Prose
Showing posts with label Prose. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Prose. Show all posts
Friday, October 28, 2011
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Mary Alice Riley
[2006]
The audience bursts into
applause as the last notes of a Haydn sonata resonates through the air. At age fourteen, I had just completed my
first solo piano recital, and it felt amazing.
Five years later at the University of Michigan, that same feeling swept
over me as I signed a contract for my first steady music gig as a pianist for
an Ann Arbor restaurant. Music has
always been the most important aspect of my life, from piano lessons and harp
lessons to summer camps and music schools.
A few weeks ago I declared myself a music major within the school of
Literature, Science and Arts (not the School of Music) with a concentration in
musicology. Innumerable factors were
involved in this decision, including my family, one of my past music teachers,
and the year I spent at the Baltimore School for the Arts.
My
family is extremely musical. My
grandfather gave me my first piano lessons when I was five years old, and my
mother continued to teach me until a private instructor took over when I was
about seven. I grew up in a house full
of music; both my sister and brother took piano lessons in addition to playing
the clarinet and trumpet, respectively.
Christmas always brought family recitals, with all eight cousins on my
mother’s side playing piano and various other instruments. Both of my mother’s sisters play the piano,
and my eldest aunt owns not one, but two Steinway pianos. My grandparents always used to tell me
stories of my great-great Aunt Gladys, who traveled the country as a successful
concert pianist. She studied the piano
with a man named Oliver Denton, who studied with Theodore Leschetizky, who
studied with Carl Czerny, who studied with Ludwig van Beethoven. And while I never actually received musical
instruction from my great-great aunt (the only memory I have of her is a
100-year old woman in her deathbed), I still like to think of myself as
genetically inclined to be a musician.
And it is because of my parents’ never-ending support and encouragement
that my love for music has been able to grow and develop throughout the
years. They drove me to music lessons
two or three times a week (sometimes up to thirty minutes away, insisting on
nothing but the best for my education), paid for those lessons, attended music
recitals, rehearsals, and auditions, and hauled a full-size concert harp around
to performances and gigs.
My first influential piano
teacher was Mary-Alice Riley. She sensed
my musical abilities from my first lesson, and relentlessly pushed me to my
musical extremes. Soon she was entering
me in National Piano Playing Auditions, on top of seasonal studio
recitals. The auditions required that I
memorize ten compositions, including the mastering of sight-reading, ear
training, and scales. When the National
Auditions were accomplished with superior markings and I had barely broken a
sweat, Mrs. Riley moved me to the International Auditions without hesitation. She employed what I now refer to as
paper-clip madness. She marked pieces
that she wanted me to learn by paper clipping pages in music books. After I had learned the piece and played it
to her satisfaction, she would record the name of the composition, remove the
paper clip, and drop the music book to the floor. We dropped music books at such a prolific
rate that soon I was memorizing not ten, but twenty compositions for the
International Auditions. I achieved
superior-plus ratings, even at the International level, at age ten. But it was because of Mrs. Riley that I even
entered the auditions at all, and my biggest advancements in musical ability
took place during my years with Mrs. Riley.
It
was also Mrs. Riley that brought the harp into my life. One summer, while my older brother and sister
were away at camp, I was left at home with my piano lessons, still too young to
go to camp. Mrs. Riley was also a
harpist, and a magnificent gold-trimmed harp sat in her living room. Like any child, I was enthralled by the
gigantic instrument, and one day after a lesson mustered up the courage to ask
her about it. She carefully sat me down
and pulled the harp back to my shoulder, explaining the basics of the string
placement. There I was, this tiny little
girl with a giant harp resting on my shoulder, and low and behold, I had a
knack for playing it. I picked up on
playing the harp so quickly that by the end of that lesson Mrs. Riley had sent
me home with a twelve-string lap harp, perfect for my short arms and small
body. My parents, sympathetic that I
couldn’t attend camp with my siblings and enthusiastic for my musical
development, allowed me to take harp lessons with Mrs. Riley, adding more
practice time and another weekly lesson to my schedule. Before I knew it, I had fallen in love with another
musical instrument. Mrs. Riley provided
a solid foundation for my musical education.
She taught me how to disciple myself by practicing, and emphasized the
importance of mastering the techniques
of an art before mastering the actual notes.
I would not be the musician I am today without Mrs. Riley, and while she
moved to Florida when I was about twelve, the things I accomplished while
studying with her gave me the confidence I needed to continue my music studies
with other teachers.
During
my sophomore year in high school, my aunt encouraged me to audition for the
Baltimore School for the Arts (BSA), one of the top five public music high
schools in the country. I sent in an
audition tape, was accepted, and in August of my junior year moved to
Lutherville, Maryland to live with my aunt and her family and attend BSA. At seventeen years old, I was only just
starting to think about my future. I
knew that attending a music school would help me determine whether or not I
wanted to study music for the rest of my life.
BSA gave me an excellent preview of what college would be like as a
music major. All of the students were
very serious about music, practicing hours a day. For the first time in my life, I was
surrounded by young people who had just as much talent and drive as I did. The school featured musicians, artists,
dancers, and actors, and the artistic environment was unlike anything I’d ever
experienced. No longer was I the star of
the community, praised in local newspapers and admired by all of my parents’
friends. At BSA I was just as talented
as everyone else, and the people sitting next to me in math class practiced
just as many hours as I did, if not more.
We performed for each other in weekly recitals, and simply hearing my
peers play one of Beethoven’s hardest concertos motivated me to practice even
more hours than before. I was working
with the best teachers and the best students, constantly striving to be better. But BSA also showed me what I didn’t want to be: a professional
performer. The competitive nature of
professionally studying music stripped some of the joys of music from me. My piano teacher insisted that I play musical
compositions as he saw fit, the way he or other professional pianists presumed the composer intended it to be
played. We disagreed often on
expressional matters, but he was the teacher, and my academic grade and GPA was
contingent on playing to his satisfaction.
So I played according to his interpretations. Soon I wasn’t really expressing myself
through music as I always had; rather, I was expressing my teacher’s sentiments about compositions. Music was no longer fun for me, and I
realized that in the professional world, music isn’t simply about
expression. I was practicing four or more
hours a day just to keep up with the rest of my class. I wasn’t playing the way I wanted to play,
and my social life was practically nonexistent.
By the end of the school year, I was sick of practicing, sick of my
teacher, and ready to go home to a normal public high school.
However, my love for music
returned during my senior year. Stripped
from the professional environment of BSA and working with my previous music
teachers, I was once again able to perform compositions the way I saw fit, and
truly express myself musically. BSA had
taught me that while I loved music more than anything, music performance was
not a career I wanted to pursue; I wanted music to be a part of my future, but
in a non-professional way. Being a music major outside the School of
Music allows me to study music without the strenuous practice schedule and the
expressional limitations that professional musicians demand. I’m now doing everything I love: taking casual piano and harp lessons from
graduate students, studying the history of music (musicology), music theory,
and music technology. My family, Mrs.
Riley, and Baltimore School for the Arts were all parts of my life that helped
me to determine my major in college. And
while I’m still unsure as to exactly what I want to do after graduation, I know
that music will always be a part of my life.
I Am Man
20 November 2006
My speaker is from “Portrait of an old man” by Leonardo DaVinci. It comes from the book The Art of DaVinci by Douglas Mannering. It came from my mother-the-art-teacher’s personal art book collection; however, upon research I have discovered that it is no longer in print (copyright 1981 by Hamlyn Publishing Group Limited). But if you would like to view a replica of this painting it is Figure 3 on this website (not to be confused with Leonardo’s recently found self-portrait that the website features). The caption depicts “Portrait of an old man” to be Leonardo’s father, Ser Piero da Vinci, or uncle Francesco da Vinci. But I was not aware of the historical context of the painting when I wrote the piece, so pay no attention to whatever Davinci’s supposed motivations for the portrait were. In other words, I wrote the prose based only on what I saw.
I
Am Man
I am man.
I have seen the horrors of the world and I look sternly upon those that
will follow in my footsteps. I know
about the terrors of war and the violence that mankind insists on instilling
upon each other for petty things: land, wealth, power. I see before me generations of violence and
tyranny to come. My children’s children
will see what I have seen in my many years, but I wish for them otherwise. I wish for them to ignore the ridiculousness
of politics. I have been pulled back and
forth for the sake of such things, and why I cannot say, but I refused to
acquiesce to such absurd notions. Issues
of legality have torn apart family relations, and I regret disputing over such
irrelevant matters. People have preached
to me of religions, of Christianity, Judaism…but I believe none of it. The idea of divine gods affecting a man’s
life, a man’s actions, and a man’s fate, is absurd. I refuse to worship such gods
and accept such philosophies as the truth.
The riddles of nature and the complexities of the human body—those are
issues worth investigating. The
conundrums of nature are intriguing, indeed, and anatomy and science are the
most valuable things a man can study and strive to assimilate into the joys of
life, love, and knowledge. Mathematics,
the human body, nature. These are the
things that man must read about. Art,
music, culture. It is in these subjects
that true importance lies. I have loved,
and I have been loved. I have been
titled princely by some, and ridiculed by others. But who are you to judge me? I am what I am, and I have seen enough of
this world to know that it is every man is for himself. Nothing can affect my goals and affections of
this life. I am old, and my wrinkles
are representative of the struggles that I have been through, the struggles
that I have seen others go through, and the struggles that I know are to come
when I die. Ah, death. It is not exempt
from my stern gaze, but I know it will overtake me soon enough. Death sees my wrinkles, and my long, unkempt
gray hair. Death sees my weariness,
sees what my eyes pessimistically see in the world before me. My eyes see black, and my eyes see
white. There is good in this world, and
there is evil. There is good, yet still
I frown. I frown for the suffering, and
I frown for the war, and I frown for my children’s children. My brows are thick and scolding, for I see in
man’s future a future of war, violence, and terror; I fear for the generations
to come, for the horrors that man is capable of. Yet, I am man.
Reaction: my first poetry reading
[University of Michigan, 2007]
The Musicality of Michelle
She uses words
as vessels of containment, he says. She
creates the pleasure of sound as a feeling, not as a sense. Then again, it’s not nonsense, either, now is
it? It simply is, what it does.
As
Michelle Noteboom was introduced to the small audience crowding the back of
Shannon Drum Bookstore on Monday, my anticipation for the poetry reading
increased. It was my very first reading,
and I had no idea what to expect. I felt
somewhat out of place, sitting in the back row in jeans and a hoodie, my
Moleskin and pencil in hand. I kept
wishing I had worn a beret, or at least made a pit-stop at Starbucks. I wished I needed glasses, or at least
needed fake glasses, so I could look at the world through a discerning writer’s
eye. I wanted to look artistic and
creative like the people around me. I
wanted to look how I felt.
A
graduate from the University of Michigan, Michelle is currently working as a
translator of French poetry in Paris, said the introducer. My heart swelled a bit when I discovered the
latter; I was first proud that my
school had turned out a poet that was actually published, and it also gave me
hope that if I wanted to, I might accomplish the same.
Michelle began
by reading from her first published collection, titled Edging. After a long pause,
she took a deep breathe and dove in. It
was unlike anything I’d ever experienced before. My initial impression was that she was
falling into the usual rising and falling tone that many poets employ when
reading their poetry. She wasn’t exactly
monotonous, but she wasn’t extremely emotional, either. She certainly tended to stress each-and-ev-er-y
syllable, of each-and-ev-er-y- word. Up
and down went her voice, ending each line as if ask-ing-a-ques-tion? During the first poem, I was so busy
listening to the sound of her voice and getting used to the pitches of her
phrases that I didn’t follow the actual meaning of her poetry or even listen to
the points she was trying to make. When
her first poem was finished, I was left wondering what the hell it was
about.
But the thing
is, I didn’t mind that I had no clue what she was talking about, or that her
vocabulary was sometimes beyond my comprehension. In fact, the words emitting from her mouth
seemed to be completely random, as if she had opened up a dictionary and
extracted the largest words she could find, then connected them with prepositions
and conjunctions. After a while I simply
let myself go to the rhythm of her voice, and it didn’t even matter what she
was saying. She could have been speaking
a foreign language, and I would have been content to simply listen to the music
of Michelle.
Next,
she read another poem from Edging titled
“The Edge 5.” She talked of a visual
triptych and moist pebbles, and I again struggled to follow the themes she was
conveying.
But again, it didn’t even matter.
I hadn’t really expected to understand all the poetry when I went to my
first reading, so I continued to listen and prayed that
soon the words would shrink syllabically
and that the tone would lighten up a bit.
(My prayers were soon answered.)
In
between poems, there was no clapping. Is
this normal? I wondered. Aren’t we
supposed to snap or something? The
silences weren’t awkward, but as she turned the pages of her book to find the
next poem she would read, I found myself wanting to encourage her. I love your work! I wanted to shout. Keep going; I want more! I wondered if she wondered how we liked her poems. Was it hard for her to go on without the
audience’s approval?
She
told us she would read a villanelle, and explained to her listeners what a
villanelle is (a nineteen line poem with the first and third lines of the first
stanza repeated throughout). I’d never heard of a villanelle before, and
thought to myself that I might try one soon.
Sounds like fun.
Her
eye contact was always amazing. She was
consistently locking her eyes with mine, as if she was communicating her words,
her thoughts, her poetry, right into me.
Just to me. It was hard to unlock my eyes from hers. I felt as if looking away would break the
connection we had, and I didn’t want to lose it, whatever “it” was. Her poetry was like music, and I was
enthralled, addicted. Half of the time I
wasn’t even comprehending the words that she was saying. Just the rhythm of her voice, the rise and
fall of her words, had me spellbound.
Her words were melodious, and I was perfectly content just to listen to
the sound of her words. When the meaning of her words finally began
to reach me toward the end of the reading, the experience was
indescribable. It was like going to the
opera and having the members of the troupe sing at only me. I felt isolated and connected at the same
time, and while she made eye contact with everyone in the room, she and I
seemed to be the only people there.
Before reading a
lot of her poems, Michelle explained some of the background behind her
work. For example, she explained to us
that one of her poems was based on “The Illustrated Man,” a man whose entire
body was covered in tattoos. The illustrations
on his body revealed the future of the person who was looking at him. This was the first poem that I believe I
truly understood: “…a crystal ball
inscribed in the flesh,” she read.
Michelle then
read a series of poems from her most recent work. She explained that her new poetry was
different from Edging because of the
shift from serious themes such as disease and skin to more humorous works.
“Road kill,” one
of her new poems, was one of the best poems I’ve ever heard. It was funny, extremely original, and at the
same time thought provoking and inspiring.
She referenced John Baldessari’s popular “I am making art,” theme, and
repeated the words “I am making poetry.” It was long, but I enjoyed every
single word. She used the poets on
poetry motif, as I saw in the movie from class, by emphasizing the point that
she was creating poetry. “If I ever read
this poem in a reading,” she read, “then I am reading a poem. I am reading a poem, I am reading a
poem.” Everyone laughed, but without
hesitation she went into an in-depth discussion of road kill. “Road kill is postmodern,” she said. “Road kill is fun.” She reminded us that the word road kill is fun, not road kill
itself.
“If you don’t like this poem,” she said, “then you can suck an egg. Fuck a duck!”
I was smiling throughout the entire piece. “George Bush equals road kill,” she stated,
and if there was anyone not listening to
her before (which I doubt) they were surely interested now. “George Bush is about to be squashed. Flattened.
George Bush is road
kill.
Poems don’t make road kill.” It
was incredible. Michelle Noteboom is an
incredible poetess, and I loved her work, especially the reading of her work. I spoke
with her briefly after the reading, and she thanked me for coming.
My first
experience at a poetry reading was everything I always thought it could be, and
more. I left feeling inspired to write,
inspired to read (specifically her book!) and inspired to strive for the
unordinary. I’m not sure if every poetry
reading I attend will be as enjoyable as my first, but I know now what every poet
should strive for in a reading: the
originality and musicality of the
works of Michelle Noteboom.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Rollercoaster
[2005 - looks better when properly formatted]
Rollercoaster
You let
you go
you let go
then
of
and
your
thing hold
and every You
everyone let
go
above of your
higher hold on
high me
and
together I
fell
escalated down
we down
and
alone
my feet
afraid
me off afraid
swept of
heights
When I met you I was stable then you forever my feet
Both feet firmly on the ground. Then aregluedtotheground
5/29/05
Untitled
[2005]
She spells passion with an F# minor chord. Her fingers barely touch the keys as she
walks across her sea of black and white, listless, weightless. She defines life with a Beethoven sonata,
today. Confusing, elusive,
modulations. Yesterday was a Bach day. Orderly, organized, and right on track. She likes Bach days the best.
She sits down with her best friend of twelve
years. Patient, faithful, yet always
willing to put up a fight, her piano glistens in mahogany beauty as the early
morning sun rises gently through the open window. She sits for a moment with her friend, thinking. The silence rings in her ears, and the sound
is deafening.
Finally, she dives in, head first. The etude is a perfect ten, and there’s no
going back now. The adventure has begun.
Suddenly she finds herself lost in her world. A world where no one can touch her, where she makes all the decisions for once,
and what she says, goes. Suddenly she’s free, and she loves it.
She’s flying now.
Soaring from cloud to cloud, measure to measure, dodging thunderbolts of
awkward fingerings and two against threes.
She spells passion with an F# minor chord. Brahms is her hero, and Mozart is her
personal psychiatrist. All she wants to
do is play, and fly forever is her fantasy world of music.
Tomatoes and Japs
[University of Michigan, 2006]
Tomatoes and JAPs
Alone at a table
The empty chair across from me stares.
The tomato from my sandwich tossed aside,
unwanted.
I wish I liked tomatoes.
“Three ninety-five,” the cashier behind me
says.
When did a meal get so cheap?
No wonder America is fat.
Burger, fries, soda
Or one loaf of bread?
The table wobbles restlessly
Like my unsteady thoughts
Teeter-tottering back
And forth, indecisive.
“F of x equals y cubed divided by two,” one
table says.
“1943,” says another.
“The social implications are obvious.”
“But Natasha’s character flaw is her perfection.”
“Number two is false.”
All the right answers to all the wrong
questions
The chair is still empty and
I get up to leave.
But I suddenly am glued to my seat
As a group of JAPS walk by.
I can’t help myself, intrigued
I study the species intently.
Tight exercise pants and side ponytails
“Like, oh…my God…”
Jewish American Princess, you amuse me from
my chair
Sororities and café lattés
Walking in herds, you terrify small
children
Chattering at high speeds
In high pitches, like a flock of birds
Oh, those UGs that you don
On a daily basis, displaying
Your wealth, your princess-like status
Through your big bug-eyed sunglasses
You see the world and the world
Sees you, precious JAP
O precious princess of popped collars
And pearl earrings, plastic is what you
are.
Just swipe daddy’s credit card, darling JAP
Your innocence dwells in his eyes alone.
Saturday, October 1, 2011
Clipped
[2005]
Clipped
Clipped
My wings are disabled from flight
I stumble around, desperate, clumsy
The earth hot coals to my exposed bare
feet
Building myself up for false
Take offs and failed fluttering
My feet remain on the ground but
I yearn for the clouds
Caged
I see the world through iron bars
Experience, reality, distorted
Trapped in a universe where people
Are just people and things
Are just things
I pull at the bars futilely
Emancipation just on the other side
5/24/05
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Follow Up to The Saddest Thing I've Ever Written
Being alone means not having anyone to call when your flight
gets delayed. It means not knowing who to list as an emergency contact. Being
alone means quiet Saturday nights, with Foxtel and fluffy pillows. Being alone
is being at peace.
Independence is making your way around the city. It’s
getting to where you need to go, when you need to get there, on your own.
Independence is paying all of your bills and student loans.
Being alone is going to the movies by yourself, and buying
yourself a beer. Being alone is drinking alone.
Independence is knowing what you want, and going for
it—despite what others think. It’s being in a foreign country, with no family
or friends, with a support circle that begins and ends with you. Independence
is toughening the fuck up.
Being alone is not knowing where you’ll spend Christmas, or if
anyone will call on your birthday. It’s having a few select people on your
“people I trust” list, and knowing that no matter what, you can count on them.
Being alone is accepting your list.
Independence is setting goals for yourself, and being
selfish enough to allow yourself the capacity to achieve them. Independence is
hours upon hours of “me” time, and appreciating every moment. Independence is
bliss.
Being alone is a glass of white wine, a terrible movie and a
really, really big couch. Being alone is sometimes, but not always, lonely.
Independence is believing in yourself. It’s knowing that
once you figure out what you want to do, all you have to do is do it.
Independence is worth it.
Friday, July 15, 2011
The Saddest Thing I've Ever Written
Being alone is not having someone to call when your flight
gets delayed. Noone is worrying that my plane will land safely on this chilly
July Thursday. If it were to burst into flames between Melbourne and Sydney,
who would Virgin Airlines notify? Seriously, how would that go down? Nowhere on
my body or belongings is there an “if found, please return to…” sticker. While
other passengers’ spouses, mothers, sisters or boyfriends eagerly anticipated
the plane’s arrival, they’d soon learn of the disaster from the radio of their
heat-filled cars, patiently parked at airport grounds. Or waiting at home, as
hours passed and no signs of their loved ones could be found, they’d soon
discover that calamity had struck. One by one, every passenger would be
accounted for as the airline ensured that family members were appropriately
notified. One by one, each name on the list would get crossed off until one
lonely American girl remained. Who is she? Why has noone claimed her? Who do we
call? Who do we tell? The girl has no family in the country, and noone to call
her own. How long will her name remain without a line through it? How long
until someone is called? Who are they
going to call? Will her boss be the first to know? These are the thoughts of a
lonely person.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
drugs and promiscuous sex, I am a yes [March 2006]
[drugs and promiscuous sex, I am a yes]
Almost Famous (2000, Cameron Crowe, dir.)
drugs and promiscuous sex. i am a yes
person living in a no environment
rebelling against knowledge. she glares
angrily at her mother: feck you
and the mother is appalled but she lets her daughter
go because “you’re 18” and “I can’t stop you.”
if only it had been that easy
true music chooses you. you cannot
make friends with the rock stars. An industry of
cool is what it is, he explains, taking a drag
shaking his head but its too late because the
kid is already swept up: i don’t think anyone
can really explain rock and roll. it’s a voice
that says here i am; rock and roll can save
the world. the buzz, the fucking buzz
says the rock star, and the kid soaks up every
word. “i am a golden god” and the kid saves the rock star, saves
just another rock star on drugs jumping from a roof.
a bus-full of rock stars. they sing Elton John, united
and the kid is deflowered: what am I
to you? what am I to you? he wonders
in a moment of realization, and contemplates
having only friends that are famous.
Great art is about conflict and pain and guilt and
longing and love disguised and sex and sex
disguised as love and he is uncool.
he will never be cool
will never be cool
Thursday, September 9, 2010
The Benefits of Music Education :)
Benefits of Music Education
- Music makes you smarter: studies have shown that children with musical training display:
o Larger brain responses
o Enhanced levels of memory and attention
o Better motor and auditory skills
o Improvements in verbal ability and nonverbal reasoning
o The acoustic responsiveness of a child 2-3 years older.[1]
- Self expression and the opportunity to create and compose
- Develops fine motor skills
- Enhances capabilities of memory
- Improved communication
- Team building and social interaction in group lessons
- Coordination of the eye, hand, ear, voice, heart, mind and soul
- Lifelong skill
- Sustained effort: it only pays off with practice and discipline
- Develops the brain in areas of language and reasoning
- Distinct link between music and spatial intelligence
- Math skills: when children learn rhythm, they are learning ratios, fractions, and proportions
- Encourages creative thinking when solving problems
- Cultural understanding
- Patience and perseverance
- Performing in public reduces anxiety, boosts self esteem and gives a sense of achievement
- PLAYING MUSIC IS FUN!!
A study conducted by researchers at the University of Wisconsin and the University of California showed that when 3-4 year old children were given music lessons over a 6-month period, they performed 34% better in IQ tests. 789 children from diverse social and economic backgrounds were tested.[2]
Another US study tested preschool children who were given weekly keyboard instruction. The musical group had increased spatial reasoning abilities by an average of 46%. Spatial reasoning—the ability to mentally visualise shapes, objects or ideas and their relationships—is essential to carrying out mental tasks in maths and science. The study is a strong indicator that music education at an early age affects all areas of learning. [3]
[1] “Music Lessons Boost Brain Power.” Inside Science News Service. 6 November, 2009.
<http://www.foxnews.com/scitech/2009/11/06/music-lessons-boost-brain- power/>
[2] “Ciares, Jovanka and Borgese, Paul. “The Benefits of Music on Child
Development.” Special Reports. 2010.
[3] Saul, Robert. “Today’s music lesson, tomorrow’s genius.” Benefits of Music. 2004.
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