Some papers and an update...why am I not asleep right now?
I'm working the Ypsi Area Dancer show, running sound and doing stage-handy type stuff. It's all right, but taking up and down the ballet floor is kind of a pain and it takes A LOT of time. $150. See? Now I feel better. ^^; I wrote twelve haikus while watching dancers twitter about the stage.
But yeah, the second half of the show is done with live music, so I would just like you all to know that I slept on the tiny couch in the booth from 6:44-8:20 under Sean's big, black, leather coat.Yesterday I slept through economics (it's a blow off, but I'm just not one to sleep during class). All I've had to eat today is some cookies Sean brought me, an orange, and a cheese stick from Ms. Peet.
Dominique turned 19 yesterday. Max and I threw him a surprise party at Max's house (since he's staying there). Well, okay, Max and I planned it- I actually didn't see him at all yesterday because of the YAD gig. But that was Dominique's second birthday party ever. Yesterday his dad didn't call; his mom didn't visit. I wish I could love him enough that all his hurt would go away, all the scars they left on him would vanish.
“As the Girlfriend of a Brown Boy…”
Going to the Fringe Festival in Edinburgh, Scotland last summer was a thespian’s fantasy. Everything plays there; everything edgy, everything creative, everything with a message to share.(ps) I enjoyed many performances, including the silly Bouncy Castle Macbeth, the hilarious but message-filled (and not offensive) Jihad: The Musical, the intense Cherry Smoke, the adrenaline pumped Into the Hoods, and the breathtaking acting prowess presented in I Am My Own Wife. Each of these productions had a significant impact on me, my views, and my take on performance art. I cannot encapsulate the experience of being at the festival, going to these profound performances, and performing overseas in one paper, so I will focus on one particular performance that stood out to me. This performance was unique; it was heartfelt and genuine; it was perfectly executed; it had a message to give and a hope to change the world. (ps)
“…as the mother of a brown boy I ask myself what have a created for him? What have I put upon him, that he doesn’t see his own reflection positively - where he is constantly shifting his gaze to focus and fit other people’s perceptions of him? What have I brought this son into - that I have to work that much harder to make his footprint seen?” Karen is the mother of a brown boy, or she was before his untimely death. “as the mother of a brown boy…” is her story and the story of her son, Mischa, pieced together from many conversations via phone and email.
The performance was not a play, ballet, musical, or movie. It incorporated elements of each, though. The authors, David Carey and Christine Niering, collaborated with master storytellers, Joseph Morton and Rachel Yates, who expressed their ideas to the entire cast (who were also the choreographers) to create Chickenshed Production’s original work of artistic perfection. The main technique involved physical theatre (choreography used to tell a story) with narration. Those onstage moved blocks that served as the only set and props, but they were arranged in different ways, sometimes acting as a projection screen. The blocks would become a television where the news lady reported the media’s coverage on Mischa’s story or the lawyers argued the issues of the case, and sometimes the stack of blocks would become something as simple as a building. Live music, singing, and more traditional dancing were also incorporated, but all were mixed in flawless proportions to tell the story most effectively.
Mischa was the product of a biracial union that fell apart early in his life. His father left, disconnecting him with his black culture and heritage. He wasn’t white; he wasn’t black; he couldn’t understand why he didn’t belong. (ps) This isolation led a promising child to fall in with the wrong crowd and never fully develop his own identity. He was caught in a robbery and killed in the chase that followed, but when Karen tried to get answers about his death, her inquiries were disregarded.
Mischa was being trailed by a police car, then his blood-splattered, lifeless form was entwined with a mangled motorcycle. Karen needed the truth and she needed justice for her brown boy. She needed to convince people that his death was not negligible because he was committing a crime; the crime committed would not have given him a death sentence. The void left in this mother’s life cannot be filled by the controversial circumstances. Loss is loss. (sentence fragment) This story of one mother’s love and loss was used to open our eyes to the world in which we live.
“as the mother of a brown boy…” proposed the issue of subtle racisms in every day life, judgments, and justice. What are we doing to change the world around us? How can we keep these injuries from being perpetuated and save so many from similar anguish? (rhetorical questions) This emotional truth so powerfully presented had me on the edge of my seat, completely physically, mentally, and emotionally engaged in every aspect of the performance. It left me bawling at the end, but more than that, it left me thinking as I left. I thought about my world, my love, my future children, my love for them, and the world I want for them. I may be the mother of beautiful biracial children, in my eyes, a celebration of the end of racism and an extension of myself and my love. When I am able to preface sentences with “as the mother of a brown boy…” I hope my story, and his, has realized the hope Chickenshed’s performance had for the future generations and an end to social injustice.
I Learned About Gregorian Chant and the Different Modes!
In the musical ensemble of Humanities, I miscounted and came in a few beats late. Now, a director might go back and make the problematic section fix the error immediately, or he or she may choose to yell at the offender, or just forge ahead, assuming that the rhythmically challenged one will figure it out next time around. In this case, the final option was selected, leaving me in the dust, trying to read the music and figure out where the conductor was. When I arrived, Mr. Hayes was defining motif. I cannot apply the definition of motif to the music Mr. Hayes played in the lecture; I was not there to hear it, but I can take what I know and apply it to my experiences in the upper gym giving blood.
Motif is defined as a usually recurring salient thematic element. The motifs of my first experience giving blood were a racing heart and a concerted effort to keep my breathing even and not to cry. At first these may not seem relevant, but a racing heart sets a tone for my body and establishes my mood, just as a motif acts as a basis for the theme and tone set for a piece of music. Whether the motif is major or minor, fast or slow gives the piece a distinct mood. The recurring theme of my racing heart established my fear concerning the unknown situation, fueled by my phobia of needles.
My valiant efforts to stay calm and not cry acted similarly, and while my heart rate added intensity to my song, my emotional restraint added a bit of drama. The contrast of the fast, nervous tittering violins, and the deep, slow, wailing bassoon adds interest and a depth that would not be present otherwise. There were interludes where these motifs were not present, or variations of them were played that may have been completely unrecognizable to the untrained ear, but their recurrence was the foundation for the music.
Next, Mr. Hayes explained development, or the act, process, or result of growing and evolving. Music reads like a story with introduction, rising action, climax, and falling action. My story, my music hears that way too. Paper work, interview, and waiting gave me time to get increasingly nervous and pump adrenaline into my system. This is when the motifs break out, becoming more concentrated as more problems occur with my blood donation. The music lulls and I walk eagerly away to get my juice and cookies, only to climactically pass out and get right to the falling action. Once on the floor, the motifs return in their most powerful form, harsh, passionate, and almost grating to the ears, then slowing, quieting and returning to a steady pulse as I breathe in and out of a brown paper bag. The cello picks up the “trying not to cry” theme as it undergoes a molto ritardando, fading from pianissimo into nothingness.
But yeah, the second half of the show is done with live music, so I would just like you all to know that I slept on the tiny couch in the booth from 6:44-8:20 under Sean's big, black, leather coat.Yesterday I slept through economics (it's a blow off, but I'm just not one to sleep during class). All I've had to eat today is some cookies Sean brought me, an orange, and a cheese stick from Ms. Peet.
Dominique turned 19 yesterday. Max and I threw him a surprise party at Max's house (since he's staying there). Well, okay, Max and I planned it- I actually didn't see him at all yesterday because of the YAD gig. But that was Dominique's second birthday party ever. Yesterday his dad didn't call; his mom didn't visit. I wish I could love him enough that all his hurt would go away, all the scars they left on him would vanish.
“As the Girlfriend of a Brown Boy…”
Going to the Fringe Festival in Edinburgh, Scotland last summer was a thespian’s fantasy. Everything plays there; everything edgy, everything creative, everything with a message to share.(ps) I enjoyed many performances, including the silly Bouncy Castle Macbeth, the hilarious but message-filled (and not offensive) Jihad: The Musical, the intense Cherry Smoke, the adrenaline pumped Into the Hoods, and the breathtaking acting prowess presented in I Am My Own Wife. Each of these productions had a significant impact on me, my views, and my take on performance art. I cannot encapsulate the experience of being at the festival, going to these profound performances, and performing overseas in one paper, so I will focus on one particular performance that stood out to me. This performance was unique; it was heartfelt and genuine; it was perfectly executed; it had a message to give and a hope to change the world. (ps)
“…as the mother of a brown boy I ask myself what have a created for him? What have I put upon him, that he doesn’t see his own reflection positively - where he is constantly shifting his gaze to focus and fit other people’s perceptions of him? What have I brought this son into - that I have to work that much harder to make his footprint seen?” Karen is the mother of a brown boy, or she was before his untimely death. “as the mother of a brown boy…” is her story and the story of her son, Mischa, pieced together from many conversations via phone and email.
The performance was not a play, ballet, musical, or movie. It incorporated elements of each, though. The authors, David Carey and Christine Niering, collaborated with master storytellers, Joseph Morton and Rachel Yates, who expressed their ideas to the entire cast (who were also the choreographers) to create Chickenshed Production’s original work of artistic perfection. The main technique involved physical theatre (choreography used to tell a story) with narration. Those onstage moved blocks that served as the only set and props, but they were arranged in different ways, sometimes acting as a projection screen. The blocks would become a television where the news lady reported the media’s coverage on Mischa’s story or the lawyers argued the issues of the case, and sometimes the stack of blocks would become something as simple as a building. Live music, singing, and more traditional dancing were also incorporated, but all were mixed in flawless proportions to tell the story most effectively.
Mischa was the product of a biracial union that fell apart early in his life. His father left, disconnecting him with his black culture and heritage. He wasn’t white; he wasn’t black; he couldn’t understand why he didn’t belong. (ps) This isolation led a promising child to fall in with the wrong crowd and never fully develop his own identity. He was caught in a robbery and killed in the chase that followed, but when Karen tried to get answers about his death, her inquiries were disregarded.
Mischa was being trailed by a police car, then his blood-splattered, lifeless form was entwined with a mangled motorcycle. Karen needed the truth and she needed justice for her brown boy. She needed to convince people that his death was not negligible because he was committing a crime; the crime committed would not have given him a death sentence. The void left in this mother’s life cannot be filled by the controversial circumstances. Loss is loss. (sentence fragment) This story of one mother’s love and loss was used to open our eyes to the world in which we live.
“as the mother of a brown boy…” proposed the issue of subtle racisms in every day life, judgments, and justice. What are we doing to change the world around us? How can we keep these injuries from being perpetuated and save so many from similar anguish? (rhetorical questions) This emotional truth so powerfully presented had me on the edge of my seat, completely physically, mentally, and emotionally engaged in every aspect of the performance. It left me bawling at the end, but more than that, it left me thinking as I left. I thought about my world, my love, my future children, my love for them, and the world I want for them. I may be the mother of beautiful biracial children, in my eyes, a celebration of the end of racism and an extension of myself and my love. When I am able to preface sentences with “as the mother of a brown boy…” I hope my story, and his, has realized the hope Chickenshed’s performance had for the future generations and an end to social injustice.
I Learned About Gregorian Chant and the Different Modes!
In the musical ensemble of Humanities, I miscounted and came in a few beats late. Now, a director might go back and make the problematic section fix the error immediately, or he or she may choose to yell at the offender, or just forge ahead, assuming that the rhythmically challenged one will figure it out next time around. In this case, the final option was selected, leaving me in the dust, trying to read the music and figure out where the conductor was. When I arrived, Mr. Hayes was defining motif. I cannot apply the definition of motif to the music Mr. Hayes played in the lecture; I was not there to hear it, but I can take what I know and apply it to my experiences in the upper gym giving blood.
Motif is defined as a usually recurring salient thematic element. The motifs of my first experience giving blood were a racing heart and a concerted effort to keep my breathing even and not to cry. At first these may not seem relevant, but a racing heart sets a tone for my body and establishes my mood, just as a motif acts as a basis for the theme and tone set for a piece of music. Whether the motif is major or minor, fast or slow gives the piece a distinct mood. The recurring theme of my racing heart established my fear concerning the unknown situation, fueled by my phobia of needles.
My valiant efforts to stay calm and not cry acted similarly, and while my heart rate added intensity to my song, my emotional restraint added a bit of drama. The contrast of the fast, nervous tittering violins, and the deep, slow, wailing bassoon adds interest and a depth that would not be present otherwise. There were interludes where these motifs were not present, or variations of them were played that may have been completely unrecognizable to the untrained ear, but their recurrence was the foundation for the music.
Next, Mr. Hayes explained development, or the act, process, or result of growing and evolving. Music reads like a story with introduction, rising action, climax, and falling action. My story, my music hears that way too. Paper work, interview, and waiting gave me time to get increasingly nervous and pump adrenaline into my system. This is when the motifs break out, becoming more concentrated as more problems occur with my blood donation. The music lulls and I walk eagerly away to get my juice and cookies, only to climactically pass out and get right to the falling action. Once on the floor, the motifs return in their most powerful form, harsh, passionate, and almost grating to the ears, then slowing, quieting and returning to a steady pulse as I breathe in and out of a brown paper bag. The cello picks up the “trying not to cry” theme as it undergoes a molto ritardando, fading from pianissimo into nothingness.