This is it. Some writers hit the writer's block at times of their work - I live it. I mean, it's not like I write a lot or anything but I simply cannot put the pencil down on it. So I've decided the best way to remove the block is to start by writing about it.
You see, my old style of writing has always been one laden with grammatical errors, they used to be shorter and not filled with so many words, and they were also easier to digest, I guess. It's true, I've been influenced Chiling. You read someone's work, you absorb the language, and then it goes out in words. That happened too when I read Poe's work, and out came an adventurous work of an adventure that (I have to think of another word for 'happened' here because I've already used 'happened' once in a sentence and my girlfriend never uses the same word twice in a sentence it would be such a disgrace wouldn't it so I check thesaurus.com) transpired in the earlier part of the day.
Well whatever transpired in the earlier part of today was no more interesting than whatever that had HAPPENED in the past month. Months, should I say. In the space of 30 days I have aged 30 days and yet gained 30 months in life with my experience of playing with an orchestra.
I would be boasting if I said I didn't feel nervous at all, but unfortunately I am boasting. I really didn't feel nervous at all - in fact Budianda can vouch I was joking with him till 3 minutes before I performed; in which then I only had myself to joke with. I took the stage, bowed, and did the best I could. The Maestro had told me that I wouldn't be performing any encores for today and so I nodded as obediently as I could because I didn't want to spoil anything before the performance.
My friends spoilt it for me after that by asking why I didn't do an encore. I could only bow sheepishly on-stage and mouth, "I can't do an encore today I'm sorry guys!!!" but I knew it wasn't my fault anyway. I had the Faure Impromptu right at my fingertips. That was that, and I met the President and his wife, Mrs Nathan.
The couple were alright, though I did feel a sense of concern as one would for one's grandparents, and I found myself stranded after the mission-of-affairs said, "Thank you very much." In official speech, "Thank you very much" meant "You can f*** off now", but oh well, that I did.
It's funny how everything moves so fast when you're at the top of the world. Tchaikovsky's 6th symphony finished in 2 minutes, and I was out by the 3rd, meeting people again, people like my friends and my dad and Chiling and Dr Hecht. They have been an immense source of support for my concert. Thank you.
At this moment I find myself exhausted. I shall stop typing.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
These hours are for guitar.
It's a surprise that one can actually fall sick from lack of sleep and overwork. Even more surprising the hour I pick up my pen to write, the circumstances I'm in. None, I'm not in any special circumstance.
I'm in a literal dark, my laptop on the bed while I sit on the armchair. Behind me the completed exposition of my string trio in 6 pages and my sketchbook which holds the first page of my Bach assignment. A fact that soon most of my friends would know is that I have started taking composition lessons. My teacher was pretty impressed, and challenged me to write a string trio as an assignment. I'm planning for you, James and Wynne to play it, extremely Mozart-y, definitely laughable.
Now this is audience interaction to the max. Happy 5th month!
Back to a general audience which numbers at one.
Life is way too short. I wish I could compose, teach, practise in one day; but you need to devote at least 3 hours to each activity. I have evidently lost my blogging touch - I feel like a Neanderthal attempting to blog, and the long curly hair doesn't help. The dentist said, "you have long and pretty eyelashes that girls would kill for". That's about it.
That's really about it.
These hours are for guitar.
I'm in a literal dark, my laptop on the bed while I sit on the armchair. Behind me the completed exposition of my string trio in 6 pages and my sketchbook which holds the first page of my Bach assignment. A fact that soon most of my friends would know is that I have started taking composition lessons. My teacher was pretty impressed, and challenged me to write a string trio as an assignment. I'm planning for you, James and Wynne to play it, extremely Mozart-y, definitely laughable.
Now this is audience interaction to the max. Happy 5th month!
Back to a general audience which numbers at one.
Life is way too short. I wish I could compose, teach, practise in one day; but you need to devote at least 3 hours to each activity. I have evidently lost my blogging touch - I feel like a Neanderthal attempting to blog, and the long curly hair doesn't help. The dentist said, "you have long and pretty eyelashes that girls would kill for". That's about it.
That's really about it.
These hours are for guitar.
Friday, March 19, 2010
a darker side of love
"Hey, are you free this afternoon or now?"
"Yeah sure, why?"
"Come to PR2."
And so we launched into a sight-reading session of Claude Bolling's Jazz Trio for Cello, Piano, and Bass (with Drums). Just a couple of movements, a Romantique and a Gallope, just enough for Duncan to highly doubt we were sight-reading and spray vulgarities when he finally believed. The cellist in this performance is James, a trusted and honorable friend, faithful fan of the Arsenal.
I have always felt like I'm in a web interlinked of human relationships since the start of 2010 in YST. Everyone is connected with each other, some are scorned at, some are cheered for.
My heart downed a little when I saw her in class today. She wore a blue T-shirt, and as usual, came in with her boyfriend into class. Not today, no, there weren't enough seats right at the end of the semi-circle, so you would have to sit separately, says Ty. It's alright, it's alright - an awkward silence commences and then embarassed shuffling from the spectators.
His tempers are fiercesome, a force I have witnessed myself. I enter the 3rd floor through the main lifts, and I hear a terrifying scraping sound coming from my 1 o'clock [from the glass doors of the 3rd level by the lifts]. The sounds seem to come right from the 1st lane, but the 2nd lane proved also to be negative. By the time I reach Ensemble Room 2, I hear a distinct voice sounding like a cross between an orang-utan cry and tearing iron-sheets. It slowly morphs into Hokkien, before revealing itself to be Bahasa Indonesia. But what truly frightens me was that I saw him first before knowing the language he spoke.
By the time I turn the corner, I try to wrestle with the fact that he was shouting at the doors of Ensemble Room 4, engaging in lively banter with wood. Later I realized he was shouting at the poor girl and subsequently the even poorer 2nd pianist through the doors.
A most complicated story, but fascinating nonetheless. An act of poor, irrational, immature, jealous-ridden judgement.
I shy away from the scene.
It's her left arm. Those bruises, terrible terrible bruises. Where else could they have come from?
"Yeah sure, why?"
"Come to PR2."
And so we launched into a sight-reading session of Claude Bolling's Jazz Trio for Cello, Piano, and Bass (with Drums). Just a couple of movements, a Romantique and a Gallope, just enough for Duncan to highly doubt we were sight-reading and spray vulgarities when he finally believed. The cellist in this performance is James, a trusted and honorable friend, faithful fan of the Arsenal.
I have always felt like I'm in a web interlinked of human relationships since the start of 2010 in YST. Everyone is connected with each other, some are scorned at, some are cheered for.
My heart downed a little when I saw her in class today. She wore a blue T-shirt, and as usual, came in with her boyfriend into class. Not today, no, there weren't enough seats right at the end of the semi-circle, so you would have to sit separately, says Ty. It's alright, it's alright - an awkward silence commences and then embarassed shuffling from the spectators.
His tempers are fiercesome, a force I have witnessed myself. I enter the 3rd floor through the main lifts, and I hear a terrifying scraping sound coming from my 1 o'clock [from the glass doors of the 3rd level by the lifts]. The sounds seem to come right from the 1st lane, but the 2nd lane proved also to be negative. By the time I reach Ensemble Room 2, I hear a distinct voice sounding like a cross between an orang-utan cry and tearing iron-sheets. It slowly morphs into Hokkien, before revealing itself to be Bahasa Indonesia. But what truly frightens me was that I saw him first before knowing the language he spoke.
By the time I turn the corner, I try to wrestle with the fact that he was shouting at the doors of Ensemble Room 4, engaging in lively banter with wood. Later I realized he was shouting at the poor girl and subsequently the even poorer 2nd pianist through the doors.
A most complicated story, but fascinating nonetheless. An act of poor, irrational, immature, jealous-ridden judgement.
I shy away from the scene.
It's her left arm. Those bruises, terrible terrible bruises. Where else could they have come from?
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
cloudy dreams
I dug my heels deep into the maple floor and pushed. An absurd sight, but my right hand held the cellphone close to my ear and wedged between my left arm and my body was the Scriabin score I held close to my heart. The Steinway rolled slowly in an awkward angle towards the window-pane.
I am in Ensemble Room 4.
I shifted the bench and sat down. I have never practised this way before with the piano beside the window, and I could see why I was going to practise in such a manner every time I get to use Ensemble Room 4. The world zipped past beside me. And the keys and the score, for once, looked so natural and bright, mine to read and keep.
The clouds stir overhead just after 4 pages. We hardly notice it, the scars that whip across the glass when the rain comes, tiny water droplets that fall with determination in a poised angle across the outer glass. Slashes and slashes that are more or less parallel, only a few slighted ones effected by diagonal drafts, each of them a surprise.
When you tell someone they appeared in your dreams the previous night, certain responses might pop up.
what "the fuck?" what the hell can i be doing in your dream?
well that means i have a special place in your "huh...serious or not?" heart then.
"...." i don't even know you that well.
Raymond and Budi appeared in my dreams yesterday, and they both sat like kids on the floor in Ensemble Room 6, just underneath the window sill.
"Ray, what pieces are they going to play for the conductor audition later?"
"Go do your research! They're playing Debussy piano concerto."
I woke up and told myself, dickhead, Debussy didn't write a piano concerto, though he wrote a Fantasy for piano and orchestra. Go do your own research, go to NS.
That was 5am.
It's 12pm now, and I got to have my lunch.
I am in Ensemble Room 4.
I shifted the bench and sat down. I have never practised this way before with the piano beside the window, and I could see why I was going to practise in such a manner every time I get to use Ensemble Room 4. The world zipped past beside me. And the keys and the score, for once, looked so natural and bright, mine to read and keep.
The clouds stir overhead just after 4 pages. We hardly notice it, the scars that whip across the glass when the rain comes, tiny water droplets that fall with determination in a poised angle across the outer glass. Slashes and slashes that are more or less parallel, only a few slighted ones effected by diagonal drafts, each of them a surprise.
When you tell someone they appeared in your dreams the previous night, certain responses might pop up.
what "the fuck?" what the hell can i be doing in your dream?
well that means i have a special place in your "huh...serious or not?" heart then.
"...." i don't even know you that well.
Raymond and Budi appeared in my dreams yesterday, and they both sat like kids on the floor in Ensemble Room 6, just underneath the window sill.
"Ray, what pieces are they going to play for the conductor audition later?"
"Go do your research! They're playing Debussy piano concerto."
I woke up and told myself, dickhead, Debussy didn't write a piano concerto, though he wrote a Fantasy for piano and orchestra. Go do your own research, go to NS.
That was 5am.
It's 12pm now, and I got to have my lunch.
with children
It's like how he put it in class today - a one month break, followed by another episode, a continuation of the previous episode. A long hiatus for me, and I suddenly feel the urge to type again.
Somebody told me when I was in Secondary 2 that I looked like a puppy in my EZ-link card. Just a week ago Budi told me I look like a dog in my NUS card. I confirmed this with Chi Ling.
Just that I don't bark.
Have I grown more cynical of the blogging world? I have found increasingly less reason to blog, increasingly less reason why I should share my thoughts and life with my friends. After all, we all have to keep some secrets one way or another. Yet every time my fingers land on the keyboard, my emotions spill out through my digits,
converted into binary digits,
appear as pixelated digits
on the digital screen.
Do children love dogs? They might be afraid at first, but if the dog doesn't bark or bite, it might be love at first sight. I have seen it with my own eyes - a boy forever drawn into a lifetime of hatred with dogs when he totters towards the beagle, him leading his mother, and his outstretched arm moving towards the...
a deep-throated raw WOOF! And he stabs the air with a piercing scream, withdrawing and hugging his mum and suffocating himself in the fabric of her shirt, interrupted only by gasping breaths, more ammunition for the long-drawn wails. The beagle will cry too.
Just that I don't bark.
I give them my winsome smile (highly debatable, it borders on the insane), they wave, then I wave back enthusiastically. If we aren't separated by a closing lift door, they would climb over and scream, "Jon-jon GOR GOR!" and settle on my lap. I recall Megan. She sets up her shop in Lakeside, and I am her only customer. I take her very seriously, because she takes it very seriously also. She tells me the chocolate strawberry cake (though it is seriously a pumpkin cracker) costs 1400 points and that I would have to buy it. I would have brought supply-and-demand into the picture if she were not only 5. I buy it, and she tells me I have only 600 points left.
Then she takes back the strawberry chocolate milk cake.
I don't bark. She tells me the chocolate strawberry milk cake costs 1400 points and that I have to buy it.
"But Megan, Gor-gor only has 200 points. How?"
"Never mind, you just take it. I give it to you for free!"
":) thank you"
Will she remember me? Perhaps not. When she grows older, she would never remember this very shop she set up for free, without license, without payment, without capital, with just beautiful imagination and a very good customer. I have made her day happy, and she has made me even more so. It's not every day you get off with a free chocolate strawberry milk cake biscuit.
Somebody told me when I was in Secondary 2 that I looked like a puppy in my EZ-link card. Just a week ago Budi told me I look like a dog in my NUS card. I confirmed this with Chi Ling.
Just that I don't bark.
Have I grown more cynical of the blogging world? I have found increasingly less reason to blog, increasingly less reason why I should share my thoughts and life with my friends. After all, we all have to keep some secrets one way or another. Yet every time my fingers land on the keyboard, my emotions spill out through my digits,
converted into binary digits,
appear as pixelated digits
on the digital screen.
Do children love dogs? They might be afraid at first, but if the dog doesn't bark or bite, it might be love at first sight. I have seen it with my own eyes - a boy forever drawn into a lifetime of hatred with dogs when he totters towards the beagle, him leading his mother, and his outstretched arm moving towards the...
a deep-throated raw WOOF! And he stabs the air with a piercing scream, withdrawing and hugging his mum and suffocating himself in the fabric of her shirt, interrupted only by gasping breaths, more ammunition for the long-drawn wails. The beagle will cry too.
Just that I don't bark.
I give them my winsome smile (highly debatable, it borders on the insane), they wave, then I wave back enthusiastically. If we aren't separated by a closing lift door, they would climb over and scream, "Jon-jon GOR GOR!" and settle on my lap. I recall Megan. She sets up her shop in Lakeside, and I am her only customer. I take her very seriously, because she takes it very seriously also. She tells me the chocolate strawberry cake (though it is seriously a pumpkin cracker) costs 1400 points and that I would have to buy it. I would have brought supply-and-demand into the picture if she were not only 5. I buy it, and she tells me I have only 600 points left.
Then she takes back the strawberry chocolate milk cake.
I don't bark. She tells me the chocolate strawberry milk cake costs 1400 points and that I have to buy it.
"But Megan, Gor-gor only has 200 points. How?"
"Never mind, you just take it. I give it to you for free!"
":) thank you"
Will she remember me? Perhaps not. When she grows older, she would never remember this very shop she set up for free, without license, without payment, without capital, with just beautiful imagination and a very good customer. I have made her day happy, and she has made me even more so. It's not every day you get off with a free chocolate strawberry milk cake biscuit.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)