(no subject)
I just got back from Green Bay and have been on a serious music making HIGH. Wow- could my "job" be any better? It's SO tiring and SO stressful but I realize every day of tiredness and every second of stress is worth it. IT'S WORTH IT! We all walked off the stage tonight and said, "THAT was FUN!" Enough said...
I decided to capture this glorious and not-always-so-glorious career in a poem that I changed but based on, "Making a Living" by Dana Wildsmith.
Making a Living in Music
by Amber Dolphin
Over here where we make our living
in a symphony we won't let die,
practice days last as long as I do
then while I sleep my shadow-work
goes on in dreams of my stand partner
teetering on whether to play E flat or natural, but
whichever he decides in that split-second is
incorrect, and there is no turning back.
Some nights my mind's dream-worker
can't find the music to play,
or there's music but written down a tri-tone.
Last night while we were both asleep
I searched for paying work,
but everyone said, "Go home and finish
your jobs that need doing there." How?
Work done for love is never done.
Each evening I preciously stow my violin
in its cold metal locker as if to
coax it to sleep on a bed of rock. Time for it to rest
as I need rest. I wish I could believe
each day winds down to done,
each night brings perfect sleep,
but I've made the bed I lie in
with extra covers,
knowing nights can start hot, end cold,
and knowing work carried over to dreams
is one of the darker sides of our living.
I decided to capture this glorious and not-always-so-glorious career in a poem that I changed but based on, "Making a Living" by Dana Wildsmith.
Making a Living in Music
by Amber Dolphin
Over here where we make our living
in a symphony we won't let die,
practice days last as long as I do
then while I sleep my shadow-work
goes on in dreams of my stand partner
teetering on whether to play E flat or natural, but
whichever he decides in that split-second is
incorrect, and there is no turning back.
Some nights my mind's dream-worker
can't find the music to play,
or there's music but written down a tri-tone.
Last night while we were both asleep
I searched for paying work,
but everyone said, "Go home and finish
your jobs that need doing there." How?
Work done for love is never done.
Each evening I preciously stow my violin
in its cold metal locker as if to
coax it to sleep on a bed of rock. Time for it to rest
as I need rest. I wish I could believe
each day winds down to done,
each night brings perfect sleep,
but I've made the bed I lie in
with extra covers,
knowing nights can start hot, end cold,
and knowing work carried over to dreams
is one of the darker sides of our living.