1st Rehearsal (09/12/16)
There are many wonderful, often bittersweet, aspects to first rehearsals, especially when you have come to accept that this is your last first rehearsal. There’s the gentle tap on the shoulder that leads to a soul-filling hug, the shuffling of the papers to discover the repertoire, and the first orchestra-laugh induced by your conductor.
One would think that the appropriate way to start the first reading of a piece is carefully. And so it comes as the best surprise, every year, when the first notes we sound are lively, almost up to tempo, and admittedly out of tune. It is the most delightful of journeys; relishing in the long melodies, basking in the uncertainty of the next chord, skipping a bar to catch up to the authority of the conductor’s baton.
I hope that through these blog entries, I will be able to explore the beauty and appreciation of music, the relationship musicians develop through being an orchestral entity, the pursuit of piecing together musical sections to form one complete sound, and whatever other lines of thought that could come to mind.
Many of my dear friends from previous years have not come back this year. They will be greatly missed, their presence never forgotten. Their absence has reminded me of the essence of Youth Orchestra: a dynamic form of expression that is temperamental and connecting. Memories involving music are very hard to dissolve, and I think all of us, wherever we are in the world, can attest to that. Continue reading “After Rehearsals: Orchestra Blog, Part 1”→
Autumn leaves are born mid-air, between the whistling of the wind and onto the brown mass of earth. First, they clip off from their limbs, then rustle as they tumble down, and finally give a wee crunch of satisfaction as they join their fallen comrades. Autumn leaves drop in loose rhythm; they don’t attempt to match the chirps and buzzes of the forest.
I biked along the forest with these autumn leaves. It was late afternoon, early evening, and a beautiful temperature of cool. There was a grand desire for me to understand something by travelling through the forest, but how to flesh out a conclusion if the introduction hadn’t been agreed upon? I was being naive, I was being stubborn, I was being like every human who wanted to indulge in his or her own little world of uncertainty.
It is easy to live in the world within myself. My laws, my expectations. I may steer left towards the river bend if I choose. Or, I may simply continue on the path that will eventually lead to a right turn. Continue reading “Autumn Leaves”→
He was seen from halfway across the school gym. Loose pants, dress shirt tugging from his belt, a satchel. He was nothing short of that man in the romance film with the quiet death scene. Not to mention he was real, he was speaking in the microphone, and he was positively, quiet determinedly, perfect.
His stance he carried like his belongings, loosely and with determination. He spoke with awareness and viewed everything with clarity. Yet, yet, he was still a tad mischievous; he kept that weapon in his pocket, but it was never a secret.
“You saw him, this morning?”
“He was inspecting the books on the shelves.”
There was only one somber cloud: he appeared only for two minutes during the day. Because what hasn’t been addressed is that, the other hours, he spends elsewhere; the other minutes, he dreams in another adventure; the other seconds, he walks as himself, and no one else.
Reflection must be the most reliable compensation for choosing to believe that the present is inexhaustible. You live in it all until you realize it is all over, and so you turn to your memories and feel as much comfort as longing. This fixation with the past, somehow, always seems to compliment any strive for the future. I come back from the tundra with wisps of a fresh mindset (certainty will always be fragile) that I hope to knit into form and dimension. And so, today looms into yesterday and tomorrow.
I was close to entitling this “4 Years Later, And I’m Still Here!”, but I thought the title would suggest that tending this blog has been a chore. Indeed, the opposite: it has been a wonderful responsibility. However, I recognize the reality in my almost-title, namely the fact that it is true that most of my initial blogging friends have long since left the community. I began this blog with a strong focus on book reviews, music, and bubbling thoughts. Four years later, I have shifted my focus to introspective narrations, poems, and a side of music; the refinement of my writing almost seems like a compensation for my growing relationship with ambiguity.
If you didn’t know, the past year I started a Youtube Channel called MindArt, where I post short videos where snippets of scenes are overlaid with a piece of music that reflect the tone of the storyline. I liked the channel’s name so much that on several occasions I have felt compelled to change this blog’s name to MindArt, but fell short in realizing it. Continue reading “4 Years Later, And Here I Am!”→
You spend your nights comparing
and your mornings idealizing,
Don’t you see the minutes in the trash
and the hours extending their hands?
How foolish they are, banalities
coloured by insecurities and self.
How foolish you are.
The rain reminds me of the
uncompromising nature of the
life outside of me, and
inspires me to think of such
It is the gift of a coming of season,
a release from stagnant commonality;
the night’s darkness folds with
the becoming dew and the breeze
of nostalgia, evaporative clouds. Continue reading “April, May, June”→
The pure whiteness of the sun’s glare made her miss the thunderstorms of hours past. Not that she didn’t appreciate mornings -the sweet birds and mellow grass- quite the contrary. Lately however, nothing seemed absolute and the birds and grass were caged in glass. No – she was caged in glass. The glass was phenomenally thin, undetectable when glanced at, and that’s what tugged at her the most. If her uncertainty was certain, she’d like to think she would be more satisfied. But the cards are never dealt in one dimension.
What she found perfectly funny was that the more distant her memory, the more she reminisced it with exactitude. The healing knee scab that was scraped again, the lollipop rewards, even the laser tagging and hot dogs. She thought of this as she ate her omelet, a morning routine tended with time. She thought of this still when she made her bed and arranged her clothes. Small scatterings kept on popping up the carpet of her bedroom, and truthfully she did not want to gather her energy to gather those little pieces of discarded materials. She could not help feeling like psychologist when she decided that her unwillingness to clean her carpet was very much correlated with her uneasiness of her own perception. Continue reading “Thunderstorms”→