Missing Music

This semester has been somewhat of a trial, and my life has been completely consumed by that. My keyboard has sat forlornly in the corner of my room, serving as little more than a very expensive hat rack. Ironically, I have three times the amount of music classes, and even my non-music classes I end up writing papers about music, or musicians...yet my own music is on mute. I am mildly excited that I'm honing my skills as a classically trained musician, but at the same time, I think I'm loosing the creative edge that was really the driving force behind my musical passion. ...

Here's an excerpt from a musical paper, for a non-musical class:

Music is intricately woven into the fabric of my existence. I sang before I could speak, I read music before I could read words, and I have played classical piano for as long as I can remember. Though I no longer attempt to tackle classical sonatas, I have played the instrument for so long that it has become an extension of my being.

It is difficult to find a word that adequately describes my relationship with music. I often used to say that music was my first lover. Later, I felt like it was my child. After pouring the crux of my soul into the melodies, harmonies, theoretical structure of a symphony, it is difficult to consider the fruit of your labor as anything else. Sometimes, the dulcet tones of a piano nocturne are comforting and supportive like my mother. Other times-- like a father-- the regimented marches are a source of discipline and strength. This fairly complex relationship with music has essentially deafened my ears to genres. There are only two types of music: good and bad. The only way to tell the difference is to listen.

Speaking of good music..
I'm listening to "Who Killed Amanda Palmer" and its a promising record, her piano playing has become more and more intricate with each CD. The tracks are slower, richer, and still irresistibly charming. Perhaps, I will find inspiration somewhere between her quirky squeaks and epic piano playing. If not, I know I'll enjoy the ride.

(That's what she said.)

Pandas Should Die

I’ve never really considered myself to be a “treehugger.” I’m one of the few people who say,“Hell, if the pandas want to neglect their children. They deserve to die.” However, as I’ve matured, I have gained a certain appreciation for nature. Maybe maturation is the wrong concept, considering that most of this “appreciation” stems from Captain Planet, and the “Spring Cleaning” Episode of Rocko’s Modern Life. However, there is just something fairly impressive about Nature’s perfect balance of order and chaos—at least until mankind decided to rape her and bleed her of resources. And it’s not until we, ourselves, come face-to-face with extinction that anyone decides to do anything about it. Needless to say, I am attempting to “go green.” I won’t pretend like my piddly yaffa block crate of recyclables, my energy smart light bulbs, or my alternate forms of transportation are going to make much of a difference. I’m not that naïve. I do know that I’m not the only trying to “make a difference” and, hell, if there’s some chance that it might work, there’s no harm in trying. So with that mentality, I recycle my liquor bottles, only buy one light bulb every nine years, and ride my bike to class (that last one is more to combat the drastic repercussions of chronic fat-assery than save the environment).

That said, if everyone hit maximum “greenness” would it really be enough to save the planet? I kind of doubt it. It might be a case of severe pessimism, or the higher level science professors that I’ve seen give this strange expression that is a fairly homogenous mixture of “I-have-no-idea-how-this-can-be-fixed” and “everyone-on-earth-is-fucked.” Now, if this was only one professor—I’d write it off as a fluke, or a symptom of his own ineptitude. But at least five of these guys, probably the smartest science professors I’ve encountered—from different states, countries and concentrations all have that same expression. My physics professor was seriously –like serious as a one-balled-man getting testicular cancer---discussing the physics of what a colony in space would have need sustain human life. Because and I quote, “Unless something changes, we wont be able to stay here much longer.” The nerd in me exclaimed, “Space colonies! The Colonies would revolt against the Earth, and the earthly born would be forced to unify against a single enemy---with giant robots!!” The realist in me was a bit shaken at what my children my have to deal with. The ADHD kid in me proceeded to contemplate the loose use of the term “Chiral” in the Nintendo Wii version of the game Trauma Center. What the hell do they mean by “Positive Chiral Reaction?” The body has many natural chiral molecules in it! Like, uh, amino acids for one. So…I’m awkwardly hacking open some emotional teen because she has amino acids in her system? Did I answer myself? No, just started drawing a picture of myself, speech bubble reading, “Pay attention!” Dead ass. Here it is.

"ADD:a disease with initials--that's the worst kind."

Hello, My name is....

I’ve always hated introductions. Something about them just seems awkward and rehearsed. It is kind of like when virgins have sex for the first time. There is that characteristically awkward fumbling, the preconceived notions and fears—not to mention the things you do (or say) because you casually leafed through some lewd article in Cosmo. Awkwardness proceeds to ensue, then for a moment it’s painful until something gives—and someone’s left bleeding.

Useless similes aside, I still hate introductions—and this is still my awkward, mildly tense blog entry. Hopefully you won’t leave feeling sore, sticky and disappointed. That said, even as I type this I contemplating the various topics I could cover. There is politics. But let’s be honest, how many (direction)-winged political “analysts” can the cybernation handle? There is the “I’m-an-opinionated-student-without-any-actual-
credentials-or-grammatical-skills-but-I’m-undeniably-right-all-the-time” route. You know, for the crowd that wears wools scarves in August and should probably pay rent to Starbucks.

Bile crept up my throat as I typed that.

I could rant about various things that “grind my gears”, which I probably will—but that seems like a fairly worthless contribution to the blogging world. I mean, unless I’m an animated squirrel, with a voice treated with Helium—it won’t be very funny…or interesting. But since there are no set rules, and even the ones that are set—tell you now to follow them, I suppose I’ll just see where my fingers take me. They tend to know what I like. Giggidy.

~ rogue.