Didn't realize this but I totally missed the one year anniversary of blogging, yay. It's been a great year, pretty eventful, a complete learning experience, but that's what life is all about. I hope you've had a good year too.
So we're back in June. June is probably my favourite month (though it's quickly becoming my least favourite month due to the fact that I somehow magically age one year every June... fml) because it's the start of summer and it's glorious. The pool is opened and we started hanging out outside more often and I'm free from the confines of the classroom (save for this summer... another fml).
This will be my first year of truly taking part in any pride events (besides starting and running the GSA and all that entails, going to Disney for gay days, going to P-Town on the regs, prop 8 rallies, etc.) because this year I'm going to Hartford Pride (next Saturday) and Boston Pride (June 13, the day after my birthday!). Hartford should be a good time because it's close to home so I don't have to drive a long distance, it should be small enough that I won't feel overwhelmed, and it will be a good opportunity for me to get a feel for real pride events.
Boston Pride is going to be huge, overwhelming, and probably a little scary, but it will be totally awesome because I love Boston and I haven't been out there in a few weeks. Boston Pride is one of the major pride parades so it should be really... insightful. Oh, and Melissa Etheridge is the celebrity marshal for Boston Pride 2009!?!?!?! Well, I don't think that means that she'll be there, but she's pretty freakin swell and I'd do basically anything for her so I'll totally be at Boston Pride.
Hope everyone is having a productive Monday thus far! Happy June!!
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Monday, June 1, 2009
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Newport Folk Festival 50!! Oh, and six months :)
Imagine, if you will, the most ear piercing, high pitched squeel of glee you can possibly imagine. That's the story of my life right now. I got an email saying I can get discounted tickets to the Newport Folk Festival, the first weekend in August, where JOAN BAEZ WILL BE PLAYING *insert another shriek*.
I just... I think I may have died when I read that Joan Baez, Pete Seeger AND Judy Collins will all be there. Just thinking about it gives me palpitations. I'm totally going, whether I go by myself or with other human beings. Probably the closest I'll ever get to utter, pure bliss in my whole life.
Oh, and today is my six month monthaversary with Hillary, heres to many more monthaversaries to come :)
Those are our serious faces... for serious.
I just... I think I may have died when I read that Joan Baez, Pete Seeger AND Judy Collins will all be there. Just thinking about it gives me palpitations. I'm totally going, whether I go by myself or with other human beings. Probably the closest I'll ever get to utter, pure bliss in my whole life.
Oh, and today is my six month monthaversary with Hillary, heres to many more monthaversaries to come :)
Those are our serious faces... for serious.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Another Letter I'll Never Send
This is another letter I'll never send. It's not that I don't want to send this one, it's just that it is impossible for it to be delivered.
Dear George,
On Thursday it will be two years. Three years ago I laid my bow on the strings and my fingers against the neck and my violin sang into the ceiling. Four years ago I smiled at you when I walked into the bandroom, and we told jokes and laughed and you made silly faces at people who weren't paying attention. Five years ago we were getting ready to compete in Toronto, and I had already learned a great deal from you in less than a year.
I remember the first time I met you, vividly. It was at summer music the summer between middle school and high school. I rode my bike to the middle school, to surround myself with the music program that I had dedicated myself to for four years. You were sitting there while the first violins practiced, holding your baby girl in your lap. You made me laugh so hard and I didn't even know you, but I knew we would be fast friends.
On the first day of high school I was terrified, but orchestra was an immediate home for me. Kate and I plopped ourselves down in the most comfortable chair in the bandroom and listened to you talk about the rigors of orchestra, knowing you were probably the least serious person we'd ever met. We took playing tests as freshman and sophomores, to determine our seating assignments. Kate and I were last stand first violins, a definite honor for freshman. I remember our playing exam sophomore year. When we finished you sat there with paper in front of you, pen in hand, looking at us. All you said was "And you're only sophomores." I could have cried with how good you made me feel about my abilities. I felt like I could do anything, play anything, be anything, because of you.
I went to Ireland over April vacation junior year, when the music department went on the annual music trip. That year you went to Boston, and orchestra placed second in the competition. We placed second my freshman year, and first my sophomore year. You were always so proud of us, and you always told us to ignore what the judges said, that we sounded great no matter what. And we did, we sounded like a team. If I could go back and change anything, I would have been there for the trip to Boston, so I could have spent a little more time with you. So I could have been there with my orchestra, with my team. I'm sorry, George.
You looked terrible on the night of the spring concert junior year. You had recently been told you would be taking over heading the band in addition to the orchestra. Your responsibilities were mounting and the music department budget was shrinking.
After the concert you went to the doctor, with fatigue. Nothing scary, right?
The doctor told you that you were sick. Very sick. You had leukemia.
They told us you had leukemia. I never panicked. Everyone was all over the place, terrified that you were going to die, trying to be hopeful that you would make a swift recovery. Everyone prayed. The "paper cranes" phenonmenon swept the school, and everyone wishes and hoped that you would be all right. Everyone loved you, George. You never made an enemy of the students, and you made dozens of great friends of the faculty.
You left the school to get treatment, and a less capable person filled in for you while you were gone. No one liked him, no one trusted him. He wasn't you.
The winter concert went smoothly, we sounded great, and we all played for you. We wore our blue and gold "Jammin' for George" wristbands, and all of our parents clapped and cheered for you when you sat in the front row. We played a benefit concert for your family and your expenses a few weeks later. Your eyes were deep and sunken, your formerly bald and shiny head was even balder. Your skin lacked its natural healthy glow. You were so skinny. You stood to conduct us for one song at the winter concert, but that was all you could handle. We cried so hard during that song. I turned to one of my friends, tears streaming down my face, and asked her if this was the last time we would be conducted by you. She told me not to say that, that it would be okay.
They told us you weren't coming back to teach us. They told us you were dying. They had ever single counselor in the band room, every single available staff member on hand. Tears streamed down my hot cheeks as I heard the words traveling out of their mouths and into my ears. You were dying. We finally had confirmation of our worst fears. You were dying.
I went into the practice room area and fell against a wall. Kate caught me and held me while I wept bitterly. It was the first time I ever really cried. I never cried when my father died, never really cried anyway. I feel, in a lot of ways, like your death was a continuation of my father's death. Like cancer was killing all of the important men in my life. It was a great release of emotion, of all the pent of rage and sadness from my father's death and all the feelings I had over you, George.
On February 5, 2007 I was sitting in second period cafe study, my books piled in front of me on a cafeteria table just high enough that I could rest my tired head. The principal's voice mumbled over the intercom that, after a long and hard fought battle against leukemia, you died. I felt like the battle that we had all been fighting was lost, like what was the use of any of it? It was the first time in my life that I realised that love isn't enough. Love isn't enough to keep someone in your life, it's not enough to keep friends from fighting, lovers from leaving, fathers and mothers and friends and teachers from dying. Everything I thought I knew was gone.
And so you died. I left cafe study and wandered down the long hallways to the music wing. I found Kate in the hallway, dropped my books and grabbed her in my arms. The teachers quickly ushered us to the music wing where we hugged and cried. I couldn't even stand to see how devastated we all were. I went home and lay in my bed for hours, just crying and wondering.
The violin felt different in my hand after that. The strings didn't have to same pang as before. My heart was completely broken. Love wasn't enough to keep you alive, George. It just wasn't enough.
And so you've been dead for two years now, and I miss you as much as I did a year ago, and two years ago, and as much as I will miss you three, ten, twenty years from now. The pain never goes away, it sometimes changes and sometimes it gets easier to get through the day without crying, but it never goes away. Sometimes I remember your smile, your laugh (you had such an amazing laugh!), your bald head, the love I know you felt for your students and music, and I cry. I'm not crying for me George, and maybe I'm not even crying because I'm sad. I cry because I knew you, and you touched my life. I've known many angels in my short experience here on Earth, and you George were certainly one of them. I cry because I'm so grateful, so very thankful that I knew you and that my life will never be the same.
If you see my daddy, play him a song for me. But NOT Duffy's Cut :) Play something happy and full of life. When I play my violin, run my fingers over the strings and grip the bow loosely, I see you on the pages in front of my eyes. I see my father, who never got to hear me play. I'm playing for you, George, and my daddy, and me. Put in a good word for me.
God, I miss you so much.
Dear George,
On Thursday it will be two years. Three years ago I laid my bow on the strings and my fingers against the neck and my violin sang into the ceiling. Four years ago I smiled at you when I walked into the bandroom, and we told jokes and laughed and you made silly faces at people who weren't paying attention. Five years ago we were getting ready to compete in Toronto, and I had already learned a great deal from you in less than a year.
I remember the first time I met you, vividly. It was at summer music the summer between middle school and high school. I rode my bike to the middle school, to surround myself with the music program that I had dedicated myself to for four years. You were sitting there while the first violins practiced, holding your baby girl in your lap. You made me laugh so hard and I didn't even know you, but I knew we would be fast friends.
On the first day of high school I was terrified, but orchestra was an immediate home for me. Kate and I plopped ourselves down in the most comfortable chair in the bandroom and listened to you talk about the rigors of orchestra, knowing you were probably the least serious person we'd ever met. We took playing tests as freshman and sophomores, to determine our seating assignments. Kate and I were last stand first violins, a definite honor for freshman. I remember our playing exam sophomore year. When we finished you sat there with paper in front of you, pen in hand, looking at us. All you said was "And you're only sophomores." I could have cried with how good you made me feel about my abilities. I felt like I could do anything, play anything, be anything, because of you.
I went to Ireland over April vacation junior year, when the music department went on the annual music trip. That year you went to Boston, and orchestra placed second in the competition. We placed second my freshman year, and first my sophomore year. You were always so proud of us, and you always told us to ignore what the judges said, that we sounded great no matter what. And we did, we sounded like a team. If I could go back and change anything, I would have been there for the trip to Boston, so I could have spent a little more time with you. So I could have been there with my orchestra, with my team. I'm sorry, George.
You looked terrible on the night of the spring concert junior year. You had recently been told you would be taking over heading the band in addition to the orchestra. Your responsibilities were mounting and the music department budget was shrinking.
After the concert you went to the doctor, with fatigue. Nothing scary, right?
The doctor told you that you were sick. Very sick. You had leukemia.
They told us you had leukemia. I never panicked. Everyone was all over the place, terrified that you were going to die, trying to be hopeful that you would make a swift recovery. Everyone prayed. The "paper cranes" phenonmenon swept the school, and everyone wishes and hoped that you would be all right. Everyone loved you, George. You never made an enemy of the students, and you made dozens of great friends of the faculty.
You left the school to get treatment, and a less capable person filled in for you while you were gone. No one liked him, no one trusted him. He wasn't you.
The winter concert went smoothly, we sounded great, and we all played for you. We wore our blue and gold "Jammin' for George" wristbands, and all of our parents clapped and cheered for you when you sat in the front row. We played a benefit concert for your family and your expenses a few weeks later. Your eyes were deep and sunken, your formerly bald and shiny head was even balder. Your skin lacked its natural healthy glow. You were so skinny. You stood to conduct us for one song at the winter concert, but that was all you could handle. We cried so hard during that song. I turned to one of my friends, tears streaming down my face, and asked her if this was the last time we would be conducted by you. She told me not to say that, that it would be okay.
They told us you weren't coming back to teach us. They told us you were dying. They had ever single counselor in the band room, every single available staff member on hand. Tears streamed down my hot cheeks as I heard the words traveling out of their mouths and into my ears. You were dying. We finally had confirmation of our worst fears. You were dying.
I went into the practice room area and fell against a wall. Kate caught me and held me while I wept bitterly. It was the first time I ever really cried. I never cried when my father died, never really cried anyway. I feel, in a lot of ways, like your death was a continuation of my father's death. Like cancer was killing all of the important men in my life. It was a great release of emotion, of all the pent of rage and sadness from my father's death and all the feelings I had over you, George.
On February 5, 2007 I was sitting in second period cafe study, my books piled in front of me on a cafeteria table just high enough that I could rest my tired head. The principal's voice mumbled over the intercom that, after a long and hard fought battle against leukemia, you died. I felt like the battle that we had all been fighting was lost, like what was the use of any of it? It was the first time in my life that I realised that love isn't enough. Love isn't enough to keep someone in your life, it's not enough to keep friends from fighting, lovers from leaving, fathers and mothers and friends and teachers from dying. Everything I thought I knew was gone.
And so you died. I left cafe study and wandered down the long hallways to the music wing. I found Kate in the hallway, dropped my books and grabbed her in my arms. The teachers quickly ushered us to the music wing where we hugged and cried. I couldn't even stand to see how devastated we all were. I went home and lay in my bed for hours, just crying and wondering.
The violin felt different in my hand after that. The strings didn't have to same pang as before. My heart was completely broken. Love wasn't enough to keep you alive, George. It just wasn't enough.
And so you've been dead for two years now, and I miss you as much as I did a year ago, and two years ago, and as much as I will miss you three, ten, twenty years from now. The pain never goes away, it sometimes changes and sometimes it gets easier to get through the day without crying, but it never goes away. Sometimes I remember your smile, your laugh (you had such an amazing laugh!), your bald head, the love I know you felt for your students and music, and I cry. I'm not crying for me George, and maybe I'm not even crying because I'm sad. I cry because I knew you, and you touched my life. I've known many angels in my short experience here on Earth, and you George were certainly one of them. I cry because I'm so grateful, so very thankful that I knew you and that my life will never be the same.
If you see my daddy, play him a song for me. But NOT Duffy's Cut :) Play something happy and full of life. When I play my violin, run my fingers over the strings and grip the bow loosely, I see you on the pages in front of my eyes. I see my father, who never got to hear me play. I'm playing for you, George, and my daddy, and me. Put in a good word for me.
God, I miss you so much.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Song Memories
Do you have a song that means something to you? You were somewhere, doing something, and that song came on the radio and you will remember forever exactly what was happening in your life at that specific point in time.
I have a few songs like that, songs that really mean something to me. My happiest song memory is Gerry Mulligan's "Disk Jockey Jump." I love jazz and when I was younger all I listened to were Jazz and Big Band. I remember hearing "Disk Jockey Jump" on my cd player, sitting out in the sun outside my middle school on a summer day, all my friends playing jump rope and laying in the sun, being kids. I said to myself at that moment that I needed to remember it, I needed to remember summer and being young, and the way the saxophone sounds in your ears and feels in your soul.
My music teacher died when I was a senior in high school. It was February, there wasn't any snow on the ground that day. It was a bright, beautiful, sunny day. I was sitting in the cafeteria with a bunch of my friends. It was second period and we all had study hall. The principal came on the intercom and told the entire school that our orchestra teacher had died after a terrible battle with lukemia. I walked up to my friends who had been in orchestra with me from the time we were fourth graders, hugged them, cried with them. I took my books and walked down the hall to the music room, and dropped them everywhere when I found my best friend. We hugged and cried in the middle of the hallway. We made it to the music room, where the rest of the orchestra was sobbing, whispering, listening to music, holding one and other.
Eventually I went home, as many of us did. My mother came home and we drove around for the rest of the day, crying, wondering, praying.
He was a great man, with two beautiful children, and brilliant music flowing out of his fingertips.
Whenever I hear "Adam's Song" by Blink 182 I am reminded of the fall day my senior year in high school when the school counselors came to us during orchestra and told us all that our beloved teacher was dying, that he would never be coming back to teach us. I remember the wailing, the tears free flowing, the embraces. I had only recently gotten my driver's license, and I found Rhonda in the parking lot and blasted my iPod all over town. When Adam's Song came on shuffle, I started sobbing. I was sitting at a red light outside of the DQ and shaws on the pike, waiting to drive and drive and drive and get away from the sadness and never look back.
I wish I could get back before these things happened. I wish I was still playing basketball in the backyard, picking blackberries in the summer, rolling down the sanddunes on the cape with my cousins, sitting in orchestra cracking jokes with my teacher.
I just wish it would all slow down. I wish the good came more often then the bad. I wish terrible things didn't happen to brilliant and beautiful people. I wish amazing things happened to everyone, and there were never any fights and never any war and cancer never existed. But that's not life, is it?
And so it goes.
I have a few songs like that, songs that really mean something to me. My happiest song memory is Gerry Mulligan's "Disk Jockey Jump." I love jazz and when I was younger all I listened to were Jazz and Big Band. I remember hearing "Disk Jockey Jump" on my cd player, sitting out in the sun outside my middle school on a summer day, all my friends playing jump rope and laying in the sun, being kids. I said to myself at that moment that I needed to remember it, I needed to remember summer and being young, and the way the saxophone sounds in your ears and feels in your soul.
My music teacher died when I was a senior in high school. It was February, there wasn't any snow on the ground that day. It was a bright, beautiful, sunny day. I was sitting in the cafeteria with a bunch of my friends. It was second period and we all had study hall. The principal came on the intercom and told the entire school that our orchestra teacher had died after a terrible battle with lukemia. I walked up to my friends who had been in orchestra with me from the time we were fourth graders, hugged them, cried with them. I took my books and walked down the hall to the music room, and dropped them everywhere when I found my best friend. We hugged and cried in the middle of the hallway. We made it to the music room, where the rest of the orchestra was sobbing, whispering, listening to music, holding one and other.
Eventually I went home, as many of us did. My mother came home and we drove around for the rest of the day, crying, wondering, praying.
He was a great man, with two beautiful children, and brilliant music flowing out of his fingertips.
Whenever I hear "Adam's Song" by Blink 182 I am reminded of the fall day my senior year in high school when the school counselors came to us during orchestra and told us all that our beloved teacher was dying, that he would never be coming back to teach us. I remember the wailing, the tears free flowing, the embraces. I had only recently gotten my driver's license, and I found Rhonda in the parking lot and blasted my iPod all over town. When Adam's Song came on shuffle, I started sobbing. I was sitting at a red light outside of the DQ and shaws on the pike, waiting to drive and drive and drive and get away from the sadness and never look back.
I wish I could get back before these things happened. I wish I was still playing basketball in the backyard, picking blackberries in the summer, rolling down the sanddunes on the cape with my cousins, sitting in orchestra cracking jokes with my teacher.
I just wish it would all slow down. I wish the good came more often then the bad. I wish terrible things didn't happen to brilliant and beautiful people. I wish amazing things happened to everyone, and there were never any fights and never any war and cancer never existed. But that's not life, is it?
And so it goes.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Music
I'm pretty sure that's the most beautiful thing I've seen in a long time.
No more beautiful than this of course
That's the love of my life, Hillary Hahn. She looks so brooding in this picture, I love it.
I haven't picked up my mandolin in a shamefully long time, but every time I play after a long gap of time where I haven't played, my fingers always find their way to the right notes. I always play my violin (which doesn't make it any less meaningful than my mandolin, but I taught myself how to play the mandolin, something I only half did with the violin). There is nothing in life more wonderful than music.
I don't care much for Nietzsche, but when he said "Without music, life would be a mistake" he really hit the nail on the head.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Everything I Ever Needed
Music has been my lifeblood for many, many years. It kept me sane on any number of occasions, and pushed me to the brink on others. The adrenaline rush of performance, of being seen and heard, is something I fear and crave simultaneaously. I absolutely hate being in front of large groups of people (or even small groups of people for that matter). It's not that I fear rejection, because I could care less if they didn't like the way I played or the things I had to say. I fear my own interpretation of what I do. If what I do is not perfect in my eyes (perhaps it's not perfect in the eyes of others, but I obviously don't know that unless they tell me) I keep picking at what was, and picking and picking so the scab never heals. It's not just music, it's everything. It sounds kind of OCD, and maybe it is some variation of OCD but it's not terrible. It simply is.
I can live with performing to the best of my ability, to writing to the best of my ability, to being the best friend I can be, etc. I try so hard at everything that I do, and often find myself completely depleted of energy, which makes me kind of useless. So how do I renew my energy? Where can I cut back so that I am not running on empty?
Music is and has been my life. But I just don't see myself playing with my school ensemble this year. I can't STAND how small it is, for one thing. I was always in a big orchestra, well funded, but where every member was still appreciated as an individual.
I need to take some time out and find out for myself where music stands in my life. Does it remain what it is and has been for me? Or do I find a new direction? I can't imagine my life without music, and I don't want to. But I also don't want to put myself through what I went through last year with this particular ensemble.
I guess we'll see what happens.
A life without music is a fate worse than death.
Besides being slightly lost in terms of my musical goals for the coming year, I'm basically ecstatic. School starts in six days.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lwNSYplomMA
That song describes how I'm feeling right now (and also my lack of ability at posting videos... I suck). Nothing's gonna bring me down.
I can live with performing to the best of my ability, to writing to the best of my ability, to being the best friend I can be, etc. I try so hard at everything that I do, and often find myself completely depleted of energy, which makes me kind of useless. So how do I renew my energy? Where can I cut back so that I am not running on empty?
Music is and has been my life. But I just don't see myself playing with my school ensemble this year. I can't STAND how small it is, for one thing. I was always in a big orchestra, well funded, but where every member was still appreciated as an individual.
I need to take some time out and find out for myself where music stands in my life. Does it remain what it is and has been for me? Or do I find a new direction? I can't imagine my life without music, and I don't want to. But I also don't want to put myself through what I went through last year with this particular ensemble.
I guess we'll see what happens.
A life without music is a fate worse than death.
Besides being slightly lost in terms of my musical goals for the coming year, I'm basically ecstatic. School starts in six days.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lwNSYplomMA
That song describes how I'm feeling right now (and also my lack of ability at posting videos... I suck). Nothing's gonna bring me down.
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