reverie's blog

I've recently applied to a program in which they ask you to write about someone who has influenced you. Although my interaction with Frank was short-lived, he had an incredible influence on me, and seeing as he is GG's uncle (or something like that) I thought I'd share it.

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Like a crimson silk thread

freed from a gypsygirl's dress,

the music dances.

The beat of fingertips

across the ebony board

like her bare feet on the rough wood floor.

The gypsygirl toys with the metronome,

teasing it to follow,

pulling it til it breaks

or at least gives in.

She dances with the music,

through the music,

across the notes and

scratched auburn wood of the fiddle

(whose notes dance likewise through the speakers

into the pale white room).

Pure walls now covered with

crimson silk thread and

bare feet;

across the room,

a man taps his feet in time with the gypsygirl.

inspired by The Art of the Violin, a documentary on great violinists.

To be both burdened and unburdened

by prodigious talent at the age of seven

is a thing entirely unimaginable to me.

Music conjuring and music releasing,

with a single stroke of a bow

the same vast emotion,

stretching taut the skin of

the tiny musician,

til music spilled from his

fingers and arms and soul,

cascading.

Wondering for a moment

if it is worth it to be burdened

in exchange for freedom

when the dance begins,

notes coaxed through the fingerboard

and through chattering speakers.

It is immediately understood that

this weight has had no effect on

Menuhin's youthful fingers,

if it even exists at all.

When I was five, I wanted to become an veterinarian-ballerina-in-space. From day to day, it would change. My ambitions weren't always so complex; sometimes, I would want to be something as simple as an artist, or a soccer player, or even a princess. Regardless of my future occupation-du-jour, however, no adult would ever place their hand upon my shoulder and say, “But darling, there really isn't any need for animal care in space,” or, “Princesses only exist in foreign countries, and even then, they are really only figureheads with minimal political influence and a vast amount of pressure placed on them from the public who are watching their every move, often in disgust of their large and unnecessary wealth.” No, my teachers and parents (and I'm sure yours too) would smile and say, “Well, that sounds like a wonderful dream.” Read more »

I know, I know, it's been far too long since I've written.

i.

The car turns into the

convenience store

around half-past seven in the morning.

I am trapped in the backseat

until further notice Read more »

I can't stop thinking about your piece. It brought back memories I didn't know I had of a summer by the seashore when the sun didn't ever shine but I played alone in the ocean anyways. I liked the taste of saltwater on my tongue. I would gather shells in a bag and they would rattle as I walked, a delicate crash. Returning home, my mother would sit by the piano and play for hours while I sat on a small wooden chair. Read more »

This

blue light

and stone facade

is so different from the poised walls, Read more »

A little pre-LCCMF musical musing...

Seldom can I find the words to express my true intentions, and I often let phrases slip from my lips like little bullets to shoot the conversation dead. I'll watch the subject matter fall to the ground and in one last attempt to resuscitate it, I will apologize for my inability to be a social butterfly. In doing so, I lodge another bullet deep into the heart of the matter. I make a promise to myself to be silent, observant, and to keep any ideas contained. This is a vow I keep for all of three minutes, until the topic changes again and I find myself bursting to add my voice. My lips once again become the smoking gun, and I the shell-shocked girl whose finger slipped on the trigger.

If it were up to me, I would speak in phrases solely musical. Throbbing chords and drawn out bass notes and flighty arpeggios that pull bystanders in and drag them under, all expressing my intentions perfectly. Excitement would be expressed by a trilling flute rather than high pitched chatter and my melancholy complaints would be written in the air by low, slow cello strokes as opposed to choked whining phrases. No fumbled bullets here, just truth, and everyone would always understand because the international sign for happiness is a C Major chord.

Sadly, I was given vocal cords instead of a symphony, predetermined notes that always seem to fail me when I need them most. Instead of a graceful melody, the only noise I can make is dissonance, a sound remarkably similar to the shot of a gun.

Sometimes when the night turns dark

and I can't see my hand beyond the fingertips,

I can almost feel myself disappear.

I have to light up the night with the sound of my breath;

consuming the emptiness to raise my voice.

It's a test of my strength, and it's all I can take just to 

make myself real.

I find it strange that I have to prove myself 

to the midnight creatures hiding

beneath my bed,

but I do it anyways.

And then I realize maybe

they're the ones that don't exist,

and I'm proving my existence to me,

and I know that that's redundant but

it's the truth.

I don't want to be alone.

I don't want to feel the cold of the night

creeping in the window that I forgot to shut

because I was too busy wondering

if I'd have disappeared by the morning,

if some quiet wind will have 

carried me off,

taken my voice in its littleness.

The sound of silence scares me

because I can hear myself in all my everything

and sometimes it's so quiet,

I know I'm gone.

I cannot hear or see what's become of me,

my fingertips beyond my eyes and 

my voice beyond my ears.

Sometimes when the night turns dark,

I can almost feel myself disappear.

I wake abruptly to the bright light of morning, and the dream fades away. In a few moments, I've forgotten it entirely. The bed beside me is empty, sheets folded neatly. She must have left for a walk, I thought. She was always doing that. Even the night that we first shared a bed all those years ago, I awoke and she was gone, bedsheets replaced to their original sinless state. My heart had almost broken then, but soon she returned, a cup of coffee in her hand (there was red lipstick on the rim, I remember that). She had waltzed in the door and I'd cried, “Grace, I thought you'd left me!” and she'd just smiled, cherry lips holding back secrets. Read more »

(italics are lyrics from death cab for cutie's soul meets body)

I still believe it's true

that there are roads left in both of our shoes.

You hum notes

just out of reach 

but you don't seem to notice

how wrong you are.

It's kind of sweet, really

and I wonder how I'm your child because 

all similarities aside

we're so very different.

Half-step down

I want to stay,

but fingers to the keyboard, Read more »

I was the Butterfly

and

you were the Child

tongue-tied laces racing

white laced net in hand

chasing me down.

Chromatic wingspans carried me over

flaxen fields and there were memories of

sunshine long lost in darkness

but I flew on just trying to escape your poetic net.

Silken petals fall

like chromatic memories

of a summer lost.

Beyond the reaches

of these fluorescent cages,

the sun still exists.

We write extensively

on subject matter we do not comprehend

waiting for the epiphany that

never comes. Read more »

This is for a writing competition-thing, so I'd love some critiquing! Thanks 

My story starts the same way as any other.

A breath, a cry, wide eyes unknowing of the world and pink skin yet to feel the touch of breath. I had cried then, as all people new to the world do, because I was afraid. Read more »

Some music was written to be listened to. It evokes no true emotion, nothing of any sustenance. It is real music, of course; I do not think that there is such thing as fake music. It is still art, but it is easily compared to a painting of cows standing in a field, or a sailboat on an undisturbed lake. It is pretty music, leaving the taste of vanilla behind on your tongue, and maybe a slightly dumb-looking grin on your face. Still, I admire this music for its impeccable harmonies, flawless rhythms, and unreasonable ability to make people happy. Read more »

Star-cross'd lovers
would find a place
beneath the black
night of this melody.
The bass forewarns
of lesser happiness,
but violins comfort
in perfect chords
for they do not know
the fate of love.
Across the room,
eyes meet, and a
string is pulled tight
between two hearts.
Their masks cover
the troubled truth,
as this music
masks a tragedy
unknown to us.

Love quietly
until the last note fades,
never forgetting that fate
is not easily persuaded.

R09_0064.MP3

Based on Aigaios, composed by David Ludwig, performed by musicians selected from ECCO

It is the sound of broken glass,
each piece chasing the other
running from a wall of water
trying to escape the turmoil of
their own creation. The chime
of glass, that starry sound, is
nonexistent, turned to a fearful
shriek, overpowered by the
sounds of metal. The shards
take refuge in the sea foam and
even underwater, they scream
against the rusted metal hull of
the boat they once belonged to.
To think that strings could make
this sound, of glass and metal and Read more »

Tchaikovsky Serenade for Strings in C Major

On this rainy day
we walk
downtrodden
with our eyes reflecting the grey of the sky
and our rain-stained shirts showing
the journeys we've made to come here.
We are weary
of this, that, and the other thing
and we seek leave of life and what is real.
In this place,
melodies and harmonies,
cadenzas and triads
make time slow
to a whisper of
knowing merely that
it is there.
I think this is a place where
I'd like to spend my days
with the time merely passing
in a downfall of
music to my ears.
Here, the rain is gone and
we can let our rain-stained clothes dry Read more »

Variations on La Follia for String Orchestra.MP3

My page turn is loud in this silent hall
and then
just just as any other good thing starts
an array of notes tumble from the instruments onstage
with only the notice of a single
collective breath of the musicians
who play them.
Though no less than 15 players dot the stage
the sound that reaches my ears is that of a single
many-stringed instrument.
The sound pulses and climbs,
soaring through the high-ceilinged hall
in which it is released.

The bass stands in the midst of the musicians
a great chocolate giant
that reflects the sounds it plays. Read more »

Tuning notes are more beautiful than practiced pieces
in a way
for they are instantaneous
true
music
and
notenotenote
vibrato
staccato
pizzicato
has so much more meaning than
testtest123
into a microphone.
Those flat tones have nothing on these
improvised melodies.

I always hold the backspace key down for too long.

Letters long erased, my finger stays until my thoughts are gone as well

and sometimes, I'll catch myself thinking of nothing

and it'll be nice for a second.

Just sitting

fingers to the keyboard

listening to my heartbeat with no buzz of thoughts

and I'll think

I wish it could all be like this.

A never ending splitsecond of time in which my mind appears as a white wall

ready for paint.

Impressionable, yes, but also free of judgements
preconceived notions
prejudices. Read more »

Have you ever thought in terms of sleep? That inconsistent melody of life that carries us away each night and takes our time so sweetly from our fingers but we trust it because, after all, trust is such a pretty word. Once upon a time, I remembered my dreams. Simple tales I wove with my subconscious, a twisted summary of my life that was always so true when I was living it. My eyes closed and breathing shallow, existing in whatever place I chose.
And maybe it's because I can no longer close my eyes without wondering what may happen if remember what I've dreamt. Read more »

We're always so sure of what we're doing while we're doing it. It's only when we've hit the wall that we realize that we were doing something wrong.

i.
Hush my darling.

You can see the ground approaching, sure, but you know I'm here to save you.

Trust is a pretty word isn't it?

A mix of letters that takes years to gain and seconds to break but maybe
that's the point.

ii.
I don't know what to think anymore.

It's wrong

then right

then wrong

right

wrong

right

wrong
right
wrong
rightwrongright

until I can't tell the difference. Read more »

For once in my life
I feel like an outsider.
I think I kind of like it
here.

Yes, I'm a fool,
but maybe that's not me.
You're speaking through my lips and
seeing through my eyes.
You reach for your hands through my fingertips and
you can feel again.

I'd like to leap a thousand feet and end up on the shores of
some other place,
Read more »

i.
and before the nightlight goes out, I'll give you one last look
because the darkness gives you a different meaning.

ii.
do you remember chasing down the street
a kite in your youth-tainted hand?
your thoughts were tied with string
to the clouds and you thought nothing of
flying because your feet had already
left the ground.

iii.
we will make our dreams come true with whispered words and incandescent moonlight.
leave your childhood behind.
adolescent words will break your tongue
and silent eyes will melt you.
innocence will be forgotten before you can remember.

iv. Read more »

Would you believe me
if I said I was sorry?
I can't stand to only hear
your silence.
I don't even know
for what my apologies exist
but I offer them to you.

We have all had such a-

(Oh. Wait. "Happy" isn't exactly a word that I would use to describe my time here.)

It was the best of times, it was the-

(Damn. No clichés. Please.)

Um...

I hope that we will all look back fondl-

(Nope. Most of us will probably need years of therapy to forget.)

Well.

sigh

I'm supposed to write a graduation speech. Yup, it comes along with the duties of being the brave and daring Student Council President (and the crowd goes wild...).

"Reflecting posititively" on my time would be a lie, but I'll have to do it anyways. Read more »

And I will love you like a brother
'cause I'm waiting for another
but I'll be with you forever
'cause I'd rather be together
than to be all alone.

I will not write anymore of love or anything of the sort,
for I do not know the language that I try so bitterly to speak.
My fluency is riddled with distractions and
my tongue knots with the foreign words.
I am lost, but my journey cannot be written into epic poetry.
It can only jumbled and lost in the epitome of teenaged confusion and longing for the
wrong sorts of things.