my own world
I am entranced by music and worthless to the world.
I should be reading Troilus and Cressida (or however Chaucer spells it), which oddly enough fits my lovesick, depressed mood, but I'm listening to Rodrigo y Gabriela and am useless to the world. Earlier I was running around like a chicken with its head cut off, trying to make it to my budget meeting for journalism, get all my crap back to my room, eat something in a hurry, make sure I had everything, think about what homework I had yet (Latin, reading, a test on Tuesday), but in the face of all this beautiful noise? Nothing. It is absolutely nothing, and it makes me very happy, and defiant even of my own problems. See? How can I be sad? This is great stuff. (track: "Juan Loco")
I read a week or two ago that more of Mozart's musical compositions were discovered languishing in some forgotten place, now filling out an important gap in his composings. To me, that's front page news. The man had more to say, of course, and we now have access to some of it.
I rewatched Dreamgirls the other day, which I really enjoy and recommend. Effie White makes the story. Her "And I Am Telling You" scene is of course the one everyone pays most attention to, but I personally like the one in which [spoiler] Effie is forced, decades later, to prove that she can sing. Nobody any longer knows who she is. At first she's too proud, but then once she realizes the club owner is not going to give her a chance, her characteristic spirit - STILL not broken - kicks in, and seeing the expressions on the man's face change is great.
I don't know what I would do without music. I remember listening to the "Wee Sing" tapes when I was little, and wishing I could be the little girl with the mournful solo (same with the girl who got to sing a sweet, sad song while swinging on the swings on Sesame Street). I've written some song lyrics here and there, sang a solo or two, but mostly I just watch and listen to others who do. And that's fine (except that it doesn't relieve my own itch). What matters is that a voice speaks, and is given free reign. It's kind of like water in a hydrant, in my mind - you can imagine holding it back, but you are never going to succeed. Somebody somewhere is going to start singing.
Now I'm thinking about Toni Morrison and Sula, one book we're reading in class, and I want to talk about her, but my hands are tired and my roommate is back now and I should probably now think about studying. But already the compression on my heart is lifted. He is a silly insignificance next to all these sounds which are so wonderful, which nobody, nobody can shut up.
I should be reading Troilus and Cressida (or however Chaucer spells it), which oddly enough fits my lovesick, depressed mood, but I'm listening to Rodrigo y Gabriela and am useless to the world. Earlier I was running around like a chicken with its head cut off, trying to make it to my budget meeting for journalism, get all my crap back to my room, eat something in a hurry, make sure I had everything, think about what homework I had yet (Latin, reading, a test on Tuesday), but in the face of all this beautiful noise? Nothing. It is absolutely nothing, and it makes me very happy, and defiant even of my own problems. See? How can I be sad? This is great stuff. (track: "Juan Loco")
I read a week or two ago that more of Mozart's musical compositions were discovered languishing in some forgotten place, now filling out an important gap in his composings. To me, that's front page news. The man had more to say, of course, and we now have access to some of it.
I rewatched Dreamgirls the other day, which I really enjoy and recommend. Effie White makes the story. Her "And I Am Telling You" scene is of course the one everyone pays most attention to, but I personally like the one in which [spoiler] Effie is forced, decades later, to prove that she can sing. Nobody any longer knows who she is. At first she's too proud, but then once she realizes the club owner is not going to give her a chance, her characteristic spirit - STILL not broken - kicks in, and seeing the expressions on the man's face change is great.
I don't know what I would do without music. I remember listening to the "Wee Sing" tapes when I was little, and wishing I could be the little girl with the mournful solo (same with the girl who got to sing a sweet, sad song while swinging on the swings on Sesame Street). I've written some song lyrics here and there, sang a solo or two, but mostly I just watch and listen to others who do. And that's fine (except that it doesn't relieve my own itch). What matters is that a voice speaks, and is given free reign. It's kind of like water in a hydrant, in my mind - you can imagine holding it back, but you are never going to succeed. Somebody somewhere is going to start singing.
Now I'm thinking about Toni Morrison and Sula, one book we're reading in class, and I want to talk about her, but my hands are tired and my roommate is back now and I should probably now think about studying. But already the compression on my heart is lifted. He is a silly insignificance next to all these sounds which are so wonderful, which nobody, nobody can shut up.