama. Old ladies are a bore. I’m sick of it.
But I wonder if I should make one last-gasp attempt to get all of my kids back. Whenever I think “Sunday school” I think of either a metal chair being whipped across the single room, and shouting, or I think of the gilded days filled with sunshine where I’d walk into the church and within six minutes I would have ten kids there and ready to learn. Those were the best days, and I miss them. Maybe I wasn’t nearly as mature then, but they were there, and sometimes they stayed for church. When I had hope that some of my lessons were reaching them, it felt good… would you ever believe that at one point in past summers I daydreamed of entering the ministry?
But now, I can teach them more effectively about breathing techniques and drumming rhythms than I can about the Lord. So, there you have it. I give up.
And I feel like shit about it.
Love-hate
11 December 2008, 10:06 pm
Filed under:
Ranting | Tags:
angry,
annoyed,
ap,
bad,
band,
calm,
calming,
chem,
chemistry,
cranky,
difficult,
experience,
fried,
frustrated,
frustration,
gay,
grumpy,
history,
kenny,
knitting,
knowledge,
kreutzer,
learning,
mallets,
mood swings,
paul,
pissy,
play,
potential,
practice,
sad,
snappish,
socialize,
solos,
teach,
teacher,
teaching,
time,
upset,
waste,
xylophoneI love the xylophone.
I hate wasted potential. And wasted time.
I was talking to Kenny today, after a shitty “lesson”– where we just practiced our solos. That wouldn’t have been so awful, except Fried decided that Paul, Kenny, and I should all practice in the aud; we can’t socialize, can’t help one another on our solos. Just straight practice.
And again, that wouldn’t have been so bad. But she was bitching at Kenny for being at the grand piano, and then demanded to know if we were messing around– I had just gotten into the aud, and he was just sitting there. She also yelled at Paul (which I’m fine with), but she was downright cranky. She was in band this morning, too.
That bothers me– that she doesn’t bother to attempt to understand what her students are feeling. She doesn’t try to make band an enjoyable experience. Some days it is, others it isn’t. I hate that. Making music should be a learning experience, a team exercise, and an individual pleasure, at least in my book.
A difficult teacher with mood swings isn’t the best conduit for useful knowledge. : ( It makes me sad.
I was grumpy today, too, because Paul doesn’t give a shit. He has the potential to be very good, very talented, but he just shrugs and says either “This is gay” or “Whatever.”
I guess I’ve just been in a snappish mood today. I was cranky and angry in English, and in my lesson. It’s unlike me. I don’t know if I’m turning over some unusual leaf or just venting frustration.
Who knows.
Well, until later, then. I need to shower, then it’s off to play rehearsal, where I can do the chem homework I have due tomorrow, work on my AP essay, and maybe knit a little bit. Knitting is calming, right?
Balter Blues
19 November 2008, 2:44 am
Filed under:
Events | Tags:
aftpoa,
alligator alley,
band,
block m,
concert,
cranky,
derrek,
effort,
ensemble,
impresario,
katie,
kenny,
khatchaturian,
lily,
mallets,
march,
marcus,
marimba,
mozart,
paul,
percussion,
practice,
snare,
sticks,
team,
teamwork,
vibraphone,
xylophoneI love band.
I know there are many people in my school who would laugh at that– Emily, you may be one of them. : ) But I just got home from the first concert of the year, and honestly, I am still incredibly energized.
I guess it’s because I’m so frantic and spastic before the concert begins, and then when it finally all comes together, the hours and hours of practice and focus and more practice fuse and produce a solid flow of melody that everyone can appreciate.
Now, it’s said that our band program is strict. The band director is nasty, blah, blah. : ) And in retrospect, I guess as the percussion section leader I may sometimes be a little bit, ahh, bitchy. But that’s only some days! And frankly, since the entire ensemble depends on percussion to function as a separate unit, I think I get the right to be a little cranky sometimes when we aren’t all gelling.
But I believe my occasional crankiness and the entire section’s work ethic has paid off this go-round. We sounded better than we ever have before (with the exception of “Impresario”) and since we were under a lot of pressure, this was a huge accomplishment. As a team, we excelled.
I hope the next concert will be even better. I’m pumped for it.
And it really wasn’t my perfectionist-ism or circle run-throughs that helped us succeed, it was the group. It was a mix of Lily, Derrek, Paul, Marcus, Kenny, Katie, and I achieving a great performance through individual hard work and a team effort. I think it’s the awesome results and feedback from this concert that has gotten me so pumped; if we can be this good by November, then by the time February comes around, we should have Percussion Ensemble in full swing and the Khatchaturian kickin’ ass.
I can’t wait. I love band.
Kick Drum Heart 