And Will It Be Worth It, After All?

I am not myself.
Of course, that's the easy part of the problem.
The harder bit: who am I, then?
And why?

It's not like I've changed. I just feel different. Not myself. It's really quite distressing. Especially because I don't know why. It just happened. Like a camera shutter. Or the drop of a pen in a silent hospital ward.

Click.

It's not even depression. God knows I can recognize that feeling. This is different. Better. And worse.

I've spent the last hour and a half mulling this over. This feeling. This state of being. And I finally landed on a good medium of definition. "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock."

There's nothing particularly wrong with Prufrock, he's just unhappy. And why shouldn't he be? What does he have to be happy about?

What does anyone have to be happy about?

I know that I should be thankful. I'm at college, getting my shot at a better life than my parents have. I don't want for much. I have food and a warm place to sleep. I have clothes, a phone, an iPod, and a nice MacBook with which I can complain for the reading pleasure of the world--should they choose to read it. I'm hopelessly in love with the girl of my dreams, and although we aren't physically together, we talk all the time and see each other every weekend. My family supports me 110%, and I'm getting AMAZING grades. Better than I ever got in high school.

So why am I so restless?

I think it's because I hate predictability. I hate a routine. Even though all the things on my to-do list are wonderful, the fact that I'm stuck in this rut kills me.

Monday-Friday: Go to class. Do homework. Eat. Sleep.
Friday-Sunday:Spend time with my girlfriend. Maybe do homework.

I like college, I do. It's certainly better than high school. And I love my girlfriend with all my heart. We both know that we're about two years and the cost of a ring from being engaged.

I just want more. I want to see more. I want to do more. I want to be more.

I see it coming for me, and it scares me. I see the middle-class existence. I see the white picket fence. It's around a house that's nice, but not anything spectacular.

The hardest part is that there's nothing wrong with that scenario. A large part of me wants it. It's just that little Prufrock in my ear, whispering. "What then? What will drive you once you have these things? Why will you be?"

I don't know.

Is it possible to have all that one needs? We talk about that in my Classics class. The Greeks thought that a constant state of want was a defining characteristic of humanity itself. In other words, our desire for more is what makes us human.

I'm not sure that I believe that. After all, that's why Penelope and Odysseus are kept apart for twenty years: the gods couldn't allow them to be too happy. And I certainly don't want to spend two decades away from Emily.

Maybe the Greeks meant to say that we are defined by our dissatisfaction. That, after all, could lead us to want more. It also takes into account Prufrock. He doesn't really want anything, he's just saddened at the limitations and length of his, a human, life.

And so, I resign myself to my own death, whenever it shall come for me. And until then, I will cherish every moment with those that I love, and revel in my dislike for those I do not love (for that is human, too). I will just live. After all, what else is there to do. I have a small part to play. Not many lines, and very little stage time. In the words of T.S. Eliot (once T. Stearns, like J. Alfred):

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old… I grow old…
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

Roky Horror Picture Show...Without the Rose-Tint

I was originally going to put this up immediately, but I decided to wait for a bit, and let my ideas stew. They've stewed. But before I begin, I would like to make it clear that I am not, I repeat, I AM NOT attempting to make generalizations about all Rocky Horror fans. I'm merely commenting on the group of people that I met at the showing I attended. Since this incident, I have seen the film by myself, and found it very funny. I would even like one day to go to another, better, live show. So, without any more disclaimers...

DEVIANCE AND DESPERATION AT THE ROCKY HORROR PICTURE SHOW

On my very first Halloween at the University of Oregon, a friend of mine, Shona, insisted that I go to the showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Since she was paying, I consented. So, after giving her about fifteen minutes to get into her costume--she was a nurse, no one from the movie--off we went, in the cold, to the student union.

Now, several friends of mine are Rocky Horror enthusiasts, so it was always shameful to admit that I had never seen this apparent landmark of film. This association also made me privy to many stories, namely the "de-virging" ones. For those unfamiliar, all attendees who have never seen The Rocky Horror Picture Show are all but forced to take part in a ritualistic ceremony to induct them into the cult. First, they are all marked with a "v" for virgin--usually with red lipstick. Then, before the start of the show, they are humiliated in some sexually suggestive way.

Shona had been to see a live show during her summer in Berlin, but that did not stop the doorman from marking us both with V's--Shona's on her chest, mine on both my cheeks. We took our seats and made small talk for a while, looking around for any familiar faces. Actually, we sat there for far longer than "a while." It was nearly half an hour before the show started.

Honestly, I would rather it have never started at all. The performing group hosting the screening was called "Forbidden Fruits." I believe they were alluding to something sexual, but I would they were forbidden for the greater good. Out on to the stage came a panoply of scantily dressed "animals" trying their best to be sexy. Their best, as I'm sure is obvious, was pretty damn bad. The dog was cute, but not dressed like a whore, and also not particularly ugly. My personal favorite was the goat. She was a great mound of a girl, with thin blonde hair. She had a goatee and slight mustache, although I'm not sure they were fake.

After their introduction, the "animals" traipsed out into the audience and proceeded to give people lap dances. Mine was from a huge, fat, smelly, male angel (which is not even an animal). After that came the de-virging.

At this particular showing, a slight majority of the people in attendance were "virgins". So we were all called up, all hundred of us. Then they pulled us down in groups of ten or twenty to be humiliated. The first group received spankings from a man with a dildo. The second group was divided. One half had to hold Ho-Ho's in front of themselves as pastry penises while the other half raced to devour them. Next came animal sex impersonations, followed by cartoon character orgasms. Then, Shona and I were called up, though in separate groups.

Once lined up, the emcees took cans of whipped cream and sprayed it across the chests of the ladies in Shona's line. The people in my line then had to put their hands behind their backs and lick the whipped cream off. The chest I stuck my face in was rather flat--pun completely intended. To top it off, it was chocolate whipped cream, which made for a sticky mess.

After being "de-virged" (a phrase which drastically overplays the momentousness of the occasion), Shona and I took our seats. Shortly thereafter, the movie finally started, after a whopping TWO HOUR "de-virging". At this point, I was actually looking forward to finally seeing the film. In keeping with the theme of the evening, I was sorely disappointed.

I knew that in these live showings, there were "shout-outs" that the emcee did during the movie, much like Mystery Science Theatre. At least, that was the theory. In action, however, it was far less entertaining. The first problem was the pantomime. In front of the screen, members of Forbidden Fruits acted out the film. The film that was playing right behind them. The film that they were blocking, as a matter of fact. Often, though, the acting attempted to steal the attention. For example, the opening number, "Science Fiction/Double Feature", is performed by lips on an otherwise black screen. Staging problems apparently insurmountable, two performers decided to perform a striptease in front of the screen. They were not attractive. Also, there were minors in the room. Silly me, I thought that was illegal.

The second, and perhaps more pervasive, problem were the shout-outs. Perhaps a better term would be "interjections". They are designed to augment the movie, but at this particular showing all cast members not naked SHOUTED OVER THE TOP OF THE DIALOGUE. THE ENTIRE TIME. It was absolutely infuriating, especially when I had never seen the film, and when NONE OF THE COMMENTS WERE FUNNY! I speak only for myself, but the words "slut" and "asshole" never make me laugh by virtue of their own existence. Perhaps the most obnoxious instance was after the "Sweet Transvestite" number. As Tim Curry rides back to the lab in his elevator, the cast chanted, "Oral sex, anal sex, whips, and chains." I still don't understand why. Absolutely NOTHING was happening on-screen. Apparently it was funny. I guess I just didn't get the joke. Then.

It was after Shona and I left--just after that incident--that I began to understand it all. I was under the impression that this performing group was made up of people who really liked the movie, and wanted to augment the viewing experience for others. That, however, could not have been less the truth. The Forbidden Fruits people are, for the most part (as far as I could tell), social misfits trying desperately to find a social scene to which they can belong. Perhaps that was the allure of the RHPS crowd. They seem so accepting. However, they aren't. It's a group made up of inadequate asses being as outlandish and abnormal as possible. It's ingenious, really, because anyone that's repulsed by this behavior can't really say so. If they do, then they are called "prudish", "conservative", "fascist", or "repressed". These labels are the natural defense of these "Forbidden Fruits" types. They are insecure, so they retreat into the only social group that comes with it's own defense mechanism.

The whole experience was terribly depressing. I watched as a girl of no older than sixteen strutted around in a teddy and ballet shoes. Try as she might, though, she couldn't hide from reality. She showed her true self the whole time: an awkward girl at an awkward age trying desperately to escape her stringy, brace-faced reality. These people are no more deviant than I am (and, between you and I, sexual adventurism is a better discussion topic than practice in my book). They merely put on that facade to hide from the fact that they don't know who they are, or that they don't like the way other people view them. Personal freedom is something I support whole-heartedly, but these people aren't themselves. They show it every step of the way. Very few of them were comfortable; they exuded self-consciousness the entire time they performed. To that girl: you didn't fool me. And you didn't fool yourself, either. We could all tell. You'll lose the braces one day, and you'll get that last growth spurt, and you'll look like an adult.

And to the rest of the "deviants" performing that evening: You should be positively ashamed of yourselves. This behavior is real, not a joke. And whether or not it's healthy is irrelevant, because that's not what you're doing. You're self-denying. And that is far, far worse than liking kinky sex. So please, grow up. The Rocky Horror Picture Show is entertaining, sure. But it's a movie. Real people aren't really like that. Ever. So do yourselves a favor, and actually try to find who you are. Because we all know that this isn't it.

Some Poetry, For the Hell of It

She Weeps over Rahoon
James Joyce

Rain on Rahoon falls softly, softly falling,
Where my dark lover lies.
Sad is his voice that calls me, sadly calling,
At grey moonrise.

Love, hear thou
How soft, how sad his voice is ever calling,
Ever unanswered, and the dark rain falling,
Then as now.

Dark too our hearts, O love, shall lie and cold
As his sad heart has lain
Under the moongrey nettles, the black mould
And muttering rain.


maggie and millie and molly and may
e.e. cummings

maggie and millie and molly and may
went down to the beach (to play one day)

and maggie discovered a shell that sang
so sweetly she couldn't remember her troubles,and

millie befriended a stranded star
whose rays five languid fingers were;

and molly was chased by a horrible thing
which raced sideways while blowing bubbles:and

may came home with a smooth round stone
as small as a world and as large as alone.

For whatever we lose(like a you or a me)
It's always ourselves we find in the sea.


Psalm
Stuart Kestenbaum

The only psalm I had memorized was the 23rd
and now I find myself searching for the order
of the phrases knowing it ends with surely
goodness and mercy will follow me
all the days of my life and I will dwell
in the house of the Lord forever only I remember
seeing a new translation from the original Hebrew
and forever wasn't forever but a long time
which is different from forever although
even a long time today would be
good enough for me even a minute entering
the House would be good enough for me,
even a hand on the door or dropping today's
newspaper on the stoop or looking in the windows
that are reflecting this morning's clouds in first light.

God Bless America
Harold Pintner (author of The Dumbwaiter, for those that were there)

Here they go again,
The Yanks in their armoured parade
Chanting their ballads of joy
As they gallop across the big world
Praising America's God.

The gutters are clogged with the dead
The ones who couldn't join in
The others refusing to sing
The ones who are losing their voice
The ones who've forgotten the tune.

The riders have whips which cut.
Your head rolls onto the sand
Your head is a pool in the dirt
Your head is a stain in the dust
Your eyes have gone out and your nose
Sniffs only the pong of the dead
And all the dead air is alive
With the smell of America's God.

...and finally, a few lines from T.S. Eliot (my favorite poet), taken from his last published poem, "Little Gidding":

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.

Some Friendly Advice

People from high school keep asking me for advice. It's weird. Giving it, I mean. It makes me feel old, which is funny, because two of the people in particular are just as old as I am, what with the skipping a year and all.

I wonder if I'm qualified to give advice? Is there a qualification? One friend asked me about her love life. I've only had two girlfriends. I ignored the first, and the second and I are...different, in good and bad ways. I am by no means an expert. So why does she think I am?

The other friend was asking me about college, and, implicit in the question, life direction, a little. How the fuck should I know? All I can do is tell you what it's like here, and now. I can also regurgitate for you the shit that people told me? Do I think I'm doing the right thing? Yeah. Do I hope? Yeah. Do I know? ...no. I don't know.

Does anybody? Does anybody know if they've ever done the right thing? How can you look back at your choices and know? I mean, to know that, you would have to know what life would have been like if you had made different choices every step of the way. I don't know. I just hope. I just hope like hell.

So I guess that's what I can tell everybody. I bet that this path that I'm on will get me where I want to go (although where that is...I'm not sure). I hope so, at any rate. And you are more than welcome to hope with me.

Album Review: No World for Tomorrow

And so, ladies and gents (few of you as there are), welcome to my inaugural album review. It's only here because I am particularly excited about this one. I love this band so much that when I think about them, I get what a friend affectionately calls "joy seizures." I shake uncontrollably. But I will try my best to be unbiased, as I review...

ARTIST: Coheed and Cambria
ALBUM: Good Apollo, I'm Burning Star IV, Vol. 2: No World for Tomorrow

After the loss of half the band, the restoration of a quarter, and the addition of a new member, progressive rock's poster boys Coheed and Cambria have come out with their new album, Good Apollo, I'm Burning Star IV, Vol. 2: No World for Tomorrow, or NWFT, for short. This album brings to a close the epic tale of Claudio Kilgannon, son of the ill-fated (and title) characters Coheed and Cambria. Never to be outdone, C&C's latest album ends with--what else?--the destruction of the universe.

Intriguing (and confusing) side-story notwithstanding, the music is an issue in itself. Like any good progressive band, Coheed's music does just that: progresses. From their decidedly heavy debut, Second Stage Turbine Blade, the band's sound has changed drastically. No longer dirty and grunge-infused, the band's next release, In Keeping Secrets of Silent Earth: 3 brought them the attentions of Columbia records, who distributed the band's next album, Good Apollo, I'm Burning Star IV, Vol. 1: From Fear Through the Eyes of Madness, with the epic "Welcome Home" and inventive "Willing Well" quartet at the close of the album. Many fans are disappointed in this, Coheed's fourth release. They've lost a lot of their edge, it is true. However, "edge" in Coheed's case was just poor musicianship, slowly leaving as these boys grow to fit the mantle handed them last fall by Alternative Press: This generation's Led Zeppelin.

Erroneous comparison? Perhaps not. Frontman Claudio Sanchez certainly has as unique a voice as Plant's, and both he and guitarist Travis Stever are no slouches. They are certainly better than their contemporaries in their genre, as was Jimmy Paige.

If any album has the ability to show the world what Sanchez and Stever can do, it is this one. Unlike the other releases, NWFT has solos aplenty, and even the background riffs can be mind blowing (see "No World for Tomorrow," the title track). Their classic rock emulation becomes evident in "Gravemakers & Gunslingers" above all. It's hard to think of a band to cite...think the four-on-the-floor feel of a good Lynard Skynard song, or Thin Lizzy, but with flashy guitar to shame Rush. Speaking of Geddy Lee, the next track, "Justice in Murder," out-Geddy's the shit out of him. Nobody does poppy, layered falsetto like Claudio Sanchez.

NWFT musically goes places no other Coheed Album goes. Second Stage is the same from beginning to end, a cohesive sound. Album by album, Coheed has been working its way down the spectrum to NWFT. It holds itself together beautifully by taking risks. The last song, "On the Brink," has Sanchez singing with just a piano and a cello for a while, and he goes totally a cappella for a few bars in "Radio Bye-Bye." There's some blues guitar and piano thrown about, along with some very IKSSE:3-like drive on "No World for Tomorrow." The whole album utilizes more non-traditional instruments to great effect. The mis-mash of styles and sounds is quintessentially Coheed, and that's what makes them good. They go places that other bands are afraid to go. They don't worry about "a sound" to adhere to. And that's what gives them the best shot at that Zeppelin mantle. Their sound isn't genre-bound. They take risks. They make music.

Songs to Listen to:
...the whole album, preferably, but if not:
"Feathers"
"Mother Superior"
"Gravemakers & Gunslingers"
"Radio Bye-Bye"

A Prayer

Perhaps one day, God will grant me
a gift
of words.
And then no longer will my pen
put onto the cave walls
only shadows.

Perhaps one day, my words
will find
a vessel.
And then no longer will these
words, pink and new,
reach no one.

Perhaps one day, my words
will form
a bridge.
And then no longer will this sea
of silence imprison me
all alone.

Perhaps one day, this world
will burn
and die.
And then we can remake it,
new and clean,
with words.

A Reflection on My Current Dillema

Today was very interesting. I had a terrible fight with my girlfriend (precipitated by my irresponsibility, as usual, but digressing into something far worse), but we made it through without breaking up for the evening, which I think is a step in the right direction. (She'll read this at some point, so I love you, babe.) After that, I had a fantastic conversation with a person whom I grossly underestimated.

This friend has been going through a terrible, terrible breakup, two years long, I believe. Earlier today her...boy...finally did the best thing ever: he smashed her poor heart. Horrible though it may seem, the trauma of the experience has finally set her on the path to getting over him (which she needed, because she could do a lot better).

Another friend of mine has been in the messiest relationship-ish thing that I've ever witnessed in my life. She and her boyfriend are trying to reconcile their very differing views on their wants and needs in a partnership.

Both of these girls are incredible, smart, funny, engaging, and pretty. They could have their pick of the litter, really, but for reasons inexplicable to all involved, they let complete chumps break their hearts. It made me think of my own girlfriend, and why it is that we stay together.

Tonight, my friend (the first one) really put it in perspective. She said that the good things outweigh the bad, so it's worth it at the end of the day. She also assuaged my fear that changing each other was erroneous. She said to me, "The difference is that you're willing to change. You aren't forcing changes onto each other. You're compromising, not 'changing each other.'" I nearly kissed her. I have always been quite proud (perhaps too proud) of my knack for succinctness, but I could never defend my position with such lucidity before. Perhaps it just takes that little bit of distance for perspective.

As I was staring at the ceiling, I realized that love is a bitch. Literally. That's why Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of love, was so feared. The power that love holds over us is tremendous and terrible. When we think we have it in our hands, when we think we have mastered it, it slips away. It is only by humbling ourselves to the forces that govern love that we can attain anything worth having. My girlfriend and I are deeply in love, but we are just now realizing how difficult and frustrating a partnership can be. We argue, sometimes fight, but at the end of the day, I love her more than anything, and I think that she loves me too.

We toy with the idea of breaking up, because it seems like it would be easier sometimes. But again, the ancient Greeks warn us of the dangers of denying Aphrodite. When young Hippolytus swears off love, an enraged Aphrodite causes his step-mother Phaedra to fall in love with him. When Hippolytus turns Phaedra down, she accuses him of raping her, a crime for which Hippolytus pays with his life. All because he declared himself above the power of love.

Even though I sometimes feel like I can't even talk to my girlfriend anymore, I know that I don't want to be without her. I know that denying my feelings for her would be easier in a way, but the price that I would pay for spitting on love would be far greater than I can imagine. I don't necessarily believe in true love, but I believe that there is one person out there that matches you better than anyone else. I also believe that I have found that person, even though I'm only seventeen--but only for one more day.

And so, to my two friends, I wish one of you luck in finding the man of your dreams, because he's out there, waiting. And to the other, I hope that the man of your dreams wakes up and realizes that he is ruining the best thing he could ever hope to have. Even though you worry that you are messing things up, hon, he is the one that should be worried. You are amazing, and he's taking you for granted, just like you think you do to him.

And to the most important girl of all, I love you more than life. You are the reason the sun rises and sets every day, and without you, there would be nothing but night. I want to be with you forever. I want to grow old together. I want to hold our children, and their children, and (if God wills us lives so long) their children. But most of all, I want to hold you. Every day, for the rest of my life. No matter how long it takes to achieve that goal. I found a wonderful quote that summarizes our position: "I'd like to run away from you, but if you didn't come and find me...I would die."

The Value of Being Good and Pissed Off

Before I begin, allow me to draw your attention to the auspiciousness of this moment. I am now writing my second blog in a month. A big deal, I know. Feel free to congratulate me later.

So, I was with my girlfriend all weekend, and we had a great time reconciling and so forth. However, while we were busy reconciling, there was something very important that I was neglecting. My English 207 paper on Titus Andronicus. And so here it is, almost midnight, and I just finished. I started a little after seven. Of course, that's probably because I thought the paper had to be three to five pages. I was mistaken. The professor asked for five to seven. In a panic, I opened up my laptop and began typing away, armed with a pocket style manual and, of course, the text.

At about 9:00 I had a really nice introduction and thesis. My paragraph on Titus was good, my paragraph on Aaron the Moor only slightly less so. I was explaining a problem with Titus, that problem being excess. Titus, as a hero, doesn't garner any empathy from his audience because he is so aggrieved that no one can really sympathize. Aaron is a terrible villain because we don't know why he is so evil, so we don't care. Those points were easy to make.

My last supporting point discussed the play as a whole. I was planning on talking about the lack of catharsis due to the excessive violence, especially in the last act. I struggled with it. I fought with it. I revised, I re-wrote, I restructured, and I was still having a hard time getting the point to jump out clearly. And then I got pissed. I went off. And in the process, I did something that an English major--particularly a freshman--should never do.

I insulted William Shakespeare.

I read over the line-in-question a couple times. I gaped in horror at what I had done. I struggled to find a way to re-word it. But I couldn't. No matter how hard I tried, the way it appeared on the screen was the best way I could think to say what I meant. And then I realized. I meant to insult him. Because I was pissed off.

For those of you that have never been subjected to Titus Andronicus: fuck off. You have no idea how lucky you are. Titus Andronicus is without question the worst play I have ever read, Shakespeare or otherwise. It is mindless pulp fiction. For crying out loud, there are only about 23 speaking parts, and of those, half die. And Titus doesn't just kill his enemies, oh no. He kills Empress Tamora's sons first, and he decides to bake them into a pie and serve them to their mother before stabbing her. Even the pie isn't quite enough, because instead of just using their flesh for filling, Titus uses them to make the crust as well. He grinds their bones to powder, then uses their blood to make a paste that he bakes into a "coffin," or pie-crust. Of course, this is all told to the audience. After she digs in, Titus asks her husband, the Emperor Saturninus, if a victim of rape should be put out of her misery. When the Emperor says yes, Titus stabs his daughter Lavinia, who had her tongue cut out and her hands cut off after the Empress's sons-turned-pot pies raped her. The Emperor then says, "Like, Titus, why'd you stab your daughter?" (or something to that effect). To which Titus replies, "Her sons raped her after they killed your brother and had my sons beheaded. Then Titus stabs the Empress. Then Emperor Saturninus is like, "That's my wife, asshole," and he stabs Titus. Then Titus's son is like, "You stabbed my dad! That wasn't nice." Then he stabs the Emperor. Titus's son survives, but only because there really wasnt' anyone left to kill him.

That all takes up less than fifteen lines, the last three deaths only getting a line apiece. Normally, this would be sad, like in Hamlet, but here, I honestly didn't care less. Why? BECAUSE THE CHARACTERS AREN'T EVEN FUCKING PEOPLE! They are just poor representation of vices or emotions or ideals, terribly fleshed out, with one-dimensional depth and no real motivation, save two. IT IS THE STUPIDEST FUCKING PLAY I HAVE EVER READ! AND I DON'T GIVE A FLYING FUCK WHO WROTE IT! IT STILL SUCKS!

*Breathes heavily*

As you can tell, I still haven't gotten over what a colossal waste of time that play was for me. At the end of Oedipus Rex, I felt bad for him, although he was so stupid. At the end of Death of a Salesman, I was truly saddened by Willy's demise, even though I knew it was coming. However, at the end of Titus Andronicus, I wondered what took everyone so long. I honestly didn't care at all about the pie thing, and when Titus stabbed poor, soiled Lavinia, I started laughing hysterically. My laughter increased in intensity until the death of Saturninus, at which point I dropped the book on the floor and fell over on my bed, clutching at the stitch that had developed in my side. I then read it to my Chinese roommate, who had his own hysterical fit. He doesn't even speak English very well, and he thought it was pretty damn funny, too.

And so, William Shakespeare, your first tragedy is a steaming pile of shit. My dog could write better. You should have just drawn stick figures. They would have the same complexity, and it wouldn't take as long to watch them die. Don't misunderstand me. You are still the best author in the English language. However, you had a pretty rough start in the tragedy department.

I feel so much better now. Sometimes it just takes a good, long scream.

Or an angry and indignant blog post.

That, William, is catharsis.

A Rediscovery of Something Beautiful

So, deep down I'm a music major. I admit it. And today I was listening to some old choral music that, at one time, I obsessed over. My favorite new choral composer is probably Eric Whitacre, but I realized today that the prize for all-around favorite new kid on the block goes to another: Frank Ticheli. He is a prolific composer of wind ensemble music, notably the innovative settings of the old folk song "Shenendoah" and the timeless hymn "Amazing Grace." (On a sidenote, I've played both of those, and he writes beautiful alto saxophone solos...maybe I'm prejudiced.) Last March, I went to see the University of Oregon wind ensemble perform, and they played a piece of Ticheli's called "Sanctuary." Now, my other home boy, Eric Whitacre, composes for wind ensemble as well, but his pieces just aren't as good. He held the crown of best until I gave a listen to an oldie, but a goodie. But first, the back-story:

Last fall, after being in choir for all of two weeks, Mrs. Antonsen dragged me off to Willamette University for a men's choir festival. They gave us free CDs, and one of them was their Chamber Choir's best recording. It was a great album, containing works by my three favorite postmodern composers: Moses Hogan (he only does gospel, so he's not anywhere near the other two...but he DOES gospel), Eric Whitacre, and Frank Ticheli. Whitacre's "Cloudburst" really caught my attention, with its innovative techniques and radical chord changes. In fact, it overshadowed the quiet brilliance of Ticheli's piece, "There Will Be Rest." Don't misunderstand me. They are both amazing songs that bring me to tears regularly, but the message and the setting of Ticheli's (dare I say it) outstrip Whitacre's.

See, the problem is textual SETTING. Whitacre's music is beautiful, and he does such marvellous things with words, for example: in his setting of e.e. cummings's "i thank you God for most this amazing day" he makes the indefineable words "you" and "God" shimmer, at one point (for you music aficionados) having the first parts sing a Dm7 and the seconds sing an Em7, resulting in an entire octave. Every natural note. From D to D. Ballsy, and beautiful. However, most of Whitacre's songs are beautiful aurally, but convey no message. Ticheli, however... first, I'll show you the poem. It's by Sara Teasdale, with the same name as the piece.

There Will Be Rest
by Sara Teasdale

There will be rest, and sure stars shining
Over the roof-tops crowned with snow,
A reign of rest, serene forgetting,
The music of stillness holy and low.

I will make this world of my devising,
Out of a dream in my lonely mind,
I shall find the crystal of peace, -- above me
Stars I shall find.

A word about the author: Sara Teasdale suffered from severe clinical depression, and she ended up taking her own life. In fact, this is her last published poem.

Taking that into account, Ticheli's setting is all the more poignant. The quiet assertion of the title statement, the descent to the word "low" at the end of the first stanza...supurb. Then, at the final repetition of that line, the piece totally turns for a moment, declaring, announcing, the author's dominion over her surroundings. And then, suddenly, the cascading sound drops to nothing as "in my lonely mind" is nearly whispered. Perhaps my favorite moment in the piece is the last. It is first a prayer, and then, at the resolution, in a strong major chord, a promise, a vow, made especially moving at the thought that the author of the text did indeed make the world of her devising, and she did find her stars, when she ended her life.

Sorry about the esotericism. I couldn't help it. I haven't analyzed music for so long.

And again: Moses Hogan, Eric Whitacre, and Frank Ticheli. All worth many a listen.

I am the King of Too Little, Too Late

So, my girlfriend's dog died today, and where was I? At a get-together with some friends. Did I get up from our card game to console her? No. Did I leave the party earlier than I would have to talk to her? No. Did I ever stop to think about how much she could have used me? Of fucking course not. I did eventually leave the party, but not until 11:00, which is not early by any means. Apparently, she had already talked to my mother, which made me feel like a bigger pile of shit. So the first thing I do is pick up the phone and dial her number. She doesn't answer. I call again and again and again and again, but she doesn't answer. I get on MSN to see if she's there. I see if she's been on Facebook recently. Both negative. The saddest thing was that the party wasn't even that fun. Don't get me wrong, they're cool people, but it's not like I was having the time of my life or anything. Of course, my girlfriend was at her apartment, more than a hundred miles away, hopelessly alone, and mourning the loss of one of her best friends, four-legged or no. Yeah, I tried to get ahold of her, but I didn't. I could've, had I been a responsible, caring partner, but I was having a good time, and her dead dog is a bit of a drag, right? So I stayed where I was, and left her where she was, because I was comfortable, and she was in pain. Did I choose to help her and share in the loss with her? Oh no. That would've been the right thing to do.