I'll go ahead and vocalize what everyone is thinking now: "Shame, shame, Robyn! Thou hast entirely neglected the month of February - thou hast deprived all future generations of viddying what happened in February 2011." But I have a response to your accusations in Old English and droog-speak: I've had a difficult time remembering my dreams as of late, and I've been occupied with a monstrous French project, with a monstrous Civics and Economics project (which is still going on), and with the beast of a book by Monsieur Hugo, Les Miserables, which was fanstastic, by the way. If you decide to read it, go all out and read the unabridged version. . .the Waterloo part is enormously interesting (I had to go back and read it, because I skipped it earlier in order to be caught up with the rest of the class for a quiz on a later part of the book. . .again, shame on me), as is the life story of the Bishop of Digne, as well as other things which were cut out in the abridged and/or Wrap-it-up-Victor-Hugo version of the book. At the end of the book, my two favorite characters still have not changed. I will always adore the Bishop, and I also love Monsieur Gillenormand, the grandfather of Marius. In fact, it took me a while to actually appreciate Marius as a character. For the longest time, I thought that he was dreadfully flat, but his inner devotion to his father, and, eventually, his love for Cosette finally animate him. De toute facon, de retourner au sujet de M. Gillenormand: He's a very quirky, crochety old man - a devout supporter of the monarchy and Old France. He hates revolutions, and he hollers at anyone near him when he reads the newspapers. I love him. . .I don't know why. It would be so neat to be able to talk to Victor Hugo about all of his characters; they're all so round and so. . .human - three cheers for good characterization! Chapeau, Victor Hugo!
So, now to February happenings. . .there was Valentine's day. I don't recall doing anything in particular on that day. Oh wait! Lancy and I took a romantic walk around the park to celebrate the holiday. The choir resumed its rehearsals in preparation for Holy Week, which shall be in late April, I believe. We're singing a couple of songs from the "Messiah," like "Surely He hath Borne our Griefs," "And With His Stripes," "All We Like Sheep," "Hallelujah," and the one which is currently stuck in my head, "Worthy is the Lamb." That Handel fellow was really quite the Baroque-and-roller. On the 8th of March, Alexis and I went to see an old film on the big screen, "Swing Time." It was a Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers movie, and it was excellent - I printed out the sheet music from one of the songs, and I love to play it in half-time. I just had a great time and hope that we can hang out again soon! My birthday was also quite swell. I had a few school friends over in the afternoon after school (I skipped), and we hung around the house for a while before leaving to go to dinner at the Olive Garden. Unfortunately, we weren't the only people with this idea, and so we got stuck waiting for an hour - but we passed the time by wandering around the mall, where we avoided being arrested by the youth-hating Javerts of the garde-du-centre-commercial by speaking in sophisticated British accents (Aaron's idea) and crowding around Chloe, who must have seemed to the garde to be our youthful mother or aunt. The mall, by the way, apparently now has a black-light golf course. . .why? I don't know.
In any case, we all ate dinner and returned to the house that night (earlier in the day, when my mom and I ate at Pancho Villas, she told our waiter, "My daughter's turning 16 today and she loves sombreros." I was then publicly humiliated). At the house, the Keegan sisters Saoirse and Kiki joined us for a showing of "Paper Moon" which was never finished due to the necessity to have girl-talk about halfway through the film. Then, Aaron and the Keegans had to eventually leave, and the other two girls spent the night and left in the morning. Tonight, I am very excited because tomorrow is the day that we pack and prepare to leave to go to Florida for a little over a week. I shall get to see my grandma T. as well as the grandparents on my father's side; I shall sit in their backyard and watch their colony of ducks in the pond behind the house. It shall be warm enough to wade in the ocean. The majority of the greenery will exist in the form of palm trees. We're leaving to go to the airport around 3:00 on Thursday morning. . .I shall be a grumpy girly indeed. I am not made to be awake that early in the morning. However, I am still immensely excited to return to my paradise. And on this note, I shall leave my brethren to go study for the Civics quiz tomorrow.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Steam of Consciousness #3
So. . .I figured that since I don't have enough time to do regular blogging, I'll just play a word association game with myself, staring with my newly-discovered favorite word.
firmament, jello, sky, stars, God, joy, lieder, piano, tenor man, Andrea Bocelli, "Who's coming?" - Christmas, baby, Kalyn, teeth, ice cream, Allen's Dairy Treats, crumbling ceiling tiles, marble, floor, smooth, wind, beach, the ocean on the beach at night, walking barefoot, spring grass, that first day of the year that feels warm in the midst of winter, March, birthday, orange, ribbon, gloves, humming, collie dog, North, Santa Claus, Beethoven's 12th and 13th Sonatas, sheet music flowers, don't cut up the Beethoven, "No, Hopey, that's not Beethoven - that's another pianist guy, Glenn Gould," Murray Perahia the pianist, Murray Perahia the elephant, Leonard Bernstein the tiger, Leonard Bernstein the conductor, Karajan lion/conductor, Symphony 6 conducted by the Berlin Philharmonic, Lancy, baby, trumpet, brassy, jazz, Shostakovitch, Mr. James, Gustav Holst, gun, cannon, Tchaikovsky, gorgeousness, a hand counting from five down to our entrace at the finale, Liszt transcription, ornaments, mordents, Baroque squigglies, baroque-and-roll, Don McLean's "American Pie," being a little kid, Bob Dylan, wizard, unassuming genius.
firmament, jello, sky, stars, God, joy, lieder, piano, tenor man, Andrea Bocelli, "Who's coming?" - Christmas, baby, Kalyn, teeth, ice cream, Allen's Dairy Treats, crumbling ceiling tiles, marble, floor, smooth, wind, beach, the ocean on the beach at night, walking barefoot, spring grass, that first day of the year that feels warm in the midst of winter, March, birthday, orange, ribbon, gloves, humming, collie dog, North, Santa Claus, Beethoven's 12th and 13th Sonatas, sheet music flowers, don't cut up the Beethoven, "No, Hopey, that's not Beethoven - that's another pianist guy, Glenn Gould," Murray Perahia the pianist, Murray Perahia the elephant, Leonard Bernstein the tiger, Leonard Bernstein the conductor, Karajan lion/conductor, Symphony 6 conducted by the Berlin Philharmonic, Lancy, baby, trumpet, brassy, jazz, Shostakovitch, Mr. James, Gustav Holst, gun, cannon, Tchaikovsky, gorgeousness, a hand counting from five down to our entrace at the finale, Liszt transcription, ornaments, mordents, Baroque squigglies, baroque-and-roll, Don McLean's "American Pie," being a little kid, Bob Dylan, wizard, unassuming genius.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Wintry Mix and Musings of Polarized Emotion Centered Around My Church Recital
So, this is my first post of the new year! I was quite shocked to log on and discover that I have not posted anything between then and now, but I suppose that just shows the fact that most of my classes last year were considered "romper-room" classes by my father, and therefore I had more time to come on and blog about six or seven times a month.
Some words about the New Year: I went over to Shannon's house to celebrate it; it had been several months since we had last hung out (that last time, she, Aaron, Rhaynely, and Chloe accompanied me to the $2 theater, where we watched "Inception"). It was also her cousin Linda's birthday party, and several people slept over. I was on the phone with my mother in the basement stairwell as the ball dropped (which we did not see due to Shannon's current lack of cable - which wasn't a bummer, since that whole tradition has started to lose its glitz), and the people gathered in the general basement area blew on their noise-makers and yelled to cheerfully announce its arrival. That night, we watched "Idiocracy," which is a pretty amusing film, and I quickly fell asleep afterwards.
Since then, not too much has happened. I've driven around in my mom's car and in Heather's car. I've played the piano and the trumpet, and I've eagerly looked forward to the recongregation of the choir, which is supposed to happen in two days. I miss singing with everyone there - in spite of the fact that I do not remember all of their names, I feel a sense of brethrenly belonging when I am with them. When I am with the Sanctuary choir, I am amid my brethren.
Also, the season of midterms (and in the case of block classes like chemistry and Health, final exams) has begun, and has been rudely interrupted by a wintry mix which dropped a lot of snow on the Triad in the mid-afternoon. School was cancelled last night as a precaution, due to the fact that most weather channels predicted that the snow would end up icing up the roads pretty severely. In effect, the snow from today has begun the icing process, and school tomorrow has already been cancelled. The downfall of this is that we missed the review day that we were supposed to have for our math quarter test, and if I want any help from Mrs. Freitag before we take the test, it looks like I'll have to arrive quite early in the morning, as demand for her tutoring will be high.
Now, I believe that I've had dreams between now and then, but the only one that I can really remember involved my mom, Jeff, and I. We were going to go water-skiing or something like that, and so we had to descend into this cramped, moldy shed in order to dig out the necessary equipment. It was a beautiful summery day outside, but as we approached this rickety old shed, I began to have feelings of dread. I knew that I would be ridiculed or reproached if I did not go in to help them dig out the equipment for skiing, but I knew that the shed would be pregnant with colonies of spiders and those nasty jumping crickets that look like spiders. So, Jeff had to wedge open the door with force, and that barely allowed room for us to squeeze inside, where shafts of light fell on the dirt from holes in the rafters. We walked down some creaky wooden stairs which felt as though they might give beneath us. I held my arms protectively across my chest and walked quickly away from the stairs because I had seen a lot of webs in the general area. As I stumbled away I saw that the shed opened onto a marble-tiled, open expanse of floor with a man-made river running through the center. There were stores along the walls and an upper floor with more stores, like at the mall. And the floor was so shiny! and nice! I called out to my mom and Jeff, and they followed me into the open expanse of the mall-area. It was not very crowded; there were some people who sat with their feet dangling into the walled river. I pulled a bag of cinnamon toast crunch from my pocket and began to eat it dry as we walked and looked about in wonder. Suddenly, my mom pointed out a woman with reddish hair who was sitting along the side of the river with a laptop and said, "She's one of my customers; let's go say hi." I lagged along behind, hurriedly trying to put away my cinammon toast crunch. I did not have time to clean off my fingers, however, before the dreaded moment when my mom said, "So-and-so, this is my daughter, Robyn; Robyn, this is So-and-so," and the woman reached out her hand. Because my left hand was occupied with putting away the bag of cinnamon toast crunch, I was forced to shake this woman's hand with my sticky, cinammon-sprinkled right hand. It was easy to observe her disgust. I then woke up.
So, in other news, a couple of nights ago, Stormy and I finally had a Gary Oldman marathon at my house, in which we watched "Bram Stoker's 'Dracula,'" "Immortal Beloved," and part of a movie called "True Romance." We plan to continue it some night so that we can finish the third movie and progress to the Harry Potter and Batman movies. She left at about 12:30 that night, and I quickly went to bed, super-nervous about the following morning, January 9th, when I would be playing the piano for two church services. This oppurtunity was arranged a couple of months ago during the choir season; I happened to be early to a rehearsal, and so I played on the piano for a couple of minutes. When Ms. Moyer arrived, she extended the invitation to do the prelude and offertory sometime in January, and I quickly accepted the invitation. Over the course of December, I narrowed down my choice of what I was going to play to the "Adagio" from Beethoven's "Tempest" Sonata, the "Adagio Cantabile" from his "Pathetique" Sonata, and the 14th Invention of Bach (with her assistance, because I am very self-conscious about my Bach interpretation). So, this past Wednesday, we met at the church after school to work out the problems that I had with the Bach piece; then we progressed to my insecurity with the long series of runs in the "Tempest;" and then we finally decided on upping the tempo a little bit in the "Pathetique" to keep it lively. And then I practiced like mad until Sunday morning, when, after a night of frenzied tossing-and-turning and nightmares of failing epicly, I ate a banana and seven grapes and arrived at the churh at 8:00 to practice. I had bedecked myself in my casual black cotton dress, some leggings, and my gloves (because it was cold outside and I didn't want my hands to be all stiff) and I had brought my book of piano literature in case our organist wanted to go over some spots last-minute. As it turned out, I just spent the next half hour rehearsing on the nice Baldwin piano in the Sanctuary. At about 8:35, Ms. Moyer came in and told me where I could find some water; she also told me that it would be best to start around 8:50. When I came back, I noticed that some people had started to file in, and I continued to practice trouble spots, though I applied the soft pedal so as not to confuse the people into thinking that the prelude had started. At around 8:40, I ran the part of the "Pathetique" that was thick with ornamentation and had it approved by Ms. Moyer. She then warned me that people would probably talk during the prelude and I told her that I was used to playing under such conditions and would be grateful for it in case it covered my mistakes. I watched the red digital clock which was on the wall over the congregation. I breathed deeply. I ran the middle part of the Invention very slowly. There weren't very many people in the congregation and they were sparsely seated. It was 8:48. I perspired, and prayed quickly. I felt a hand on my shoulder and Ms. Moyer told me that I would do fine. Then it was 8:50, and I bobbed for a moment, feeling out a steady, sort of slow tempo. And then I played straight through the Bach, with my biggest error being some inconsistency in the time (speeding a little bit, and then slowing down too much to compensate). Overall, it did not go as horribly as I thought it might. Then, I did the "Tempest," on which I did fine until the long run, which I bungled up in the very middle, though I was quick to go past the error and continue through the run. So, maybe, people didn't notice it too much. I sustained the last B flat for a while, and then I got up and pranced over to sit in a chair behind the organ. I was introduced as a member of the youth and the Sanctuary choir shortly afterward, and my services were not called upon again until the offertory. In between, Mr. Moyer led the singing with his gorgeous tenor voice. There is nothing like a rich tenor voice, in my opinion. Then I did the "Pathetique," and I compensated for any bunglings that might have occured in the "Tempest." This first performance of the "Pathetique" was the best of any of the songs in either service, I think. At the end, I got up and skipped back to my place near the organ. That day, Mike Horne was doing the sermon on the parable of the Prodigal Son, which is always one of my favorite sermons each year, because it so deftly summarizes everything that I believe (or most of it, anyway). We also sang a couple of my favorite hymns. In any case, it was a good service, and a couple of people, including Dr. Daniel and some fellow choir members, came up to me afterward and thanked me for playing, and I awkwardly thanked them for thanking me - and for allowing me to exalt God and my soul and such. After the 9:00 service, they had the incoming deacons and elders give their testimonies, and so I went to the choir room upstairs to practice on the piano that has the blinking light. It has a really light and easy touch but very alien-sounding keys. I did that for about half an hour, went to the bathroom, refilled my cup of water, and returned downstairs, where there were mobs of people all over the Sanctuary, socializing loudly. I supposed that all of the deacons and elders were being congratulated at that point. Just as I mounted the stage, I saw my dad, Heather, and Hope walk in and I waved goofily at them. I was slightly cocky at that point due to the fact that the noise was so loud that no one would probably notice any of my mistakes; and so, when the time came at 10:50 to start the prelude, I did the inverse of the previous service. I bludgeoned the Bach and surprised myself with the lack of failure at the "Tempest" sonata (afterwards, my dad told me that, while I messed up the Bach, I did not stop or make it obvious that I messed up, which is a good thing). After the prelude, Dr. White asked the congregation to applaud, and it was awkward. And then, the "Pathetique" during that service also went well, though I got overexcited at the climax of the piece and pounded on the keys a bit too hard. Shortly before the offertory, my mom, Wesley, and Kalyn entered, sitting in the seats to my far left. According to my mom, I tilted my head in a very goofy manner to wave at her through the opening in the propped-open piano. In any case, at the end of the service, I thanked everyone and found my way through the mob of people to where Heather, my dad, and Hope were standing, and eventually my mom, Wesley, and Kalyn walked over, too. Ms. Moyer played this killer postlude on the organ - I think it was "Little" Fugue in G minor or something like that by the bomb.com that is Johann Sebastien Bach. So, we went to sushi afterwards, and it was all hip-hip-hooray! and what-not.
So I went to youth group that night; and while I was there, I finally came to understand something that had been affecting me during many of the church services, including the one earlier that morning. Sitting with a group of girls around the table that night, not really thinking of much to say as usual, I felt this sort of aching loneliness (not the best way to describe it, but it was a sort of agitation). And it came to me that this loneliness was the result of a transitory but extreme warmth that I felt in my soul when I was around these people. This transitory warmth, I think, was indicative of a profound love for my brethren - it seems that when I am in church, I am reminded that all people are my brothers and sisters, and it is a very humbling experience, I tell you. So, in any case, I am like the Reverend Jim Casy in that I "love people so much I'm fit to bust sometimes," and hence the aching feeling. Because there is no "proper" way to express a love that is extreme enough to eclipse all of humanity during its strongest moments. So it is restrained, like Freud's libido, and it just doesn't seem natural. It irks me that, in general, I don't have "a way with" people; I think that I often come off to be very cold, when I would gladly run around embracing people if that were considered socially decent.
The last thing that should be taken into account is a tragedy that came to my attention yesterday. There was a boy from Reagan by the name of Nick Doub who suffered severe brain damage from a car accident and who passed away today. I cannot bear to think that this boy was a senior, about to go off to college and find a job and continue the family. I cannot bear to think that his parents taught him to read, and labored to teach him to write, and answered his questions about the grass and the moon and God. It is sad to think that what was once a bedroom will now be a memorial shrine. It is sad that such potential could be so quickly wiped from the earth. I hope that his parents will have the touch of divine resilience to move them onward and not try to understand this tragedy (because what can be gained from trying to understand it?), and I hope that we will all keep him in our hearts. I know it must happen often, but it is such an awful thing nonetheless. Well, I shall retire now with my mother and baby sister. It seems that school is again cancelled tomorrow.
Some words about the New Year: I went over to Shannon's house to celebrate it; it had been several months since we had last hung out (that last time, she, Aaron, Rhaynely, and Chloe accompanied me to the $2 theater, where we watched "Inception"). It was also her cousin Linda's birthday party, and several people slept over. I was on the phone with my mother in the basement stairwell as the ball dropped (which we did not see due to Shannon's current lack of cable - which wasn't a bummer, since that whole tradition has started to lose its glitz), and the people gathered in the general basement area blew on their noise-makers and yelled to cheerfully announce its arrival. That night, we watched "Idiocracy," which is a pretty amusing film, and I quickly fell asleep afterwards.
Since then, not too much has happened. I've driven around in my mom's car and in Heather's car. I've played the piano and the trumpet, and I've eagerly looked forward to the recongregation of the choir, which is supposed to happen in two days. I miss singing with everyone there - in spite of the fact that I do not remember all of their names, I feel a sense of brethrenly belonging when I am with them. When I am with the Sanctuary choir, I am amid my brethren.
Also, the season of midterms (and in the case of block classes like chemistry and Health, final exams) has begun, and has been rudely interrupted by a wintry mix which dropped a lot of snow on the Triad in the mid-afternoon. School was cancelled last night as a precaution, due to the fact that most weather channels predicted that the snow would end up icing up the roads pretty severely. In effect, the snow from today has begun the icing process, and school tomorrow has already been cancelled. The downfall of this is that we missed the review day that we were supposed to have for our math quarter test, and if I want any help from Mrs. Freitag before we take the test, it looks like I'll have to arrive quite early in the morning, as demand for her tutoring will be high.
Now, I believe that I've had dreams between now and then, but the only one that I can really remember involved my mom, Jeff, and I. We were going to go water-skiing or something like that, and so we had to descend into this cramped, moldy shed in order to dig out the necessary equipment. It was a beautiful summery day outside, but as we approached this rickety old shed, I began to have feelings of dread. I knew that I would be ridiculed or reproached if I did not go in to help them dig out the equipment for skiing, but I knew that the shed would be pregnant with colonies of spiders and those nasty jumping crickets that look like spiders. So, Jeff had to wedge open the door with force, and that barely allowed room for us to squeeze inside, where shafts of light fell on the dirt from holes in the rafters. We walked down some creaky wooden stairs which felt as though they might give beneath us. I held my arms protectively across my chest and walked quickly away from the stairs because I had seen a lot of webs in the general area. As I stumbled away I saw that the shed opened onto a marble-tiled, open expanse of floor with a man-made river running through the center. There were stores along the walls and an upper floor with more stores, like at the mall. And the floor was so shiny! and nice! I called out to my mom and Jeff, and they followed me into the open expanse of the mall-area. It was not very crowded; there were some people who sat with their feet dangling into the walled river. I pulled a bag of cinnamon toast crunch from my pocket and began to eat it dry as we walked and looked about in wonder. Suddenly, my mom pointed out a woman with reddish hair who was sitting along the side of the river with a laptop and said, "She's one of my customers; let's go say hi." I lagged along behind, hurriedly trying to put away my cinammon toast crunch. I did not have time to clean off my fingers, however, before the dreaded moment when my mom said, "So-and-so, this is my daughter, Robyn; Robyn, this is So-and-so," and the woman reached out her hand. Because my left hand was occupied with putting away the bag of cinnamon toast crunch, I was forced to shake this woman's hand with my sticky, cinammon-sprinkled right hand. It was easy to observe her disgust. I then woke up.
So, in other news, a couple of nights ago, Stormy and I finally had a Gary Oldman marathon at my house, in which we watched "Bram Stoker's 'Dracula,'" "Immortal Beloved," and part of a movie called "True Romance." We plan to continue it some night so that we can finish the third movie and progress to the Harry Potter and Batman movies. She left at about 12:30 that night, and I quickly went to bed, super-nervous about the following morning, January 9th, when I would be playing the piano for two church services. This oppurtunity was arranged a couple of months ago during the choir season; I happened to be early to a rehearsal, and so I played on the piano for a couple of minutes. When Ms. Moyer arrived, she extended the invitation to do the prelude and offertory sometime in January, and I quickly accepted the invitation. Over the course of December, I narrowed down my choice of what I was going to play to the "Adagio" from Beethoven's "Tempest" Sonata, the "Adagio Cantabile" from his "Pathetique" Sonata, and the 14th Invention of Bach (with her assistance, because I am very self-conscious about my Bach interpretation). So, this past Wednesday, we met at the church after school to work out the problems that I had with the Bach piece; then we progressed to my insecurity with the long series of runs in the "Tempest;" and then we finally decided on upping the tempo a little bit in the "Pathetique" to keep it lively. And then I practiced like mad until Sunday morning, when, after a night of frenzied tossing-and-turning and nightmares of failing epicly, I ate a banana and seven grapes and arrived at the churh at 8:00 to practice. I had bedecked myself in my casual black cotton dress, some leggings, and my gloves (because it was cold outside and I didn't want my hands to be all stiff) and I had brought my book of piano literature in case our organist wanted to go over some spots last-minute. As it turned out, I just spent the next half hour rehearsing on the nice Baldwin piano in the Sanctuary. At about 8:35, Ms. Moyer came in and told me where I could find some water; she also told me that it would be best to start around 8:50. When I came back, I noticed that some people had started to file in, and I continued to practice trouble spots, though I applied the soft pedal so as not to confuse the people into thinking that the prelude had started. At around 8:40, I ran the part of the "Pathetique" that was thick with ornamentation and had it approved by Ms. Moyer. She then warned me that people would probably talk during the prelude and I told her that I was used to playing under such conditions and would be grateful for it in case it covered my mistakes. I watched the red digital clock which was on the wall over the congregation. I breathed deeply. I ran the middle part of the Invention very slowly. There weren't very many people in the congregation and they were sparsely seated. It was 8:48. I perspired, and prayed quickly. I felt a hand on my shoulder and Ms. Moyer told me that I would do fine. Then it was 8:50, and I bobbed for a moment, feeling out a steady, sort of slow tempo. And then I played straight through the Bach, with my biggest error being some inconsistency in the time (speeding a little bit, and then slowing down too much to compensate). Overall, it did not go as horribly as I thought it might. Then, I did the "Tempest," on which I did fine until the long run, which I bungled up in the very middle, though I was quick to go past the error and continue through the run. So, maybe, people didn't notice it too much. I sustained the last B flat for a while, and then I got up and pranced over to sit in a chair behind the organ. I was introduced as a member of the youth and the Sanctuary choir shortly afterward, and my services were not called upon again until the offertory. In between, Mr. Moyer led the singing with his gorgeous tenor voice. There is nothing like a rich tenor voice, in my opinion. Then I did the "Pathetique," and I compensated for any bunglings that might have occured in the "Tempest." This first performance of the "Pathetique" was the best of any of the songs in either service, I think. At the end, I got up and skipped back to my place near the organ. That day, Mike Horne was doing the sermon on the parable of the Prodigal Son, which is always one of my favorite sermons each year, because it so deftly summarizes everything that I believe (or most of it, anyway). We also sang a couple of my favorite hymns. In any case, it was a good service, and a couple of people, including Dr. Daniel and some fellow choir members, came up to me afterward and thanked me for playing, and I awkwardly thanked them for thanking me - and for allowing me to exalt God and my soul and such. After the 9:00 service, they had the incoming deacons and elders give their testimonies, and so I went to the choir room upstairs to practice on the piano that has the blinking light. It has a really light and easy touch but very alien-sounding keys. I did that for about half an hour, went to the bathroom, refilled my cup of water, and returned downstairs, where there were mobs of people all over the Sanctuary, socializing loudly. I supposed that all of the deacons and elders were being congratulated at that point. Just as I mounted the stage, I saw my dad, Heather, and Hope walk in and I waved goofily at them. I was slightly cocky at that point due to the fact that the noise was so loud that no one would probably notice any of my mistakes; and so, when the time came at 10:50 to start the prelude, I did the inverse of the previous service. I bludgeoned the Bach and surprised myself with the lack of failure at the "Tempest" sonata (afterwards, my dad told me that, while I messed up the Bach, I did not stop or make it obvious that I messed up, which is a good thing). After the prelude, Dr. White asked the congregation to applaud, and it was awkward. And then, the "Pathetique" during that service also went well, though I got overexcited at the climax of the piece and pounded on the keys a bit too hard. Shortly before the offertory, my mom, Wesley, and Kalyn entered, sitting in the seats to my far left. According to my mom, I tilted my head in a very goofy manner to wave at her through the opening in the propped-open piano. In any case, at the end of the service, I thanked everyone and found my way through the mob of people to where Heather, my dad, and Hope were standing, and eventually my mom, Wesley, and Kalyn walked over, too. Ms. Moyer played this killer postlude on the organ - I think it was "Little" Fugue in G minor or something like that by the bomb.com that is Johann Sebastien Bach. So, we went to sushi afterwards, and it was all hip-hip-hooray! and what-not.
So I went to youth group that night; and while I was there, I finally came to understand something that had been affecting me during many of the church services, including the one earlier that morning. Sitting with a group of girls around the table that night, not really thinking of much to say as usual, I felt this sort of aching loneliness (not the best way to describe it, but it was a sort of agitation). And it came to me that this loneliness was the result of a transitory but extreme warmth that I felt in my soul when I was around these people. This transitory warmth, I think, was indicative of a profound love for my brethren - it seems that when I am in church, I am reminded that all people are my brothers and sisters, and it is a very humbling experience, I tell you. So, in any case, I am like the Reverend Jim Casy in that I "love people so much I'm fit to bust sometimes," and hence the aching feeling. Because there is no "proper" way to express a love that is extreme enough to eclipse all of humanity during its strongest moments. So it is restrained, like Freud's libido, and it just doesn't seem natural. It irks me that, in general, I don't have "a way with" people; I think that I often come off to be very cold, when I would gladly run around embracing people if that were considered socially decent.
The last thing that should be taken into account is a tragedy that came to my attention yesterday. There was a boy from Reagan by the name of Nick Doub who suffered severe brain damage from a car accident and who passed away today. I cannot bear to think that this boy was a senior, about to go off to college and find a job and continue the family. I cannot bear to think that his parents taught him to read, and labored to teach him to write, and answered his questions about the grass and the moon and God. It is sad to think that what was once a bedroom will now be a memorial shrine. It is sad that such potential could be so quickly wiped from the earth. I hope that his parents will have the touch of divine resilience to move them onward and not try to understand this tragedy (because what can be gained from trying to understand it?), and I hope that we will all keep him in our hearts. I know it must happen often, but it is such an awful thing nonetheless. Well, I shall retire now with my mother and baby sister. It seems that school is again cancelled tomorrow.
Monday, December 20, 2010
New York and Two Nights of Dreams
So, I've recently returned from New York City, which I visited with my dad, Heather, and Hope for the first time (my dad was the only one who had ever been before). We left late on Wednesday night and arrived at JFK Airport around midnight. A friendly cab driver named Carlos drove us to our Sugar Hill/Harlem Bed and Breakfast in a fancy car that begins with an "M" that I cannot remember the name of right now. Our first view of the city was of the buildings all lit up at night and an empty black sky above, as though all of the life throbbing in the city below had devoured the starlight. It was cold in New York City, but not much colder than it was in Winston-Salem - if anything, the wind was a bit sharper (I wore a scarf the entire time we were there, which is strange for me because I don't like to feel fabric around my neck). Carlos dropped us off in front of our brick residence, which could be accessed by climbing a set of about five stairs bordered by an iron rail. Beneath these stairs, not easily seen from the sidewalk, was an iron door, through which one could access the key to the rooms inside if you had the combination given by the owner of the Bed and Breakfast in an email, which thankfully, Heather had. Grabbing the keys and some suitcases, we opened the heavy wooden door and entered the tiny antechamber of the building. We passed the living room and hurried upstairs to our room, which I think was called "Nina's Room." Each of the rooms was dedicated to famous jazz performers - for example, one room was "Ella's Room." I'm not sure who Nina is - Alexis probably knows. Our door was the first at the top of the stairs, and within it, there were two beds, a King and a twin, with a bed beneath the twin which could be pulled out and set up. The twin bed rested against the wall and the window, and directly opposite this bed was a blue, intense painting of Miles Davis where his eyes were very wide. My dad immediately noticed this, being a fan of Miles Davis, and remarked that he would be staring at me as I slept (I would be taking the twin bed). Apart from the bedroom, there was also a bathroom. Downstairs was a "common" area, which consisted of a living room/computer room, and a den. On the basement level, there was a kitchen area, and the remainder of the floors contained bedrooms. So, after exploring the premises with Hope, we put on our pajamas and went to bed, expecting to be woken around 8:00 in the morning for breakfast in the main house of the Bed and Breakfast, which was about five blocks away from where we were staying. So, in the morning, we all showered and headed over so that we could meet the owner of the Bed and Breakfast, Jeremy Archer, in person. He was a pleasant, middle-aged, thin, bald man with a British accent and low voice. The main room that we saw in the main house was the dining room/den, in which there was a table/chairs and couches, respectively. Up on the mantle were variously colored and shaped vases, and interesting paintings hung about. A variety of music was always playing in the background, and on the table was a glass container of philosophy - there were little sheets of paper with quotes on them. The one that I remember read, "I'm not afraid of death; I'm afraid of eternal life." I do not know the speaker of the quote. Jeremy made really delicious scones; they were sort of cheesy and had a bit of spice to them. He also had a gray cat, named Smokey, about whose gender Hope and I quarreled that first day. I kept referring to the cat as a "him," while she constantly corrected me, saying, "It could be a girl," at which point I asserted myself, saying, "Nah, I think that there's something decidedly masculine about this cat." When Jeremy returned from the kitchen after the fifth time that this happened, I asked him the gender of the cat and he replied nonchalantly that Smokey was a female. The decidedly-male cat had tricked me! That same morning, we were joined at the breakfast table by an elderly but sprightly couple whom we initially guessed were also from England. They told us that they were, but that they had moved to Toronto, and that this was their first time visiting the city as well. Their names were Diana and Derrick, and Derrick reminded me of the butler from "The Dark Knight," while Diana was super-nice and friendly. I desperately wanted to ask them, upon their mention of Toronto, if they had gone to the museum and seen the chair there and all that, but I restrained my inner dork, intending to bring it up the next time that we talked to them. Unfortunately, the next time that we saw them was the last time, as we were going out the door of the main building on our last day there.
Anyways, after breakfast that morning, we purchased metro cards and traveled on the D train to the middle of town with the intent of visiting the biggest toy store in the world, FAO Schwartz. Hope was particularly excited about this trip, and had been talking about it for weeks - she had $100 to spend, and I knew that it was burning a hole in her pocket. Halfway there, we passed a gorgeous cathedral that was open to the public, St. Patrick's Cathedral, and so we stopped inside to take a look. All around the perimeter of the cathedral were exhibits dedicated to various saints. After that, we finally made it to FAO Schwartz, which was packed with parents and children. Hope and Heather went scouting in the doll section, while my dad and I wandered around the first floor for a while, looking for potential toys for Kalyn. I eyed some of my favorites, decided to keep them in mind for later, and headed upstairs in search of the Big Piano which is featured in the movie "Big." Sure enough, after meandering through action figures and bath toys and Barbies, I caught a glimpse of a sign at the end of the hallway which read, "Big Piano," and I could see kids hopping across the floor. I led my dad over there and was immensely excited to get onto the piano and perhaps try to play some Beethoven. I was finally let in with about eight little kids (I was the only one there over the age of ten, I'll bet), and as I tried to pick out a tune, I found myself unable to hear the black notes very well over the racket of eight people jumping on the piano simultaneously (the black keys didn't light up like the others, and so you couldn't even pretend to hear them). After a couple minutes of feeling silly, I grabbed my shoes and left the piano. My dad and I were about to leave to meet up with Hope and Heather when the two supervisors, a tall blond man named Robert and a rosy-faced girl named Melissa, cleared the piano floor and announced that they were going to do a mini-concert. They performed the two songs that were played in "Big," as well as a couple of other songs which were pretty amazing to watch. Their grand finale, which they made us shout "Encore!" for, ended up being an arrangement of Bach's "Toccata and Fugue in D Minor," which was absolutely amazing, particularly how they accomplished it with their feet. After this, we found the others; Hope had purchased a $56 doll named Tess, who was equipped with two ballerina outfits. We moved back downstairs and I decided to get Kalyn a microplush elephant hand puppet, who was quickly named Murray Perahia after Murray Perahia the pianist, who was born in the Bronx and who had the same eyes and facial expression as the elephant. We went across the street to a restaurant called "Pop Burger," and then met up with my dad's friend Dave outside of the toy store. The last time I had seen Dave was when I was eight years old - I had no memory of his appearance, though he seemed to become familiar as I watched his mannerisms. I remarked later in the trip that he reminded me of Disney's depiction of Dickens' ghost of Christmas present, for the sole reason that he was always laughing about something or other, seemed always to be filled with mirth. He led us around for a while, sight-seeing, and Hope hung on him the entire time and seemed to be completely enamored of him. That night, I believe, we went to Grand Central Station, which was filled with booths where people sold things to tourists. That day began my quest for a reasonably-priced flapper hat, because I had encountered just such a hat earlier that day that I had haggled down to $25, but I felt like I could do better than that. However, as I found that night at Grand Central, $25 is quite a reasonable price in New York City. I found what I was looking for on the last day, at a booth in Brian Park - $25. A violinist played partitas, Christmas music, and such outside of the booths, and I gave him $2. Once you ventured into the big central space of the station, where you could branch out to different hallways depending on your purpose for being there, it was as though the sky opened - because on the ceiling, there was painted a depiction of the night sky above, with the constellations and everything, and a couple of pictures of angels dotted among the stars. The first thing that I thought of upon seeing this ceiling was the ceiling of the Great Hall in the Harry Potter series. It was a beautiful thing to behold. For dinner that night, we ate at a sushi place and the affair of dining lasted for about 2 hours. Hope passed out next to her mother in the booth, and my dad and Dave reminisced (not so fondly) about their college days at Wake Forest. My dad played the psychologist and talked about Dave's anger issues that he dealt with back in college and their connections with drinking and such. Heather mainly listened and occasionally said, "And this, Robyn, is how not to be in college." After dinner, Hope was roused by the mentioning of Pop Tart World, which was near to our location in Times Square. We walked over there and made delicious custom Pop Tarts with our choice of icing and decorations on them (I had a strawberry milkshake pop tart with vanilla icing and chocolate chips). After this, we returned to our room and slept. The next morning, though we were tired, we had slept in, and therefore did not have time to dine with Jeremy and the other tenants (I was disappointed about this because of the conversation that I wanted to have with Derrick and Diana). Instead, we had our breakfast at the Dunkin' Donuts that was near our subway entrance. I had my first bagel in New York that day and it was scrumptious. After that, we took the subway to Macy's, where we traveled to the eighth floor with the intention of visiting Santa Claus. We were initially going to abandon this exploit because of the sheer length of the line, which curved multiple times about a strange train which ended up being a hallway to the North-Pole designed room that wound around to the room with Santa Claus in it, however I am glad that we did not because the wait was certainly worth it (and the line moved relatively fast owing to the fact that there were clones of Santa on duty as well, or so I would guess). After finally reaching the room with Santa Claus, I joined Hope on his lap as was promised after she gave him a huge hug. When he asked her what she wanted, she said a whole list of things, "A baby doll, a telescope, a Ken doll, a scooter. . ." He nodded and said, "I'll see what I can do." And then he turned to me and asked me what I wanted. I said, "May I please have the Glenn Gould recording of Beethoven's 12th and 13th Sonatas?" and he said, "I'll definitely have to see about that one!" Then, some of the elves took pictures, and we were free to exit and collect our photos. We then met Dave near Wall Street, which he guided us through, telling us interesting things about each of the buildings (he knew a lot about the area because his residence is located there). We took a picture of my father near the statue of the bull which is supposed to represent a strong market, and we walked over to a small water-side park from which we could gaze at the Statue of Liberty. While we were there, Hope invested in a Matroyshka doll, and either shortly before or after that, we dined at a little Italian place where I tasted New York pizza for the first time. It was tasty. That day, Dave said something that has made me think a little bit. I said something about how I prefer jogging to team sports and he said, "You know, Robyn, I was reading an astrology book - and it classified all of the weeks of the year by a title, and I found the the title for our week of the year was very accurrate. Our week is called 'The Week of the Loner.'" I was initially unsure of whether this was a good thing or not, but then I decided that it was rather accurrate, considering that I am often content to do things alone. In fact, things are less awkward that way. That night, we dined at a very fancy Italian place, seated at Katie Couric's table, no less, and went to the NYCB's production of the "Nutcracker" immediately afterward over at the Lincoln Center. It was absolutely amazing - I thought that the choreography, especially at the beginning during the family scenes, was brilliant, and I remarked several times throughout the show that George Ballanchine is the bomb.com. Unfortunately, the poor candy-cane man with the hula hoop didn't make it through the hoop the last time and we felt very sad for him. The next day, we dined with Jeremy again, though we didn't see Derrick and Diana until we were going out of the door. We went ice skating at Brian Park (and I found my brown flapper hat), where they played excellent music (Ella Fitzgerald, Michael Buble). I wondered why they didn't play this music at the Annex when they have ice skating there. After ice skating, we dined at a place called Sarabeth's, where I had a pleasant conversation with a man and his daughter Genevieve while we were waiting to be seated. This restaurant was right across the street from Central Park, and so after lunch, we went riding through the park on a horse-drawn carriage while our Irish horse-driver told us things about the park that I couldn't understand because of his accent and his distance from me. Our horse was named Oscar and he was gray and dappled. After the ride, we walked a good distance to the Museum of Natural History, which we walked through for about an hour. My dad and Heather had quarreled, and so he was unable to focus through the whole museum; we spent the most time in the Rose Center for Earth and Space, which I found to be the most interesting part by far. We spent the rest of that night in the room at the Bed and Breakfast, where Hope and I played with Murray and Tess, read some Junie B. Jones, and watched Elf. Downstairs, a wild bridal party was being thrown by the co-owner of the Bed and Breakfast, Bernadette. This distressed my dad and Heather, because we were to wake up at 3 in the morning so that we could board our return flight at 6:00. This wild party did not end until 10:45, at which point we had been trying to sleep for about an hour. We were very grumpy people the following morning, though, luckily, we were able to find a cab to drive us to the airport as opposed to taking a series of subway trains. There were two flights to get home, but we finally did, and it was a sweet experience to return, even though it was still very cold outside.
Whew. My fingers are twitching now.
To the dreams! The first one I had was from two nights ago, our last night in the Bed and Breakfast. I dreamt that I was giving these large gaudy roses to my teachers for presents. I dropped one in Mr. James' office and happened to run into Dr. Moss outside of the Arts Building, where I presented him with his rose. Then, I was in Ms. Freitag's room, and I had decided to give her a glass mosaic-y sort of bowl instead of a rose. She scolded and made fun of me halfway through class for having it on my person - and told the class that it was distracting me from math, and this was why I was having issues in her class. At the end of the class, I informed her that it was her present and stormed from the classroom without waiting to see her response.
The next interesting dream that I had was from last night, and it contained two parts. The first part seemed to consist of a disturbing, detailed accound of a lynching, which we had to write a report about for school. In the next part of the dream, my friend Aaron invited me over to his house for dinner, and his mother had prepared this lasagna with pears in it. I could tell, in the dream, that a large part of her impression of me depended on my response to her cuisine, and I dreaded eating the lasagna because I already knew that I wouldn't like it. That was the end of my dreams from that night.
Anyways, after breakfast that morning, we purchased metro cards and traveled on the D train to the middle of town with the intent of visiting the biggest toy store in the world, FAO Schwartz. Hope was particularly excited about this trip, and had been talking about it for weeks - she had $100 to spend, and I knew that it was burning a hole in her pocket. Halfway there, we passed a gorgeous cathedral that was open to the public, St. Patrick's Cathedral, and so we stopped inside to take a look. All around the perimeter of the cathedral were exhibits dedicated to various saints. After that, we finally made it to FAO Schwartz, which was packed with parents and children. Hope and Heather went scouting in the doll section, while my dad and I wandered around the first floor for a while, looking for potential toys for Kalyn. I eyed some of my favorites, decided to keep them in mind for later, and headed upstairs in search of the Big Piano which is featured in the movie "Big." Sure enough, after meandering through action figures and bath toys and Barbies, I caught a glimpse of a sign at the end of the hallway which read, "Big Piano," and I could see kids hopping across the floor. I led my dad over there and was immensely excited to get onto the piano and perhaps try to play some Beethoven. I was finally let in with about eight little kids (I was the only one there over the age of ten, I'll bet), and as I tried to pick out a tune, I found myself unable to hear the black notes very well over the racket of eight people jumping on the piano simultaneously (the black keys didn't light up like the others, and so you couldn't even pretend to hear them). After a couple minutes of feeling silly, I grabbed my shoes and left the piano. My dad and I were about to leave to meet up with Hope and Heather when the two supervisors, a tall blond man named Robert and a rosy-faced girl named Melissa, cleared the piano floor and announced that they were going to do a mini-concert. They performed the two songs that were played in "Big," as well as a couple of other songs which were pretty amazing to watch. Their grand finale, which they made us shout "Encore!" for, ended up being an arrangement of Bach's "Toccata and Fugue in D Minor," which was absolutely amazing, particularly how they accomplished it with their feet. After this, we found the others; Hope had purchased a $56 doll named Tess, who was equipped with two ballerina outfits. We moved back downstairs and I decided to get Kalyn a microplush elephant hand puppet, who was quickly named Murray Perahia after Murray Perahia the pianist, who was born in the Bronx and who had the same eyes and facial expression as the elephant. We went across the street to a restaurant called "Pop Burger," and then met up with my dad's friend Dave outside of the toy store. The last time I had seen Dave was when I was eight years old - I had no memory of his appearance, though he seemed to become familiar as I watched his mannerisms. I remarked later in the trip that he reminded me of Disney's depiction of Dickens' ghost of Christmas present, for the sole reason that he was always laughing about something or other, seemed always to be filled with mirth. He led us around for a while, sight-seeing, and Hope hung on him the entire time and seemed to be completely enamored of him. That night, I believe, we went to Grand Central Station, which was filled with booths where people sold things to tourists. That day began my quest for a reasonably-priced flapper hat, because I had encountered just such a hat earlier that day that I had haggled down to $25, but I felt like I could do better than that. However, as I found that night at Grand Central, $25 is quite a reasonable price in New York City. I found what I was looking for on the last day, at a booth in Brian Park - $25. A violinist played partitas, Christmas music, and such outside of the booths, and I gave him $2. Once you ventured into the big central space of the station, where you could branch out to different hallways depending on your purpose for being there, it was as though the sky opened - because on the ceiling, there was painted a depiction of the night sky above, with the constellations and everything, and a couple of pictures of angels dotted among the stars. The first thing that I thought of upon seeing this ceiling was the ceiling of the Great Hall in the Harry Potter series. It was a beautiful thing to behold. For dinner that night, we ate at a sushi place and the affair of dining lasted for about 2 hours. Hope passed out next to her mother in the booth, and my dad and Dave reminisced (not so fondly) about their college days at Wake Forest. My dad played the psychologist and talked about Dave's anger issues that he dealt with back in college and their connections with drinking and such. Heather mainly listened and occasionally said, "And this, Robyn, is how not to be in college." After dinner, Hope was roused by the mentioning of Pop Tart World, which was near to our location in Times Square. We walked over there and made delicious custom Pop Tarts with our choice of icing and decorations on them (I had a strawberry milkshake pop tart with vanilla icing and chocolate chips). After this, we returned to our room and slept. The next morning, though we were tired, we had slept in, and therefore did not have time to dine with Jeremy and the other tenants (I was disappointed about this because of the conversation that I wanted to have with Derrick and Diana). Instead, we had our breakfast at the Dunkin' Donuts that was near our subway entrance. I had my first bagel in New York that day and it was scrumptious. After that, we took the subway to Macy's, where we traveled to the eighth floor with the intention of visiting Santa Claus. We were initially going to abandon this exploit because of the sheer length of the line, which curved multiple times about a strange train which ended up being a hallway to the North-Pole designed room that wound around to the room with Santa Claus in it, however I am glad that we did not because the wait was certainly worth it (and the line moved relatively fast owing to the fact that there were clones of Santa on duty as well, or so I would guess). After finally reaching the room with Santa Claus, I joined Hope on his lap as was promised after she gave him a huge hug. When he asked her what she wanted, she said a whole list of things, "A baby doll, a telescope, a Ken doll, a scooter. . ." He nodded and said, "I'll see what I can do." And then he turned to me and asked me what I wanted. I said, "May I please have the Glenn Gould recording of Beethoven's 12th and 13th Sonatas?" and he said, "I'll definitely have to see about that one!" Then, some of the elves took pictures, and we were free to exit and collect our photos. We then met Dave near Wall Street, which he guided us through, telling us interesting things about each of the buildings (he knew a lot about the area because his residence is located there). We took a picture of my father near the statue of the bull which is supposed to represent a strong market, and we walked over to a small water-side park from which we could gaze at the Statue of Liberty. While we were there, Hope invested in a Matroyshka doll, and either shortly before or after that, we dined at a little Italian place where I tasted New York pizza for the first time. It was tasty. That day, Dave said something that has made me think a little bit. I said something about how I prefer jogging to team sports and he said, "You know, Robyn, I was reading an astrology book - and it classified all of the weeks of the year by a title, and I found the the title for our week of the year was very accurrate. Our week is called 'The Week of the Loner.'" I was initially unsure of whether this was a good thing or not, but then I decided that it was rather accurrate, considering that I am often content to do things alone. In fact, things are less awkward that way. That night, we dined at a very fancy Italian place, seated at Katie Couric's table, no less, and went to the NYCB's production of the "Nutcracker" immediately afterward over at the Lincoln Center. It was absolutely amazing - I thought that the choreography, especially at the beginning during the family scenes, was brilliant, and I remarked several times throughout the show that George Ballanchine is the bomb.com. Unfortunately, the poor candy-cane man with the hula hoop didn't make it through the hoop the last time and we felt very sad for him. The next day, we dined with Jeremy again, though we didn't see Derrick and Diana until we were going out of the door. We went ice skating at Brian Park (and I found my brown flapper hat), where they played excellent music (Ella Fitzgerald, Michael Buble). I wondered why they didn't play this music at the Annex when they have ice skating there. After ice skating, we dined at a place called Sarabeth's, where I had a pleasant conversation with a man and his daughter Genevieve while we were waiting to be seated. This restaurant was right across the street from Central Park, and so after lunch, we went riding through the park on a horse-drawn carriage while our Irish horse-driver told us things about the park that I couldn't understand because of his accent and his distance from me. Our horse was named Oscar and he was gray and dappled. After the ride, we walked a good distance to the Museum of Natural History, which we walked through for about an hour. My dad and Heather had quarreled, and so he was unable to focus through the whole museum; we spent the most time in the Rose Center for Earth and Space, which I found to be the most interesting part by far. We spent the rest of that night in the room at the Bed and Breakfast, where Hope and I played with Murray and Tess, read some Junie B. Jones, and watched Elf. Downstairs, a wild bridal party was being thrown by the co-owner of the Bed and Breakfast, Bernadette. This distressed my dad and Heather, because we were to wake up at 3 in the morning so that we could board our return flight at 6:00. This wild party did not end until 10:45, at which point we had been trying to sleep for about an hour. We were very grumpy people the following morning, though, luckily, we were able to find a cab to drive us to the airport as opposed to taking a series of subway trains. There were two flights to get home, but we finally did, and it was a sweet experience to return, even though it was still very cold outside.
Whew. My fingers are twitching now.
To the dreams! The first one I had was from two nights ago, our last night in the Bed and Breakfast. I dreamt that I was giving these large gaudy roses to my teachers for presents. I dropped one in Mr. James' office and happened to run into Dr. Moss outside of the Arts Building, where I presented him with his rose. Then, I was in Ms. Freitag's room, and I had decided to give her a glass mosaic-y sort of bowl instead of a rose. She scolded and made fun of me halfway through class for having it on my person - and told the class that it was distracting me from math, and this was why I was having issues in her class. At the end of the class, I informed her that it was her present and stormed from the classroom without waiting to see her response.
The next interesting dream that I had was from last night, and it contained two parts. The first part seemed to consist of a disturbing, detailed accound of a lynching, which we had to write a report about for school. In the next part of the dream, my friend Aaron invited me over to his house for dinner, and his mother had prepared this lasagna with pears in it. I could tell, in the dream, that a large part of her impression of me depended on my response to her cuisine, and I dreaded eating the lasagna because I already knew that I wouldn't like it. That was the end of my dreams from that night.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
CD-318 in a Discussion of the Platonic Ideal, Book Endings, and a Dream,
Last night, I went with Shannon, Aaron, Rhaynely, and Chloe to watch "Inception" for the second time (it was their first time, except for Chloe; the two of us were able to laugh at the 0-gravity scenes this time, since we had a pretty good grasp of the plot). I didn't fully appreciate the film until the second time around, partially because I fell asleep the first time I saw it, and consequently missed about five minutes of crucial plot. One thing that I was able to appreciate a lot more this time was the involvement of the "creative" man on the team, Eves (or however his name was spelled). I did not even realize, the first time around, that he took on so many disguises, first as Fischer's godfather, then as the pretty girl that he talks to in the hotel. It was also mainly his job to decide what events will occur in the dream to make inception possible, like the finding of the little pinwheel found inside the vault in the father's hospital room. The end of the movie is eerie, because while there seems to be resolution in the fact that Leonardo Dicaprio has returned to his kids, the screen flicks to the credits before the totem topples to the table. It is still spinning, which may suggest that Leonardo Dicaprio has not yet returned to reality. It was a very interesting ending, because it could have gone either way, like the end of the book The Giver, in which it is impossible to tell if the main character makes it to safety or dies. In any case, "Inception" is a good movie (I'd even go so far as to say that it is great, after seeing it the second time), and if you have not seen it yet, I highly recommend it.
Just the other day, my mother and I were discussing the various ways that authors end books. It seems that there are a couple of different general styles that are utilized when ending books; I meditated on these all day at school, and finally hashed them out with my mother when I returned home that day. There is the "fireworks" method, there is the "life-goes-on" method, there is a combination of the two, and then there is Steinbeck. I'm sure that there are probably others, but I suppose that I am not well-read enough to list them in their entirety.
I call the first method the "fireworks" method because books which utilize this style tend to end with a bang, no pun intended, or like a fireworks show. Throughout the show, there are lulls in the excitement and climaxes, but there is nothing quite like the clustered lights of the finale, which is what makes the whole show worth it. Much in the same way, authors who utilize this method will throw in a last page or paragraph of what is supposed to be a profound conclusion - and this conclusion is meant to unite all of the previous events of the book while also driving home a strong point to the reader. Sometimes this point is a theme that has subtly existed throughout the entire book, but which is now made blatantly clear - or sometimes this point (when reading a narrative in the first-person restricted perspective) is meant to convey what the main character has been trying to say the whole time. I can think of a couple of books which use this strategy: Looking For Alaska, Notes From Underground, and even the Harry Potter series in a way, because Rowling spends the last paragraph instilling a deep sense of peace and catharsis in the reader. However, the example that I shall present is from Fyodor Dostoyevsky's Notes From Underground: (It will not let me put the quote, so here is the link. It starts at "But hadn't I better end my 'Notes' here?")http://etext.virginia.edu/etcbin/toccer-new2?id=DosNote.sgm&images=images/modeng&data=/texts/english/modeng/parsed&tag=public&part=21&division=div2
The first thing about this monologue is that it is very quotable. There are so many things to think about within this quote. . .like, what would human beings really do without stories, without books? That is, indeed, where we learn most of our morals, is it not? Dostoyevsky challenges us in this statement. I tell you, this book is not an easy read, for the sole reason that the main character is difficult to like - not only is he cynical, but he does a very cold and cruel thing toward the end of the book, just when you feel like he might be redeemed. But then, he turns his cruelty around, telling us that he merely carried his actions to one extreme, and if we base our morality in fiction, who are we to dictate how cruel or not cruel he is? (He still isn't a very likeable character and is still an anti-hero, but he makes a good point). I was ready to come away from this book with a general feeling of disappointment, but this final monologue, this finale to the fireworks show, if you will, was successful in that it redeemed the entire story for me and made it worth it.
Now, the life-goes-on method consists of an open ending in which the characters go about their daily lives and the reader is supposed to infer that things are continuing according to the norm established near the end of the book. The two best examples of this that I can think of at the moment are in The House of Sand and Fog and A Spot of Bother. I believe that in the former, on of the main characters, who has been recently incarcerated, sits down at a table with some other inmates, and lights a cigarette. That is it. And then, in the latter, the middle-aged man who has spent the entire book battling insanity in the face of potential (but imagined) cancer sits down at the kitchen table and drinks a cup of coffee. It is a simpler but powerful approach, because it leaves the reader with a general sense of hope that things may not be perfect, but they are continuing. Life goes on.
While these two ending styles seem very distinct, some authors decide to combine the two. This must be a Southern thing, I've decided, because the two books which immediately come to my mind are of the Southern Gothic genre: To Kill a Mockingbird and The Heart is a Lonely Hunter. In both books, one of the characters has a revelation which gives new meaning to all events which happen earlier in the book, but then that character (or all the characters involved) does a simple action which indicates that life goes on. In Mockingbird, of course, we have Scout's inner monologue when she's standing on the Radley porch - when I first read the book, I thought that it would end right there. However, she returns home to where Atticus is sitting with the unconscious Jem. "Atticus would be there all night," and would be there "when Jem waked up in the morning." The end. It is a simple action, but it implies that life continues. It is a similar type of thing in The Heart, but it is late and I am running out of time.
Then there is Steinbeck. He's a different ball game entirely, or whatever people say. From what I've read of Steinbeck, I get the feeling that he took joy in messing with people's heads. I imagine him sitting down, writing his novels and cackling to himself, "Let's see, now, they want realistic fiction? Well, they'll have it, all right - " (snicker) "Yep, let's develop our characters, make 'em nice and round. It's coming up on the end now, so I'll throw in A GIANT RABBIT! What do you think of that?" I do not think that any of us who have read Of Mice and Men expected that one of the main characters would, at any point, have a conversation with a giant rabbit, even if that rabbit was a hallucination. And then, I will remember this until the day I die: my mom and I were eating pizza one day at the Mario's over by Target, and we were discussing the Grapes of Wrath, because I had a desire to read it. My mom, reminiscing about it, revealed the ending to me. I was horrified. Then she said, "Wait, maybe that's not the way it ends. It's been a while since I've read it." To which I replied, "If you made that up, then you are sick in the head." She did not make it up - I will not reveal the ending on here, because I believe that most of my followers have not read it yet and I don't want to ruin it - It somehow has the same effect as the life-goes-on ending, because it gives the reader a feeling of hope, even though the situation is desperate and strange. It is a strange catharsis, this ending. I think that I'm going to re-read this book; I've been thinking about it lately.
In any case, I babble. The CD-318, I discovered today, is apparently the Platonic Ideal for a Baroque piano. It is a Steinway model, and it is the favorite of Glenn Gould, who apparently spent years searching for the perfect piano. I didn't know this until today, but it ties into my dream from last night, because it involved Glenn Gould and his Steinway piano.
I slept in the guest bedroom last night because Heather is in the process of moving back in, and so there was a television in the middle of my bed. I took my purse, my gloves, and a Bible into the guest bedroom with me, and they sat on the bedside table (I had the Bible because I'm trying to find a Psalm to set to choral music). In the beginning of the dream, my dad and I were in what seemed to be half of an amphitheater. It was a semi-circle of ascending seats, and down at the bottom there was a wide stage. My dad and I had decent seats in the center. Glenn Gould was performing on the stage. Just after he finished, he said something to the audience that I could not catch because everyone was applauding. Just after he finished speaking, flocks of people made an eager beeline for the stage. I was excited. Turning to my dad, I asked, "Is he taking requests for songs?" I realized, even in the dream, that this was a silly question - it was not as though classical performers responded to yells of "Fur Elise!" like a cover band might respond to a cry for "Freebird!" My dad, shaking his head, replied, "No, he's letting people come down to play his Steinway. You should go," he added, gesturing down at the stage. I scrambled from my seat down to the stage, eager to see if the action on the keys was heavy or light, and eager to meet the pianist himself. The crowd disappeared as I made my way down to the stage, and then the stage itself became an enclosed, brightly-lit room with a desk, a mirror, and the piano against the wall. The famous chair was there as well, and I remember feeling the temptation to sit on it or touch it through the entire scene in the room, but I restrained myself for fear of being kicked out of the room. "So, there is the piano," said Glenn. "What are you going to play on it?" I sat down on another chair and thought for a moment. "Probably the second movement of Beethoven's 'Tempest,'" I said. He nodded and stood in the center of the floor, listening as I played it. After I played the piece, he rambled for a few minutes about how he wished that all concerts were performed on an individual basis because individuals interpreted music so differently throughout a crowd. Because of this, he claimed, it was harder to play for an audience who would perceive everything a different way. The speech was something to this effect. After he had finished, I began to play the hymn "All Creatures of Our God and King" because I was reluctant to leave. I sang along as well, and my voice sounded full and nice in the dream. I was surprised when Glenn also began to sing along just before the chorus of "O praise Him! Alleluia!" After a moment, I stood up and the music continued even though no one played the piano. Spontaneously, we began to waltz to it, even though it is in 3/2, so I don't even remember how that worked. In any case, we were waltzing and singing, because we both miraculously remembered the words. It was very strange. Then the next part of the dream was stressful, because I was home alone, and there was a creepy guy who lived next to us. All that I remember of this part of the dream is that I left the house to do something, and found myself being pursued by this creepy guy, who had the intention of killing me or gravely injuring me in some way. In the last part of the dream, I was back at the amphitheater without my dad, and I was wandering through the hallway which encircled the seating area. I walked out into one row and found it to be full of little kids wearing Halloween costumes. I remember in particular that there was a little girl with her face painted green and she wore a pointed hat. She was supposed to be a witch. The children were sitting down in the rows and were being chaperoned by two college age people wearing red, like the employees at the YMCA. Down on the stage was Conor Oberst. He had grown a mountain-man beard. I found this strange and oddly embarrassing, and so I left the room, and subsequently awoke.
Just the other day, my mother and I were discussing the various ways that authors end books. It seems that there are a couple of different general styles that are utilized when ending books; I meditated on these all day at school, and finally hashed them out with my mother when I returned home that day. There is the "fireworks" method, there is the "life-goes-on" method, there is a combination of the two, and then there is Steinbeck. I'm sure that there are probably others, but I suppose that I am not well-read enough to list them in their entirety.
I call the first method the "fireworks" method because books which utilize this style tend to end with a bang, no pun intended, or like a fireworks show. Throughout the show, there are lulls in the excitement and climaxes, but there is nothing quite like the clustered lights of the finale, which is what makes the whole show worth it. Much in the same way, authors who utilize this method will throw in a last page or paragraph of what is supposed to be a profound conclusion - and this conclusion is meant to unite all of the previous events of the book while also driving home a strong point to the reader. Sometimes this point is a theme that has subtly existed throughout the entire book, but which is now made blatantly clear - or sometimes this point (when reading a narrative in the first-person restricted perspective) is meant to convey what the main character has been trying to say the whole time. I can think of a couple of books which use this strategy: Looking For Alaska, Notes From Underground, and even the Harry Potter series in a way, because Rowling spends the last paragraph instilling a deep sense of peace and catharsis in the reader. However, the example that I shall present is from Fyodor Dostoyevsky's Notes From Underground: (It will not let me put the quote, so here is the link. It starts at "But hadn't I better end my 'Notes' here?")http://etext.virginia.edu/etcbin/toccer-new2?id=DosNote.sgm&images=images/modeng&data=/texts/english/modeng/parsed&tag=public&part=21&division=div2
The first thing about this monologue is that it is very quotable. There are so many things to think about within this quote. . .like, what would human beings really do without stories, without books? That is, indeed, where we learn most of our morals, is it not? Dostoyevsky challenges us in this statement. I tell you, this book is not an easy read, for the sole reason that the main character is difficult to like - not only is he cynical, but he does a very cold and cruel thing toward the end of the book, just when you feel like he might be redeemed. But then, he turns his cruelty around, telling us that he merely carried his actions to one extreme, and if we base our morality in fiction, who are we to dictate how cruel or not cruel he is? (He still isn't a very likeable character and is still an anti-hero, but he makes a good point). I was ready to come away from this book with a general feeling of disappointment, but this final monologue, this finale to the fireworks show, if you will, was successful in that it redeemed the entire story for me and made it worth it.
Now, the life-goes-on method consists of an open ending in which the characters go about their daily lives and the reader is supposed to infer that things are continuing according to the norm established near the end of the book. The two best examples of this that I can think of at the moment are in The House of Sand and Fog and A Spot of Bother. I believe that in the former, on of the main characters, who has been recently incarcerated, sits down at a table with some other inmates, and lights a cigarette. That is it. And then, in the latter, the middle-aged man who has spent the entire book battling insanity in the face of potential (but imagined) cancer sits down at the kitchen table and drinks a cup of coffee. It is a simpler but powerful approach, because it leaves the reader with a general sense of hope that things may not be perfect, but they are continuing. Life goes on.
While these two ending styles seem very distinct, some authors decide to combine the two. This must be a Southern thing, I've decided, because the two books which immediately come to my mind are of the Southern Gothic genre: To Kill a Mockingbird and The Heart is a Lonely Hunter. In both books, one of the characters has a revelation which gives new meaning to all events which happen earlier in the book, but then that character (or all the characters involved) does a simple action which indicates that life goes on. In Mockingbird, of course, we have Scout's inner monologue when she's standing on the Radley porch - when I first read the book, I thought that it would end right there. However, she returns home to where Atticus is sitting with the unconscious Jem. "Atticus would be there all night," and would be there "when Jem waked up in the morning." The end. It is a simple action, but it implies that life continues. It is a similar type of thing in The Heart, but it is late and I am running out of time.
Then there is Steinbeck. He's a different ball game entirely, or whatever people say. From what I've read of Steinbeck, I get the feeling that he took joy in messing with people's heads. I imagine him sitting down, writing his novels and cackling to himself, "Let's see, now, they want realistic fiction? Well, they'll have it, all right - " (snicker) "Yep, let's develop our characters, make 'em nice and round. It's coming up on the end now, so I'll throw in A GIANT RABBIT! What do you think of that?" I do not think that any of us who have read Of Mice and Men expected that one of the main characters would, at any point, have a conversation with a giant rabbit, even if that rabbit was a hallucination. And then, I will remember this until the day I die: my mom and I were eating pizza one day at the Mario's over by Target, and we were discussing the Grapes of Wrath, because I had a desire to read it. My mom, reminiscing about it, revealed the ending to me. I was horrified. Then she said, "Wait, maybe that's not the way it ends. It's been a while since I've read it." To which I replied, "If you made that up, then you are sick in the head." She did not make it up - I will not reveal the ending on here, because I believe that most of my followers have not read it yet and I don't want to ruin it - It somehow has the same effect as the life-goes-on ending, because it gives the reader a feeling of hope, even though the situation is desperate and strange. It is a strange catharsis, this ending. I think that I'm going to re-read this book; I've been thinking about it lately.
In any case, I babble. The CD-318, I discovered today, is apparently the Platonic Ideal for a Baroque piano. It is a Steinway model, and it is the favorite of Glenn Gould, who apparently spent years searching for the perfect piano. I didn't know this until today, but it ties into my dream from last night, because it involved Glenn Gould and his Steinway piano.
I slept in the guest bedroom last night because Heather is in the process of moving back in, and so there was a television in the middle of my bed. I took my purse, my gloves, and a Bible into the guest bedroom with me, and they sat on the bedside table (I had the Bible because I'm trying to find a Psalm to set to choral music). In the beginning of the dream, my dad and I were in what seemed to be half of an amphitheater. It was a semi-circle of ascending seats, and down at the bottom there was a wide stage. My dad and I had decent seats in the center. Glenn Gould was performing on the stage. Just after he finished, he said something to the audience that I could not catch because everyone was applauding. Just after he finished speaking, flocks of people made an eager beeline for the stage. I was excited. Turning to my dad, I asked, "Is he taking requests for songs?" I realized, even in the dream, that this was a silly question - it was not as though classical performers responded to yells of "Fur Elise!" like a cover band might respond to a cry for "Freebird!" My dad, shaking his head, replied, "No, he's letting people come down to play his Steinway. You should go," he added, gesturing down at the stage. I scrambled from my seat down to the stage, eager to see if the action on the keys was heavy or light, and eager to meet the pianist himself. The crowd disappeared as I made my way down to the stage, and then the stage itself became an enclosed, brightly-lit room with a desk, a mirror, and the piano against the wall. The famous chair was there as well, and I remember feeling the temptation to sit on it or touch it through the entire scene in the room, but I restrained myself for fear of being kicked out of the room. "So, there is the piano," said Glenn. "What are you going to play on it?" I sat down on another chair and thought for a moment. "Probably the second movement of Beethoven's 'Tempest,'" I said. He nodded and stood in the center of the floor, listening as I played it. After I played the piece, he rambled for a few minutes about how he wished that all concerts were performed on an individual basis because individuals interpreted music so differently throughout a crowd. Because of this, he claimed, it was harder to play for an audience who would perceive everything a different way. The speech was something to this effect. After he had finished, I began to play the hymn "All Creatures of Our God and King" because I was reluctant to leave. I sang along as well, and my voice sounded full and nice in the dream. I was surprised when Glenn also began to sing along just before the chorus of "O praise Him! Alleluia!" After a moment, I stood up and the music continued even though no one played the piano. Spontaneously, we began to waltz to it, even though it is in 3/2, so I don't even remember how that worked. In any case, we were waltzing and singing, because we both miraculously remembered the words. It was very strange. Then the next part of the dream was stressful, because I was home alone, and there was a creepy guy who lived next to us. All that I remember of this part of the dream is that I left the house to do something, and found myself being pursued by this creepy guy, who had the intention of killing me or gravely injuring me in some way. In the last part of the dream, I was back at the amphitheater without my dad, and I was wandering through the hallway which encircled the seating area. I walked out into one row and found it to be full of little kids wearing Halloween costumes. I remember in particular that there was a little girl with her face painted green and she wore a pointed hat. She was supposed to be a witch. The children were sitting down in the rows and were being chaperoned by two college age people wearing red, like the employees at the YMCA. Down on the stage was Conor Oberst. He had grown a mountain-man beard. I found this strange and oddly embarrassing, and so I left the room, and subsequently awoke.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Thanksgiving, "Creation," and "The Butter Battle Book"
So, today is Thanksgiving. We had a full turkey dinner made by my grandmother. Those partaking in the dinner were myself, Hope, Heather, my grandparents, and my father. As of a few months ago, my dad and Heather are officially back on, and are in fact, engaged. The wedding is due to be in May of next year, and it will be held at a beautiful mountain house, of which I have seen pictures. A few days ago, on Tuesday, my dad, Aaron Sebright, his father, and I went to the Symphony performance of Haydn's "Creation." The music was absolutely gorgeous. The first thing that I remember thinking, in the opening notes of the oratorio, was that it is very easy to see how Haydn influenced Beethoven when he was the latter's teacher. The music was like an ocean. Each day of Creation was begun with a somber, quiet vocal recital accompanied by minimal strings and the harpsichord. The bass man was the first and most often to sing during these recital parts. Then, after each aspect of whatever day was described in great detail, one would sense the approaching climax. This usually came in the form of, "And then the holy choir said. . ." And then, BOOM! The chorale singers sitting in the back of the stage would explode in exhorting song and the man playing the timpani would pound at it like an agitated heart. It was absolutely fantastic and heart-wrenching simultaneously. One of my favorite parts of the performance was getting a chance to see them professionally perform "The Heavens are Telling," which was the first piece that I performed with the choir, incidentally. After seeing it performed professionally, I can make the conclusion that we did a pretty good job! I wore the black sparkly dress that I usually only wear to dances. After the concert, we all went across the street to Wolfies' for gelato. They did not have my favorite kind, lemon-flavored gelato, and so I experimented with the cotton candy flavor. At the table outside, we discussed, among other things, Dr. Seuss and his phenomenal allegory for the Cold War, that is, The Butter Battle Book. I don't know if I've mentioned this book in an earlier post, but it is most obviously about the Cold War, even if he does not explicitly say so. On either side of a wall are two civilizations, one which spreads butter on the top side of the toast and the other which spreads the butter on the bottom side of the toast. These civilizations are constantly at war with each other, and the main character of the book is always going to the military scientists to retrieve the new weapon that they have created. Each time he goes to visit them, he receives the assurance that the weapon that the scientists cooked up could not possibly be matched on the other side. However, as soon as the main character meets the enemy's representative at the wall with his weapon, it is only to find that the other civilization's military equipment is just as sophisticated. Then, each character has to go back to retrieve new, stronger weaponry. Finally, at the end of the book, there is no resolution - the protagonist and antagonist are each standing on the wall, holding a bomb over the side and threatening to drop it into the territory of his enemy. The grandson of the main character, who is witnessing all of this, cries, "Oh grandfather, who will drop the bomb first, you or him?"
And the grandfather says, "We'll see, won't we? We'll see." or something to that effect. That is the end of the story; Dr. Seuss decided not to gift-wrap this story in pleasantness for his young audience.
In any case, our fathers laughed at us for discussing Dr. Seuss so seriously. It was a fun night, all in all.
And the grandfather says, "We'll see, won't we? We'll see." or something to that effect. That is the end of the story; Dr. Seuss decided not to gift-wrap this story in pleasantness for his young audience.
In any case, our fathers laughed at us for discussing Dr. Seuss so seriously. It was a fun night, all in all.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Homecoming and Reynolds' Echec Epique
Any die-hard Reynolds fans who came to the game tonight hoping for a win to accompany our homecoming night were sorely disappointed. Not only did we lose to the Davie War Eagles, but we did not score a single point the whole game. It was, as noted above, an echec epique, which translates literally to "epic failure." However, there were a few interesting things which occured today. I was stressed out initially, because the marching band went to a marching band festival at Glenn High School on Thursday, which left no time to do homework or study for the multiple tests that I had the following day, which included an Iliad quiz, a math test, a French test on art and Versailles, and a chemistry test. The schedule was also to be shortened today to make room for the pep rally, which always concludes our school's spirit week. I hate pep rallies at our school for two reasons, and one is that everyone is so loud that the man speaking into the microphone cannot be heard, and the other is that any music (besides marching band music) that they play is awful. This combination of things makes one feel as though one's ears are bleeding by the time that they leave the gym. In any case, today at lunch, a man with a guitar came to perform for us. He had a very nice voice which was good for singing Thom Yorke. He played "Fake Plastic Trees" from Radiohead's album "The Bends," some Tom Petty, and Red Hot Chili Peppers, whom I don't care for. Chloe and I sat on a bench and watched him, and she sang the harmony of everything he played and criticized his range. Around 5:30 that night, we arrived at the parking lot of the stadium that we share with Parkland, where numerous tables had been set up and sheltered areas where hot dogs, hamburgers, brownies, and pasta salad were being distributed. At the very edge of this area were several rows of seats which faced another solo guitarist, who sang similar repertoire (a few of his songs included another Tom Petty song, "More than a Feeling," "Sweet Home Alabama," etc.). He serenaded everyone at the tailgate party all through dinner, which was free. After one of his songs, a group of people which included Evan and Niko approached him and made a request, which was taken ("Sweet Home Alabama,"). After that, the guitarist encouraged requests, so I walked over and requested some Bob Dylan, because it seemed as though he had a good raspy-esque voice for Bob Dylan. He gladly obliged, seeming to be shocked that I would request Bob Dylan - the way he looked, he must have guessed that I would request something along the lines of Lady Gaga, or another pop artist typical of my demographic. He played a song that I wasn't wholly familiar with, but it was classic Bob nonetheless. Later on, as we lined up in our pre-National-Anthem lines outside of the gate, I saw the guitarist sitting in the open trunk of his car with what must have been his wife/girlfriend and their little girl. She watched our puny marching band with wonder, and I found something about that scene rather moving. Once inside, nothing too terribly interesting happened; Nikki was not crowned homecoming queen, which was sad. Speaking of Nikki, she did an amusing thing at the festival yesterday. Up at the press box, one could make announcements to other people in the crowd, and so she had the commentator read a proposal to Mr. James, written under the pseudonym of Nancy. It was very cute. In any case, that's about it for tonight.
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