Between Two Mountains
September 17th: my first performance of Brahms Concerto with orchestra
Tonight: my first performance of Beethoven Concerto with orchestra
I feel so inundated with gratitude right now, from my finally un-flushed cheeks down to my stomach, working overtime to digest post-concert nachos and bourbon. As my wooden friend and I skipped gleefully towards the last lines of the Beethoven tonight, I couldn't help but grin like an idiot onstage. There is no better feeling than this, I decided. I feel just as punchy now, so excuse the excess enthusiasm/elementary writing style/lack of proofreading.
I am immeasurably grateful for and indebted to the people and events that have shaped the last five months of my life. The day of my Brahms debut, I was more of a wreck than I have been about anything ever. In the interest of full disclosure, it is a miracle that I even walked out onstage that night (well, a miracle named Mom). My personal life was crumbling, I had my first real case of debilitating stage fright, and I was learning what it felt like, for the first time, to really need to lean on those closest to me for support in all areas of my life. My mother literally had to push me out onto the stage.
Tonight, I should have been even more nervous than in September. The Beethoven Concerto is indisputably the crown jewel of the violin repertoire, and beyond that, one of the most sublime works of music in the history of anything. I should have been pacing, unable to eat, crying every 15 minutes, like I was five months ago. Instead I felt serene. Elated. Nervous, but just enough to reassure myself that I was still a human being with a functioning soul.
My first performance of Brahms may have been (inexplicably) more accurate, objectively speaking. I realize now that that's not what is important. Tonight I tried my hardest to infuse every note with the joy I was (still am!) feeling. That's what matters, and I hope I can hold on to just an ounce of this for all future performances.
Thank you to my family, my teachers, my friends, to those I've known forever or just met yesterday, all of whom have helped me to get here. Tonight was for you!
love,
Elena
2012
The day after Christmas, my dear friend Doug handed me a cigar box. Instead of the obvious, its contents consisted of a pint-sized green notebook and a distinguished-looking fountain pen. Indeed, I would have been all too pleased to indulge in several months' worth of fancy tobacco, but I found myself charmed by the sweet little book, and the prospect of what might be accomplished with it was immediately intriguing.
I have quite a few notebooks of varying ages and designs scattered throughout my apartment, but the lure of a new carrying case to house the thoughts of a specific era is always appealing. My red leather-bound, gold-monogrammed journal (a treasured Abe Feder-gift) resides on the mantel next to my psychedelic Mead composition book from a grungy Brattleboro bookstore. Tucked away on my music bookshelf are numerous collections of adolescent musings, poems, and favorite quotes, all loitering in word purgatory, casually waiting to see whether their sentiments will be resurrected in my mind somewhere down the line.
Welcome to the family, new little chartreuse friend.
It's been a tough few months, for no real reason other than the one that seems to infect the heads of many artistically inclined folk, that plague so adept at turning the absence of a legitimate problem into a debilitatingly compromised emotional state. When the clock announced 2011's exile to the sprawling graveyard of disappointment, I couldn't help but exhale dramatically, thoroughly relieved. The desire for a fresh start is a phenomenon far from unique, but as I stood on the Brooklyn bridge watching fireworks explode and strangers embrace, I thought of my new green notebook and how much I wanted to fill it with positivity.
So, in the spirit of openness, I'd like to share the resolutions that have been residing in said book for the past eleven days. I recognize that my last many blog posts have been terribly ambiguous -- cryptic, even -- and give no insight whatsoever into my life as a violinist. I'm not sure that this will be any more helpful in that regard, but it brings me great pleasure to release into the universe my goals for the coming year, musical and otherwise. In doing so, I hope that not only will it serve as a public record of my determination to keep my chin up, but that it will [BEWARE: YOGIC SENTIMENT AHEAD!] send happy energy to all the other artistic-minded souls out there who struggle with those inevitable, and sometimes inexplicable, dark clouds.
RESOLUTIONS (1/1/12)
~ be less snarky
~ help people wherever possible -- buy food, offer subway card swipes, carry strollers, etc.
~ drink more water (resurrect water bobble)
~ move body every day: yoga, walking, other
~ learn how to create, not just be an intermediary: write, improvise, paint?
~ make intentions clear, with people and in music
~ pick up the phone more
~ coordinate breath with life
~ learn a new word each day
~ foster an ASPCA animal
~ hold "standing-head-to-knee pose" for the full 60 seconds, full expression, both sides
~ stop avoiding simple tasks that would make life obviously better (changing light bulbs, batteries, etc.) out of laziness
~ relax face. smile.
~ be more grateful
~ listen to more classical music
~ volunteer somewhere
~ save up for a nice camera and really explore photography
~ make bed every day
~ LEARN SPANISH
~ do at least one thing every day that makes me feel proud of myself, and write it down
~ finish what I start
A Pre-Concert Haiku: Ode To My Rosin
Honeyed cylinder
Token of elegance, hope
5 to showtime: cracks.
(A Post-Concert Note: I definitely should have been practicing f minor scales instead of writing that dumb poem.)
Bachefeller (9/23/11): flowery notes on Evan Shinners in concert
It is a day for canceling plans.
Fistfuls of Manhattan rain, the dirtiest kind, ornament my dress.
A bespeckled island of youth, draped in turquoise jersey, nearly swallowed by a lake of the senile, hard of hearing, obligated. The lake pulses lethargically and smells of mothballs.
One of the Long Island biddies stationed behind me taps my shoulder: "Are you here because you study THIS KIND of music?"
***
On the sunken cedar stage: a lone vase of drooping sunflowers, posing awkwardly six feet left of the piano. They are dwarfed by their own embarrassment for themselves.
Guess you'll have to revive yourself, classical music.
We'll chat later at the reception; you'll smell of tired lox and an invasion of personal space.
***
But then -- wilting heliotropes be damned!
Our performer, an irrepressible bundle of sleek and jaunty, bounds to his stool, charges to a place that we "learned" ones generally lament as being unattainable. The future! Neither stale nor bruised with gimmicks, it lives! Breathes!
Perhaps, rather, it is a nod to the very origins of our illustrious art form: a vibrant, pulsating organism that winces when coddled, handled like a musty sarcophagus. It begs to be tickled, embraced, strangled!
Bach -- they all -- plead over and over to be loved, in the most intimate of senses, celebrated, and constantly reimagined. With abandon.
Sorry, smoked salmon and sullen flora. The winner: Shinners.
SF (Still Floating): A Thank You Note
Dear B,
Stockton opened you and I to each other.
January opened my brain.
This time opened my heart.
What will happen next?
Love,
your soul twin, 'til the end of time
Cinnamon: A Fictional Character Portrait
He smelled like cinnamon. And tea tree oil, and ever-so-faintly of the ginger candy -- chewy, almost spicy -- that I gave him that one mid-summer morning.
He smelled like incense. Not the overpowering, headachy stuff that makes you want to fumigate your room; the type that ignites the desire for a perpetual late-autumn chill so you can justify burrowing as far into bed as possible, as deep into his skin as the boundaries of being two separate human beings will allow. The kind of incense that both soothes and arouses, vividly evoking long-past afternoons of young sensuality in its inaugural bloom; but a scent nonetheless perfect for discovering someone new.
He smelled comforting, and rugged, like how you would want the air around you to smell while sleeping under the stars.
The cinnamon prevailed, though, and who wouldn't agree that the smell of cinnamon is among the best in the world? Much like burning wood, which will now also remind me of him. How we sat beside each other at that bonfire, secretly touching fingertips like twelve-year-olds at an elementary school assembly. Laughing and laughing in the glow of each other's laughter as the smoke swirled in slow motion around our uncensored grins. My clothes smelled like cancer the next day, but I didn't care because I'd been able to stroke his hand while the embers crackled languorously.
He smelled like sexy lumberjack, like red and black checkered flannel, and afternoons spent lounging under trees, building stuff with sticks he had collected earlier with the focus and joy of a toddler. He smelled like fresh perspective, progressive but in no way discomforting.
He smelled the way his eyes looked: vaguely smoky but smoldering with activity, two kaleidoscopes of pulsating earth tones. His expressions were fleeting but always purposeful and never without a probing intensity, just like that velvety vibrato of his, waxing and waning in complete accordance with each of his dutifully learned phrases. His eyes would sear into mine, from inches away or across a room packed with other characters, each with his or her own intricate life's story.
But without fail, the rest of the picture would melt away like achingly slow-moving candle wax. The universe would stop, and I would get a little dizzy.
That cinnamon again. Maybe it was the toothpicks he often chewed -- a habit I typically find abhorrent and hick-ish; on him it registered as maddeningly irresistible. As if he needed to draw more attention to his lips, those plush, endearingly asymmetrical pillows that made my insides buckle with their soft creases and movements. He was problematically attractive, his lips a gateway to all the other things I wanted to touch: his rosy cheeks with their little-kid-playing-outside flush, sharp jaw line, welcomingly muscular arms. I wanted to go to him all the time.
He smelled like a summer that will resonate within my being for the rest of my life, one against which all others will invariably and perhaps unfairly be compared. A summer that will forever recall those snapshots I was certain existed in movies alone; colors I thought only artists on the brink of insanity able to produce; moods that seeped from only the finest poets' pens. Lazy evenings, quivering from the weight of melodies, lust, the sharp pains of human togetherness. Mornings so swollen with sunlight you thought the day would split open like a peach. Nights blindingly clear, the crisp foreshadowing of autumn shrouded in that unmistakable ache of August moonlight. He smelled like all of those things, and they all smelled like him, because he was always there.
He smelled like a summer that would inevitably become past tense. But I bet he still smells like cinnamon. I hope so.
A Beautiful Disclaimer
"Yes, I believed--perhaps even still believe--that the writer should not be cramped by the possible consequences of her work. She has no duty to earthly accuracy or verisimilitude. She is not an accountant; nor is she required to be something as ridiculous and misguided as a moral compass. In her work the writer is free of laws. But in her life, Your Honor, she is not free."
--Nicole Krauss, from Great House
All I Want For Christmas Is... A New Folding Stand?
The Situation:
The Sphinx Chamber Orchestra's third annual tour. 3 weeks, 11 cities, 20 musicians.
The Living Logistics:
Each SCO member is paired with a roommate for the duration of the tour. I have had the incredibly good fortune of living with Melissa White, a dear friend and fellow lover of all things holiday-oriented, for each of the three tours. Our collective holiday obsession has reached new heights this year -- while gourds and candles may have previously sufficed as room decorations, colored lights were deemed a necessary addition for this year's series of hotel residencies:
You can't hear the carols, but Frank, Nat, and Bing are indeed taking turns crooning away as I type this. Yes, Melissa and I are fully aware that it's October.
Difficulties of These Particular Living Logistics:
For me and my roomie: almost none. Even beyond our seasonally ridiculous behavior, our thoughts on what constitutes an ideal way of hotel life are almost entirely congruent. This is evidenced by our identical schedules, grocery lists (headed by Honeycrisp apples, soup, and Bailey's), and desire for mandatory "quiet time" each day. The fact that she is 20 times tidier than I am has proven to be of little consequence thus far.
However, we ran into one slight issue tonight as we pulled out our violins to practice for the first time all day (at 8 p.m., but don't judge -- what's a tour without a little afternoon exploration of northwestern Pennsylvania?). Two violinists; one hotel room. Here was my solution:
Ta-da! Cacophonous mess avoided.
Now, if you think THAT'S glamorous, you should see my newest practicing outfit. $16.96 at an Erie, PA mall will buy you an ultra-sexy pair of bike shorts and a massive, tangerine-colored sweater. Mmm-hmm.
Marlboro 2010
I desperately want to write about this place, but I’m starting to fear that it’s something of an impossibility. How does one distill a summer of perfection into a few paragraphs?
The crystalline pools that are Michael Tree’s eyes, glittering with an insistence that suggests a hint of fever. The way their sunny corners crinkle in preparation for any number of his contributions that might punctuate a segment of rehearsal: bawdy jokes, shocking little jabs (always in good humor, of course!), priceless anecdotes. And of course, pearls of musical wisdom, polished from years of meticulous consideration and exploration. More valuable and sought after than any gem, and always delivered with a mix of grave sincerity and childlike sense of discovery.
Pete Wiley’s charming and not entirely kidding bouts of self-congratulation when our group has turned a phrase with particular attention to the nuances we’ve discussed, verbally or tacitly. “Hey guys, that was pretty good!” he coos in his velvety, Muppety tones. His ability to coax from each of us a range of sonic worlds we were previously unaware existed at all, let alone within us. They’ve been buried somewhere between our fingertips and that clump of horsehair we so earnestly clutch from day to day.
Kim Kashkashian’s introverted strength, inspiring us to prepare each spoken idea to its thorough conclusion before it falls from our lips, for fear that potentially mindless babble might escape. Ineloquence would be so much less effective – if not downright destructive – than letting the space that replaces a movement’s final notes speak for itself. And her laugh: heartily raucous and usually unexpected; a laugh that makes you so glad you said something funny.
Arnold Steinhardt… I don’t even know. I think I must black out a little every time he enters a room.
The prickly halo of electricity that surrounds a group charging through the quartet repertoire with Sam Rhodes. How he inconspicuously grants each of us the ideal amount of musical space so as to let the full potential of our imaginations take flight, unfettered. The unexpected surge of adrenaline that, against all reason, his mild manner provokes mid-movement, leaving us charged and jittery for hours afterwards, practically demanding cigarettes to calm our hands and quell the fire that four truly playing as one inevitably ignites.
The way it feels to lie on your back at a decidedly unstable angle (“I feel like I’m in stirrups,” said one friend) and gaze up at the stars, lying practically in the arms of your neighbor, be him near-stranger or budding summer romance. Marveling at the Milky Way, close enough to reach out and stroke, or stars that may no longer exist, and have it feel the opposite of cliché – rather, like everything important in the universe is cradling you right there on that rooftop.
Being wholly immersed in every waking moment. Literally nothing else exists beyond the here and now. And so, at the risk of closing this like a third grader would his book report, that’s what Marlboro is to me.
Still Life
I call it: Yellow Bobble*, Yellow Book in Yellow Room.
*A "Bobble" – "Water Bobble", in full – is quite possibly the most charming invention ever to enter my life, not to mention one of the most functional. This little marvel is in fact an eco-friendly water bottle, equipped with miniature filters that are available in a dazzling array of colors (and reusable up to 250 times!). The delightful, bug-shaped body boasts the perfect amount of squishiness, making each squeeze/pour action a sensory adventure. Its size also happens to be ideal: large enough to satisfy one's thirst-quenching needs for the duration of a subway ride, but not so overwhelmingly hefty as to provoke subsequent uncomfortable urges or weigh down one's handbag. All in all, I really couldn’t ask for more out of a hydration capsule. The amount of money I’ll save on bottled water is sure to be monumental, but the smile that accompanies each glance at my Bobble – priceless.
I would like to credit Rob Moose for not only introducing me to the Water Bobble, but for giving me this one (AND for letting me pick the color I wanted out of the four he purchased from some silly airplane magazine – Hemispheres, I believe). The Bobble not only facilitates the hydration process, but apparently also inspires feelings of great generosity in its owners.
(Also, I haven’t started reading my yellow book yet, hence the focus on the first of the two objects mentioned in my still life’s title. Even if the book turns out to be a gem, chances are I will still love my Bobble more.)
Lyric Of The Day
I'd like to make this a somewhat regular feature of these musings, as song lyrics have always been as important to me as particularly well-spun phrases of prose. Here are two offerings for today.
"I've got reservations about so many things, but not about you."
artist: Wilco
song: Reservations
album: Yankee Hotel Foxtrot
part of my life since: October 2002
"I like the peace
in the backseat,
I don't have to drive,
I don't have to speak,
I can watch the countryside,
and I can fall asleep."
artist: Arcade Fire
song: In the Backseat
album: Funeral
part of my life since: March 2008
(See? I'm not ONLY a classical music dork.)
Pneumonia
Here are eight rules for writing a short story, as generously supplied by Kurt Vonnegut in his book Bagombo Snuff Box: Uncollected Short Fiction. Not that I'm a prolific author of novellas or anything, but perhaps this information will prove useful in my general writing:
- Use the time of a total stranger in such a way that he or she will not feel the time was wasted.
- Give the reader at least one character he or she can root for.
- Every character should want something, even if it is only a glass of water.
- Every sentence must do one of two things—reveal character or advance the action.
- Start as close to the end as possible.
- Be a Sadist. No matter how sweet and innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them—in order that the reader may see what they are made of.
- Write to please just one person. If you open a window and make love to the world, so to speak, your story will get pneumonia.
- Give your readers as much information as possible as soon as possible. To hell with suspense. Readers should have such complete understanding of what is going on, where and why, that they could finish the story themselves, should cockroaches eat the last few pages.
Oh, Number 7. It slays me every time! And why shouldn't it apply to musical composition/performance, as well? My most nerve-wracking and ultimately problematic experiences onstage have stemmed from some fabricated, cloying desire to please the majority of my audience members. Obsequiously agreeable violin playing will get me nowhere, as evidenced by numerous botched competitions, face-planted auditions, and overeager, frantic-sounding concerts. First and foremost, one must be fully convinced of his/her own artistic ideas (piece of cake, right!?), and only then can a meaningful message be successfully conveyed to others. (Note: this is not to say that I intend to execute some boneheaded idea in the heat of the moment just because I find it fleetingly enchanting.) I do love the idea of picking one person for whom to play, and have certainly employed the technique in various circumstances -- all of which, come to think of it, have resulted in much higher levels of focus and conviction than when I've just mindlessly note-vomited all over the audience. If KURT says that this is what I should do, though, then I will definitely try it again. And so, this post is dedicated to the person I think about while next onstage...whomever you may be!
Rolling Out the Red Carpet
I'm really glad that the area surrounding the toilet in my current hotel room is so well-equipped. Not only do I have a telephone directly to my right (should some sort of room service emergency warrant IMMEDIATE attention), but the spare roll of toilet paper is housed in a brocaded, champagne-hued bag! What more could a girl possibly want!? Really, I would have felt tragically unfulfilled had my TP been naked and helpless, lost without the comfort of a silken cocoon and adrift in a vast sea of bathroom tile.
A Brief Concession Speech
Please allow me to redact a statement from one of my earlier posts. I prematurely claimed, in my lengthy musing about social networking sites, that I had "not quite caught the Twitter-bug." Now, a few weeks later, I feel no shame in admitting that I have been thoroughly infected by a rare strain of obsessive Tweeting. It's so fun! And it's my hope that the character restrictions will train me to be somewhat more succinct, one Tweet at a time.
So, if you have any desire to follow my mindless mini-musings, please follow me on Twitter! You can also click on the fancy new link on my homepage, or search "violena" on the site itself. (Yup - dorkiest name ever, I know.)
Pet Peeves (5/11/10 Edition)
I'm not terribly well-versed in the doctrines of Emily Post, but the following strikes me not even as an act of chivalry; rather, one of very basic common sense. I'll present my grievance as a question:
If you are attempting to enter a place from which others are waiting to exit (a subway car, store -- anywhere with a door, which is most everywhere), would it make more sense to a) ignore all reasonable, orderly instincts and plow through the exit-ers in a futile attempt to stuff yourself into the new location more efficiently or b) allow people to exit said location first, thereby avoiding awkward squishing/touching, giving those leaving the freedom they deserve, and bestowing ample room upon the incomers?
Gee, I wonder. I BEG OF YOU: LET PEOPLE EXIT BEFORE YOU ENTER! You will avoid those uncomfortable, squirmy doorway traffic jams, and - bonus! - if you're a germaphobe, you can avoid a potentially scary situation. Plus, it's COMMON SENSE.
(This "Pet Peeves" thing may very likely become a regular feature of my musings. Stay tuned.)
Tchaikovsk-O-Meter?
Having grown up outside Philadelphia, I was raised and remain to this day a steadfastly loyal Phillies fan. Some of you fellow baseball junkies might remember, during the Curt Schilling era (1992-2000), a duo of particularly devoted followers famous for "The Schil-O-Meter". This slice of ridiculousness was an extremely low-tech scorekeeping device designed specifically for the purpose of tallying Schilling's strikeouts. The scoreboard, if I remember correctly, was fashioned from a big sheet and some spray-paint, but the real soul of the 'Meter was in the ebullient chest bumps that the two (scruffy, overweight, shirtless) guys performed whenever Schilling triumphantly struck out an opponent. It was a spectacle, indeed, and became an integral and most loveable part of Phillies games during the '90s.
I was thinking just now about how funny it would be if classical musicians had an in-concert equivalent. What if, every time I nailed the top note of a particularly difficult run (which, let's be honest, could stand to be a bit more frequently), two rowdy, drunk fans were to leap out of their velvety seats and collide with each other mid-air as a physical expression of their excitement? How funny would a sloppy, wrinkled sheet look hanging off the balcony of an ornate, gold-burnished concert hall?
Maybe that should be part of my mission to bring classical music to younger audiences: encourage beer-fueled stomach slaps in the middle of the Tchaikovsky Concerto!
Missing: Mom's Beach Hat
What began as a carefree, sun-splashed beach walk this afternoon rapidly devolved into something of nightmare. After a morning of persistent cajoling, I convinced my parents to accompany me to Assateague National Seashore for a relaxing few hours in the perfect spring weather. And relaxing it was, for approximately thirty minutes.
I am a lover of walks of all persuasions: drowsy shuffles to brunch on hot, perfumey mornings; brisk jaunts down the lower west promenade of Manhattan, silently observing all the beautiful, half-naked lollygaggers; sprightly scurries to specific destinations, purposely boycotting the smell of summer pee in the subway. Beach walking, though, takes the cake. There is nothing in this world that I enjoy more than strolling along vast expanses of sand, water and toes engaged in an ongoing game of tag, sun-prompted geometric patterns of melanin emerging on my skin. Some of my beach walks are full of noisy chatter with my mom (my only worthy beach-walking companion, as far as I'm concerned – she's the only one who can keep up). Others are soothing, with only the waves and my latest musical obsession as the soundtrack. Beach walks can provide the backdrop for hours of serious contemplation or giddy elation. Today's, though… I can only describe it as "violently abrasive".
My mom and I covered our usual overly-ambitious distance, our biggest threat being a cute cumulous or two bespeckling an otherwise pristine sky. As soon as we reversed directions, however, we noticed a collection of menacing, glowering cloud-beasts looming nearby, threatening to very literally rain on our two-person parade. "It will pass," we thought [Ha! Thematic blog material!], but almost immediately after my mom had finished uselessly chastising me for having my feet touch the damp sand ("It's a very effective conductor of electricity!" she tried to convince me), we had an actual problem on our hands. The romantic gloom of the dark orange sky and murky, churning water gave way to a most terrifying wash of grey, and rain began to pelt the beach with unrelenting ferocity. We were completely and utterly trapped in the middle of hurricane-intensity rains and wind, with no choice but to clutch each other for support and continue charging through the pandemonium. I'm not often scared of nature, and so I hope the skies took my bloodcurdling screams seriously. My skin is still smarting from the onslaught of dagger-like rain and sand pellets, and my muscles are still quivering from the battle that was today's beach trudge. If anyone happens upon a black baseball cap, please return to (bruised and thoroughly exfoliated) walker.
At least now I can retire my eight-year-old black and white bathing suit with pride, as it certainly went out with a bang. Thanks to the blistering winds today, the already stretched-out garment could now comfortably accommodate someone four times my size.
And now, I do believe it's naptime! First, though, I'm going to go wash my face again. I think some more sand granules just trickled out of my tear ducts.
Life Imitating Bikram
"Everything will pass." It has taken an assortment of bikram yoga instructors barking the sentiment at me and a room full of 50+ sopping wet strangers for me to finally, truly internalize it. In class, these words of wisdom generally surface somewhere around camel pose, a posture designed to completely open the front side of the body and subsequently provoke feelings that range anywhere from nausea to rage to euphoria. Add to this bodily contortion 105 degrees of heat, the stench of yogis past, and a good 75 minutes of torrential sweating behind you, and it's hard to believe that you'll make it through the posture alive, let alone garner any health benefits from it. But think about it -- by bending your body backwards so dramatically, you are stretching things you don't even acknowledge as muscles, in the typical sense of the word; your heart, lungs, and all those other fun organs lodged in and around your sternum are stretching open, releasing who-knows-what. Upon collapsing supine back onto my mat after having completed the infamous camel, I have personally experienced the following, at various times: the desire to vomit all over everyone, physical and mental numbness, tears rolling uncontrollably out of my eyeballs, and the greatest euphoria I have ever felt (especially if the teacher that day happens to be a kind soul, allowing a glorious, 5th Avenue-scented draft to sneak through a temporarily raised window). I always hope for the euphoria, obviously; usually I'm just overwhelmed or uncomfortable. And then that wise little phrase floats over our glistening heads: "Everything will pass." Feel whatever it is that you're feeling, breathe through it, and then let it go. For better or for worse, it will be gone momentarily.
I was thinking about this yesterday while I was simultaneously practicing and having a quiet mental breakdown about how much I don't know -- about music, about writing, about the world, about myself. There is so much I'd like to express, be it through my violin playing or some other means of communication, but the layers of thought that go into cultivating one's voice are so numerous that yesterday, the magnitude of what I DON'T think about knocked the wind out of me. I'm not terribly adept at multitasking, so even the simplest musical line requires multiple repetitions, each devoted to a different idea or goal. But what if my 10-times-repeated phrase doesn't even begin to tell the story I have in mind? What if I don't even know what I want that story to be? And then, in other areas of my life: what if my general, daily world of experience and interaction is too limited? What if I'm not exposing myself to something or someone that might illuminate or inspire something within me (not that I want to rely on external sources for inspiration, but a little assistance can never hurt - right?)? What if I'm missing some other calling of mine, some unacknowledged seed of talent lying dormant under years of devoted music-making?
It went on and on.
I wish I could say that all of my panicking led to some great breakthrough (or that I got something noteworthy accomplished in terms of my simultaneous practicing). It didn't. I sighed gustily, acquiesced to the notion that I don't know anything about anything, and took a nap. I felt slightly better post-snooze, but I was still plagued by the state of disorganization in my brain. Alas, the day progressed, and as I waded through more sonatas, left my apartment, listened to a brilliant concert, and socialized with some of my maddeningly creative musician friends, the weight began to lift. My qualms were no more appeased, but sure enough, the feelings of paralyzing inadequacy from before - you guessed it - had passed. I now feel only a healthy degree of inadequate.
Here's what I took away from my mini-freakout yesterday: be as invested in every moment as is humanly possible. If it's a good one, it will bring about that much sought-after state of euphoria. If it sucks, it will be over soon enough. Or perhaps I should just stay in a perpetual back bend. After all, it does seem to be the calm before the storm...
Plums and Grapes and Pineapple - Oh My!
The intensity of my fruit cravings must be directly proportional to the amount of sun I get. Over the course of this afternoon, spent luxuriating on the glorious Siesta Key beach, I managed to consume two plums, a pint of cut-up pineapple, a champagne mango, and upwards of a pound of green grapes. I feel like the happy couple in Good-Bye, Columbus. Unfortunately, as you might have guessed, my skin now resembles the top layer of creme brulee -- singed and crispy. So worth it!
Full of fructose and couldn't be happier,
Elena
Second Attempt
I'm going to try an experiment. Since I have clearly failed miserably thus far with this "musings" endeavor, I will now attempt to idiot-proof it for myself.
First, though -- some background information. I feel I should let it be known (as, for some time, I was exceedingly boastful of this fact) that I was one of the last of my friends to succumb to the at once evil and tantalizing irresistibility of Facebook. Witnessing my esteemed, otherwise levelheaded colleagues and cohorts whittle away their precious, hard-earned free hours in the Curtis student lounge on this mind-numbing social networking website made my heart sting. I stood my ground emphatically, swearing that I would never yield to its hypnotic powers, declaring the fact that "Facebook" had appeared to become not only a proper noun but a VERB downright detestable; but sure enough, over the course of one lonesome weekend in Michigan, bereft of my loved ones' company and desperately seeking distraction from writing a German paper, I whipped an overly-detailed, frothy Facebook page into existence. Now, two and a half years in and irrevocably enmeshed in the Facebook web, I must admit that it packs a certain punch -- even more so since I managed to kick my other abhorrent habit: trashy, gossipy airport magazines. Of course it's endlessly amusing to peruse the lives of middle school mean girls (and it's my firm belief that Facebook, etc. will one day obliterate the need for school reunions entirely -- every juicy detail about which you might have been curious is right at your fingertips in full, Technicolor glory), but the true draw for me is the "status" function. I use that enticing little box as a test to see how perceptive - or snarky, as the case may be - I can manage to be within the confines of a very modest character limit. I admit to being largely unsuccessful, and in some cases, baring my internet fangs a little too ferociously, but inevitably a pang of satisfaction will surge through my veins upon clicking the "Share" button. (Just kidding -- it's not really that dramatic... most of the time.)
Obviously, there are a few problems that accompany this guilty pleasure (not even delving into the detrimental effect that it undoubtedly has on my levels of productivity -- I mean, look at how much time I just spent composing that prologue!). For instance, the inevitable question that any concerned parent or skeptic has posed: "Who REALLY cares what the answer to 'What's on your mind?' is?" has certainly occurred to me as well, not to mention: "Why am I investing so much effort in the syntax of these little bundles of food-for-thought/cynicism?" But let's face it -- Facebook isn't the only site devoted to this practice. Twitter takes it to the extreme, limiting the length of your insights to a measly 140 characters, and yet people seem to be even more gaga over this nauseatingly-cute-graphic-laden phenomenon. Personally, I have not quite caught the Twitter-bug, though at the recent suggestion of a friend, I am giving it another shot. I've found the experience to be largely confusing thus far, as I understand neither the point of it all nor the lingo of many of my fellow Twitterers (Tweeters?). The website appears to read like a 21st-century, internet version of The Wasteland. But you never know... here's hoping I don't get inextricably entangled in yet another inter-web!
Then there is the issue of my audience: on Twitter, I can count the number of people I've actually met personally on one hand; on Facebook, I try to limit my "friendships" to people with whom I've had actual, memorable conversations over the course of my life. I should take this opportunity to apologize to those I might have offended with (sometimes inadvertent, honestly) ignored friend request. And so, here we are, this embarrassingly longwinded ramble finally having led me to my point...
Perhaps if I treated these "musings" more like the verbal candy that is the Facebook status and less like mind-numbing dissertations on... well, not much of anything, clearly, I would be less intimidated by the prospect of sitting down to compose an entry and thereby avoid 4-month-long silences. I hereby promise to regularly dispense brief written tidbits, starting now (though beware: I definitely DON'T promise that you'll find them even the least bit interesting). I'll include a few right off the bat, as penance for my prolonged period of inactivity:
There's something inherently nostalgic about spearmint.
If my ever-expanding collection of saved e-mails is any indication, I am an emotional pack-rat.
Though I am thrilled to marinate in the delicious heat and humidity of Florida, my wooden partners in crime seem to feel differently. {Grumpy-face.}
Hmmm. After that whole spiel, those don't seem terribly satisfying, either. I'll get it right one of these days, hopefully!
Take care, and thank you for your patience. The experiment, though off to a rocky start, is officially underway!
Apologetically anticlimactic yet ever-optimistic,
Elena
Welcome to the New Site!
Hello!
As my first order of business, I would like to release a long-festering pet peeve of mine out into the open: I have never been crazy about the term "blog". To me, it has always sounded more like something sticky that has been caught in someone's throat rather than a portal by which to glimpse into the world of an eager (if timid, in this particular case) writer. But what to call this assemblage of musings, then? Online "diary" perhaps suggests that I'll be discussing my crushes on boys circa 1995, while "journal" implies a sense of obligation -- like a scientific log filled with measurements and hypotheses. "Thoughts"? "My Fingers Are Tired From Practicing"? "I <3 Writing"? I rather like "musings", actually... so until I can think of a slightly more official-sounding heading for this section (we'll leave "blog" on the homepage so readers aren't immediately met with bewilderment), welcome to my first official website "musing"!
It has always been a passion of mine to write, whether my endeavors have included a tentative dabbling in a poetry workshop; waaaay-longer-than-necessary papers for Modernism class; or detailed, descriptive letters to a loved one. Unfortunately, I usually lack the discipline to write unprompted, so I'm hoping that this will prove to be an outlet through which I can hone my skills (or lack thereof). I physically feel better after cranking out a few paragraphs, as though I've taken a mental shower. I find that regularly attempting to put my (at times extremely circuitous) thoughts on paper forces me to be more articulate, or at least outspoken -- I spend a lot of my time alone inside my head, which I suppose is not uncommon for someone who spends as much time traveling as I do -- and heightens my awareness of life's little details. I adore being in a state of mind where my eyes are receptive enough to notice the way the autumn sun falls upon a patch of trees, or where my synapses are firing consistently as to be able to produce a clever metaphor on the spot. So thank you in advance for allowing me to practice here!
To paint a picture of how UNglamorous the life of a young traveling musician can be (the contrary seems to be a common misconception), I will briefly describe the visual that accompanies this entry (composed in a rare moment of repose, fortunately without the hassle of air travel looming overhead). I am sprawled on my stomach in front of the fireplace at my parents' home, twinkly Christmas tree lights and glass ornaments illuminating my present "work space", wrapped from head to toe in a red Snuggie. For those of you who haven't seen the ridiculous infomercials that accompany these products, suffice it to say that they are some of the most absurd advertisements known to man. The Snuggie itself, I must admit, is a brilliant invention: my entire body is cloaked in cozy red fleece, and my arms are indeed both toasty warm and free to move about as they please! My hair is a mess, I'm sipping ginger tea to attempt to eradicate this head cold that refuses to leave my system, and I'm just counting down the minutes until we can eat a hearty meal of Christmas leftovers for dinner. Oh-so-elegant, right!?
I won't overstay my welcome, especially on my first try with this, so I will simply say: I hope everyone's holidays were and continue to be wonderful, safe, and snuggly! Thank you for visiting my new website, and I promise to think of more interesting conversation fodder for next time.
Hasta luego (I should mention that I desperately need to improve my Spanish, so I may try out phrases here from time to time!),
Elena
| 
