Handel's "Messiah" and a Night of Odd Dreams

So, I had been looking forward to last night for a week and a half; it was the opening night of the Winston-Salem Symphony's performance of Handel's "Messiah." My friend Saoirse's grandfather is in the symphony, and as a result, we were able to make use of free tickets that he is given for certain performances. After school, I walked home, dawdled for several hours (as we haven't been assigned much homework in this blessed week before Christmas vacation), observed the roasting chicken that my dad had put into the slow cooker, and played around with an online translator. Then, my dad came home earlier than I thought he would, and around 6:00 ish, we got a call (after some technical, phone-related difficulty) from Saoirse about the traveling arrangements; it was decided that, as her mother was headed in the direction of the church to buy some things anyway, she would come pick my dad and I up around 7:00 and drive us over to the church where the concert would be performed, Centenary United Methodist Church, which is on Fifth Street near the library. Then, I scrambled to prepare, putting on my nicest concert dress with the gray half-sweater over it. I reapplied my makeup and even decided to wear some scent.
Soon, Saoirse, her mom, and her baby sister pulled up outside of our house. We got into the car, drove over to the church, and fought through the crowds to the entrance (we ended up having to consult two different "box office" tables to find the reserved tickets). The architecture of the church's interior was stunning (I can't really communicate it better than this). The Sanctuary had one main aisle, with long pews on either side; we were assigned to the right side of Row 6, which was one of the best rows to be had. From my specific spot, I had a clear view of the raised conducting platform, the choir, and the two choral soloists who performed on our side of the room: the tenor (who was my favorite) and the mezzo-soprano. We settled in our seats, conversing, as the musicians (who were, sadly, unable to be seen, as they were basically on the same level as us) tuned their instruments.
Then a hush fell over the room as the tuning stopped, and a great moment of suspense preceded first the entrance of the choral soloists, then of the director himself. We applauded, and the "Sinfonia" section of the "Messiah" began without any further introductory words.
Wow. The first part passed, which wasn't even my favorite part, and I was still amazed by the Handel's ability to come up with even that long of a piece to celebrate his religion; it was odd, but I had the feeling, as I was watching, that the only choral singer who truly felt what he/she was singing, felt more than the pure musical value, was the soprano, who was my dad's least favorite. At a few moments, when I was able to sneak a glance around the heads of the people in front of me, I could see her face, and she was almost tearful. Also, as far as passion and stage presence goes, the conducting was fun to watch as well.
After the second part, there was a "pause," during which the choral soloists and the conductor left the stage for a very brief time; when they came back, I expected that everyone would clap as they did with their appearance after the intermission; alas, they did not. I started to clap, stopped myself just in time, and laughed for no particular reason. Well, for some reason, this amused Saoirse as well, and it happened that everyone seemed to become silent as we were fighting to overcome our amusement; my dad informed me that, yes, people were staring at us. I felt sort of guilty after that, and I hope that the musicians/choral performers/director know that I was not laughing at them, but at my own stupidity.
So, the end of the performance came, and Saoirse's grandfather left with the other musicians before I could be introduced to him. Saoirse's mom drove us back home, we thanked them, went inside, ate our dinner, showered, and finally, around midnight, retired.
Last night, I had these two really weird dreams that I awoke from feeling inordinately stressed out.
In the first dream, my dad, Saoirse, and I were again attending the concert. However, it was earlier in the day, and when we first arrived outside of the church, we were barely able to find a spot to park because about every available space was taken up by these white activity buses, from which poured a multitude of women, mainly in their early twenties. Because of this invasion, we were barely able to make it inside of the building, let alone squeeze into the Sanctuary, where we were forced to stand, still not able to see over the heads of all the women.
The next day, in the dream, I read an article in the newspaper about the event, written by a woman who had "attended the national event (herself)." She wrote about the mobs of women who had migrated from all parts of the country, and even from other parts of the world, simply to look at the music director. The journalist was from San Francisco, and had allegedly traveled a whole week on an activity bus just to be present at this event. When I woke up, I felt cheated, and irritated with the women from other states; North Carolina should be allowed a few secrets and treasures to keep to itself, in my subconscious's opinion.
So, the next dream was not quite as detailed; I remember that I was at a creative writing club meeting. I remember seeing Chloe, Molly, Max, and Walker in this dream, gathered together in the center of Ms. Fitzgerald's room when I first walked in. We sat, as usual, on either side of the room in the desks provided, listening to various authors who took the floor to read of their poetry or prose, just as we usually do; then, at the end, we were trying to decide what activity we should do. Somehow, we came to an agreement that a productive activity would involve the collaborative creation of a poem; however, instead of recording our thoughts on paper, someone suggested that we write the lines of the poem on the bare soles of each other's feet. We retrieved pens from the back of the room and sat in a circle, reaching across every now and then to write an idea on the bottom of someone's foot. It was in the middle of this process that I woke up; thankfully, we did not do any of this at the creative writing club meeting today : )

Medicine Dream

So, last night, I had another weird dream; it's the first time that I have been able to remember a dream since last week, when I had memorable dreams almost every night. In the dream, the marching band had to play for some sort of awards ceremony for outstanding student achievement in physical education classes. I remembered thinking in the dream that people like Terry and Chandler were probably going to be there, the valedictorians of athletic awards. The building in which the ceremony was located was on Fifth Street, close to where the library would be in real life. The main hall of the building was huge, with a long aisle down which the marching band and the recipients of the athletic awards would march. We, the marching band, prepared to make the long march down the aisle to the podium, putting on our uniforms and scrambling to our places in line. All of the boys wore their usual uniforms, while the girls wore old-fashioned wedding dresses. I stood in my usual spot, in front of the snares and behind the quads, clutching the cymbals, when I heard a minor argument taking place somewhere to our left. I looked over to behold the stereotype of scientists, in white lab coats, gloves, and translucent goggles. They were huddled together, speaking in low, anxious tones. Since we had about five minutes to spare, I decided that I would approach and ask what the problem was. I walked over and noticed that the wiry-framed scientist who seemed to be the leader of the group was clutching a beaker that was half-filled with a cloudy green substance that was frothing slightly.

"Sodium did not work." one of the other scientists said.

"I think I realized that, thank you," the leader scientist snapped, "But we need to find something that will perfect this medicine. That boy needs it before he marches down the aisle." He pointed at a tall, athletic blond boy who sat on a bench near the entrance, grimacing with pain as he clutched his ankle.

"What's wrong with him?" I asked.

One of the younger scientists turned to me. "He's got a sprained ankle." she said.

While the scientists quarreled some more, I pulled from nowhere the periodic table that just happened to exist at that moment. I searched for sodium on the poster, and when I found it, I looked at the elements above and below it, in the same family. I picked the one on the very bottom, figuring (with the small amount of chemistry knowledge that I possess) that the bottom element would be the most potent, while still having the same amount of valence electrons (I don't remember which element it was).

Returning to the group of scientists with the poster, I asked them, "Have you guys tried this element yet?" I presented my argument for its validity. The scientists were impressed, and shocked.

"Of course!" said the leader. "How could we not have thought of this element? Eric, lets get a sample of it to test in the medicine." Eric, a small, blond man, pulled a capped tube from his pocket, uncorked it, and tipped it over the beaker. The solution inside immediately became a warm, red color. The scientists whooped.

"This is it!" said the leader, clapping Eric on the back. "This is definitely the cure for a sprained ankle. Hey, kid! Come over here - drink this!" The boy sitting on the bench hobbled over to the group of scientists, drank the solution, gingerly put his weight on his previously-injured foot, and grinned when he did not feel pain. The scientists broke into another chorus of celebration.

Just then, the ceremony began, and I had to sprint to make it back into my place in the line. As we slowly marched up the aisle, I could hear a faceless man who stood at the podium up front announce the names of all the Reynolds students who had exceeded athletic expectations that year.

"Also," he said towards the end of his announcements, as we came closer to the front of the room. "We'd like to acknowledge a student who has made a great contribution to modern medicine on this day, Robyn Witt, the co-creator of the cure for sprained ankles!"

The room exploded. Everyone applauded and whooped for my accomplishment. I felt quite proud of myself in that moment. It was about here that I woke up.

Updates and Tigers

So, as far as updates go, this week has been eventful; our band concert was tonight, and we epicly failed, if I might say so myself. It wasn't too terrible until "Sleigh Ride," but it was such a poor ending that Mr. James had us repeat the final measure once the band had finished so that the sections could actually end together (the whip crack was delayed and this screwed the entire band up). "An American Elegy" went better than I expected; Banks climed up to the balcony to deliver his solo, and he and the band stayed together when the rest of the woodwinds came back in for the second half of his solo. Overall, it was a fun night. Everyone, even Mr. James, laughed at the end of "Sleigh Ride" because it was such a failure.
This week has been fairly eventful; we've finished reading Fahrenheit 451 in English, and now we've moved to The Odyssey, which is proving to be an interesting read. We also switched Seminar in the Arts classes today; I've just left Mr. Hurst's visual arts class and I am now in Dance and Kinesthetic movement; next, we'll have Mr. Freedman for Cultural Languages, and finally, what I've looked forward to most, Ms. Fitzgerald's Creative Writing Class.
Speaking of creative writing, Reynolds' literary magazine finally got published, and of the selection of poems that I sent in, the staff chose the one entitled "Waking Up."
On Saturday, the marching band will participate in its last organized event for the year, the Christmas Parade, which will run the same course as the Veteran's Day parade a few weeks ago. We will march the same short route down Fourth Street. Also on Saturday, we will vote on Superlatives (I'm assuming that it's for the yearbook).
Last in my list of updates, I will mention the party that I plan to attend tomorrow at Alexis's house; all that I can say for this event is that it will probably be quite amazing, and I look forward to seeing some of my old Hanes friends there.
Now, for the tigers; a pair of these vicious creatures played a major role in one of the dreams that I had earlier this week when I was at my mom's house. I reasoned with myself that I likely had tiger-related dreams because of my recent decision to re-read the great modern classic, Life of Pi, which is a beautiful book; if you ever choose to read it, disregard the back cover's description of the book, as it does not do it justice. Rather, believe the preface of the book which predicts that the story will make you "believe in God." I came away from the book with my mind changed about several things, God being one of many.
Anyways, I digress: now to the dream. In this dream, I was living with my mother because my father decided that he wanted to invest in a pair of pet tigers to keep in the house. My mother insisted that she didn't want me living in a house with tigers, yet my dad purchased them anyway. So, I went to live at my mom's house, and a few weeks after the incident, my father called us, inviting us to some sort of sporting event. We drove over to a stadium-type place, climbing up into the stands until we saw my dad, waving from one of the top rows (I'm not sure what kind of sporting event we were watching, or why my dad wanted to meet there in the first place). We mounted the last few steps and took seats on either side of him. Ravenous, I busied myself with a bucket of popcorn that my dad had purchased. Meanwhile, my mom straightened her coat, turning to face my dad.
"How're the tigers?" she asked casually, no longer angry about the incident (which is weird because my mother is known to hold a grudge for a long time).
My dad beamed with pride. "They're great," he said happily, "They seem to be settling in just fine. We have had one tiny problem, though; you see, when they try to go down the stairs, their claws sink through the wood and create holes in the staircase. So I need to get Jason to come over at some point and fix the holes. And also, they're afraid to go out in the hallway at night because their claws tear through the wood (as I've said) and one night, they fell through a particularly weathered spot, all the way to the basement. So they don't like going outside of their room at night."
I stopped paying attention to my father's monologue as two blond boys who might have been twins mounted the stairs and approached my dad, engaging him in their own conversation.
My dad seemed to know them quite well, and this plus the fact that I didn't personally know them made me sort of irritated in the dream, so I stood up and walked down the stairs with the intention of calling Shannon on my cell phone. It was about here that I woke up.