Here's something I wrote recently on the plane from Houston to San Jose after running into somebody I hadn't expected to see at a college audition. I'm proud of this one, for the myriad of emotions that I experienced in that short meeting all find expression within these four lines:
Whatever happened to the Pines?
Only yesterday blue skies churned their boughs.
Ended majesty, caressed only by saws
Tirelessly failing to reincarnate virgin beauty.
--M*O*S*H I/25/11
01 February, 2011
10 January, 2011
'Tis But a Dream
"Dreams are the answers to questions we do not yet know how to ask." -- David Duchovny as Fox Mulder, X-Files.
I've always enjoyed quoting the X-Files, just ask any one of my literature, history, or philosophy teachers. The above is a particular favorite, along with the one about young Jimmy the Death Fetishist and, of course, the one about drawstring pants. At the moment I mention dreams instead of mothmen because the other night I enjoyed one that was surpassed in its beauty only in the duration of its effect upon my mood and thoughts.
Along with any accounting of a dream there comes an inevitable risk of losing one's audience in a vast simmering cauldron of LSD-based imagery of fantastical collisions of dimensional realities: one had six feet and went to the bank while swimming down main street only to discover the evil porcupine from last night's campfire hot-dog roast on Mars was dressed up as a teller and looked an awful lot like your grandmother. As fun as such a literary attempt would be, I'm going to forgo that road in favor of describing how the said dream made me feel the morning after. I'm also going to forgo any details other than the fact that it involved myself of no particular alteration, someone else of no particular concern, and a moment extraordinary to no particular degree. Mr. Mulder can answer any further questions.
When I awoke, I felt as if I were the sky itself: an endless stretch of serenity measured only by soaring beings and spectral frolicings. I felt as if I had been happy for as long as the old earth has been alive, and as fresh as it has ever been even after the most torrential downpour. I felt as if my soul was a brilliant star that was beginning to cast its rays to the outermost corners of the universe. I felt in love.
06 January, 2011
A Posting for Sarah
I ran into an old acquaintance today while I was having lunch at a cafe. She used to work as a free-lance interviewer for the Crescent City Daily Triplicate, and she interviewed me seven years ago at my house as part of the paper's coverage of a solo appearance with the local orchestra. She is now a masseuse who happened to have a stand in the corner of this particular cafe. Inbetween banterings of career directions, I mentioned some of my own various writings, including a few poems and the recent article on slow music. The poems are posted on my Facebook page, but I'm going to post them here as well in hopes that someday she happens upon them. The first is a blank-verse phrase commemorating a very moving performance of a student composition at Mills College. The second is a modified Haikou Sonnet written to a girl I once loved very much.
The Concert:
Twilight upon the stage, the lone bassist stalwart to a silver screen
Emotions waver left to right atop groans of agony
Illegible script, a single note mumbles forth
LA, then silence among babble
Loss, pain, and lunacy dripping blue across our faces
--M*O*S*H V/7/09
The Hilltop:
Midnight grows wetter
The windswept hilltop I have climbed
Warms more my heart than home's toasty fire
Love's strong oak mansion
Where in secret we've never lived
Through the nightly mist discerns my gaze
I turn and stumble
Back towards the life I'll always know
Down In the valley, sundered from you
Passion's oaken shaft
Sinks through the rain into my back
Severing all Reason's defenses
The desolate street
Stages for only itself's sight
Deeds never to leave its memory
Our dormant embrace
All my abandoned abandon
Caressing the raindrops from your lips
--M*O*S*H V/5/09
The Concert:
Twilight upon the stage, the lone bassist stalwart to a silver screen
Emotions waver left to right atop groans of agony
Illegible script, a single note mumbles forth
LA, then silence among babble
Loss, pain, and lunacy dripping blue across our faces
--M*O*S*H V/7/09
The Hilltop:
Midnight grows wetter
The windswept hilltop I have climbed
Warms more my heart than home's toasty fire
Love's strong oak mansion
Where in secret we've never lived
Through the nightly mist discerns my gaze
I turn and stumble
Back towards the life I'll always know
Down In the valley, sundered from you
Passion's oaken shaft
Sinks through the rain into my back
Severing all Reason's defenses
The desolate street
Stages for only itself's sight
Deeds never to leave its memory
Our dormant embrace
All my abandoned abandon
Caressing the raindrops from your lips
--M*O*S*H V/5/09
04 January, 2011
On Slow Music
"I can't play slow music. I don't understand it, I've never been good at it, it's boring, and it makes me sound terrible." -- Me, 1994-c.2009
We all have an Achilles heel. Sampson had Delilah, Hitler had Russia, Paganini had Berlioz, Nixon had his enemies list, Solo had his Leah, my mom has her brownies, Burlusconi has every woman in his country, and I have slow music. Some people overcome theirs enough to get by, some can't even acknowledge theirs even to fix it, and some use theirs to set off a brilliant cascade of lethal fireworks for all to enjoy (President Bush and microphones). Often times the discovery of such things unfolds like a little mini-drama. A young, innocent soul is born, starts to grow and learn, and then has some part of his development fed nuclear waste. This toxic appendage simmers beneath the surface for years, then bursts through the skin in...ok, you get the picture.
Others are lucky enough to fight theirs to a stalemate and then agree to go grab a coffee and become friends.
Ever since the infant days of my musician self, I've detested slow music. I flew through the Suzuki books at sometimes two or three songs a week, and spent an entire two months on the damn Brahms waltz in book 2 (never really learned it...my poor, poor teacher). I used to see how fast I could play every song I knew, and then see how many times I could do that without screwing up. Fiddle music was a mere matter of predestination. I gained the infamous reputation of being the one kid at Suzuki camp that none of the gladiator-type piano ladies could follow.
When I was 14, I asked my teacher why she didn't want me to play Hindemith Trauermusik. It is, by nature, a slow piece, but I had played just about all the dessert music out there at this point and wanted a challenge. She said that I was too young to understand such music, and I was rather put out. I then tried reading it (sans piano) and thought it was the most nauseating, intangible, trite piece of trash I'd ever heard. That's that, back to the Campagnoli caprices.
However, shortly before this incident I had discovered the 2nd movement of the Ravel G major piano concerto. My favorite part, the sweeping 8th note ostinati above the cor angleis solo, pretty much disqualified it as old school "slow music," but it was at least a start. It remains to this day one of my most favorite pieces of music that holds a secret, intimate, warm, youthful, and life-changing personal association that only three people on this earth know about.
At 16, I undertook slow music with David Holland at Interlochen: the 2nd movement of the Vanhal viola concerto. Being a man of large stature, I'm rather surprised David didn't squish me like a bug after I worked on the lovely thing for two months and got about as far as Ellie Roosevelt did with cooking anything tasty. I played the movement three years later for the ASTA competition, and was told to "Keep the Schnittke, clean up the Bach, and dump the Vanhal--it doesn't suit you at all."
Also, while at Interlochen, I purchased a strange piece from the ScholarShop; John Corigliano's "Fancy on a Bach Air." Grade-A slow music, but very cool because the tempo is "blob = c.56." In other words, do whatever the hell you want. Took it to a practice room in a rush of excitement, played the first ten notes, and then shelved it for an entire two years. Holland's comment on my impasse was that I was "afraid of dying."
More than likely so. However, this brings me to the turning point in my little dissertation. I just spent the better part of two hours practicing the slow movement of the Schubert Arpeggione Sonata. It was very rewarding, extraordinarily soothing, and if I may say, started to sound pretty delicious toward the end. My mom, who was listening from her office nearby, came out a little while later and said, "I remember when you used to say (see quote at top of page). I've noticed that's not been true in the last few years. What changed?"
I was then faced with answering such a question. I remembered what my old teacher said about not being old enough, and delved along those lines. At the time, I assumed not being old enough meant not knowing what it's like to truly be in love, or to experience loss, or to feel deep heartbreak. So then for me it was easy to toss off as wait 50 years and you'll get it. Since I can't order the Senior Scramble at Denny's, there must be more to it than that. I remembered what Holland said about dying. True, I'm much more comfortable with death now, but that's still not it. I recalled an earlier conversation with mom, when I expressed the recently-discovered pleasures of driving to town and back never once coming anything close to the speed limit (never would have happened as recently as two years ago). When you're going 35 in the 50, everything you do is a decision. Driving becomes an art: lane placement, engine rpms, tastefully carving your own path out of curves, giving the guy in front of you a half-mile to do his own thing, letting whomever by when the come zooming up behind you, enjoying the scenery. All this without even consciously thinking to do so--you don't need to, the simple things become pleasures in and of themselves. It's not driving with blue hair, it's driving with aesthetic command. Also, along these lines, I just wrote a letter to a dear friend today mentioning how something seemingly insignificant she gave me a half-year ago was one of my most well-loved trinkets in my box of cool things from my life. I concluded to her that again, it's the simple things that make life beautiful, the small things that matter most.
So, armed with these answers, I told mom that I could finally play slow music simply because it is beautiful. I'm no longer a kid who thinks in terms of more is greater and faster is better. Fast has its place, fun has its say, but the simple--the slow, thoughtful, meandering, sentimental, seemingly meaningless yet profound--has its beauty.
The Corigliano has become one of my most cherished pieces in my repertoire, the Vanhal (though it is in F) leaves me feeling as if an angel kissed the hand of the author just before he set pen to paper, and the Arpeggione is going to be performed with utmost love and care for the first time ever in my life next Sunday at 2pm.
We all have an Achilles heel. Sampson had Delilah, Hitler had Russia, Paganini had Berlioz, Nixon had his enemies list, Solo had his Leah, my mom has her brownies, Burlusconi has every woman in his country, and I have slow music. Some people overcome theirs enough to get by, some can't even acknowledge theirs even to fix it, and some use theirs to set off a brilliant cascade of lethal fireworks for all to enjoy (President Bush and microphones). Often times the discovery of such things unfolds like a little mini-drama. A young, innocent soul is born, starts to grow and learn, and then has some part of his development fed nuclear waste. This toxic appendage simmers beneath the surface for years, then bursts through the skin in...ok, you get the picture.
Others are lucky enough to fight theirs to a stalemate and then agree to go grab a coffee and become friends.
Ever since the infant days of my musician self, I've detested slow music. I flew through the Suzuki books at sometimes two or three songs a week, and spent an entire two months on the damn Brahms waltz in book 2 (never really learned it...my poor, poor teacher). I used to see how fast I could play every song I knew, and then see how many times I could do that without screwing up. Fiddle music was a mere matter of predestination. I gained the infamous reputation of being the one kid at Suzuki camp that none of the gladiator-type piano ladies could follow.
When I was 14, I asked my teacher why she didn't want me to play Hindemith Trauermusik. It is, by nature, a slow piece, but I had played just about all the dessert music out there at this point and wanted a challenge. She said that I was too young to understand such music, and I was rather put out. I then tried reading it (sans piano) and thought it was the most nauseating, intangible, trite piece of trash I'd ever heard. That's that, back to the Campagnoli caprices.
However, shortly before this incident I had discovered the 2nd movement of the Ravel G major piano concerto. My favorite part, the sweeping 8th note ostinati above the cor angleis solo, pretty much disqualified it as old school "slow music," but it was at least a start. It remains to this day one of my most favorite pieces of music that holds a secret, intimate, warm, youthful, and life-changing personal association that only three people on this earth know about.
At 16, I undertook slow music with David Holland at Interlochen: the 2nd movement of the Vanhal viola concerto. Being a man of large stature, I'm rather surprised David didn't squish me like a bug after I worked on the lovely thing for two months and got about as far as Ellie Roosevelt did with cooking anything tasty. I played the movement three years later for the ASTA competition, and was told to "Keep the Schnittke, clean up the Bach, and dump the Vanhal--it doesn't suit you at all."
Also, while at Interlochen, I purchased a strange piece from the ScholarShop; John Corigliano's "Fancy on a Bach Air." Grade-A slow music, but very cool because the tempo is "blob = c.56." In other words, do whatever the hell you want. Took it to a practice room in a rush of excitement, played the first ten notes, and then shelved it for an entire two years. Holland's comment on my impasse was that I was "afraid of dying."
More than likely so. However, this brings me to the turning point in my little dissertation. I just spent the better part of two hours practicing the slow movement of the Schubert Arpeggione Sonata. It was very rewarding, extraordinarily soothing, and if I may say, started to sound pretty delicious toward the end. My mom, who was listening from her office nearby, came out a little while later and said, "I remember when you used to say (see quote at top of page). I've noticed that's not been true in the last few years. What changed?"
I was then faced with answering such a question. I remembered what my old teacher said about not being old enough, and delved along those lines. At the time, I assumed not being old enough meant not knowing what it's like to truly be in love, or to experience loss, or to feel deep heartbreak. So then for me it was easy to toss off as wait 50 years and you'll get it. Since I can't order the Senior Scramble at Denny's, there must be more to it than that. I remembered what Holland said about dying. True, I'm much more comfortable with death now, but that's still not it. I recalled an earlier conversation with mom, when I expressed the recently-discovered pleasures of driving to town and back never once coming anything close to the speed limit (never would have happened as recently as two years ago). When you're going 35 in the 50, everything you do is a decision. Driving becomes an art: lane placement, engine rpms, tastefully carving your own path out of curves, giving the guy in front of you a half-mile to do his own thing, letting whomever by when the come zooming up behind you, enjoying the scenery. All this without even consciously thinking to do so--you don't need to, the simple things become pleasures in and of themselves. It's not driving with blue hair, it's driving with aesthetic command. Also, along these lines, I just wrote a letter to a dear friend today mentioning how something seemingly insignificant she gave me a half-year ago was one of my most well-loved trinkets in my box of cool things from my life. I concluded to her that again, it's the simple things that make life beautiful, the small things that matter most.
So, armed with these answers, I told mom that I could finally play slow music simply because it is beautiful. I'm no longer a kid who thinks in terms of more is greater and faster is better. Fast has its place, fun has its say, but the simple--the slow, thoughtful, meandering, sentimental, seemingly meaningless yet profound--has its beauty.
The Corigliano has become one of my most cherished pieces in my repertoire, the Vanhal (though it is in F) leaves me feeling as if an angel kissed the hand of the author just before he set pen to paper, and the Arpeggione is going to be performed with utmost love and care for the first time ever in my life next Sunday at 2pm.
21 October, 2010
Aftermath
Drama.
Tragedy has struck!!! A death in the family, an infanticide. Women screaming in the night, old men feebly gasping "horror" as the dagger falls to the floor dripping their life's ebb to dust.
I had a bad viola lesson.
I knew it was going downhill when she dropped an f-bomb regarding my rhythm. Should have practiced more. Thought it was enough, thought I fixed it...lost on Jeprody. In the end it was Bach who buggered me over, yet again. Such intonation just doesn't come naturally to one accustomed to playing atonal music. Work work work, I have plans...let's see if I screw the pooch again next week!
Tragedy has struck!!! A death in the family, an infanticide. Women screaming in the night, old men feebly gasping "horror" as the dagger falls to the floor dripping their life's ebb to dust.
I had a bad viola lesson.
I knew it was going downhill when she dropped an f-bomb regarding my rhythm. Should have practiced more. Thought it was enough, thought I fixed it...lost on Jeprody. In the end it was Bach who buggered me over, yet again. Such intonation just doesn't come naturally to one accustomed to playing atonal music. Work work work, I have plans...let's see if I screw the pooch again next week!
19 October, 2010
Practicing Tonight
Practicing. It sounds so intrinsically boring to me. It also sounds like it has cousins who study law for a living. "I can't, I'm practicing." "I need to improve my practicing." "Too much/not enough practicing lately." "I'll call you when I'm done pr...." On and on. I used to be inspired by various people I knew who practiced insatiably. Now I raise my eyebrows flood my mind with cynicism...here's how my practice session went today:
9am -- sleep in, I'll practice later
11am -- house is quite clean, ready for a nice day, read amusing New Yorker article on crazy Republicans
1pm -- go have lunch with composer and discuss orchestrations of piano music
4pm -- hang out with a friend, his new X-box, and a few thousand zombies
5pm -- dim sum
8pm -- give visiting family members a tour of the conservatory
9pm -- watch half of Ocean's 11
11pm -- practice
1am -- call father and listen to benevolent rant against the VA, Bush, Iraq, prescription meds, and PSD.
...About that, I feel 11pm needs some more detail. Hindemith Viola Sonata op. 11 no. 4 was the first thing on the menu. It being in F (a HORRIBLE key in my opinion, expect a hateful rant against it soon), I do a quick warm-up of various scale degrees of the F-gender in relatively perfect intervals. Warm-up done, lesson in two days. Piece is two pages, so why not start at the end?
There seem to be a lot of soupy runs that require some Typing Tutor attention. See a note, plunk down a finger. Slowly, at first, don't make music, just type. Teach the left hand what to do. Half an hour later, all the runs in the movement no longer sound quite like their namesake. There are some pretty melodies in here...they can wait till tomorrow. Tendinitis is much worse than an angry viola teacher, and I'm hungry. Apples + nutella, then a few play-throughs of the movement to make sure things stuck. Back at it tomorrow after Mexican food and Ocean's 11.5
9am -- sleep in, I'll practice later
11am -- house is quite clean, ready for a nice day, read amusing New Yorker article on crazy Republicans
1pm -- go have lunch with composer and discuss orchestrations of piano music
4pm -- hang out with a friend, his new X-box, and a few thousand zombies
5pm -- dim sum
8pm -- give visiting family members a tour of the conservatory
9pm -- watch half of Ocean's 11
11pm -- practice
1am -- call father and listen to benevolent rant against the VA, Bush, Iraq, prescription meds, and PSD.
...About that, I feel 11pm needs some more detail. Hindemith Viola Sonata op. 11 no. 4 was the first thing on the menu. It being in F (a HORRIBLE key in my opinion, expect a hateful rant against it soon), I do a quick warm-up of various scale degrees of the F-gender in relatively perfect intervals. Warm-up done, lesson in two days. Piece is two pages, so why not start at the end?
There seem to be a lot of soupy runs that require some Typing Tutor attention. See a note, plunk down a finger. Slowly, at first, don't make music, just type. Teach the left hand what to do. Half an hour later, all the runs in the movement no longer sound quite like their namesake. There are some pretty melodies in here...they can wait till tomorrow. Tendinitis is much worse than an angry viola teacher, and I'm hungry. Apples + nutella, then a few play-throughs of the movement to make sure things stuck. Back at it tomorrow after Mexican food and Ocean's 11.5
17 October, 2010
First Post
Hello to the General Internet Void,
I don't want to be all formal about this, but introductions are always a nice thing to get out of the way. I'm a musician who likes to think. I play the viola and hold many interests. I'll be posting bits and pieces of this and that: musings on my pursuits, frustrations with practicing, plans for world domination, etc. Right now I've just finished hacking my way through 20+gig of unused junk on my macbook, so time for lunch.
Ciao for now (literally)
M*O*S*H
I don't want to be all formal about this, but introductions are always a nice thing to get out of the way. I'm a musician who likes to think. I play the viola and hold many interests. I'll be posting bits and pieces of this and that: musings on my pursuits, frustrations with practicing, plans for world domination, etc. Right now I've just finished hacking my way through 20+gig of unused junk on my macbook, so time for lunch.
Ciao for now (literally)
M*O*S*H
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