Julian Matthias and I: Evening of Opera

My last orchestra concert featured Italian opera music, and this piece was my favorite, hands down.   Opera music is generally boring for the second violin because it usually features lots of repitition and little opportunity to play the melody or some kind of rhythm.  If we do get to play the melody, it's usually an octave below the firsts.  That was how it was in the case of "O Soave Fanciulla", but I didn't mind it.  The beginning part follows the tenor voice and allows for more hammy, dramatic playing.  For the performance the tenor and soprano did in fact sing the last part of the song from off-stage, just as Pavarotti and Freni did above.  They sing "amor" three times as the music gradually gets softer until it's just a whisper of the sustained note.  But, of course, the audience does it's best to savor the magic quietness before erupting in applause.

I love opera music.  Does that make me a romantic?  I love how it's so dramatic and passionate, and it never bores me.  It doesn't matter that it's sung in a language I can't understand-- even if the lyrics have been translated into English it's difficult to make out the words.  As much as I love words, they don't even really matter that much to me when it comes to opera because I can make out the emotions and the character's motivation through the way it is sung and how it fits into the orchestral accompaniment.  Music is a universal language, and no matter how silly or improbable the plots and situations in operas they all deal with real and powerful human emotions.

Ramblings on age (part I, maybe)

I went to go see "Bridesmaids" recently and I got asked to present identification.  That's something that hasn't happened to me in a while; I don't see TONS of R-rated movies but that was only the second time I was asked to prove that I was of age.  Well, actually, I tried to buy a ticket for "Love, Actually" when it came out but bought a ticket for "Haunted Mansion" and sneaked into the theater next door just in time to hear Bill Nighy drop a string of f-bombs.

A fond childhood memory

Remember Fruit Roll-ups?  I haven't had one in ages.  I saw someone eating one today, and it made me think back to elementary school.  My friend and I would each bring a quarter and purchase a Fruit Roll up at lunchtime, then go out to the playground for recess and split it as best we could, since it stretched out unevenly.  During the winter we'd go on the swings and projectile-spit into the snow, speckling it with yellow, green and red.  Ah, those were the days.

Character sketch: Juror No. 9

This character needs no pseudonym; memorable as she was, I don't think I ever learned her name.

As juror (gah, what a difficult word to pronounce; it's like "flirt" or "nurse" in that it sounds basically the same without vowels) number 8 I sat at the beginning of the second row, with no one on my right and juror 9 on my right. Oh my goodness, where to begin...I'll start with her feet.  They were bulbous, dry and crusty; I distinctly remember juror 10 commenting that they looked like they belonged to a pterodactyl, and that description and image have stuck in my head forever.  I had jury duty in the summertime so of course the climate in the courtroom was set to "arctic shill", yet she wore sandals to court and always took them off when we were in session.  Sometimes they'd point at the juror 10, sometimes at me.  They were enormous in proportion to her height. Thank God they didn't smell, they were creepy enough already. 

To add to that, she had the distinct raspy voice of a pack-a-day smoker, and asked if she could go out for a smoke during our breaks.  Her request was denied.  She took it well, though, and merely shrugged her boulder-like shoulders so that they brushed her frizzy mousy-brown bob. "Can't win 'em all," she muttered colloquially to no one in particular.

I know a lot about being perpetually late.  I'm terrible with time management and I think the only event I ever came to ahead of schedule was for my birth (by two weeks-- 336 hours; I think if you added up all the minutes I've been late for something in my life, it probably adds up to something like that amount).  But for the four days that I had to show up for jury duty I made sure to come early, if not on time.  I had been 18 for 6 months and was the youngest juror; I didn't want to lose respect by acting the Negligent and Careless Teenager.  Instead it was juror 9 who was always the last one in, and was always 5-10 minutes late in the morning and for returning from lunch breaks. 

As easy as it is to riducule her for living in her own world and caring little for what people thought of her, I have to admire her a little bit for that.  I still think that she should've acted with more tact in light of the situation we were in.  It annoyed me, how she spoke so casually with everyone despite the fact that we were basically total strangers who didn't care about each other past reaching a verdict (and almost everyone made remarks about her when she wasn't around).  Even if we said disparaging remarks to her face I don't think she'd give a hoot.  Annoying, but admirable.

Wings

In my limited experience in the world of ballet, the wings of a stage was where dancers were still just regular people who happened to be dressed in snazzy costumes.  Not all of them would walk gracefully; when in pointe shoes it's hard to walk with a natural gait so ballerinas have to compromise by walking duck-like-- think "walking with flippers" but not as goofy. Some would sit right up against the panels that divided up the space in the wings (I know there's a proper, technical stage term for these, I just can't think of it at the moment) and sit or stretch or squirt water into their mouths (so as not to mess up any lip products).  There's no need to whisper in the wings because the music from the pit is usually loud enough to cover up noise, but everyone still uses his/her indoor voice to communicate.  And, as shown in movies such as Phantom of the Opera and Black Swan, there is a box of powdery rosin on either side of the stage for a ballerina to rub her shoes into, to give some traction and prevent slipping on stage.

In my slightly less limited experience in working backstage in a theatrical production, the wings are much more quiet, but not necessarily less calm.  Actors are in various states of being in character; some maintain their character's way of walking and talking, others completely revert back to their typical selves.  There's a lot more nonverbal and quiet communication, because even if a scene has background music the audience usually would still be able to hear people talking in the wings.  People stretch and move around as silently as possible, to stay loose and/or expend any extraneous energy. 

Both these scenarios are also infiltrated by the ninja-like stagehands, working to be seen and heard as little as possible and be efficient to the point of being overlooked.  I like how the wings are filled with so much action to the point that what happens there could be a show itself, nevermind whatever's happening on stage.  Whenever I see a stage production I can't help but wonder what's going on in the wings, what mishaps and close calls were had there.  I like the immediacy of working there, the slight unsung-hero aspect of the sturm und drang of what happens just off stage so that whatever's happening on stage unfolds seamlessly.  Performers spend days, weeks, months anticipating each performance, whether it's a one-night deal or multi-week run, and the wings are the last place-- the final safe space-- before proceeding on past Go and collecting $200 and transforming into whatever stage persona she/he has prepared to inhabit.

A Test of Friendship

I have to buy a birthday present for a friend.  I feel like I know her pretty well so it should be pretty easy to pick out a present for her, right? Ehh...not in this case.

Buying presents for people isn't just about the concrete, material object that gets wrapped up and beribboned, because it represents the abstraction of how the gift giver perceives the recipient's needs, desires and quirks.  For some friends it's easy to figure out what to buy because they make a point to say "I want this" or "Man, I wish I could get one of those".  They're not super materialistic but they know what kind of stuff they like and want.  This friend likes things-- we're all human, after all, we like to collect stuff-- but she's not particularly particular about amassing material goods. 

Hm, I think I know what I'd like to get her yet I'm still apprehensive about how much she'll like it. I'm not very competitive, I don't need for her to have that (above) kind of reaction to my gift; I know that others who know her better will get something that'll knock her socks off.  But I still think (and hope) she'll like it. 

One of my closest friends in the past consistently gave me presents that were...uninspiring.  They were nice, but I thought that she could've come up with something a little more suited to my taste.  I still have many of them but always felt a grain of ambivalence.  But you could say that her presence was her present to me.

Alexander Hamilton: American hero?

Mr. Lin-Manuel Miranda puts up a pretty compelling argument, no?

"Poetry is just another way to rap"- Jack Donaghy, 30 Rock.
<-- but is rap just another way to...poetry?

The clip is from the White House Evening of Poetry, Musica and Spoken Word.  They really are very similar, aren't they?  Ach, the uncohesive ramblings of someone trying to put together some sentences to fulfill her self-imposed requirement for this post.

Summer resolutions

Every summer, for the past few summers, I get the urge to break out my dad's guitar and learn a new song, some new chords or alternative fingerings.  I accomplished a lot the first time around but so far I can play five chords and three different songs: Blackbird , Good Riddance (Time of Your Life) and Box of Rain.  (I can also play the theme song for SuperMario but that's more of a novelty piece, yeah?).  This summer I resolve, among other things,  to learn one new song. 

My resolutions for the summer (starting on Memorial Day, ending on Labor Day):
1.  Learn one new song on the guitar
2.  Play in the community band (rehearsal/concert once a week) and/or practise violin at least once a week
3.  Read at least four books-- one of which must be non-fiction
4.  Go biking at least once a week (weather permitting)
5.  Be able to do 20 push-ups in...a minute?

I might had to this list between now and Monday.

Character sketch: Niko

Niko sat in front of me in orchestra, which gave me ample opportunities to look at his profile and his hands.  OH, those hands.  They could've been hand model hands, they were so beautiful; with that rich olive skin tone, and long nimble fingers that produced an enviable vibrato and traversed the fingerboard with ease.  I kind of wished that I had his hands, but that would be awkward and probably wouldn't suit me aesthetically or musically.

I took an immediate liking to him because he was a violinist and had nice hands. (Okay, and he was good-looking, something nice to stare at during rests.)  Unfortunately he turned out to be, well, kind of a saukerl.  He was not actively dislikeable-- he didn't go out of his way to annoy others-- but he hung out with guys who were aggresively cocky and full of disdain for everyone else.  On his own he was relatively polite and laconic, but he was a slacker and clearly rided on his good looks and charm to get by.  But he really was a good violinist-- about the same level as me, at the time, but maybe slightly better in terms of technical skill.  And as I've said before, it's really hard to fake it when it comes to playing the violin.  Niko came off as not caring too much about the violin, as if he just did it because he was good at it and it was something to do to pass the time before catching up with his asinine friends.

Chink?! (a work in progress)

It happened five years ago as I was walking home from school.  It was about this time of year; the sun was shining and it was a nice day out which was probably why I was walking in the first place.  My house is situated halfway up a hill, almost two miles from my high school and by the time the driveway was in sight I really worked up a sweat. I could feel a nice squashy V-shaped sweat impression on my back, and thought about how nice it would be to finally get inside, peel off my clothes and take a nice cool shower.  With my driveway about fifty feet away a pickup truck rumbled past me, carrying two white males sprawled out in the truck bed.  I made brief accidental eye contact with one of them as I pushed my glasses back up my nose, then I looked down to grab my keys.  One of them shouted something and as I brought my head back up the truck disappeared behind the curve.  I blinked, feeling confused.  My mind quickly processed what had just happened, and then I blinked a few more times to hold back tears as I caught up with my own thoughts and emotions.

Chink.  He had called me a chink.  For an instant I tried to deny it but (unlike the clip below) I knew deep down that there was no mistaking what he had said and that it had been aimed at me. He called me a chink.  I tried to reassure myself and thought to myself, “That’s stupid.  I’m not even Chinese!”  And then I immediately felt really stupid.  It’s not as if it would’ve made a difference if I really were Chinese.  Besides, even fellow Korean people have mistaken me for Chinese.  I don’t have anything against Chinese people but it’s annoying to be mistaken for something I’m not.

Still, it hurt to be called by that epithet.  I had been called slanty-eyed and made fun of for the way that “Asian languages” supposedly sound to non-Asian ears, been teased for my food, for my clothing, my height—but that was the first time I had been called by that word, and the first time one was directed at me so forcefully.  I’ve grown up in a pretty well off community, where I was rarely the only Asian student in my class and one of my best friends was the co-resident of the Asian Culture Club at my high school.  I didn’t have to go through what my grandfather or parents went through.  In today’s world, to be Asian is to be good at math; a generation ago someone would’ve said that we all knew kung-fu (or karate, because really what’s the difference?)  And certainly I don’t have to face the dilemma my grandfather did when he first came to America; he was in the south and had to decide between using the “white” bathroom or the one for “colored people”.  Mind you, my grandfather had pretty fair skin and wouldn’t have considered himself colored, but he still knew that there wasn’t something right about using the white people’s restrooms.  (I don’t know what he actually ended up doing; maybe he just held it in?)

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As I went in my house all I could hear in my head was that word, and kept asking myself “What? What?” and feeling hatred well up inside me.  I hated the man who randomly hurled such hate at me.  I hated myself for being so think skinned, and letting it get to me.  I hated that I was feeling sorry for myself, knowing that far worse words and actions had and have been inflicted on people, and that I was giving it so much thought.

What had that shouter to gain?  He already had the upper hand many ways: he was in a car going 30 miles an hour, I was walking; he was a man, I a teenage girl; he was white and I was, well, not.  He already had those things going for him.  We didn’t know each other.  Why had he chosen to shout at me? That was one of the big things that bothered me, too.  At least Alexandra Wallace (and I can’t believe I’m defending her) had specific grievances with the Asian people she knew and she directed her hate toward them in a very clearly delineated way.  But this person-- what had I ever done to him, aside from unintentionally look at him, or happen to be walking as he was driven by?  It sucks when people publicly and flagrantly act racist, but these little random personal attacks can be just as effective, just as damaging.  Institutional racism sucks but can be dealt with to a certain degree. But how am I to defend myself from such a random impersonal attack?  I can’t help but take it personally.

I haven’t thought about this incident since it happened.  I never told anyone about this until just recently, when thinking back on the fact that May is Asian-American and Pacific Islander Heritage Month.  Even as I write this I get indignant and upset.  But I’m glad that it still makes me feel this way; it means that I haven’t become complacent and reminds me how to get legitimately angry.

Exquisite Corpse

For my poetry project I chose to play Exquisite Corpse with some of my friends.  From what I remember, it was a game started by poets wherein a piece of paper is passed around and the poem is written one word at a time, with each participant writing one word.  I think that some sort of word order rule was in place, with some sort of pattern (verb-adjective-noun) so the poem wouldn't end up comprised entirely of adjectives.  My friends and I tried several variations on this game; for the following poem I set the theme as "College Days" and had each person choose what kind of word she wanted to include, but no one was allowed to see what other people had written.  After reading (and guffawing at) the end result I tried to tidy it up a little so it made slightly more sense; I didn't want to mess with the order of the words or the words selected.

College Days

Slippers vomited quickly,

Scary tower on grades exploded.

I drank excitedly above a troublesome shoe

disorganized running around

easily sweaty

T-bone craving!

No, I don't have the urge to suddenly give up being vegetarian and go on a meat binge.  The "t-bone" in the title refers to the brass instrument: the trombone.  I've been fascinated with it for some time because:
1) I have yet to learn how to play a brass instrument
2) It's the only brass instrument that has a long slide rather than valves
3) I'm amused by how dangerous its movement is, since the slide extends so far out.

A while back I was watching Jeopardy! and one of the contestants was revealed to having a large collection of instruments, none of which she could play.  This kind of motivated me to not only collect a trombone and learn to play it; this has yet to happen.  And earlier this year I watched the film The Brothers Bloom in which one character collects hobbies, among which include various instruments.  I don't mean to ever stop developing my skills on the violin, but I hope to buy and learn to play the trombone-- just for my own amusement, and so I can say that I know how to play it.  This aspiration doesn't rank terribly high on the list of Things I'd Like To Accomplish but it's one that seems the most doable at this point in my life...aside from the fact that I don't have the funds to buy a trombone or the time to practise.

Time capsule 2011

Somewhere in an imaginary future I have been asked by the U.S. government to collect items for placement in a time capsule to be opened in the year 2111. These items will show American material culture and values.  I can put as many items as I want; for now I have come up with these three future artifacts:

Stream of consciousness: north vs. south culture

I've lived in New England my entire life.  I've been to other states but never to what I consider the "deep south", or any of the states that belonged to the Confederacy.  The culture in that region is almost as foreign to me as any of the international locations on the bucket list I posted yesterday -- maybe even more foreign than some of those places, actually.  I don't mean any of this in the perjorative and want to be careful about what I say because I'm good at accidentally offending people; I acknowledge that I hold stereotypes against people in the south, but like many stereotypes there's a seed of truth or reason buried somewhere.

One of my friends who grew up in the South was telling me about how many of her friends are married and have kids (babies).  She's sort of a unicorn in that she doesn't even have a boyfriend.  On the other hand, none of my friends are married or have children.  It's just not a priority.  I'm not trying to thumb my nose at other members of my cohort who've scored a spouse and/or procreated, it's just that in the culture in which I was raised it's atypical to have accomplished all that already.  Education and career are bigger priorities.  Right now my mind is nowhere near starting a family of my own.  But then again, it seems to be a pattern in my family to marry late (late 20's- early 30's).

I like to think of myself as open-minded but when it comes to music I tend not to like country music.  I can enjoy or tolerate most other types of music-- I can appreciate the manic angsty joy of death metal-- but country music is so hit or miss.  I like Reba and Shania Twain but I think they're pretty mainstream for country singers.  It's the combination of the twang, accent and song subject that really kills it for me.  I don't have a Boston accent but I'm used to hearing it, and hearing people speak quickly.  But country songs tend to overcompensate on their R's and speak so slowly as to add syllables to words, e.g. "there" becomes "they-errrrrrrr" (I know that's not a great example but it's the first thing I think up).  Maybe with a different beat and a different accent I'd find the songs more palatable, but often they sound so whiny to me and rarely does the singer garner my sympathy.  I am not a cold-hearted person, nor one who likes violence; however some country songs make me want to do violent things to the radio--or my ears.

I know, I know:  not all Southerners act a certain way, just like not all Northerners are God-hating pot-smoking liberals.  It'd be nice to someday not have such strong negative reactions to country music, but the outlook is not positive.  Someday I hope to venture down South-- past D.C., at least-- and see for myself.  Although I worry slightly about being an Asian-American woman in the population where even proms are still segregated...but that's a matter for another time...

My Bucket List: World Travel Edition

In no particular order, places I want to visit before I (all together now) kick the bucket:

1. Sydney Opera House, Australia.

2. Marrakesh, Morocco

3. The Alhambra, Spain ( below)

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4. Pyramids at Giza, Egypt

5. Istanbul (not Constantinople), Turkey

6. Machu Picchu, Peru (below)

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7. Machu Pichu, Peru

8. Buenos Aires, Argentina

9. Baden-Baden, Germany (below)

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I'm sure that at one point in my life this list was much longer; these are the locations that came to mind readily. I've already been to the following countries: Bermuda, Canada, Italy, (South) Korea, and Nicaragua.

OMGHANSON!; or, Give a little heart and soul!

I happened upon this music video on one of the rare occasions that I watched TV.  I've been listening to this song a lot in the past few days; it's my feel-good music of the moment, susnhine for my ears ( I don't think I'll get to see any sunshine this week). I don't really listen to music much-- at least as much as I used to-- and while I liked (and like) Hanson I was never a screaming fangirl.  I can't believe that they're all married and have children!  It makes me feel old and young at the same time.

I love that it's so minimalistic and joyous but not cheesy.  It sounds  familiar yet original; it's inoffensive but not bland or generic.  It has a raucous sort of "We Are The World" feel, mixed up with a G-rated "Just Dance" sensibility, no? That's the best analogy I can come up with at the moment.  Listen and decide for yourself:

New "New Era" commercial

They're baaack!



This commercial isn't as ripe for analysis as the first one featuring Yankees fan Alec Baldwin and Red Sox fan John Krasinski.  But I still find it amusing.  My thoughts-->

OMGPROM

Catalyst:

1) Glee's prom episode aired on Tuesday

2) News of a senior banned from prom for his public prom proposal

3) Disney movie "Prom" came out recently (I think last week)

Along with class rank and homecoming festivities, my high school didn't have the typical tradition of electing a prom king or queen.  But this doesn't mean that there was a lack in prom-related stress; you could practically cut it with a knife and spread it like cream cheese on a bagel or some other caloric spread that was fastidiously avoided by girls who purposely bought dresses that were a little too small.

Terrifying Movie Cakes

I'm sure that there are other cakes in movies that are more memorable, but I feel like most of the time cake is used for comic relief.

1. Congratulations cake from Black Swan.


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This cake is the reason I made this list.  When it--the cake-- first came out I gasped, and shrunk into my seat when I left the theater it stained in my mind as one of the scariest scenes in the film.  It's pink.  It's heavily frostinged.  It's too big, and presented to the wrong person by the wrong person.  A nice gesture, I guess, but I'd like to know how many ballerinas would appreciate this extravagant dessert as a celebratory gift for an accomplishment as major as getting to play Odette/Odile in Swan Lake.  Ach, I just can't get over how much frosting is on that thing.  I'm biased because I'm not big on frosting in the first place, but just...look at all those roses! Like the size of golf balls, they are.  Really.  Unnecessary.  But even scarier is when the mother gets angry with her daughter's reaction to it and threatens to trash it, throw the entire uneaten cake in the trash.  Even if I find it unappetizing I still hate to throw food away, especially if it's almost completely untouched. And I'd do almost anything to avoid the wrath of that mother.


2.  Chocolate cake from Matilda


Of course I was going to put this on here.  An easy pick from childhood.  This cake looks absolutely delicious but screams for a glass (or half gallon) of milk.  This cake isn't just big, it's obscenely enormous, a chocolate colossus.  The kid whose punishment it is to eat the entire thing looks like he'd be up to the challenge, and ultimately he triumphs!  But it's sort of a lose-lose situation: if he didn't finish the cake he'd get further punished; because he finishes the cake Mrs. Trunchbull smashes the empty platter on his head AND he probably gets severe indigestion AND he still gets punished, along with his peers.


3. Welcome back cake from The Fighter

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 (Warning: slight spoiler ahead)
This cake is:
- a big sheet cake, meant to be shared with many people
- frosted just the way I like it
- pregnant with potentially dangerous implications.  At this point in the story Dicky has gotten released from prison and is ready to make a new start.  The family brought this cake and made signs to surprise him with a "welcome back" sort of celebration party, but tensions are high when Dicky realizes that his brother Micky wants to train without him.  I think he doesn't say anything as he picks up the cake and walks it over to his crack house.  It's a tense moment: will Dicky's anger drive him back to his old crack addict ways, after he's gone through withdrawal and been clean while in the big house?  What will he do? And what's going to happen to the cake-- will he share it with his addict friends or what?


4.  Dessert from Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets

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Okay, so this is a cheat because the dessert featured is a pudding and not a cake.  But it looks like a cake-like and it's terrifying in its own right so I decided to include it.  Here the dessert floats (house elf Dobby uses a Hover Charm) and threatens to fall on the heads of dinner guests if Harry disregards Dobby's warnings and attends Hogwarts.  Frightening stuff, fraught with bad consequences.  Additionally, for me, that thing is decorated with (too) many maraschino cherries.  I abhor those cherries and hate to associate with them.  And again, there is excessive frosted decoration.

Happy Birthday Katharine Hepburn!

Note: The Blogger system was down for most of the evening of May 12th, during the time I typically write and post my entries.  The following is what I had written and intended to post for the day.

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Today is Katharine Hepburn’s birthday, and if she were still alive she’d be 104.  As it were, she died at the age of 96 and lived a spectacular life.  In a word, she was indefatigable, and one of my heroines.   I’d make a list of the ways she’s admirable but most of the points I would’ve made are compiled in this link.  One thing I'd like to draw more attention to is the fact that most of my peers think of the doe-eyed darling Audrey when it comes to the surname Hepburn-- especially when it comes to making with some serious sartorial statements (too much alliteration?).  But Katharine Hepburn made some of her own by opting to wear pants instead of dresses to her movie premieres, and I rather like that; I've written before of how I dislike wearing skirts. 

Like molasses for the ears

Her voice isn't intensely sweet like blackstrap molasses, but it's just as smooth, rich and delicious.


Alice Smith was the opening act for a concert I saw a few years back.  Cliche to say, I know, but really I could not believe that such a voice could come out of a woman so tiny.  She didn't inherently have any stage presence when she stood there in front of the mike, but the moment she opened her mouth:

I sink into the swirling depths of her voice.

It's a Sherlock Holmes kind of day

I've never been to London, but I imagine that today's mood matches the famed city's typical ambiance: grey, with shoulder-shrugging acceptance that it might probably rain, it's just one of those days.  It's the kind of day that makes me want to curl up in my chair with a cuppa tea in one hand(Earl Grey, probably, or some other British breakfast tea) and The Complete Sherlock Holmes, volume II in the other.  I feel like most of the his stories take place on such a day.  Even if I essentially take myself from one dreary setting to another, at least I'm escaping from my own machinations to that of the brilliant bipolar detective and his biographer.

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The time I unintentionally insulted my physics teacher

What's the first dimension?
A dot or line

What's something two-dimensional?
A drawing of a square, something with no thickness

What's 3D?
A cube.  Something with length, width and height.

What's the fourth dimension?
Time.

What's the fifth dimension?
...
Actually, no, not yet;  I'll tell you later and start at the beginning of the story...

Twas the beginning of the school year and I was taking physics as my science requirement.  My best friend was in the same class, and before our seating arrangements were set we used to sit next at the same two-person table in the center of the grid of tables in the classroom.  A few months prior I had taken summer school courses on physics and calculus.  Fun indeed (sarcasm).  I had been made to learn a number of things (pun intended) over those four weeks and retained, oh, maybe 8% of it.  As luck would have it, I remembered the answer to the last question above. So I thought.

An Observation

In Spanish--and I’m guesing this goes for French and other European languages in which nouns are gendered--the sun is el sol (masculine article) and the moon is la luna (with the feminine article).  Son, the word for a male child, and sun are homophones.  There’s a song called “Mr. Sun”.  In Western cultures the calender is marked by the movements of the earth around the sun.

There’s a Korean folktale that I learned as a child.  It says that a brother and sister stole away into the night and were chased by a tiger; they ended up escaping it by going into the moon with the brother becoming the sun and the sister turning into the moon.  But the girl was scared of the dark, so the siblings switched places and the brother became the moon.  The moon is male. Many Eastern cultures follow the lunar calender, marked by the cycles of the moon around the earth.


I wonder if there's a culture out there which believes that feminine>masculine and reflects this in its calender.

Character sketch: Mrs. V

As with all the people described in my character sketches, Mrs. V is a pseudonym; however in this case I don't actually remember her real name.  She was the teacher's assistant when I was in fifth grade and although we only ever called her by surname I can only recall her first name.  Weird, huh.

She was the first vegetarian I ever met-- and the first vegan.  At that time it never crossed my mind to become vegetarian and I was fascinated by everything she ate.  For lunch she would often have a cheese sandwich made with soy cheese.  When I asked her about how it tasted she broke off a bit and asked me to decide for myself.  Again, I have no memory of how it tasted, but I don't think it was as bad as it sounds.  But it helped that I took an instant liking to her.

She had green eyes, tawny skin and very long chestnut brown hair that was streaked with natural blonde highlights.  She always wore it in one thick braid, sometimes letting it fall down her back or wrapping it around (and around) her head.  Oh, and she was the first person I ever met who had a twin.  Mrs. V wore those long, blandly floral dresses and she practically glided across the room to our tables whenever we needed help.  Never did she treat us like the snotty little ten-year-olds that we were, but talked to us...well, not like we were adults, but as if what we had to say was worthy of her undivided attention.

Julian Matthias and I: Trying to Get a Hickey

            It’s the mark of a true violinist--sort of.  It funny that, of all places, I first learned about the hickey at church, and then started to want one myself.

The right time to read a book

I'm going to talk a little about Fight Club. 

I finished reading it while sitting in an ER waiting room to get my wrist examined.  I remember having a massive headache, which was probably a combination of feeling hangry (hungry+ angry; crankiness due to low blood sugar) and slightly peeved that I was a teenager and stuck in the waiting room of a children's hospital filled with bright colors and unhappy kids.  I had enjoyed the book, which my close friend at the time had recommended to me,  but wasn't really in the mood to read it; it just felt inappropriate to read while surrounded by kids.

But then a clown came in. 

May the 4th be with YOU

"No--try not. Do or do not, there is no try."
- Yoda, Episode V
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Happy Star Wars day everyone!  Above is my favorite quote from the movies.  I was going to list a bunch of my favorite lines but really that one is the one that sticks with me the most.  It's not just that it's from my favorite Star Wars film or that it's spoken by Yoda, though.  I found this quote as the number one line in a list of Jedi/Star Wars sayings that can be applied to violinists.  Of course, that line could apply to anyone facing a challenge or seemingly insurmountable obstacle.  Whenever I find myself getting frustrated while practising I think back to this quote, take a deep breath and start over.  Help, it does.

I watched the original trilogy as a kid but it didn't really make a big impression on me in general.  Yes, I had nightmares about getting my arm sliced off with by a black-garbed lightsaber wielder, but otherwise I wasn't really affected by it, never dressed up as any of the characters for Halloween.  It wasn't until after high school that I went back and saw the films (again, the original trilogy) and that was when I was struck by it all: the special effects, the archetypes in the story, the themes, and especially the impact they had on cinema and filmmaking thereafter.  I have yet to dress up as any of the characters for Halloween or any other costume event, but for a different reason: I don't want to wear some pre-fab outfit, but don't have the time or energy to make a really authentic looking one. Le sigh.

Update (sort of) and mini movie review

This clip, from the 2007 film Persepolis, does a great job at capturing the way I feel at the moment. 


I have to admit that the last few posts have been cop-outs and poorly planned.  This month I have several posts already in the works, so hopefully they'll be more cohesive and thoughtfully written.  I was going to make today's post a long one but have decided to postpone it and post it when it's more...finished.

I did recently watch Persepolis, having finally read both of the graphic novels upon which the film is based.  The film is gorgeously rendered in flat animation that is mostly black and white, doing a great job retaining the style of the graphic novel.  The story is autobiographical and deals with some Serious Stuff, and some of the most suspenseful scenes are done in silhouette.  I chose to watch the film in its original French version while reading English subtitles, but the film has also been dubbed in English with great actors like Iggy Pop and Sean Penn.  At its core it's a coming of age story, and is masterfully put together.  I know that a lot of people are put off by animation and/or black-and-white films, but I think even they would enjoy this one.

Julian Matthias and I: The day of the concert

I don't get as excited for orchestra concerts as I used to.  I think that I've gotten jaded over the years and I think of a concert as more of a "last rehearsal" rather than a performance.  But I never fail to get a rush of emotion on the day of the concert and appreciate the cumulative work that's been put into making the concert happen.  At the last concert I played I had this "a-ha" moment in the middle of the piece.  I liked the program that we played but wasn't terribly fond of any one piece.  It wasn't until the orchestra was on stage and halfway through the program when I remembered that I wasn't just playing notes but playing music.  With the right amount of practice and preparation anyone can read and play notes; turning those notes into a cohesive interpretation or story is a separate matter entirely.  It's easy to get caught up in just my part, even if it's boring or repetitive at times since I play in the second violin section.  So I have to remind myself to open my ears to what other instruments are playing, and remember that my part is just that: a part, a small piece of the pie that is the whole composition.  Also it helps to try to get nostalgic about whatever I'm playing, to think of the concert as the last time I'll ever play this music with this group of people, at this age. 

Instruments and the people who play them, part I

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Is it the person who is drawn to the instrument, or the instrument which choses its player?  In any case, in my experience people who play a certain instrument bear similar qualities.  Note: I've been in three different school bands and draw my generalizations from these.

Flute section: Almost entirely female, save for a lone male flautist.  Never is there more than one guy in the flute section. This guy isn’t gay or a womanizer but just happens to play the flute and do it well. This is the most gossipy section, and of all the band geeks they’ve probably got the best social skills-- they have a lot of friends, enemies and frenemies.

Oboes: In a word: perfectionists.  The oboe is probably the hardest instrument to play.  It takes a lot of discipline to play the oboe properly and reach that level of Purple Face without passing out completely.  Not many oboes in band or orchestra, and usually you have an equal number of male and female oboe players. Usually pretty physically-fit people, but not in a crunchy-granola way.

Bassoons:  Basically a big version of an oboe in terms of tone and playability, probably the second-hardest intrument to play.  Bassoon players are laid-back, groovy and tend to be more of the crunchy-granola type, and generally gay-friendly (I feel it is not a coincidence that the Italian word for bassoon is "fagotto").  I'm very good friends with a bassoon player.

Clarinets:  The nerdiest section, a smart bunch of people.  Pretty even split between the sexes.  Here you will probably find someone who’s also on the math team. The clarinet has five separate parts and requires a lengthy swabbing process to get rid of all the saliva that’s accumulated throughout the instrument--not attractive.  But all that swabbing and disassembling gives a bit more time for clarinetists to talk with each other and form more solid friendships.  First and foremost I am a violinist, but I also play the clarinet. 

Saxophones:  Generally gregarious, usually males slightly outnumber females by 60:40.   Good social skills and likeable personality that toes the line between self-assurance and showing off.  Groovy, able to handle sycopation and rhythm, able to improvise and go with the flow.  Hard to upset.  If athletes, usually play soccer or baseball/softball.

Brass section to be stereotyped in a later post.

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