The Seventh Commandment

Everyone knows Rachmaninoff is my homeboy. I make the most ludicrous statements due to my deep infatuation with him: "Every heart has a language. Mine speaks Rachmaninoff." "Rachmaninoff made Chuck Norris cry." etc.

But, something happened today that challenged my blissful paradigm.

I was doing crossword #37 in Will Shortz's Greatest Hits (awesomeness in paper form) while listening to my classical station on Pandora, which has been tailored to churn out the best Late-Romantic Russian, German, and French music (awesomeness in audio form).

Then, Tchaikovsky's "Waltz of the Flowers" came on.

I should give you some back story before I continue. Growing up in the Caribbean, I was not familiar with the music of dead Russians at all. In fact, I only remember hearing classical music for the first time at age 7 or 8. Which is old in Mozart terms. I got to start piano lessons on my 7th birthday. After begging my parents for 2 years.

I remember distinctly the moment I fell in love with music, though. I was 8. My dad had ordered some Time Life product off the TV: "75 Best Loved Melodies" or something like that. The CD player was Mom and Dad's bedroom. Disc 1 was playing and I just happened to be there. Doing something that 8 year olds do. I forget.

Then, Tchaikovsky's "Waltz of the Flowers" came on.

I jumped up on the bed. I saw an orchestra on the floor. A long skinny white stick appeared in my hand and I was instantly clad in a tux with the flappy things in the back. I started conducting the invisible orchestra.

It was more like interpretive dance. I realized that I knew the piece completely. The CD had been played as I went to sleep every night, so it apparently entered my subconcious. I was cueing clarinets and horns. I was asking for more from the strings.

I was jumping up and down in a state of Pentecostal frenzy by the climax. Singing. Shouting. And with tears streaming down my face, I knocked out that ending. "Dah, dah, dah, dut, DAAAHHH, di DAH, DAH, DAH, DAH!"

I was so happy. I got scared when I felt my cheeks moist with tears, though.

So back to 2009. I bawl almost every time I hear Rachmaninoff's 2nd Symphony. I'm married to his music, but I had a little tryst with my first love a while ago...

I'm such an adulterer.

Rich in Heart and Full of Faith

Jamaica is magnificent. I find the quality of life here much better than life in America for some reason. It's not that Jamaica has fancier houses, faster cars, and bigger wallets. Quite the opposite, in fact. That last sentence was a huge understatement, too.

But, really, Jamaican life is richer. It's vibrant and alive.

Don't get me wrong. I like America. Most of the time. I like Americans. Most of the time. I guess...since I'm naturalized...I am American. But, really, I am Jamaican.

The government is suffering from years of past corruption and current confusion. The streets are riddled with potholes. Major cities are packed with homeless and peddlers and pickpockets. The morning news opens regularly with who got shot the night before. If you think you're suffering from a recession in America... hahaha. You're funny.

BUT, I'd choose to live here and raise my future family here than in America. Why?

I value humility of one's self and pride in one's country. And there's quite a lot of that here.

I value the privilege of growing up without extravagancies.

I value not taking things for granted.

I value culture, vibrant and flawed.

I value people, rich in heart and full of faith.

I value life, raw and uncut.

If a country's unofficial motto can be "No Worries," and that motto is visible on every face that line some of the congested, dirty streets in the middle of a worldwide recession, then there is obviously a lesson to be learned.

I choose Jamaica.

Falling Asleep

"Mrs. Adams died this morning at 8:14. Five minutes after I arrived to work. I didn't know that when a man with a baseball cap, red polo, and somber countenance walked in with not a tear. I did know, however, when Mrs. Adams' son walked out face red, sunglasses to hide that empty pain in his eyes, and a quivering hand as he signed out on the visitor sheet. I don't think I'm going to get used to the death in this place...the Grim Reaper is good buddies with the staff here. I guess he's not so grim to them anymore."

That's what I wrote in my journal on my second day of work at Hospice Atlanta. That day, I questioned myself...this is SAS? the fun, thought-provoking summer experience I was excited about?

The next day of work, 2 more people "fall asleep." Death is serious business to me. It's scary - the antithesis of life - and yet I've learned more about life in these first weeks than I have...well...all my life! And, no. I'm not exaggerating.

Last week Wednesday, I escorted a visitor to a patient's room.

The man asked, "Where are you a student?" "What's your major?"

I answered, "Emory." "Music - Piano and Composition. I'm also pre-med."

"OH! Mr. A___ B____ in this room has been a piano tuner all of his life. In fact, he tuned the piano of Rubinstein. He'd love to talk to you."

WHAT! He tuned Arthur Rubinstein's PIANO! Oooo, I want to talk to him. But, I don't have my mandatory TB test that I need in order to be allowed to see the patients...sorry I can't go in. ---that's what my head said.

This is what I actually said, "Oh sure, I'd love to. I can't get close, because I haven't been screened yet but I'll talk to him from the door...ok, I'll come in a little bit."

"Hello, A____. This young man is a pianist, and would love to talk to you sometime about your experience with Arthur Rubinstein."

Rasping, and with great deliberation, Mr. B____ said, "Oh! Come by...next time. We...can talk."

I whispered a quick thank you and left. Excited. As if I had talked to Rubinstein himself.

That was Wednesday.

I came back this Monday to work. I knew Mr. B____ hadn't died. He couldn't have. This conversation was a part of my destiny. He would dispense some life-changing wisdom that would make me change the world with music.

Mr. B____ died on Thursday. Peacefully, the nurse said.

Crap.

I was angry. I was sad. I was in denial. Hahahaha. no. That didn't happen, right?

I don't like expressing pain...I don't know how. I just write music, and it comes out. So that's what I did. And then it clicked.

Death isn't the antithesis of life. It's just the end. The end comes to everybody. That's what makes life so important. Good things can arise out of death. Mr. B___ got peace. His family got peace after a lengthy period of stressful circumstances. And I wrote a piece.

So, if life has an end that is imminent, shouldn't I do my best to make my life and the lives of others as fulfilling as possible? Is that through music or medicine? Is choosing my passion for music selfish or is it selfless? Is discarding my dream of using my hands to heal someone the right decision?

I have no beeping idea.

I do know that if I have had such huge breakthroughs in the first 2 weeks of SAS, then I can't wait to see "the new me" at the end of this endeavour.

Confession #2

Yes.

I'm addicted to crossword puzzles. 

I could have another blog called "Confessions and Ponderings of a Puzzle Addict." No joke.

I'm beginning to think that I have an addictive personality. I was really only introduced to crosswords my freshman year by a good friend of mine, Katy. She and her friends, Pat and Adna, used to do the puzzles in our school newspaper. I thought the puzzles were good conversation starters and restarters, but I didn't become a recreational user until...

Well, I guess I shouldn't call myself a user, due to obvious connotation. I prefer "puzzler." 

Yeah. Puzzler. I like it. 

So, I didn't become a recreational puzzler until about sophomore year. Katy and I would have crossword lunches, and I felt the urge to do the crosswords quite often and I couldn't bug Katy everytime so I found myself doing them alllll day. I wasn't too good at first but that rush that I got after completing a puzzle. WOO! ok....

I'll calm down. I promise.

BUT REALLY, it feels good. 

I'm not proud to say I'm a puzzler aka crossword addict. 

But it is the truth. 

And the truth shall set me free...right?

 

5 1 313 2 6!

Today, I met Doug. 

21 year old percussionist from Gainesville, GA. 

Former student of Gainesville State College.

Can play Amazing Grace on one string of the guitar.

Has a passion for music.

Nickname: The GongMaster

The friendliest person I've ever met.

Oh, and he's deaf.

I talked with Doug for about 15 minutes and it blew my mind. We are complete opposites upon viewing: I'm of a darker hue, from a foreign country, tall, shaven, and slim, while Doug was your typical "good ole southern boy," about 5'5'', chubby, with some facial hair. But I realized we were kindred spirits because we had something in common - an undying passion for music. 

Doug can't hear the glories of Rachmaninoff, or the awesomeness that is Steely Dan, but he can feel it. He said that he can feel the vibrations and the rhythm of the music [hence his attraction to percussion], but his curiosity to learn more about this art form outside the realm of his senses lead him to teach himself to play Amazing Grace on the guitar. He said he took a mathematical approach. He sang it to me.

5 1   313  2 1 6 5 ...etc.

Doug started having seizures when he was 19. He couldn't attend college after being diagnosed with epilepsy, so I don't know what he's doing know. 

He's on 10 different meds right now. For his seizures, he takes two medications which alter his mood, so he takes pills to keep his mood straight, but that weakens the seizure meds so he has to take another set of pills. He has stuff for allergies, some to sleep, some to stay awake, and some for back pain. 

Despite the drugs, Doug still emanated an exuberance and vitality that's not normally seen in handicapped individuals, and I really hesitate to call Doug handicapped, because, despite his hearing loss, Doug doesn't seem handicapped one bit. 

With joy and exquisite vocabulary, he detailed his process in "hearing" me speak. He can only hear vowels, so he read my lips, and my facial expressions, and body language for consonants, context, and tone, respectively. 

Doug is deaf, tone deaf, epileptic and all, but that does not stop him from appreciating the wonders of music. For a person who has never fully heard the human voice, his speech is quite musical. His voice is far from monotone. His inflections and cadence are natural, and he isn't afraid to try his hand at singing. :) 

I believe that when God gives someone a passion (especially, when all signs point to dead ends and everyone cries impossible), He intends to prove His power through that person. 

Even if you're atheist and disagree with my statement, my point remains the same: reach outside the confines of your being, find what ignites that spark in the core of your soul, fan the flames, and you'll be a light to others around you. 

I don't care if your passion is crocheting or aikido. 

If Doug can do it, you can too. 

With a cherry on top?

I feel like a scoop of ice cream melting on the sidewalk. I was going along fine in my waffle cone of life and suddenly I dropped. 

So there I am: an appealing scoop of chocolate greatness stuck on the sizzling sidewalk, not knowing what's going to happen next, but knowing that if I do nothing...I'll be a puddle, gleaming in syrupy splendor, scorned by passers-by. 

What are the options of a felled scoop? 

I can't walk or fly. I just have to wait for someone to obey the 5 second rule... or 5 minute rule. 

I can accept my fate and melt with glee. Who knows? Maybe life as a liquid isn't bad.

I'm sure there are other options but my brain is about as half-melted as my ice cream analogy so I'm not going to try. 

Anyway, it's winter...I might last longer than I thought.

Miss______, your final question is...

My brother asked me at 7 something PM to write a piece for his string quartet group at his school. He needed it "ASAP", he said. I was in the composing mood, so I said "sure".

I started. Well, actually no.

I just sat in front of my laptop. I had Gershwin's Cuban Overture stuck in my head so I just played it in my head. Over and over and over...

Yeah.

I got an idea and started sketching it...minor, Grieg-ish, death.

I called my brother again.

"Hey, what do you need this piece for?" 

"We're playing background music in the lobby for the Miss Brookwood Pageant."

"Ok. So you want pageant-y music?"

"Yeah." 

I had started writing something with the gravity of 5 death arias and a funeral march combined. Scratch that.

So I stare at the laptop...that Cuban overture is still in the back of my head, so I started writing the rhythms I heard and then it just came. A tsunami of ideas floods my brain. I abated it little by little until I had a 2 minute piece for string quartet at 10 PM. 

It's not the best piece in the world but it will work hopefully for the lobby music at the pageant...in 2 days. Yeah...my brother just told me. They have a day to make the piece work. I should've known so I could write appropriately for a day's preparation. AH!

Anywizzle, I should have been doing my reading for my other classes, but I was composing and lost all track of time. I hope my professors will accept that excuse.

*sigh...*

If you want to see the composition, contact me and I'd be glad to give it to you. 

Adios, amigos.

And in this corner...

Have you ever had a moment in life that was just pure yet unexpected ecstasy? A tingling chill traversing your body while a warmth begins to grow within you? And in that moment you feel that all is well with the world and that you love life and you love people and you love God. 

Maybe I'm crazy, but I had about...hmm...20 of those moments last night. 

I heard Gil Shaham play the Brahms violin concerto with the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra. Never before have I ever seen such energy and passion on a classical stage. 

Shaham was a little elf in a tux one size too big that created an electricity throughout the hall that was beyond palpable - it was real. The ASO conducted by Roberto Abbado was in perfect form - well, almost perfect.

If anything was wrong about the ASO performance, it was that they didn't seem to match the energy of the performer and with Shaham, it's practically impossible, but they could've tried. The low strings sounded so rich and alive but they looked asleep.

This didn't matter when Shaham proceeded to own the stage with his precision, passion, and poise. Mr. Shaham was having a grand time last night - there were many times when he would stare at Mr. Abbado with an open-mouthed smile of utter delight. 

I found myself doing the same because Abbado created many tear-jerking moments with just a slight gesture of the wrist in this "orchestra v. violin" battle of a concerto. And as Bronislaw Huberman said, "The violin wins!" Abbado did put up a great fight, but Shaham definitely KO'ed this monstrous masterpiece. 

And all is well with the world. 

If I were a Russian...

I'm working on a concerto. 

Stravinsky's for Piano and Winds. It's neoclassical weirdness. I am a Rachmaninoff lover...so much so that...well, I'll save that for another blog. 

Anyway, I'm a hopeless Romantic when it comes to classical music. If I believed in reincarnation, I would've sworn that I was Russian in my previous life. :) 

I "feel" Russian Romantic music - Rach, early Stravinsky, Korsakov, Balakirev, Mussorgsky, etc. So when I heard the Stravinsky concerto, I wasn't immediately enamoured but I figured it'd be good for me to grow out of my comfort zone, keeping my roots planted in Romanticism as I approached the piece. 

Then I read on good old Wikipedia that Stravinsky said that he wanted no Romantic hands to touch his beloved concerto. Psh! Fine! Whatever! Then I started practicing... 

All I can say now is, 

"Wooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooow..." 

This piece is amazing! It's a new flavor, a new cuisine for me. I mean, it's absolutely beautiful. 

When I judge a piece of music...well, judge is not the right word...um...when I assess a piece of music, some of the questions I ask myself are: 

"How did the composer do that?"

"Did he mean that?" 

"Did he hear this in his head before he wrote it down or is he playing with sonorities on the piano?" 

With this piece, Stravinsky's strengths are evident. He meant every note, every rhythm throughout this work of art. The attention to form that is blatantly obvious does not overshadow the fact that Stravinsky "felt" this music. 

It's not just strict formulaic writing. Like Mozart, Stravinsky was able to pull off massive creativity and emotion within the form. 

That struggle between form and untamed emotion is so appealing to me and is one of the unifying characteristics in all of my favorite compostions. Being a neoclassical composition, this concerto seems to already have an inborn anachronistic conflict, due to the Stravinskian dissonances and rhythms coupled with the strict Classical mentality of it all.

I think I've talked about this piece enough already. You should listen to it! I recommmend hearing The Royal Edition recording. I've placed it in the My Favorites widget on the side. Check it out! 

Can you feel it?

The experience of the human emotion is difficult to put into words. 

What is anger? 

What is sadness? 

What is love? 

Of the many vectors of expression and communication that humans have developed, the most effective and concise concerning emotion is music. Here's why:

1. Emotions are not seen, touched, tasted, or heard. We "feel" emotions. Music is the only form of expression that seems to break free from its most obvious sensory medium and enter into the realm of "feeling." 

2. Emotions are difficult to qualify, at times, due to their abstract and subjective nature. Music, more than spoken or written word or visual art (I believe), is very similar in this regard. One piece of music can evoke similar yet varied emotions to different people.

3. Emotions are not learned or taught. They are innate and essential. Music does not need to be taught to be heard. We begin to hear the moment our sensory organs develop in the womb. If you observe fetal development, you'll find that we hear before we even begin to see. With all of that in mind, music seems to be the most natural method of communication of our innate emotions. 

It's 2:52 am. I get all philosophical and scholarly after midnight... :) Just my thoughts at the moment. What do you think?

Confession #1

Yes. I am addicted to music. 

My body relies on music for normal functioning and I do experience withdrawal if no music is heard for more than 2 hours. :) No, really. I'd like to say it's not that bad, but really it is... 

You might be an addict, too. 

There are 3 different categories of music lovers, I think. Well, at least in my music-saturated universe so far: First, you have your music Sampler - the one who listens to a little music on the radio now and again on the morning commute and occassionally sings a little ditty in the shower or maybe goes to a concert or two with friends for a little social entertainment. 

Up a level on the love scale, you've got your music Connoisseur - the one that's got all kinds of music collected on iTunes and appreciates everything from classical to heavy glam death faerie metal and sings along to the radio when in the car or plays/played a musical instrument or comments on the music in the movies, etc. 

Lastly, you've got your music Addict...it's unhealthy. If you're not piping music into your brain with an iPod, then you're making music as you walk or drive. 

You write down your ideas on napkins in restaurants. 

You write the best piece you've ever heard in your dreams and when you wake up you forget it and then you hate yourself for days because you can't remember it. 

You can't stop thinking about music. Everything you hear is music. 

Your critique of a movie depends on its score. 

Music interferes with your relationships and your schoolwork/workwork. You can't imagine life without music. 

"Life!? WITH NO MUSIC?! I'd die..." is a common sequence of words uttered by the aforementioned addict. 

A music addict sees music as a sustenance, a syntax, and a spouse. Music is life...or at least a huge chunk of it for the music addict.

I admit my addiction with a mix of trepidation and acceptance. I know I should probably curb my habits so that they don't inflict mortal wounds to my educational/social life, but nonetheless, I will always know that I cannot give up music. 

My dying breath will be a song and until that moment, I'll keep practicing.