Hello all! Sorry that I have not managed to post a THING for God knows how long. Ahh! Been so busy!.
I have an announcement to make though. That One Violinist will be no more after today. That’s right, no more updates… here at least. I have a new blog which will be updated bi-weekly. Mostly photography and creative prose… but do keep reading. I encourage it. 
Chou!
What does harmony do what it does to us?
Question: What does harmony do to me?
Harmony shakes awake the alter ego inside me. Her name is Rhian and she’s a classical pianist who plays around with chords as if they were video games. She’s a chord addict, and it’s verging on unhealthy. (Kidding, but you get the picture.)
When a “C” meets with a well played “E” and “G”, my soul sings merry tunes that only I know. And when there is a four part harmony in the chamber choir I help out with, tears flow freely. There’s something hauntingly beautiful and elegant about harmony and voice. They compliment each other like bread and butter.
When I hear good harmony, I vibrate. Literally, I shiver. When notes clash, I become pleasantly shadowed. Happily evil and dark. That’s what harmony does to me.
Question: What does harmony do to you?
I did not come up with these questions. They are thanks to a crazy New Zealander I know. Enjoy, and ponder them. They are indeed relevent! (At least, I think they are.)
Why did nearly all great composers spend long times walking in the country?
How does the lack of such walks in todays composers reflect in the nature and quality of the music the compose?
Why does a minor chord make me feel sad and a major happy, really WHY?
Why does and increase in tempo create anticipation and tension and a decrease the opposite?
Why is 7:8 so funky?
Why are we more open to what we are listening to at some times and not others?
Why does music move us?
What is music for?
What did the music actually sound like that the Egyptians reportedly used to grow and ripen corn in 7 days?
Why does harmony do what it does to us?
Why is a perfect 5th so perfect?
Why can I compose something and only find out months later what what I composed was actually about?
Why does the human heart beat try to synchronise itself with the tempo of what it is listening to?
So. Let’s tackle a topic that some people find awkward, shall we? Okay. Here we go.
Same sex marriage. Not really a tricky subject for me per say, given that I am an out lesbian, but, with all of the stuff that has been going on with my home state (Colorado) and North Carolina lately, I’d say that it is a viable topic to talk about.
I, personally was out raged at the preposition to ban civil unions for homosexuals entirely. With the rate we’re going at there, I’d say that in the future, homosexuality could become illegal, which would just be crazy. In my opinion, I was born this way. It has been proven to be genetic. My mom’s not too happy about it at all, but hey, it is what it is.
All I have ever wanted to do (and what I have dreamed of since I was a little girl,) was my wedding day. I used to make plans in my 3rd grade wide ruled notebook about what kind of cake I would have, and what my dress would be like and who would be in the procession. Now I can see that it won’t ever happen that way. There may not be any signing of a marriage certificate like there was at my dad and step-mother’s wedding. And that, well, it crushed me a little.
All in all, I have never been so disappointed in my state.
That’s all for now.
So, this is what happens when my thoughts come out on paper and the normal intervals without any prior filtration.
I am looking out my window at the sprinkler running, casually dripping droplets of water out onto thirsty blades of grass. I can hear the grass rejoicing in merry tune; a folk tune that only I can here within the catacombs of my brain. It’s exactly 5:29 pm, and my mom is making noodles for dinner.
On my bookshelf currently, is The Hunchback of Notre Dame, which reminds me of Charles Dickens, who was paid by the word, and in order to make his money, he described things, anything, in great detail so that one chapter would be about a chair in a room. Am I like that? Do I waste ink? No… silly me, I am writing this in pencil! Wasting words then? Just maybe? I don’t think Charles Dickens ever wasted words… Victor Hugo is my favorite author.
Okay. So. Here’s the deal. The other day, one of my best friends found out that someone had made a hate page on Facebook about her. Needless to say, she was absolutely devastated, though she isn’t one to openly show emotions like that at school, and even then, it’s only to her really close friends. It was really silly.
When I found out, two thoughts went through my mind:
1) Facebook is dumb
2) What on God’s good green earth would compel someone to do something like that? That’s downright low! Lower than whale poop and whale poop is at the bottom of the ocean.
So, I was ticked. To the point that I was shaking and everything. I really care about this girl and whenever someone messes with one of my friends, that means instantly that they are messing with me too. I promised this here friend of mine that if necessary, I would blow this thing way out of proportion to get her the justice that she so rightfully deserves. This is a major form of cyber bullying, and I will not tolerate it.
The only thing that made me even angrier, is the fact that our high school’s administration thought that simply sitting down and having a “talk” with her and the alleged bully would resolve the entire thing. It won’t. I think they know it. My friend was emotionally disturbed by the entire incident. It was gross. It was mean, and it was simply abhor able. The person who made that hate page, will no longer be in contact with me or her.
So, friends, what is the moral of this story?
Words hurt. Words can even kill. I mean—look at all of our gay kids, killing themselves because of someone’s bigoted view point on life. In fact, sometimes their bullies even think that they would be better off dead than alive because all they are doing are polluting the world.
So, lets all make a resolution, right here, and right now, to end this. Let’s all watch what comes out of our mouths. We might just save a life.
Music. Music is the soul of nations. Music is the language we use when we can no longer speak. It’s what fills those empty gaps of silence when words are no longer relevant, like a tender kiss. Music is the blood spilling from the veins of the fiddler, hunched, unconscious over the sink; The screams from the friend who finds her to begin pleading with her very soul that her heart will keep beating, as if the liquid mess could somehow pass the message along.
Music is me. It’s what flows through my veins on those warm kiwi evenings, when I sit alone, on top of cliffs, listening to the waves crash below me; an accompanist to my one-person orchestra. I am music. We sing because cannot speak anymore, and we play because we can no longer feel. Song is where we are united, no accents, no skin, no past to judge upon. And that song, the song of the soul, is spontaneous.
My children will grow up hearing both of their mothers say “Practice harder!”
“Aww. Momma! Why?” They’ll whine
“Because,” I’ll reply, “One day it might be all you got left.”
