(no subject)
I am composing again, trying to find my voice.
My father writes songs, you see. He and my mother own and teach at a music school in a suburb of Buffalo, New York, and when the mood strikes him, he also writes. He wrote a jazz suite for four of our cats (this being before Leonard's adoption in January), and a haunting folk waltz called "Shenandoah Memories". He's written for my mother, and for me, and probably for other people, too. To the best of my knowledge, he's never even tried to get these things published- although I cherish them and think they're worthy of publication. What I love the most is my father's distinct compositional voice. His pieces have something about them that tells you he wrote them; the deep, innermost reflections of a contemplative soul expressed in chord progressions.
Last night, I wrote a waltz of my own- the first page of one, anyway. Some measures need re-voicing in the bass, and I think I may want to add a second section and turn it into an ABA-form piece.
I want to find my voice. I want to express who I am, since I've finally stopped trying to change it as the wind blows. I want to express a musical voice anchored in honesty and truth.
I got thinking about this because I've realized that it's likely that nobody on the planet knows who I really am. I think Andrew and my father come closest- and then probably my mother- but I'm discovering how amazing I am at adapting my personality to suit others. It's not a good thing, and I'm trying to find a way out.
I am more introspective than you probably realize; I love quiet, and I love being alone. I am a lover of silent snow-frosted forests and cabins with blazing fireplaces. My practice of Orthodoxy is flawed, as I am a sinful woman, but I am almost definitely more committed to it than you think. I think one of the reasons I love being alone so much- or in Andrew's company- is that I don't have to deal with secularism that way. So many other friendships entail pretending, at least in part, to care about things that I have no interest in- things that leave me with a dank, moldy feeling in the back of my mouth because they're so hollow and lacking in substance. The time has come to stop pretending, and my way of doing that seems to be to withdraw- not in terms of ending any friendships (I cherish friendship), but simply in being quieter, more still, and less likely to get carried away by things that have no eternal significance.
Tomorrow, I'll try to find some more of my voice.
My father writes songs, you see. He and my mother own and teach at a music school in a suburb of Buffalo, New York, and when the mood strikes him, he also writes. He wrote a jazz suite for four of our cats (this being before Leonard's adoption in January), and a haunting folk waltz called "Shenandoah Memories". He's written for my mother, and for me, and probably for other people, too. To the best of my knowledge, he's never even tried to get these things published- although I cherish them and think they're worthy of publication. What I love the most is my father's distinct compositional voice. His pieces have something about them that tells you he wrote them; the deep, innermost reflections of a contemplative soul expressed in chord progressions.
Last night, I wrote a waltz of my own- the first page of one, anyway. Some measures need re-voicing in the bass, and I think I may want to add a second section and turn it into an ABA-form piece.
I want to find my voice. I want to express who I am, since I've finally stopped trying to change it as the wind blows. I want to express a musical voice anchored in honesty and truth.
I got thinking about this because I've realized that it's likely that nobody on the planet knows who I really am. I think Andrew and my father come closest- and then probably my mother- but I'm discovering how amazing I am at adapting my personality to suit others. It's not a good thing, and I'm trying to find a way out.
I am more introspective than you probably realize; I love quiet, and I love being alone. I am a lover of silent snow-frosted forests and cabins with blazing fireplaces. My practice of Orthodoxy is flawed, as I am a sinful woman, but I am almost definitely more committed to it than you think. I think one of the reasons I love being alone so much- or in Andrew's company- is that I don't have to deal with secularism that way. So many other friendships entail pretending, at least in part, to care about things that I have no interest in- things that leave me with a dank, moldy feeling in the back of my mouth because they're so hollow and lacking in substance. The time has come to stop pretending, and my way of doing that seems to be to withdraw- not in terms of ending any friendships (I cherish friendship), but simply in being quieter, more still, and less likely to get carried away by things that have no eternal significance.
Tomorrow, I'll try to find some more of my voice.