it's all talk
11.05.2003
SprWndrGrl (2:22:46 AM): here's the solution to my problems
SprWndrGrl (2:22:56 AM): i forget worrying about finding an internship that pays me money
SprWndrGrl (2:23:03 AM): money will not determine my options
SprWndrGrl (2:23:21 AM): i'll get a great job/internship in policy or law somewhere, get fantastic experience
SprWndrGrl (2:23:25 AM): working days
SprWndrGrl (2:23:31 AM): and then in the evenings, i'll get gigs playing/singing at some local nightspot to make up for the lost cash
SprWndrGrl (2:24:26 AM): what do you think? ¶ 02:34
SprWndrGrl (2:22:56 AM): i forget worrying about finding an internship that pays me money
SprWndrGrl (2:23:03 AM): money will not determine my options
SprWndrGrl (2:23:21 AM): i'll get a great job/internship in policy or law somewhere, get fantastic experience
SprWndrGrl (2:23:25 AM): working days
SprWndrGrl (2:23:31 AM): and then in the evenings, i'll get gigs playing/singing at some local nightspot to make up for the lost cash
SprWndrGrl (2:24:26 AM): what do you think? ¶ 02:34
11.04.2003
Note to self: being a diva is amazing.
I got to try that hat on tonight. jay wouldn't let me play piano, made Dave sit in my place. the small ensemble backed me. I was the focus of attention. I told the group how I wanted the tune played. We were swinging so hard on Lullaby of Birdland, I could see the horn players who were sitting out nodding in agreement when I opened my eyes on the bridge. And, the band did what I instructed them to, and it sounded fantastic, and I hit my notes, and my range has expanded a half octave in the last month, and my tone is better, and I can scat like a motherfucker, and Jay has been telling his colleagues about me, and I'm so happy with myself, because this is a dream I've wanted to live since I was 7 years old and saw a musical at Santa Catalina School.
Fact: I refused my mother's offers of vocal lessons, because I, at the age of 8, had already decided that I would be too far behind in my vocal studies to ever be any good.
I swear to god, that's the honest truth.
I've always tried to place myself near vocalists, hoping to gain some insight without letting others know about my dream of singing: Working for the Mayflower choir as their rehearsal pianist and learning how to project properly. Sitting in as the pianist for the PG High choir in order to learn how to properly arrange music for multiple vocalists. Writing my own three-part jazz harmonies for no one to ever perform. Transposing the church music to my key to practice what Anne preached during Thursday night rehearsals. Singing in the Oxy Glee Club with the excuse of "making due" with the music department. Volunteering as the vocalists' pianist for Jay last year. Backing singers at their various campus gigs.
And now, here I am, Jay poking and prodding me to raise my voice above my comping, stand up straight, study the art of performing, and at last giving in to all the music that I've hoarded inside of me for all these years. I have a paper to write for tomorrow that I haven't yet touched, but after I had rehearsed with the group for nearly 3 hours, I started walking toward the studios to delve into some new tunes, flesh out some new ideas I had thought of while at the mic. But then I stopped myself and realized that I have another major, other academic committments, and a bright future in graduate or law school ahead of me.
But I want to be a musician.
I do.
Really.
I'm so fucking torn. AUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGH. The answer probably seeems so obvious to you, doesnt it? If you've been reading this blog for years or if this is your first post, I'm sure you know by this time what is in my heart. I've articulated it several times here, yet I haven't taken any action. Will you give me a kick in the ass?
Please? ¶ 22:58
I got to try that hat on tonight. jay wouldn't let me play piano, made Dave sit in my place. the small ensemble backed me. I was the focus of attention. I told the group how I wanted the tune played. We were swinging so hard on Lullaby of Birdland, I could see the horn players who were sitting out nodding in agreement when I opened my eyes on the bridge. And, the band did what I instructed them to, and it sounded fantastic, and I hit my notes, and my range has expanded a half octave in the last month, and my tone is better, and I can scat like a motherfucker, and Jay has been telling his colleagues about me, and I'm so happy with myself, because this is a dream I've wanted to live since I was 7 years old and saw a musical at Santa Catalina School.
Fact: I refused my mother's offers of vocal lessons, because I, at the age of 8, had already decided that I would be too far behind in my vocal studies to ever be any good.
I swear to god, that's the honest truth.
I've always tried to place myself near vocalists, hoping to gain some insight without letting others know about my dream of singing: Working for the Mayflower choir as their rehearsal pianist and learning how to project properly. Sitting in as the pianist for the PG High choir in order to learn how to properly arrange music for multiple vocalists. Writing my own three-part jazz harmonies for no one to ever perform. Transposing the church music to my key to practice what Anne preached during Thursday night rehearsals. Singing in the Oxy Glee Club with the excuse of "making due" with the music department. Volunteering as the vocalists' pianist for Jay last year. Backing singers at their various campus gigs.
And now, here I am, Jay poking and prodding me to raise my voice above my comping, stand up straight, study the art of performing, and at last giving in to all the music that I've hoarded inside of me for all these years. I have a paper to write for tomorrow that I haven't yet touched, but after I had rehearsed with the group for nearly 3 hours, I started walking toward the studios to delve into some new tunes, flesh out some new ideas I had thought of while at the mic. But then I stopped myself and realized that I have another major, other academic committments, and a bright future in graduate or law school ahead of me.
But I want to be a musician.
I do.
Really.
I'm so fucking torn. AUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGH. The answer probably seeems so obvious to you, doesnt it? If you've been reading this blog for years or if this is your first post, I'm sure you know by this time what is in my heart. I've articulated it several times here, yet I haven't taken any action. Will you give me a kick in the ass?
Please? ¶ 22:58
11.03.2003
Thankfully, Jay didn't call me this morning at around 8 as he usually does on Mondays.
Last night, as I sat at my computer finishing my Explo application, a quick breeze swept through my window. It was warm.
We've gone through just about all of the seasons in the last 48 hours: A cool spring morning, a crisp fall afternoon, a freezing winter rain just before dinner. Today, nature's decided to cycle into summer: the temperature has increased by forty degrees since friday.
The Campus Center's normaly locked doors were swung open this morning to let out the heat accumulating from both the boilers and the brownstone. Even while in the studio a few floors underground with Jay this morning, I had to reach for my water every few minutes.
Things get louder when it's hotter. The weather makes me listen to Lyle Lovett, with the blinds up, belting lines along with Francine Reed, playing the Large Band's horn riffs on the imaginary keyboard at my desk.
While Jon is currently outside smoking his pipe and wearing flannel, I'm ready to throw on the tevas and bike down to Asilomar. The maple leaves are still gold and red and raining down, but I imagine the few near-naked branches as distant, tangled fingers of cypress.
But leaves give more than sand when you walk on them; a maple's bark is smooth and worn, and doesn't tear like the felt-bark of California's coastal trees; Wesleyan students prefer docs and scarves to surf gear; and Lyle Lovett's voice is a mere recording running in my laptop. ¶ 12:04
Last night, as I sat at my computer finishing my Explo application, a quick breeze swept through my window. It was warm.
We've gone through just about all of the seasons in the last 48 hours: A cool spring morning, a crisp fall afternoon, a freezing winter rain just before dinner. Today, nature's decided to cycle into summer: the temperature has increased by forty degrees since friday.
The Campus Center's normaly locked doors were swung open this morning to let out the heat accumulating from both the boilers and the brownstone. Even while in the studio a few floors underground with Jay this morning, I had to reach for my water every few minutes.
Things get louder when it's hotter. The weather makes me listen to Lyle Lovett, with the blinds up, belting lines along with Francine Reed, playing the Large Band's horn riffs on the imaginary keyboard at my desk.
While Jon is currently outside smoking his pipe and wearing flannel, I'm ready to throw on the tevas and bike down to Asilomar. The maple leaves are still gold and red and raining down, but I imagine the few near-naked branches as distant, tangled fingers of cypress.
But leaves give more than sand when you walk on them; a maple's bark is smooth and worn, and doesn't tear like the felt-bark of California's coastal trees; Wesleyan students prefer docs and scarves to surf gear; and Lyle Lovett's voice is a mere recording running in my laptop. ¶ 12:04
11.02.2003
Happy November, everyone.
This Morning
It sounded, like:
The Sky crackling.
I, ears turned,
squint at
one
desiccated Leaf,
curling upon herself
as she falls.
The Earth murmurs, stills.
She is finished now.
We are finished, now. ¶ 14:46
This Morning
It sounded, like:
The Sky crackling.
I, ears turned,
squint at
one
desiccated Leaf,
curling upon herself
as she falls.
The Earth murmurs, stills.
She is finished now.
We are finished, now. ¶ 14:46
