Flightless

Lots of people post reflections around the holiday time.  If you've been keeping up with my blog you'll note what I put up on my blog on Christmas day.

Insanity.

I've discovered that the holiday travels were all that was keeping my depression and fright at bay.  I feel like a flightless angel - one with a deformity.  Or a lack-of-formity.  At the moment, I feel like I have only one wing.  Like my feet are firmly stuck to the ground.  I'm sure I feel this way because I've crashed.  Because my other wing was broken off.  When?  I have no idea.  I just know it has happened.

Earth bound,

Feet on the ground,

Longing to fly,

Take me, sky:

One-winged Angel.

I feel so trapped.  I feel Life pressing in on all sides and smothering me like I never have before.  And I know that in several years I'll say the same and look back on today as cake...and I know that the Big Guy upstairs has all this figured out, but somehow it still doesn't take away with fear.  I'm scared.  And I can't just fly away and make it all better.  At least not yet.  And even then...it won't be all better.  Like Icarus, if I grew enough Wing to fly, the sun waits to burn me if I fly too high.

Some people call this being dramatic.  Just shut up and face life like a man, they say.  I disagree.  This is being Real.  Not enough people can just say how they feel without fear of reprimand or advice or smh-ing.  So this is me.  Telling you I'm afraid.  And not being afraid to do it.

Ironic.

Considerations of the Letter 11

Today I am considering things that start with the letter 11.    But in all seriousness, nonsensical, and homicidally verbagiousness (that’s the characteristic of verbing you know, and not technically upon my considerations as it does not start with the letter 11), the musings and mischiefs of Carroll and I (specifically of Alice and JTY), have made its way into my imagination and Scarlequain, AH, 11!

Slayed the Jabberwock,

Put the Question to Spock:

 Why is a Raven like a writing desk?

Hatter, Harry, Hammer, to the test:

J.T.Nonsensical.Y.

Life is better with the wing of an angel around one’s neck, I daresay.  Indeed, a little known fact of Poe’s crow and the cow’s low is just that.  You suppose Alice slayed the Jabberwock in a day?  Wing your way up the spiral stair, and away from Absalom’s stare.  Where is your Muchness, young one?  Why is a Raven like a writing desk?  Why do all the Spocks in the world know An Answer?  Is there an answer?  Did Poe write on both?  I’m more inclined to think there is a B in both and an N in neither.

And now Much One Young, you shake your bean and mutter something mean.  But being mad isn’t bad, in fact you’ll be quite happy, if not sappy, to realize that the best usually are.  Mad, I mean.  And probably saps too, if the two winds blew blue too.

Is there a moral to this story, this ridiculous tirade?  Something Deep you can dive in, some philosophical spin?  More than you know, your Muchness.  I hope you’ve found it by now.  I hope you’ve answered your Question.

Eh what?  Wake up you say?  My friend, you just heared the time of day.  But I’ll tell you a nary, this old storator will.  There once was a boy.  And not just any boy.  This boy had powers untold.  What were they?  Well, I’m sure you’ll find out; today I am considering things that start with the letter 11.

An 8va Above the Rest

It is very seldom that I compose a Scarlequain that is simplistic, but at the same time, so deep that I have trouble putting it into words.  Let me explain.

My semester at Bryan has just come to a close.  The last week was spent stressing my brains out, losing sleep, and crying harder than I have in years due to some of my closest friends parting ways with me.  When these hard times hit, it is a normal thing for me to write some form of self-motivation on my left wrist - just to sorta remind myself to be thankful, keep pushing, or stay sane, and the one that kept making its way on to my skin was simply "8va."

Now to those of you who aren't as musically interested as others who read this blog, 8va means, "to play one octave higher" than the notated material.  For those of you who still have no idea what that means, Google it.  You'll learn something.  Even if you do understand, you have to be a trumpet player to know the significance of playing something up the octave.  8va is the prize at the end of the rainbow.  It is the ultimate achievement.  It is a sign of manly awesomeness that cannot be gained in any other manner.

The problem with taking something up the octave is that it is extremely risky.  You see, the higher one goes up the trumpet's range, the more difficult the notes become to form, and the more likely you are to sound awful.  But then...if you hit it...

The culmination of all things perfect.

So, why did I write this on my wrist?  Still seems pretty nerdy...

Glad you asked.

8va is something every trumpet player will be attempting all of his/her life.  And it is something in which even a pro experiences a level of uncertainty.  Anyone can crack an 8va, no matter how many hours of practice.  But we never stop trying.  We never step down from an 8va, even if we're exhausted.  Because taking something down is a jab to our pride...to our honor.  It is something anyone can do at any time.

I suppose it may be a silly comparison, but I tried to apply that same attitude to my life during the last few weeks.  What if I approached everything I did...friendships with people leaving, my school, my spiritual life...with the same attitude that I do an 8va?  I know I wouldn't hit it all the time.  I know it's even more difficult when I'm exhausted...but when I do hit it...when it really sails up there, high and brilliant...it's worth it.  And when that attitude affects other people, when the pride disappears and all that's left is the drive to be an 8va above the people around who are just playing just to play, that's when the music...when Life...really sings.

My little sister, in my honor.  The drive that affects others.

Bright and high,

Heartsails fly,

Set above the rest,

Risk; greatness; test:

8va.

Prosaic Torture by a Tory for 200 Years

Sometimes the best way to escape the sheer terror of the stress mounting everywhere around you is to ignore it and pretend it isn't there, if only for a short time.  This is me doing just that, in my haven at Harmony House.

Welcome to hell week.

Thumbing through my leather book of scribblings, I've noticed that many of my Scarlequain deal with historical figures, be they operatic performers/reformers, serial rapists, or random men of the French Revolution.  ...it is with an ashamed demeanor that I admit my love of immortally binding these people with my words is very Wilhoitesque.

At any rate, I figured I could share a few of those poems with you as a tribute to those people who have lived and died, and yet who did something with their lives that was significant enough to make us remember them.

First of all (because let's face it, from the instant I mentioned the two words "serial rapist" that's all you've been thinking about): Don Giovanni!

*insert extreme groan of disdain from every Bryanite musician who has slaved under DW's tutelage.*

Fashioned after the Spanish player Don Juan, Don Giovanni is an Italian playboy who boasts of having laid around 1,200ish women in his travels and escapades, and ends up getting sent to hell for his raucus lifestyle (because I totally didn't use the word raucus in my paper on DG...).  Yes...we had to write a paper on this guy.  So here you are, for your pleasure.  A tribute to Don Giovanni, star of the opera buffa (hint, hint, freshies...), and by implication, the great Mozart, and the suffering we all endured in his name.

Don Giovanni and the Commendatore

Don Juan,

Will gone,

Shoot me now,

To torture voluntarily bow:

Music History Paper.

I decided I should write a poem for this next guy because, let's face it...how many people actually know about operatic reformers?  I'm a music major and had no idea who this guy was previous to about a month ago (thanks DW).  At any rate, Christoph Willibald Gluck was the most famous of operatic reformers.  He decided opera's music should serve the poetry and plot of the libretto (the guy who writes the words), and he restored the role of the chorus (the big conglomeration of peeps who sing aside from the soloists), integrated an orchestra, and added much more variety to the solos that were sung.  Props, Gluck!  With a name like that...you need to be remembered for something.  ...other than your name.

Christoph Willibald Gluck

Serve the story,

In the Whig of a Tory,

Music was torn,

Need operatic reform:

Enter Willibald Gluck!

I recently found the first Scarlequain I wrote in Music History class, where this all began, and chucked a bit to myself.  Even after flipping through my Music History notes, I couldn't find who this poem is about.  I do recall the details, however.  It seems there was this one chap who was just before Gluck (who, upon further consideration, is my hero), and wanted opera to be based solely on prose and not poetry.  Being the beatnik/hippie/romantic/weirdo that I am, that sort of set me off, as it were (that's for you, Dad).  So I wrote this poem about my distaste for that fellow, for prose, and for the Enlightenment in general (if only just for this one aspect of it):

 Here is a picture of Kant.  Because Enlightenment.

Prosaic demoniac,

Raging maniac,

Poetry, not prose,

Mere dirt in your toes:

Enlightenment buzz.

Finally, and probably the sole inspiration for this post, here is my homage to the two great composers who were born in 1813, and consequentially, celebrate their 200th birthday this year: Giuseppe Verdi and Richard Wagner (ri-CARD VAHG-ner.  See, you learn something new every day.)  Both men were extremely important and influential in their respective nations: people used to cry "Viva Verdi" (used as an acronym for the King of Italy during the Revolution that was stirring in the 1850-60s: Viva Vittorio Emanuele Re D'Italia), and, believe it or not, Hitler got much inspiration from the antisemitic writings of Wagner, and was deeply inspired to "preserve the motherland" after hearing one of Wagner's operas and visiting his grave site.  Despite these seemingly undesirable associations today, these men remain two of the greatest composers of the 19th century.

(Time out before I celebrate these two great men.  Let me say that it is a sin that Carrie Underwood is starring in a redo of The Sound of Music.  Just...no.  It should NEVER be redone.  Ever.)

At any rate, happy birthday to them both:

Giuseppe Verdi

Richard Wagner

200 years,

Raise Euro beers,

Salute the greats,

Despite Hitler's hate:

Verdi and Wagner.

And now you have been introduced to one of the largest areas of my life.  I am a musician, and I love it.  Will it pay?  Will I continue down this path after I leave the Hill?  Right now, I don't know, and I don't care.  Pardon me while I take another sip of my coffee.

Literary Horcruxes

"You can only perceive real beauty in a person as they get older."

- Amouk Aimee

I heard someone ask the question recently, "What is real Beauty?"  It was obvious to me that they were asking about beauty with a capital "B."  And I admit I still don't have an answer.  I'm just glad they weren't asking me.  And when I read the above quote in a little book of positive sayings I have (another aspect of my beatnikness, I suppose), it sort of festered in the back of my mind.

Not to sound overtly morbid, but I chuckle at the fact that most poets, philosophers, and "great people" don't really become famous until after they're dead.  At the height and cessation of their age, they finally achieve real Beauty.  Made me think of the following by Peter Van Houten, from John Green's The Fault in Our Stars (a book that you must read if you haven't already):

"Witness...that when we talk about literature, we do so in the present tense.  When we speak of the dead, we are not so kind.  You do not immortalize the lost by writing about them.  Language buries, but does not resurrect."

I guess that's the Beauty of being a poet: we pour our heart and soul (...if I had a soul, being a Ginger) into our work, and once we die, we are lost.  But much like a Horcrux, a part of us lives on in the little things we poured ourselves into.

The Literature lives.

This also made me think: what part of myself am I leaving behind?  Once I'm gone, what will people think of me based on the soul I left behind in my words?  As I said in my last entry, I noticed that many of my Scarlequain aren't exact the brightest and happiest of things.  So I'm trying to do better on that account.  I've also learned that one's day is greatly improved upon thanking your Heavenly Father for the simple things.  A friend asked the question "where would we be if we woke up the next day with only the things we had thanked God for the previous day?"  Made me think.

Cognitive thought,

Freckles and spots,

Life and breath,

A day stayed death:

Thankful, Gratis.

 Not everything has to be happy and thankful.  Life is rated R, and sometimes we need to know that there are hard things people go through.  And sometimes we need to know the silly things too.  They keep us Human just as much as the simple and the hard things.

Up in your face,

Put in your place,

As if we care,

Where's his hair...?

Just before break.

A blog I read ends every post with three things they're thankful for.  I don't plan on doing this much, but I thought it appropriate today.  So here you are:

1. A music prof. who stretches me and makes me see life in ways I never could without him, and who consequently inspires TONS of poetry.

2. The hard things in life that push me back to the simple things and to Him.

3. Literary Horcruxes.