there's a candle lit for you

An old friend once said, "Confession gives the heart a chance to know that it doesn't have to hold it all in." I have never been more nervous about confessing.

10 December, 2009
I was sitting in homeroom when seniors with last names beginning with N through S were called down to the gymnasium for Confession. Reluctantly, I made my way through the crowded doorway and trudged down the stairs. I remember marveling over how many seniors were heading towards the gym, until it hit me that it was still homeroom, and they sold bagels in the commons. The lonely road began when I passed the cliques near the food lines and entered the gym lobby. I signed in at the table and followed the candlelit pathway through the gym doors. A powerpoint played with reflection questions following the Commandments and the Beatitudes. The first slide I saw read, "Why do we skip Mass?" This was my chance to leave. I don't skip mass. I attend weekly with my parents. If this doesn't apply to me, then I don't need to go, do I? Besides, I asked Fr. Tim about it once during my independent study and we learned that the Church only requires Confession once a year if you've committed a mortal sin. I haven't murdered anyone lately and I'm pretty sure I haven't consented to any moral failures, so technically I could have gone back to class. However, my upbringing dragged my conscience into a chair and I sat down to wait my turn.

Between the two seatings of chairs was a multi-candle holder, holding about fifty candles, lit and unlit, with a lighter underneath. Some students had lit candles for deceased parents, grandparents, or anyone for whom they had a particular special intention. I had done this type of thing before, but I had lit candles for all of my special intentions, so I did not get up to light a candle. I sat, waited, dreaded the moments to come.

Another wave of seniors came in before the juniors were called. I waited for the courage to go. It did not come. The bell for fifth hour rang. I sat. The late bell rang. Still, I sat. A list began forming in my mind of all I had to say to the priest. But my mind wandered and I had to begin again numerous times. As the list got longer, my mind wandered further. I began to think about my fellow drum majors, particularly how I treated Joe. He and I had talked about my behavior in the past three months, and I had apologized for being such a censored word. I added that to my list. Further yet, I thought of two of my closest friends, Justin and Lauren, and how much I had hurt them in the recent weeks. I hurt Justin in the worst way possible, and treated Lauren as though she was worth nothing. I added two more items to my list. The last two seniors got up to see an available priest. I took a deep breath, lifted myself from the chair, and somberly walked first to take a votive candle, then to the priest I had been eyeing for a few minutes. He had just arrived, and had yet to hear a Confession. No judgements. I wouldn't be compared to anyone.

I set the candle on the floor next to me and recited the opening prayer. My first Confession was that I didn't know when I had last confessed. I don't remember having gone last Lent or the Advent before, and I know I hadn't confessed in between. After an awkward pause, I realized the priest was waiting for me to continue. The list spilled from my mouth in a whirlwind of stuttered words and fear of embarrassment. I forgot things; I said the same things twice, three times. I couldn't look him in the eye.

He didn't even ask if i was sorry. Not even a wink of curiosity. he already knew I was. A part of my penance was to perform a random act of kindness or two. After saying my Act of Contrition, I couldn't breathe. My head bowed nearly between my shaking knees as the priest spoke the words of absolution. The final words broke me. "I absolve you from all of your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."

I shook the man's hand and left the confessional in tears. After returning the candle to its table for another student's use, I hobbled to my chair bawling.

I don't deserve forgiveness, I cried to my Father. Why did you give this to me? I don't deserve it. I don't deserve Your forgiveness. I hurt him, Father. I hurt him deeply.

Just as I was beginning to calm down, a friend of mine came down in a group of juniors and sat at the end of my row. I tried not to be obvious about my crying, but I was shaking too hard. He slid down the row, put his arm around me, and asked if I was okay. I nodded, then burst into tears for the second time that day. But there was no point in hiding it any longer. Someone had noticed, so I let the tears come. I cried in his arms for what seemed like hours, but was only minutes. Someone gave him a pile of Kleenex for me. I was finally calmed, and he allowed himself to confess himself. He returned momentarily to pat my leg, pray, and head back to class. I sat in a solemn silence for too long. The two bells rang for sixth hour, but I didn't get up. Another friend passed my chair and asked if I was okay. I nodded with a convincing "yes." She said, "You sure? You look like you're crying." I laughed. "I'm not crying." It was the truth. She went to Confession and left the gymnasium.

Sixth hour was my religion class, and my teacher was hearing confessions so I had nowhere to go. I just sat there watching the powerpoint repeat itself over and over again. The same ten Commandments, the same eight Beatitudes, the same reflection questions. I answered each one of them to myself. The more I read, the more I answered, the more I thought.

As I left the gym, I lit a candle for him. For how much I hurt him, for how much I loved him, and for how much I wished it did have to end the way it did. That day at lunch, I bought cookies for Joe. He did a double take. I tossed them across the table to him, and he said, "Oh, thanks!" But after I said, "you're welcome," he didn't realize I actually meant it. I told him to go ahead; I bought them for him. He ate them with a smile on his face.

So if you're reading this, know that I miss your friendship. I miss the laughs we had together and even the crying we shared. I wish that things would clear up between us. But until then, there's a candle lit for you.

So I just got half-accepted into U of M Music School. I officially have an audition date! I am so nervous for the audition but excited, too. Eeeeeeeeeeeep is all I can say!

Cookies Say I Love You

My wonderful sister wrote a brilliant blog post on her blog that I must recommend to you. As I read it, I kept nodding and smiling, nearly moved to tears at how true it was, and how true it could be. Since I cannot put it any more eloquently, and copying her would be plagiarism, here is a link to the most true blog post I have ever read. Thanks, Mary. I love you.

Catholic Apologetics.

I had to fight for this class and by golly I'm going to enjoy it. I already had a blast the first day, and came home with seven Bible verses to memorize and I know where they all come from and why they are important and in which context they are used. I'm really excited about learning everything I'm going to learn this year and I am so happy it just made my day. Literally. It really did make my day. Anyway, I have nothing about the same topic to blab, so this is the end of my blog post.

Senior Year

Everyone's making a big deal about how exciting it will be. I'm thinking... college applications, AP classes, getting INTO college, passing AP classes, stress, more stress, being cheerful and friendly on top of this, and anything else that can be packed into one year. When am I going to have time for fun? Oh, yes. Wind Ensemble and marching band. The fun stress. :) It's good to know I have awesome family and friends to help me through. Or... wholesome friends. I like that. :) Thanks, mom...

Post

I realized today that it has been a month since I last posted. I really don't have much to say. I haven't had any profound epiphanies, nor have I had anything happen so drastic about which I had to write. So I will take this post to congratulate my brother and his fiancé. You get married in a week! How exciting is that? I hope to see you live long and happy lives. And maybe come visit your sister once in a while. :)

Thanks

I woke up this morning feeling strangely confident and happy. I have no idea why. The night before, I had had a conversation about some things that aren't exactly perfect in life right now. For some reason, I just couldn't shut up about them. I kept bringing these two topics up at any possible moment. Last night, a very good friend of mine told me that he noticed this, and I was slightly caught off guard. I think I knew that I kept talking about these topics, but I wasn't ready to admit that I was becoming a little bit obsessive. Well, after being caught off guard, I started thinking about it. By the time I had gone to bed, I started feeling bad for acting so obsessive about these topics. In the morning, when I woke up, I was completely over it. I felt so happy and confident; I felt like nothing was wrong. And nothing is wrong. Life is good. I'm glad I have the life I was given, the family and friends that I have, and especially the people that tell me to shut up when I need to. Thanks, guys.

I love you

I must be one of the luckiest people on earth. I have four amazing siblings and two of the best parents anyone could ask for. As of today, they have been married for thirty years. What an achievement!

Nowadays, divorce is common, but the thought is not even relevant in my household. My parents made all the right choices in marriage, and I am glad they chose each other. I have not seen them fight in ten years.

They went out to dinner today, to celebrate. Before my dad got home from work, Mom went upstairs to change into her new dress. When she came down, I could see the sparkle in her eyes, She was absolutely beautiful. She had on her new blue dress and a gorgeous shawl over her shoulders. I could tell she felt beautiful. Dad had gotten her a pearl necklace, bracelet, and earring set that matched her outfit. I helped her put on the necklace, and she put on the bracelet and earrings herself. I could not stop smiling. Her face sparkled.

She was beautiful.

Dad came home and went up to kiss Mom. He must be the luckiest man on earth, and she is the luckiest woman. Dad opened Mom's card and they both opened mine. Dad found his present, an old map of the world, framed in a nice frame. His eyes lit up, and he managed to make a decision as to where he wanted it, rather than listening to his wife, who seemed to like it somewhere else.

They got all their stuff together and left to go out to dinner. When they left, I could not stop smiling. They love each other so much, and I know that as long as they live, they will stay married. I love them so much and I am glad they are still married.

Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad!!!

Lord of the Flies

I have never been left breathless by a book until now. And this was the second time I had read the book cover to cover. The whole story goes so slowly until the end. In the last chapter, the biggest and scariest action of the book happens and the chase seen and the who climax is right there. The falling action was two paragraphs long. It took me three hours to get my breath fully back.

Siblings

I am very glad I grew up with siblings. It has taught me more than I can fit in a blog post and more than I know that I know.

• I learned how to fight with the people I love.
• I learned how to forgive the people with which I fight.
• I learned how to be called stupid or immature or any other recognizably insulting names and not be insulted.
• I learned how to deal with immaturity when I know I am just as or more so immature.
• I learned how to deal with authority and not having it.
• I learned to have fun at something I adamantly don't want to do.
• I learned how to entertain myself with something others see as work.
• I learned how to make myself heard when I need to be.
• I learned how to be silent when I have no seniority or authority.
• I learned to ask questions when I don't know an answer.
• I learned how to figure things out for myself when I can't find an answer.
• I learned how to clean bathrooms and wash kitchen floors.
• I learned how to do the dishes and clear and set a table for a meal.
• I learned that the more you know someone, the harder they are for whom to shop.

There are too many more to count, so I will shut up now. I hold firm to the fact that second to life, the best gift a parent can give to a child is a sibling.

I have a theory

If you don't like something. An activity, say. If you don't like it at all. You hate it with a passion. Pick something. Anything. You hate it. But you have a friend who loves it so much. This friend cannot stop talking about it because of how much this friend loves it. It is a perfectly harmless activity. Painting, say. You hate painting, but your best friend loves it. After a while, you get to know about painting. This friend will tell you everything from famous painters to techniques to ideas that this friend wants to use. Soon, you will begin to notice things. Say you are in an art museum. You will recognize a specific technique that an artist you have actually heard of and say, "wouldn't it be cool if they had used this technique for this area to make a ____ kind of look?"

You will second guess yourself.

You will start to like painting.

You will hate yourself for liking it. "Wait! I wasn't supposed to like this! I've never liked it!" Who knows why you disliked it in the first place. Maybe you had an awful art teacher that picked favorites and you weren't one. Maybe your older sister was a painter. Who knows. But you have a friend who loves it, and now that you can participate in the conversation, you will start to like it. Maybe even love it. Or at least love listening to it. Maybe it is easy to enjoy listening to a friend be excited about something. That is always fun. But when you can come to terms with a former foe of an activity, something good has happened.

Happy Birthday, Dad!

For the many years you've been my dad, my siblings' dad, my mom's husband, my uncles' brother, my grandparents' son, you are amazing, and I wish you the best and happiest birthday today.

Shostakovich and 20th Century Music

I know enough people disagree with me to make this worth my while, so I will make it known that I prefer Classical and Baroque music to Romantic and Contemporary.

Baroque and Classical make sense. There is a rhythm, it is strict, and you know what is going to happen. This is not to say it is not suspenseful; it is. Listen to Beethoven's 5th or 6th or 9th. They are amazing. If there is a dissonant chord in Baroque or Classical, it is a 7th chord. Progressions always lead up to the I or V chords, depending on where you are in the piece. There is a specific place to which you are going, and you always get there. Everything is resolved.

This does not happen in 20th century music. Take Mahler for example. Though much of his music is either powerful or beautiful or both, it never leads anywhere. As if you are running for your life through a dark alley while a mugger is chasing you with a knife, and suddenly you become a little girl with curly hair in pigtails playing tag with her brother. Some contemporary music just seems to be strange chord progressions full of even stranger chords.

Romantic music isn't bad. I don't mind listening to it at all. It's not the best to play, however. With so much rubato, it is hard to keep a steady tempo. Well, it's written in not to have a steady tempo, which is why I'm not too fond of it. I like mathematical styles. Romantic music is not mathematical at all.

I have no problem with people liking 20th Century music at all. A good friend of mine seems to be in love with Shostakovich, and I know a few young ladies who like Mahler themselves. It's a matter of opinion, really. But if I am wrong, and I am never wrong, classical and baroque dominate.

Clearing your Head

Sometimes you think you're clearing your head, when really you just want to know something that is practically impossible to know. It keeps gnawing at you and you can't do anything about it. You want the question to leave you alone, never to bother you, but you care about what the answer is, and you really want to know. Your "clearing your head" is never complete until you know that answer. Being alone will never help. Only the people with the answers will.

Catholic Education

We never learned apologetics, and I think as a teenager, that is the most important thing you can learn in a Catholic classroom. Yes, you need to learn about God in his almighty goodness and how amazing he is, but a lot of that needs to come from going to church, not from a teacher telling you in a classroom. Protestant churches have Sunday school where they read the Bible and learn a ton of stuff and I'm not going to say I know what all goes on in there because I've never been to Sunday school in my life. But obviously it works because protestants can argue their faith very well. Why can't they teach that to Catholics? We don't know the Bible and can't defend the faith at all. We either depend on what our parents taught us or Catholic apologetics websites, and that's how they learn: by argumental research. I know what I do now because of arguments with my best friend. We never argued to convert. She was Lutheran, I was Catholic, and we knew neither of us were going to convert, but we argued for the sake of arguing. I'm still not good at arguing. I know I come across as an arrogant know-it-all who says I'm right, you're wrong, get over it. I know less than half of what I need to know, and I know where to look it all up if I need help, but I know the basics to get by. I wish I knew this much when I was in eighth grade.

Regarding a note of caution I saw at the FIM...

PLEASE DO NOT PUT ANYTHING ON THIS HISTORIC PIANO

This pretty much makes people scared of the piano. Not only will they avoid putting anything on the historic piano, they won't play it, or even touch it. In admiration, a struggling musician may finger the music stand at the top, or the area just below the keyboard. However, no notes will be played. This is to the institute's benefit. Not one musician will dare play a note on this historic piano. What need is there for tuning? That's a lot of money they can save for tuning pianos that are actually used. Who cares if a C# becomes a G? No one's using it. But what happens if a daring young student touches a key? Presses down? Makes a sound? Finding out that playing a D will give you an A° chord would be quite surprising. It's such a historic and beautiful piano! How dare it be so out of tune and broken! To the relief and chagrin of the FIM, I'm the only one who knows.

Musicals

Why are some musicals more famous than others? Some have great music but awful plots, while others have the most interesting plots with crap for music. Some have great both, and some have crap for both.

Here are some examples:

Good plot, good music:

• Fiddler on the Roof*
• Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat*
• Anything Goes
• Guys and Dolls
• Phantom of the Opera*
• Into the Woods
• Bye Bye Birdie
• Wicked*
• West Side Story*
• Annie*
• Sound of Music*
• My Fair Lady*
• The Lion King
  

Bad plot, good music:

• Cabaret
• Oklahoma*
• Jesus Christ Superstar*
• Grease*
  

Bad plot, bad music:

• Godspell*

Now, obviously I haven't seen enough musicals, or bad musicals, to be able to make a hypothesis, but not all famous musicals are good. I have no idea why they are famous. If you think of any other musicals that I should add to this list, comment and I'll add them.

Florida was fun.

Cell Phones

There are a few things I would like to say about cell phones...


My sister seems to hate text messaging. She says why text now when you can talk later? I prefer to talk, but in my defense, she told me that over gmail chat, so I had to argue. I text a lot more now than I did before my dad got me unlimited. I was so impatient to get unlimited, but now that I have it, I wish I didn't. My friends are no longer afraid to text me, because I can't yell at them, saying every text they send is a dime out of my parents' income to spend on the cell phone bill. Now they text me a lot. Well, not a lot, but more often than before. I don't mind it so much, because I can hold a conversation after my parents go to bed and I would be uncomfortable making noise. It's kind of cool when my phone rings and I get to think "someone just sent me a message." I still prefer phone calls. You can get the tone of voice over a phone call, but not over texts. I like looking at the phone before I answer it and think, "someone cares about me enough to make a call rather than sending a quick, impersonal message under 160 characters that doesn't always need a reply. Someone wants to talk to me." I like that. I was never fond of talking on the phone until I got one friend that would chatter my butt off on facebook chat, but phone calls were nonexistant. Literally. This person didn't even have my phone number (but does now...). I decided that, among other reasons (it seemed to be taking up all my spare time), I would get off facebook for Lent. Six weeks from Ash Wednesday to Easter I would require phone calls. (Note: on Ash Wednesday, my text messages still cost $.10 each) The phone calls didn't increase one bit. I just talked to that person less. Which made me sad. This person was very fun to talk to, among other things. About a week into Lent, my dad got unlimited texting for my phone. My no-facebook thing wasn't working. Because this person had my phone number, and could now text me for free. Now the impersonal messaging of facebook was transferred to my cell phone, and I never got a chance to talk to that person on the phone. Sure, we talk once in a while. I make all the phone calls. This person never calls me. After I got unlimited texting, I was tempted to get back on facebook, because what was the point of not being on it if I'm getting the impersonal messages somewhere else? May as well have bigger conversations, with more than 160 characters per message. But I had made that promise, so no facebook for me until Easter.

I like texting. It makes me feel important. I can hide it, if I need to, and it's quiet, if I can't talk. But if I'm sitting at home doing nothing, or in any other position in which I could take a phone call, I would prefer that to a text that says, "hey, what are you up to?" Either way, I prefer seeing people in real person over anything else in the world. I wish I got to see some people more than once a week, but if texting is the only way they will communicate with me on the days that I don't get to see them, well, I guess I'll just have to put up with it.

So Bye Bye Birdie is 3/5 over and even though I don't sing at all, my voice is spent. After school today, for two hours before call, a friend and I went into the band room and sang and played piano. We kept running back to get more music from the files, and coming back with the strangest combinations. Styx and Tarzan. Queen and gospel. It was so much fun. He had never heard of Styx, so I taught him Come Sail Away, and we found sheet music for that and Show Me the Way, which I hadn't heard in years. Normally I sing in my head voice, because I have a much larger range that way. However, I attempted to belt it out in my chest voice, and only half-way succeeded. I can't make it up to a D like that. But I tried. And I know I sounded awful. But I tried.

My voice is spent. But I'm happy.

Exhaustion

Out of curiosity, how many of you check the dates of which I post these things? Or do you just read them? I just read yours, if you have one. Though sometimes they are very important.

If you are trying to make a point, then later change your mind, it is good for those reading it to see that when they wrote a blog post on this date, it was before some other happenings, which is why there is a contradictory statement a few days (or the next day, in this case) written in a new post on the blog.

Sure, logic is not always the best thing. But sometimes you need it to get through some things. You don't want to hurt anyone, but sometimes that is necessary in order to make amends. And if you do it only for that reason, the person you have to hurt won't be hurt for long.

And then sometimes the person is only hurt because of exhaustion. After a good night's sleep, they will feel much better. And because I'm Anne, I have to throw in something random. That leather jacket was really soft.

I skipped dinner for THIS?

So I found out today that I have a non-commenting reader of my blog.

Logic is evil. Why are we too logical? I mean, logic is good in small quantities. But any more than a slightly-more-than-normal amount is not very good for healthy... healthy anythings.

Well, hiding things is bad, too. But that's a different story that hasn't reached the press yet.

Philosophy

The days are long, but the years are short. No. The days are loooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooong and the years are short. Have fun while you can. Do everything you can before you don't have time to do what you can't.

Socks and Italian Food

I was sitting at the kitchen table, reading a book about economics that was at a reading level much higher than my own. I desperately needed a dictionary, as every other word was at least a dozen letters long and indecipherable. Everything was normal, or as normal ast hings could be with me having been home all day Saturday. Mom was at the computer, and Dad entered the kitchen. In his hand was an advertisement. A perfectly normal advertisement.

"I came just to torture you," he announced. Flipping over the ad, I was face to face with mostaccioli. Wonderful, delicious mostaccioli, swimming in tomato sauce and covered in a delectable melted mozzarella that made my mouth water. Next to it was penne pasta with creamy basil chicken, sprinkled with shredded parmesan, and tortellini robusto that was smothered in a sauce so delicious I could have eaten it for a second dinner.

I laughed, knowing how much my dad kew and loved me. "Socks and Italian food," I told him as he left the kitchen chuckling. "Socks and Italian food."

Solo and Ensemble, Part II: Clarinet Edition

Several minutes after the scheduled 11:27, my friend stepped out of his warm-up room, ready to be led to Performance Room 4, to play for an unknown judge. I asked permission to watch, and I followed him and his mother through the hallway. A friend of minute who had had a flute solo early that morning, and another stranger (who turned out to be the accompanist), came, too, and the small crowd entered the classroom.

The judge was typing on a laptop, a portable printer beside. The room director took the finished notes and a pink business-card shaped slip of paper, and delivered the II rating to a disappointed clarinetist. Oh, great, I thought. But more than just that was going through my mind. This judge just gave out a II. I have to play for this judge later. I hope that girl sucked, because I really don't want a hard judge. My piece is short of the two-minute minimum, and I can't play it well, despite the fact that it is so easy I could sightread it. There is no way I'm getting a I with this judge.

We took our respective seats in the desks allotted to us, and my friend warmed up. After tuning several notes to the electric piano, he began his piece. It went by quickly, but well. I took note of his strengths and weaknesses. Only his strengths showed; he was prepared. I notices that his breakth support and tone are much superior to my own and his piece selection was more difficult. I could write pages of how good it was. However, I know that I am not a trained clarinetist, so I am sure there were many things I missed. To the untrained ear, it was flawless.

The judge made a few verbal comments, noting the tupe of my friend's mouthpiece. This made me a little nervous. This friend has bragged to me that his mouthpiece cost $150, and is very high quality. Mine was $12 from Sherm's. However, $150 was not enough for this judge. Oh, no! what is he going to say about my low-quality, used, plastic clarinet with a $12 mouthpiece? He suggested my friend upgrade from an HS Star to an HS Double Star. More money, more quality, more mouthpiece.

I came out of the room shaking inside. This wasn't even my performance! He put away his instrument, and we strolled back to receive his score. Along with his music, he was given a blue slip of paper, signed by the judge. He got a I!!!! Excitement fluttered through the air. I bounced off my toes, hiding my nervousness.

We ran into several Wind Ensemble members, and had to stop to see how they did. Most got Is. A trip to the cafeteria, and his hunger was fed. My mother was still conversing with my flute-player friend's parents, who left soon after. Topics had ranged from Monk to Obama. I sat there for about half an hour. My legs were shaking. I was lucky that was a habit of mine, because someone would have noticed otherwise. I was also impatient. The lethargiv vlock was taunting me. But it was finally 1 o'clock and I could head to the warm-up room. On my way, I ran into a friend of mine who had to quit Wind Ensemble because of time commitments. We both dropped everything in our arms and wrapped each other in bear hugs, or what would have been bear hugs if either of us resembled Mr. Kovel. She came with me to see my performance, but did not accompany me to my warm-up room, which was where I was headed.

I checked in, but only one person was allowed to practice at a time. This allowed me five minutes of real practice time. My mom, and also my accompanist, did not have access to a piano to warm up on. She found a seat and resumed correcting papers, a task she had been attending to all day. I put my instrument together, and began blowing warm air through it. It was the best I could do. Mom reminded me that my piece may not have been long enough to receive a rating. She handed her watch to my friend, who timed me. He carried on polite conversation with my mom, until I was finished blowing through the piece at regular tempo. I was seconds short. Luckily, Brahms allows lots of rubato, and a slower tempo.

After timing it once more, and much more slowly, I sat back to watch my predecessor practice. His saxophone skills were uncanny for that of a high school student. There is no way my piece was as difficult as or played as well as his. The accompaniment was computer generated, and whoever recorded it was practiced and highly-skilled. THis musician's presence intimidated me. I just watched in awe. When he left to perform, I was given permission to practice. I was warmed up, but I could have used a tuner.

Arriving in the performance room for the second time that day, this time with my clarinet, the judge suddenly seemed cynical. His facial expression was that of a young college professor who, at first, was delighted to be asked to judge for a high school solo and ensemble, but as the day neared, he decided he would much rather spend all day Saturday with his wife and two young kids, instead of being cooped up in a strange teacher's windowless classroom. I tuned a few notes, attempting to guess correctly at whether I was flat or sharp, a skill I have yet to learn. When I began my piece, I plowed right though it. Dynamics, notes, rhythms, I got it all. What really screwed me over was my tone. You can't get any good sound out of a plastic clarinet. I do the best I can, and I sound okay, but there is only so much I can do.

Verbal comments consisted of noting that my throat tones are always sharp, and that I could try putting fingers down in the right hand to help lower the pitch. I didn't have the heart to tell him I already had four fingers down. I thanked him, and my posse and I left the room.

Oh boy, I thought. My thoughts continued. The moment of truth is just moments away. Okay. Deep breath. Walk forward. Turn the corner. Keep walking. Back to the warm-up room. Put your instrument away. Accept your friend's compliments gracefully. He's been nothing but nice to you; don't ruin his expectations. He's required to say I did a good job, even if I did terribly. Friends expect nothing less than the best. Okay, back to the performance room. Is there a rating up yet? No. There's a performance going on. Wait patiently. No, I can't be patient. I'm related to Grandpa. Get out here and give me my score already!!!! - Oh, hellp, lady! Are you here to give me my score? Wait, why are you turning around? Oh, you're writing my score up. Is that a blue sheet I see in your hands with my music? Smile. Turn around! Yes, it is!!!!! I got a I! I got a I! I got a I! I got a I! I got a I!

Solo and Ensemble, Part I: Piano Edition

It was cold, but not too cold. The snow had yet to fall, and I was impatient for the blank beauty to give the earth a clean, sinless slate. The roads weren't bad, but we left a little late, the fault being mine. We pulled up by the office door, and stepped out to breathe in the fresh ice. A few steps south and the the key fit perfectly into the door. My old elementary school looked so alone, without the collared shirts tucked into the khaki pants of a hundred middle school students that frequent the building. The hum of the copy machine broke the silence, and I was able to speak. "We need to make a copy of each of the pieces, because I'm not sure which original the judge wants."

The copies finished, our exit was brisk and prepared. The car was once again turned on, and off we went.

The ride there was spent erasing comments on the Schubert impromptu a friend was playing, and numbering the measures, from 1 to 274. Upon arrival, I, once again, breathed in ice as I strolled into the unknown high school, waiting patiently for my turn to practice. I saw my best friend, and after a lengthy conversation with her and her mom, I was able to enter the warm-up room and play my piece. My math teacher was in that room. Her daughter had a viola solo just after my piano, so she was warming up as well. My piece, Hungarian, by Edward MacDowell, was a pain in the left arm. I, of course, stupidly forgot my ace bandage, so my warming up with a performance of it was idiotic on my part. After letting it hang limply from my shoulder for about ten minutes, the pain still resided in my forearm, but there was nothing I could do. I entered the performance room a little hesitantly. I was not nervous, but did not want to embarrass myself in front of the judge. Musically, I wasn't worried. Socially, I was. I sat down and did as the room director said. I played a few scales, completely butchering the E minor, but the E major and C major went perfectly.

The piano was ridiculously out of tune. It was a black upright with chipping paint. The pedal was so loose, I had to move my foot at least a foot to get it to do anything. It was a piece of junk. Completely worthless. But it was what I had with which to impress the judge. After being announced, I began the piece, a slight pain still residing in my left arm. It grew as the trills and sixteenth notes stressed the muscligamentendons. Finishing, I was disappointed. I missed mroe notes than I was used to, the tone quality of my piece was horrible, and my entrances and exits were not quite perfect.

The judge smiled.

Her comments made me nervous. Was she avoiding saying anything bad, because she was a nice person? Is she hiding my faults? Did I really do well?

After wandering around with Gaylyn, I calmed down, and was able to stop back at the room and pick up my score. The room director stepped outside with my music in hand. She turned to face the list of participants, then stepped towards me. "Congratulations," she offered with a smile, and handed me a blue slip, indicating my number I rating. My nervousness turned to giddyness, and my shock into glee. I had impressed someone. Someone important. For one tiny second, with my best friend sharing in my joy, life was flawless.

English Class

Okay, so this blog post will have nothing to do with English class at all. I remember, though, in some book I read, there was an English teacher (not Albert Pederson, but he wasn't an English teacher, anyway) that taught her class about writing. Well, don't most English teachers? Anyway, this teacher told the class about a specific type of writing called stream of consciousness in which the student just writes and writes and writes without really bothering to make any sense of anything. I guess I'm trying that here, but I don't really know where it's going to take me. I remember I read about it in fourth grade, because we had to do some sort of journal in Mrs. Tucker's class and I tried to do stream of consciousness. But then I ended up talking about the fact that the American flag is red, white, and blue. I'm not really sure I got the point of it, because I was just looking at things and talking about them, and was making even less sense than I am right now, because here I am actually connecting my thoughts. You can actually physically see where my thoughts are going, because I wrote all of them out. The one I did in fourth grade was choppy, becasue I said "The American flag is red white and blue. The word 'dog' is on the chalkboard," and you could really tell that I had no idea what the heck I was doing. But anyway, my stream of consciousness is slowing down, and I guess that's a good thing, because I'm sick and I really need to go to bed right now. It's only 8:21, but I could really use the sleep. I never caught up from Kairos, because I had to be at Lapeer East High School for vocal solo and ensemble the next morning really early, so I didn't get a chance to sleep in. It didn't help that I was in a group with a girl who was sick when we went up there, so she just infected all of us. So now I'm sitting at the computer trying to spew out a stream of consciousness when I have less than half a glass of orange juice sitting in front of me waiting to be finished before I can go back upstairs and try to fall asleep again, in a bed that will be waiting for me comfortably. Having a runny nose really sucks, because there's no comfortable way to sleep. You can't sit up, you can't lie down, you can't do anything. And you can't keep blowing your nose, either, because your nose will turn the color of blood and you'll look like a clown. I looked like that all day, but I didn't care, because who was I trying to impress? Exactly. No one. So I just blew my nose all day. And I skipped pit band (for the musical) and working concessions and Schola practice, all so I could come home and sleep. And did I sleep? Not a wink. Yet, at least. I tried for an hour, but obviously it failed, because I'm here writing another blog post, am I not? I only have a few sips of orange juice left, and once that's gone, I am most definitely going to bed. I'll stay up there all night if that's what it takes. I want to sleep. I have people to see tomorrow, and I don't want to be coughing and sneezing all over them. Okay, I won't be doing that, but it would be nice if I didn't have to cough or sneeze at all anywhere near them. I'm not even sure if everyone's going to be there at the party tomorrow. I know at least four of us will be. One might go to another party, one might not be able to get a ride because he has drivers' ed and would have to be late, and one is returning from Florida today, so I'm not sure if she even remembers about the party. We're hoping she does, because we got the host a really cool present (it's a really late birthday party), and it won't be nearly as cool if not everyone is there to see it. But alas, my orange juice is gone, and even though I'm getting better at typing the word 'juice,' I still want to go to bed. So I'm going to try one more time to cuddle up underneath my covers, forget about my stupid runny nose, and go to sleep. Off I go, and if you read this whole thing, I applaud you, because it was rather long and boring. But hey, that's me. Well, my talking, not me. I'm sure I'm not long; I get made fun of for being short all the time! So anyway, off I go, to the land of sweet dreams, and the land where the beds bite. Yeah, that's right, the bed bites me.

Coming Soon...

I feel like I should put another post up. A good one will come this weekend. I'm still catching up with my Kairos make-up work. I have to write a song to tell the story of Beowulf's battle with Grendel. Fun fun fun...

Being and Nothingness

WARNING: THIS POST HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH JEAN PAUL SATRE. OR PHILOSOPHY AT ALL.

Ms. Stewart said in class if we finish our work, we should have something to occupy our time with, rather than just sitting there doing nothing. She can't seem to comprehend how you can actually have nothing to do. Her being a teacher, and watching my mom work, I can see where she's coming from. But she also mentioned that she knows there are days when you just have to do nothing, even if you have things to get done. I wish I had days like that. But those days are the days I feel fat (I'm not saying I think I'm fat.). Even if I act like I just need to do nothing, I feel awful for sitting around not doing something productive. I wish I had more motivation actually to get off my butt and do something about it.

Obama and an awesome conservative blogger

This is one of my favorite blog posts. With Obama currently acting as "messiah-in-chief" and all of Hollywood following, this blogger is going crazy. Especially now, since he found a youtube video where people were pledging their allegiance to Obama. It sounds wonderful when you watch it. Everyone is saying they'll help the environment by driving more slowly, and that they'll help with Big Brothers Big Sisters, and more wishy-washy-lovey-dovey-help-the-environment crap. But read the comments. You'll laugh your head off.

High School Relationships

Some people say they're fun.
Some people say they're pointless.
I say they're both.
Not that I would know.
But from other people's experiences,
One can figure it out.

Mom says that when you're in college, dating is different. You don't have to give his entire family history to your parents, and you don't have a curfew. Your parents trust you enough to figure out who you can date on your own, and be smart about it. She says you might look for marriage material, but just going out for dinner with someone who you don't expect to marry is really okay.

In high school, your mom asks who he is, what extracurriculars he's involved in, what kind of grades he gets, if he has siblings, and if so, how many, if his parents are still together, does he do drugs or drink, who he's friends with, do I know him, and be back by 11:30pm sharp! (even though I'll be asleep by then...) High school relationships rarely last, but if you have the harmless type, it can be fun while it does. For everyone who told me this, I'll take your word for it.

Socks

I love socks. They're the coolest thing in the world, and by far the best present to get for your birthday or for Christmas. They can't be white, though. Those are boring. I like the fuzzy ones that warm you up, but you can't always wear those in the summer. Besides, they rarely come in cool designs. The really cool designed socks are the best. I was just at DEB today, and they had a whole rack of socks. They were normal socks, just below the ankle, not knee socks or anything. But the designs were amazing. There were some glow-in-the-dark smiley face socks, which I couldn't find the glow-in-the-dark part of it (I think maybe the outline of the face was...). There was also a pair of green/yellow striped glow-in-the-dark ones, which I almost got, then realized they were 24 cents more expensive than the normal ones. There were some awesome greenish bluish plaid socks, and some purple argyle socks. They were only $3.75 plus tax, and buy two get one free. I had enough money to buy two pair, so I got three. One pair was gray with stars in two shades of yellow, pink, and bright blue. The other pair had black toes and heels, but the entire foot was a keyboard. Though, instead of white and black, the keys were hot pink and black. They were pretty awesome. The last pair was all black except for bright pink heels and toes, and in assorted neon colors on the respective sock, they were labeled "left foot" and "right foot." This may have been to help a band member be able to tell left from right. Unfortunately, I put them on the wrong foot.

Socks are amazing.

What I don't like about Mahler

If the word "almost" was an adjective, I would use it to describe Mahler. Anything he writes, you're almost there, you're almost there, but then he backs away and you never get there.

It's as if you're running for your life and you're almost to the door where you can slam it in your pursuer's face, but you decide your legs hurt, and you stop for a rest and let yourself be killed.

It's as if you're all ready to go skydiving. You're in the plane, and have all your gear on and ready. The door opens, and you chicken out.

It's as if you're about to make it to the top of a 40ft climbing wall, and your arms begin to ache, and you decide to repel at about 38 ft, right before you're about to ring the bell at the top.

Mahler had so many places he could have gone with the music. He kept getting almost there, then instead of arriving, he decided to go somewhere else. It was so indecisive, something I cannot stand, because that is how I am. He was going back and forth between places he wanted to go, but didn't decide what to do until the end of each movement. Mahler needs to make a decision, or someone's going to have to make one for him.

Issues

I have a knack for taking on responsibilities that aren't mine. Everyone seems to turn to me for help when they have a problem. They might be a crime victim, they might be suicidal, they might be a drug addict. And yet it is me that they turn to to trust the most. Why is that? I never thought I was a good people person. I was never good in social situations. I'm the worst advice giver. I can't cry when you cry. I can't cry at all, unless I am directly affected. And that makes me feel like I don't even have a heart for other people. Yet they still turn to me to ask for advice, to look to for counsel and help. You're addicted to drugs, and telling me you're scared, telling me all these things about your life, and you expect me to help? I don't know what to do; I'm only seventeen. You attempted suicide, and it's me that you turn to when your dog dies and your mom gets cancer and your best friends ditch you. You're not my responsibility, yet I can't ditch you, too. I can't leave you to be helped by someone else. You came to me for help, and I'm going to give it. I'm just not sure how, yet.

All Alone

Well, the last sibling has left, and I am once again an only child. The whole house is to myself. This is sometimes good (when I'm having a teenage girl moment (that strangely don't happen too often with me) and don't want to talk to anyone at all) and yet sometimes bad (when there's no one to talk to in my generation). I know for sure I'm going to miss everybody (I already do), but it's kind of nice knowing that my family can go out and travel the western hemisphere and live good lives. It just makes me wonder where will I be when I leave high school? Will I get into a good college, or will I be stuck at a low-academic-standard community college that doesn't offer much? Will I get to live in Chicago when I grow up, or will I have to go where the job is? Will I earn lots of money or have to struggle to pay the rent? Will I have kids who can sit comfortably at a computer as I am now, or will I remain single all my life? I don't know where I'll be. But I sure hope I'll be as great as my siblings are now.

What I learned in government class

Today in government class, we were discussing the powers of the executive branch, when the teacher asked us who has seen the comparisons made of Kennedy and Lincoln. Of course, the one person who knows everything about anything having to do with government (or so he says) was the only one who had. Here are some freaky coincidences...

Their work, families, and other randomness:

• Both worked with the Civil Rights movement.
• Both ordered the treasury to print its own money.
• Both were loved by the common people and hated by the establishment.
• Their wives both "tastefully and expensively" redecorated the White House.
• Both loved great literature and could recite poetry by heart.
• Both had young children while living in the White House.
• Both lost a child while president.
• Both let their children run and play in the oval office.
• Both were famous for their wit and telling stories and anecdotes.
• Both went to war shortly after their inaugurations.

• Lincoln was elected to Congress in 1846.
• Kennedy was elected to Congress in 1946

• Lincoln was elected to the presidency in 1860
• Kennedy was elected to the presidency in 1960

• Lincoln had a secratery named Kennedy
• Kennedy had a secretary named Lincoln

• Lincoln's name has seven letters, and are ordered consonant, vowel, consonant, consonant,vowel, consonant, consonant,
• Kenedy's name has seven letters and are ordered consonant, vowel, consonant, consonant,vowel, consonant, consonant,

• Lincoln's son was the Ambassador to England at the Court of Saint James
• Kennedy's father was the Ambassador to England at the Court of Saint James

• Lincoln's sons rode their ponies on the White House grounds
• Kennedy's daughter rode her pony on the White House grounds

• Lincoln had two sons named Robert and Edward. Edward died young and Robert lived on.
• Kennedy had two brothers named Robert and Edward. Robert died young and Edward lived on.

Assassinations:

• Both were shot on a Friday
• Both wives held their heads in their laps after being shot
• Both presidents' bodyguards were away from their posts when the presidents were shot
• Both assassins had a three-word name, each with 15 letters (John Wilkes Botth, Lee Harvey Oswald)
  
• Neither died immediately after being shot
• Both assassins were shot and killed before going to trial
• Abraham was the first name of the man who filmed Kennedy's assassination
• Both seats they were sitting in when shot are in Ford's museum
• Both were sitting beside their wives when shot

• Lincoln was shot in a theater named Ford
• Kennedy was shot in a car named Lincoln BY Ford

• Lincoln was shot in a theater, and the assassin ran into a warehouse
• Kennedy was shot from a warehouse, and the assassin ran to a theater

• John Wilkes Booth was born in 1839
• Lee Harvey Oswald was born in 1939

• Lincoln died in Peterson's House (PH)
• Kennedy died in Parkland Hospital (PH)

• Days before it happened, Lincoln told his wife and friends about a dream he'd had about being assassinated.
• Hours before it happened, Kennedy told his wife that it would be easy to be shot from a crowd.

• Shortly after Lincoln was shot, the telegraph system went down.
• Shortly after Kennedy was shot, the telephone system went down.

• Rathbone, who was with Lincoln when he was shot, was injured.
• Connally, who was with Kennedy when he was shot, was injured.

• Connally and Rathbone both have 8 letters

Successors:

• Both were succeeded by Vice President Johnson (Andrew and Lyndon)
• Both Johnsons have the same number of letters in their first and last names
• Both Johnsons were heavy drinkers with crude behavior
  

• Andrew Johnson was born in 1808
• Lyndon Johnson was born in 1908

• There were conspiracy theories that Andrew Johnson knew something about Lincoln's assassination.
• There were conspiracy theories that Lyndon Johnson knew something about Kennedy's assassination.
  

Drama

My best friend once told me that her sister likes to create drama when she's bored. I think this is true of many girls. There was a party last night for a bunch of wind ensemble people, and we were having a great time until the drama showed up. We were all at assorted times playing the Nintendo Wii and socializing on the couch. Groups of two kept sneaking into the kitchen to gossip, and I was left out of it, meaning I was the one being talked about. I really don't mind being gossiped about, but I wanted to know what they were saying. The evening unfolded. The first girl left with a hug and some whispers kept below hearing range of the parents. One girl left in tears, thinking the entire gossip circle was all her fault. She thought everyone was mad at her. No one was. I was begged to stay an extra ten minutes so I wouldn't leave the drama and the host alone. In a rush, I had to go, but the drama followed. I was flamed with messages, saying "Don't be mad at me!" and "I still love you and I'm sorry!" and anything else that one could imagine.

What happened, one asks? What caused all this drama? Absolutely nothing. Nothing changed from before and after the party. The only result was people not being mad at people who were not mad at them, but everyone thinking everyone is mad at everyone. Aren't girls just wonderful?

What I love about the FIM

There's something wonderful about the FIM. Every now and then I go there to do my homework and it is very relaxing. It is quiet, but not the forced silence of the library. There is no incessant ticking of a fan or a clock, and there is a certain joy felt in the air by the 6-year old cello players who are learning everything there is to know, by the teenaged flutists who grew up in the building and have a sophisticated aura about them, and by the male ballet students, who say hello to you, even if you don't notice them at first.

Although there is free wireless internet in the atrium for those who so choose to use it, my lack of a laptop helps me study thoroghly and without the distractions of mindless television, computer games or socializing (Mindless socializing is possible with my cell phone, but with my 10¢ text messaging, limited minutes, and the fact that nobody calls me anyway, this proves benign.).

Even if my homework and studying is done, I love to sit there and watch people go by. Sometimes, the private teachers will walk through, discussing students or possible concerti they will be performing with one of the larger ensembles. Often, I see students going to and from various lessons, driving themselves or being picked up and dropped off, minds focused on the music they are learning. Occasionally, a young mother waits with her toddler while another child is in his lesson; she reads to her youngest, or gives a detailed explanation of what music is and why this toddler's brother needs to learn it and can I learn music when I'm six?

I can't explain everything I love about the FIM. I've expressed what I can in words, but what can't be told here can be heard in the music there.