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."
28 February 2009
23 February 2009
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!
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!
21 February 2009
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.
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.
12 February 2009
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.
10 February 2009
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...
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