6.03.2008
summertime
Summertime is a lonely time, especially when your heart and soul lives nine hundred and seventy miles away.
5.03.2008
AWAKE
I heard the saxophone wail
Alone into the silence of the night
And I thought that perhaps
It was the loneliest sound in the world;
And the chimes, they rang
And I sang along, a little
For the oboe well-played
And rich its sighs;
For the piano, when forte
And apassionato, with wild hair,
And the timbre there, the color,
The rosy cheeks of a newborn overtone.
And still, that saxophone sang
And mourned the rain
And that which dies;
Like emotion sung
By choirs wrought from glass
Displayed and known, like old friends.
I felt the warm drip-drop of amber
From the sitar strings
And couldn't sleep,
Not with it pounding in my veins,
And in those fitful dreams I cried,
Wait, love, wait just a little more,
And arpeggiate, love, did you hear it?
And the saxophone hummed a melody
To the tune of the harp
Like a chorus of angels
All silver and brass
And rendered me vulnerable,
Vulnerable,
and elated.
And still the saxophone sings,
And still I think it is
The most beautiful sound in the world.
Alone into the silence of the night
And I thought that perhaps
It was the loneliest sound in the world;
And the chimes, they rang
And I sang along, a little
For the oboe well-played
And rich its sighs;
For the piano, when forte
And apassionato, with wild hair,
And the timbre there, the color,
The rosy cheeks of a newborn overtone.
And still, that saxophone sang
And mourned the rain
And that which dies;
Like emotion sung
By choirs wrought from glass
Displayed and known, like old friends.
I felt the warm drip-drop of amber
From the sitar strings
And couldn't sleep,
Not with it pounding in my veins,
And in those fitful dreams I cried,
Wait, love, wait just a little more,
And arpeggiate, love, did you hear it?
And the saxophone hummed a melody
To the tune of the harp
Like a chorus of angels
All silver and brass
And rendered me vulnerable,
Vulnerable,
and elated.
And still the saxophone sings,
And still I think it is
The most beautiful sound in the world.
4.09.2008
weather poem II
you are the noonday sun,
and i, the moon at midnight.
we are at the top of the world,
each a light unto our own sphere,
and yet i cannot reach out
and hold you.
and i, the moon at midnight.
we are at the top of the world,
each a light unto our own sphere,
and yet i cannot reach out
and hold you.
4.02.2008
new shoes
Yesterday in one of my classes, my prof raised a few very thought-provoking questions.
He first asked the question, "Why are you here, studying music, right now?"
The most generic answer is, of course, that each of us was inspired by music at least once.
He then asked us to recall the defining moment that made us decide to pursue the serious study of music. For many of my fellow students, it was a particularly mind-blowing concert, a certain person, or even a vague realization of the buildup of positive feedback.
For me, it was a single summer afternoon, when I was fifteen. I had been in choir for a few years, but it wasn't until I unexpectedly made it into Madrigals that I realized I had something of an aptitude for music and began to consider studying it and pursuing a career in it. Up until then, I was the art girl of the family, or the lawyer, or the scientist, but never the musician. It's hard, to feel like anything but the "other" daughter, when your older sister is a musical prodigy who's already been at it for years. It's hard for your mother to understand that loving music isn't just a phase, that you're just blooming later because you were so intimidated as a young child that you thought you could just put it on the back burner forever.
It's not that I don't understand why my mother told me that afternoon that she didn't think I had any chance of successfully pursuing music, while my sister did. Actually, I appreciate the fact that she's not some fawning stage-mother, convinced that her over-dressed and under-talented child is the next big Broadway sensation. And it's not that I haven't forgiven her for it -- in fact, I didn't realize, not until I found myself holding back tears in class yesterday morning, three years later, how much her words still hurt me.
I realized that everything I have done musically since then has been a reaction against that day. I genuinely love music and have a passion for pursuing it, it's true, but hurt and anger are what have really kept me going. But what's said has been said, and I've forgiven her for it. It's not about her anymore. I know she would feel terrible if she knew how much it affected me then, and how much I still think about it. That's not the point. Although the person who said those words is the reason they were so hurtful, it is the words themselves that still haunt me.
In high school, it manifested itself in my being competitive, wanting everything for myself without actually wanting it. I would get bitchy when someone else got some big part or impressive solo, how they didn't deserve it, and yet it was never about them. If you thought I was mean in high school, you're probably right. But I'm not a competitive person at all. I don't really even like performing. Fighting for roles and solos and awards was just how I tried to defend myself, as if I was in this absurd uphill battle of constantly fighting for my mother's respect, for her approval, in this part of my life that I loved so much. It was as if everything I didn't attain was one more bullet, shooting me down, proving her right, and I wanted more than anything to hear her say, "I'm proud of you," the way she said it to my sister.
The people I avoided, even deprecated, often did nothing to deserve it, and the relationships I ruined by being so rude over such little, insignificant things were just collateral damage from this petty war. And yet, the person who suffered the most damage is myself. Isn't it funny, how a pitiful lack of confidence can look like conceitedness to everyone else? And even more ironic is how I tried to convince myself through all of this that I didn't have to prove anything. I needed a major attitude adjustment, and I knew it, even then. But ah! c'est la vie.
Back to yesterday, my prof then asked us to approximate what percentage of our lives we spend feeling inspired. I thought too fast and said about half. That was a gross overestimate. I'd have to say it's more like 2%. Which leads me, of course, to wonder, why so little? I can safely say, beyond any reasonable doubt, that I love music, and that it inspires me, and that I want to be inspired in everything, all the time. I want to live my days with passion, with conviction. It is in me, and I feel it, some of the time. I think I have finally realized that the stumbling block, for me, is a weird mix of reckless ambition and lazy apathy. Perhaps it's because so far, I've been approaching my studies from the wrong perspective.
If my life as a musician has simply been a reaction against my mother's hurtful words, if everything I have done is simply to break even with the negative, how do I take myself to the next level? The hurt has propelled me this far, but how do I plunge forward into the green? Because the fact of the matter is, at this point, I am a mediocre musician. I have failed to put in the time it takes to really, really understand music, not just in my head, but with my hands. Time and time again, I have failed to dedicate myself fully to what I am doing. All too often, I have turned music into a mechanical process to master academically, as if art can be confined to rules, and at the same time discrediting those like me, such as Fux, who took a similar approach. I have taken my heart out of it. Often, I have not even followed through academically. I have gotten all the right grades, I suppose, but how much have I really benefited? I always laud and envy those musicians who commit themselves fully and put in the necessary time to get really good, and yet I fail to apply their example. I know I could be so much better than I am, but frankly, I've been lazy.
This is not, and has never been, what I want for myself, and I am ashamed for it. I want to be inspired. In an entry I wrote last fall, I proudly declared, "I will never live in shades of grey." So far, I think I have failed. I thank God that there is always another chance to clean the slate and start over. And if I really can choose to be inspired, as easily as I choose what new shoes to put on in the morning, I hope God will give me the strength to grasp it wholeheartedly, to soften those hard and calcified places of myself. From this day forward, I want to leave behind complacency and hurt, and never look back.
Here's to a fresh start, and to a new pair of shoes.
He first asked the question, "Why are you here, studying music, right now?"
The most generic answer is, of course, that each of us was inspired by music at least once.
He then asked us to recall the defining moment that made us decide to pursue the serious study of music. For many of my fellow students, it was a particularly mind-blowing concert, a certain person, or even a vague realization of the buildup of positive feedback.
For me, it was a single summer afternoon, when I was fifteen. I had been in choir for a few years, but it wasn't until I unexpectedly made it into Madrigals that I realized I had something of an aptitude for music and began to consider studying it and pursuing a career in it. Up until then, I was the art girl of the family, or the lawyer, or the scientist, but never the musician. It's hard, to feel like anything but the "other" daughter, when your older sister is a musical prodigy who's already been at it for years. It's hard for your mother to understand that loving music isn't just a phase, that you're just blooming later because you were so intimidated as a young child that you thought you could just put it on the back burner forever.
It's not that I don't understand why my mother told me that afternoon that she didn't think I had any chance of successfully pursuing music, while my sister did. Actually, I appreciate the fact that she's not some fawning stage-mother, convinced that her over-dressed and under-talented child is the next big Broadway sensation. And it's not that I haven't forgiven her for it -- in fact, I didn't realize, not until I found myself holding back tears in class yesterday morning, three years later, how much her words still hurt me.
I realized that everything I have done musically since then has been a reaction against that day. I genuinely love music and have a passion for pursuing it, it's true, but hurt and anger are what have really kept me going. But what's said has been said, and I've forgiven her for it. It's not about her anymore. I know she would feel terrible if she knew how much it affected me then, and how much I still think about it. That's not the point. Although the person who said those words is the reason they were so hurtful, it is the words themselves that still haunt me.
In high school, it manifested itself in my being competitive, wanting everything for myself without actually wanting it. I would get bitchy when someone else got some big part or impressive solo, how they didn't deserve it, and yet it was never about them. If you thought I was mean in high school, you're probably right. But I'm not a competitive person at all. I don't really even like performing. Fighting for roles and solos and awards was just how I tried to defend myself, as if I was in this absurd uphill battle of constantly fighting for my mother's respect, for her approval, in this part of my life that I loved so much. It was as if everything I didn't attain was one more bullet, shooting me down, proving her right, and I wanted more than anything to hear her say, "I'm proud of you," the way she said it to my sister.
The people I avoided, even deprecated, often did nothing to deserve it, and the relationships I ruined by being so rude over such little, insignificant things were just collateral damage from this petty war. And yet, the person who suffered the most damage is myself. Isn't it funny, how a pitiful lack of confidence can look like conceitedness to everyone else? And even more ironic is how I tried to convince myself through all of this that I didn't have to prove anything. I needed a major attitude adjustment, and I knew it, even then. But ah! c'est la vie.
Back to yesterday, my prof then asked us to approximate what percentage of our lives we spend feeling inspired. I thought too fast and said about half. That was a gross overestimate. I'd have to say it's more like 2%. Which leads me, of course, to wonder, why so little? I can safely say, beyond any reasonable doubt, that I love music, and that it inspires me, and that I want to be inspired in everything, all the time. I want to live my days with passion, with conviction. It is in me, and I feel it, some of the time. I think I have finally realized that the stumbling block, for me, is a weird mix of reckless ambition and lazy apathy. Perhaps it's because so far, I've been approaching my studies from the wrong perspective.
If my life as a musician has simply been a reaction against my mother's hurtful words, if everything I have done is simply to break even with the negative, how do I take myself to the next level? The hurt has propelled me this far, but how do I plunge forward into the green? Because the fact of the matter is, at this point, I am a mediocre musician. I have failed to put in the time it takes to really, really understand music, not just in my head, but with my hands. Time and time again, I have failed to dedicate myself fully to what I am doing. All too often, I have turned music into a mechanical process to master academically, as if art can be confined to rules, and at the same time discrediting those like me, such as Fux, who took a similar approach. I have taken my heart out of it. Often, I have not even followed through academically. I have gotten all the right grades, I suppose, but how much have I really benefited? I always laud and envy those musicians who commit themselves fully and put in the necessary time to get really good, and yet I fail to apply their example. I know I could be so much better than I am, but frankly, I've been lazy.
This is not, and has never been, what I want for myself, and I am ashamed for it. I want to be inspired. In an entry I wrote last fall, I proudly declared, "I will never live in shades of grey." So far, I think I have failed. I thank God that there is always another chance to clean the slate and start over. And if I really can choose to be inspired, as easily as I choose what new shoes to put on in the morning, I hope God will give me the strength to grasp it wholeheartedly, to soften those hard and calcified places of myself. From this day forward, I want to leave behind complacency and hurt, and never look back.
Here's to a fresh start, and to a new pair of shoes.
3.25.2008
ah, the days
Ah, the days! we'll twirl on our fingers
And oh, the ways! we'll spend our time
Laughing in summer
And loving in winter
And loafing about in autumn
And living for the life of the spring,
And everything in-between.
Life is our own melody
To play by ear
And make up as we go.
And oh, the ways! we'll spend our time
Laughing in summer
And loving in winter
And loafing about in autumn
And living for the life of the spring,
And everything in-between.
Life is our own melody
To play by ear
And make up as we go.
3.21.2008
a poem for love
I swallowed the sunrise and made it my own,
Lassoed it well and bundled it up
With blue paper and a matching satin ribbon
For to give it to you, with love.
I wandered once along the shore
And kicked at seashell men,
Just fine; but they were all the same,
And in the end, were lacking.
But now, o love, my greatest wish
Is simply to hear the flutt'rings of the ocean
In the graceful ebb and flow
Of the beatings of your heart.
Love, o love, we are victorious!
We have deciphered the unbreakable hieroglyphic
And taught butterflies to dance a samba.
We have conquered the cosmos,
And are now its happy king and queen.
Shall we dance on the moon?
Shall we waltz on Io? Poor thing, but
Gadflies ne'er would sting our feet,
Because we are their masters now.
I will make you pancakes on Neptune,
And we will loafe all day on Jupiter.
Perhaps we will play cards on Mercury,
And fall asleep on Venus.
I put the sunrise in your eyes,
And now I only see its light,
Only in their earth.
Lassoed it well and bundled it up
With blue paper and a matching satin ribbon
For to give it to you, with love.
I wandered once along the shore
And kicked at seashell men,
Just fine; but they were all the same,
And in the end, were lacking.
But now, o love, my greatest wish
Is simply to hear the flutt'rings of the ocean
In the graceful ebb and flow
Of the beatings of your heart.
Love, o love, we are victorious!
We have deciphered the unbreakable hieroglyphic
And taught butterflies to dance a samba.
We have conquered the cosmos,
And are now its happy king and queen.
Shall we dance on the moon?
Shall we waltz on Io? Poor thing, but
Gadflies ne'er would sting our feet,
Because we are their masters now.
I will make you pancakes on Neptune,
And we will loafe all day on Jupiter.
Perhaps we will play cards on Mercury,
And fall asleep on Venus.
I put the sunrise in your eyes,
And now I only see its light,
Only in their earth.
3.15.2008
2.17.2008
weather poem
from gentle dark will sweet morning dream
and winter weather, happy garden spring
present grey could never see or believe
to imagine flowerly green
(Composed with magnetic words.)
and winter weather, happy garden spring
present grey could never see or believe
to imagine flowerly green
(Composed with magnetic words.)
1.29.2008
living backwards II
After further reflection on the issues discussed in my last blog entry, I am feeling much better. But I realized that I have forgotten why I am studying music in the first place. So I am going back to the roots. I am making a point of setting aside time just to listen to music, all kinds of music, from everywhere, tens of genres, hundreds of composers. The library is my new residence.
It's sad because I didn't even realize how much is down here in the library basement. Ironically enough it was Dr. Zelle who showed me how to find my way around. The same one whose simple statement so deeply troubled me has now also introduced the cure.
Did you know we have photocopies of (to name a few) Beethoven's and Bach's and Mozart's original scores? Whole symphonies written out in their own hand. The passions, the sounds, written out there in front of you by the mind in which they were born.
I am remembering why I love this. It is like medicine for the soul.
It's sad because I didn't even realize how much is down here in the library basement. Ironically enough it was Dr. Zelle who showed me how to find my way around. The same one whose simple statement so deeply troubled me has now also introduced the cure.
Did you know we have photocopies of (to name a few) Beethoven's and Bach's and Mozart's original scores? Whole symphonies written out in their own hand. The passions, the sounds, written out there in front of you by the mind in which they were born.
I am remembering why I love this. It is like medicine for the soul.
1.27.2008
living backwards
It was a typical morning in piano class with one of the most eccentric professors you will ever meet. That is to say, I thought it was a typical morning until he said something very profound between the bits of his usual, vaguely philosophical musings. He stopped us as we practiced our B minor scales, stepped up to the board and simply said,
"Until you love yourself, you will never master music."
And it was then that I realized that I am living backwards. Here I am, eighteen years old, capable of understanding/explaining/doing things that most people don't even know the name of, studying music at a good school with professors that like me, and yet, I am constantly feeling sadly inadequate. No matter how good I get at something, there is always something else I could learn or improve. I feel that I won't be satisfied with myself, and definitely won't be able to love myself, until I reach a certain level of ability. I ignore the fact that the level I strive for is constantly changing and becoming more difficult to attain, and thus the end result is that I constantly hate myself.
I want to reach "that level" of mastery so that I can love myself. But I have forgotten -- or perhaps, never been aware at all -- that in order to reach that level, I must love myself first. I've had this attitude of self-hatred for a long time, I admit. I just don't approve of myself as-is. But up until now, my self-depreciation was a source of motivation for me to achieve higher and improve more. When I think back upon myself as a musician ... ah! It really is incredible how much has happened just in these past few years. I went from being only a casually interested singer to being the only soprano in my entire school district to make the All-State choir. I went from not knowing what a tritone or a triplet was -- and that was just two years ago! -- to being a girl who walks around solfeging whole-tone scales in her head and analyzing Bach chorales in her sleep.
And yet it all happened because I hated myself, and I was willing to work hard to stop hating myself. I thought it was a constructive hatred. Only now am I realizing that inside, I am falling apart.
This morning in church, Pastor Hong reminded me of something that I think I need to remind myself constantly from now on:
"'You don't have to prove anything,' says God. 'You are My child, and so you are already all you ever need to be.'"
I wanted to cry when he said this. It's not like I hadn't heard it before. But it was something of which I really, really needed to be reminded. In my head, I am convinced. But for my heart, I will need time to heal.
"Until you love yourself, you will never master music."
And it was then that I realized that I am living backwards. Here I am, eighteen years old, capable of understanding/explaining/doing things that most people don't even know the name of, studying music at a good school with professors that like me, and yet, I am constantly feeling sadly inadequate. No matter how good I get at something, there is always something else I could learn or improve. I feel that I won't be satisfied with myself, and definitely won't be able to love myself, until I reach a certain level of ability. I ignore the fact that the level I strive for is constantly changing and becoming more difficult to attain, and thus the end result is that I constantly hate myself.
I want to reach "that level" of mastery so that I can love myself. But I have forgotten -- or perhaps, never been aware at all -- that in order to reach that level, I must love myself first. I've had this attitude of self-hatred for a long time, I admit. I just don't approve of myself as-is. But up until now, my self-depreciation was a source of motivation for me to achieve higher and improve more. When I think back upon myself as a musician ... ah! It really is incredible how much has happened just in these past few years. I went from being only a casually interested singer to being the only soprano in my entire school district to make the All-State choir. I went from not knowing what a tritone or a triplet was -- and that was just two years ago! -- to being a girl who walks around solfeging whole-tone scales in her head and analyzing Bach chorales in her sleep.
And yet it all happened because I hated myself, and I was willing to work hard to stop hating myself. I thought it was a constructive hatred. Only now am I realizing that inside, I am falling apart.
This morning in church, Pastor Hong reminded me of something that I think I need to remind myself constantly from now on:
"'You don't have to prove anything,' says God. 'You are My child, and so you are already all you ever need to be.'"
I wanted to cry when he said this. It's not like I hadn't heard it before. But it was something of which I really, really needed to be reminded. In my head, I am convinced. But for my heart, I will need time to heal.
1.08.2008
meditations
regardez-moi, monsieur plus beau
that i might look in your exquisite eyes.
a perfect day is nothing more than
to think on you and smile within
and sing my french soul's quiet song:
je vous regarde avec un amour comme une montagne.
that i might look in your exquisite eyes.
a perfect day is nothing more than
to think on you and smile within
and sing my french soul's quiet song:
je vous regarde avec un amour comme une montagne.
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