Things falling into place

It's been a long, scary year so far, but in the last week or so, some major things have rather unexpectedly fallen into place. Not everything, but enough that I can start school with a clear head and a lighter-than-usual heart. More than enough, in fact. I feel a whole new affection for this thing we call Life.

Had orientation at school today. Even with one hearing aid missing (it's being repaired), it didn't go too badly. Need one more measles shot before I can register for classes. Hope to take care of that Monday. I'm not terribly excited yet; still decompressing. I'm sure once I get registered—and even more important, get my money—that will change.

I'm moving my blog to 'private' one week from tomorrow (Sunday). Blog authors on my blog roll should already have access. Those of you who would like to be linked, please drop me a comment. Thanks!

Lazy Bloggers' Post Generator

This is fun.

OMFG! I just had a cup of tea and realised I have not updated this since Hammertime was in the charts... You would not believe that my hands were chopped off and I was waiting for bionic ones. But I'm sorry you'll just have to take my word for it..

I am distracted with finding Jesus (after someone told me he was lost), selling my soul to Google, just generally being a terrible burden to anyone unfortunate to cross my path, my day drifts aimlessly from 8am to midnight. I am not complaining though. but this damned rock is heavy.

I make a solemn vow I will make more of an effort to blog more often until the nice men in the white coats come back. Well, I'll try. Until my paycheck dawneth..

Favorite Movie

What's your favorite movie? Any genre, any length . . . anything you like.

Mine used to be Tombstone for Val Kilmer's performance as Doc Holiday. (Or it could have been that at the time, that was the only movie I owned. But I loved it still.)

These days it's hard to choose. I suppose I'll have to go with Lord of the Rings. To narrow it down even further, I'm gonna have to go with the Fellowship. There's something about a new beginning that brings hope.

Harry Potter Quiz

Your Harry Potter Alter Ego Is...? created with QuizFarm.com

You scored as Sirius Black You are a gifted wizard and very loyal to your allegiance. Whilst you have a big heart and care very much about those around you, you can be a little arrogant and reckless at times. Sirius Black 70% Ron Weasley 70% Hermione Granger 65% Ginny Weasley 60% Remus Lupin 60% Draco Malfoy 50% Albus Dumbledore 45% Harry Potter 40% Severus Snape 40% Lord Voldemort 5%

Ugh

Seem to be coming down with something. All headachy and nauseous. I hope it's not the flu or a cold.

Ella

This was Ella. D and I had to have her put to sleep in January, after we learned she was suffering from renal kidney failure and was too far into it for us to reverse it. I'm glad she went quickly, in a matter of days. Been thinking about her today.

Ella was a stray when I got her. Her leg had been mysteriously broken when she was found, and she had drunk something that poisoned her, and when she got to the vet, it was touch and go. But she pulled through. My then-boyfriend introduced me to her through the person that found her. As soon as I saw her, I knew I was in love. You can't see her face in this photo, but she had big green eyes. When she looked at me, she climbed down from the person who was holding her and came right to me. It was love ever since. Her leg had been amputated (the right rear one), but she still zipped around like a little motorcart.

Ella was the friendliest cat I've ever had, although she didn't like other animals much. (As a matter of fact, she made it clear she was Queen whenever another one was around, either by 1) chasing the other animal 2) bopping it on the nose 3) yowling at the other animal to get lost. Fast.) But she loved people. Did I say she loved people? She LOVED people. She was convinced strangers came to the apartment for the sole purpose of petting her. If you were a stranger on the sofa who Ignored Ella, she would pat your leg until you Stopped Ignoring Ella. It was some sort of mandate or rite of passage every stranger had to go through. I guess you could say she was a little nympho. She didn't care who you were or what you did, as long as you touched her. She loved to have the insides of her ears rubbed, especially. The only place she didn't like to be touched was where her leg used to be. Bad memories, I guess.

I had her for ten years, all that time thinking she was a domestic shorthair and wondering why in certain lighting her fur looked blue. D and I now think she may have been a Russian Blue.

She wasn't really into human food, but she did like the occasional piece of ham. It pains me a bit wondering that perhaps her last years were not her happiest, as she had to share the apartment with another cat. But at least the last few months were spent in relative peace in a bigger apartment. And there was a screened-in porch she could wander around in.

I was on Kyle Cassidy's livejournal blog and his posts about his cat Roswell got me to thinking about Ella. (Note this was 2006 in that pic. Roswell now looks like this.)

Although Ella was most definitely catlike, people often commented on her being humanlike because she had such a big personality. Big personality. Small cat. Queen of any room she entered.

Me? Just glad I found her.

Award Letter

Got my award letter today from school. All I can say is . . . damn. School is expensive.

Soup

Okay. So eating creamy chicken flavor Ramen noodles for breakfast does not fit in with this health thing I'm trying. But it was storming out this morning and any kind of bad or cold weather always put me in the mood for soup.

That's one thing I will miss about Chicago when I finally do move: soup. Not that soup isn't available in California. But snow? I'm guessing it's rare. And I'm thinking earthquakes aren't going to put me in the mood for soup like a winter day (or night) in Chicago, with the snow falling and the wind blowing outside, and I'm all cozy in the TV room with a good book or an old movie. And soup. It can be any kind, really, but the best is potato soup, or a creamy chicken and rice soup with celery, carrots, and onions. Gotta be homemade, though, something I've slaved over in the kitchen for an hour or two, chopping veggies and boneless chicken, using up every pot and pan we have and generally making a mess. Then the soup simmers in the pot. An hour later I've had four bowls of increasingly hotter and spicier soup, because of course I can't wait for the spices to settle. I gotta have it NOW. Because I gotta read my book or watch one of those old Italian films (preferably with Marcello Mastroianni), and with the wind whistling outside against the windows, I gotta have soup.

So you can see how throwing the contents of a can of Progresso in the microwave just isn't the same. (Yet creamy chicken Ramen noodles do nicely in a pinch - like this morning. Except I heat those on the stove, so it's like cooking. Sort of.)

I guess I'm jonesing for winter. I shouldn't be. Winter in Chicago lasts a minimum of nine months. That's why summers in Chicago are so fun. People are ready to shed the winter clothes and brave the heat in their shorts and pasty, blinding white skin. They want to listen to the street musicians downtown and go to all the street fairs. They want to hang out at the beach by Lake Michigan (yes, we have beaches). They want to go on boat rides. Soup is just not the thing in summer. Beer is the thing, preferably at a restaurant or bar that has a big patio, where you can sit and ruminate on . . . whatever. (I've yet to experience this. Seems my luck always brings me to the dark, inner caves of Irish bars in Chicago, even during summer. Oh wait - there was that one night on a rooftop garden, a going-away party for a friend who actually joined up D and me with the landlord for this apartment. But that is rare rare rare. And don't get me wrong: I love Irish bars in Chicago, especially during the winter. They are cozy, baby.)

D thinks I'm crazy for feeling this way about soup, as he attaches no importance or comfort to food. He doesn't even get cravings, the bastard.

Ho hum

Nothing much new with me. How are y'all doing?

Hmmm

Okay, so all I've been able to think about this week is El Sistema. I was so moved by the program mentioned in my previous post it's all I've talked and thought about for a week.

I've contacted some people who have started programs in New York City and Birmingham, AL, which are based on the one in Venezuela. If there are budding efforts here in Chicago, I will offer to help in whatever capacity I can. If not . . . well, I suppose we could try starting something from scratch. And by "we," I mean me.

The woman I contacted in Birmingham donated her life savings to start her program. So they had more than 30K to start. I have nothing, financially speaking. But I do have contacts. Hopefully I'll have more once school starts.

I don't know how I intend to start a program based on El Sistema while I'm in graduate school. Not to mention, I have to move to L.A. for three months to complete my degree in 2010. Probably I will stay in L.A., as that is where the work will be in my field, mostly. I'm sort of hoping there are budding efforts already underway where I can simply donate my time. The thought of being in school, teaching to make ends meet, trying to compose for film, practicing, and starting an El Sistema program on top of all that makes me a little nauseous. It will be a lot more time-consuming if there's nothing underway already. Well, we shall see, I suppose.

Okay, yes, this is turning into Freddie's music blog. Sorry - probably some of you have lost interest. Ah well. I've not given up on writing completely. But the music thing is sort of taking off, in its own way.

Unintentional Hiatus

Don't have much to blog about. Starting a new piece today (composition, not story). Really getting antsy for school to start.

Don't ever let any artist tell you that if they could stay home for months on end, they would produce a novel or a symphony or a series of paintings. I've learned two things about myself this summer: 1) I often avoid writing to avoid research. 2) I really produce a lot more when I'm busy.

Often my days fly by. Before I know it, it's 5 p.m. and I've gotten very little accomplished. Other days I accomplish a lot before noon. Going to have to set a schedule now. I may post it so you guys can help me stick with it.

On the other hand, I saw something wonderful last Sunday. Don't know if any of you caught last week's 60 Minutes (I've been a huge fan of that show since I was a kid, but that's another blog entry), but they had another airing about el Sistema, the orchestra program in Venezuela. Check it out if you haven't.



Now, if that violinist's smile isn't enough to make a composer want to compose a symphony for one of the orchestras of this program, I don't know what is. And I'm officially now a HUGE fan of Gustavo Dudamel, the highly celebrated conductor who came out of el Sistema, and who is taking over as Music Director for the L.A. Philharmonic in 2009. Now I can't effing wait to move to L.A.!

I hope someone with enough flair and stick-to-it-iveness starts something like this in the United States. We need it.

Research

I've learned something important today. I often avoid writing not to avoid writing, but to avoid research. Grrrrrrr.

Into the Wild

Yesterday I popped one of D's many DVDs into the DVD player: Into the Wild, written and directed by Sean Penn.

The story is based John Krakauer's book of the same name. The book tells the story of Chris McCandless's journey through the United States to Alaska, where he planned to live in the wild for a few months before returning to civilization. Because it's a true story, I have no qualms about talking about the story here (or revealing 'spoilers') or my reaction to the film. (I haven't read the book yet.)

McCandless, after graduating from Emory University, finds the eternal American quest for more material things and career success repulsive. He gives the vast majority of his college fund to charity ($24,000), cuts up all his identification (except his Social Security card, which he burns), buys a few necessities, and sets off on foot across the U.S.

Along his travels he meets various people, all of whom he manages to touch deeply. Yet he has cut off his family by not letting them know his plans. They hear nothing from him directly, though the police in Arizona find his car. To his family he becomes a missing person, and their lives become shadows of what they once were. Yet at first it seems they have no real reason to worry. Chris does fine in his travels and meets wonderful, if quirky, people.

The film juxtaposes his travels and his time in Alaska, and we see an obviously generous young man who cannot forgive his parents for their mistakes. The people he meets along the way encourage him to contact his family, but he ignores this advice. They also try to convey a deeper truth: He won't find what he's looking for in Alaska, in the wild. In order to be truly happy, he has to be willing to share it.

Chris finally makes it to Alaska, where he crosses a stream and finds an abandoned bus with some necessities and niceties. (There's a wood-burning oven and a mattress, some silverware, and even a can opener.) He dubs it the Magic Bus and fills his days hunting for small game, talking to himself, writing, and reading the few classics he has brought with him.

Fall gives way to Winter, which in turn gives way to Spring. Now Chris decides he is ready to go home. But at the stream he finds the winter snow has melted, turning the stream into a rushing river. He is trapped.

His days become an increasingly futile attempt at survival. He fails to skin big game in time to prevent flies and maggots. He accidentally eats poisonous plants (that look similar to their non-poisonous brethen), which he initially survives, but the experience weakens him a great deal and hastens his starvation because, even if he could find game, the plants inhibit digestion. As you watch, you realize he hasn't considered the utter indifference of Nature to us humans. He romanticized the wild. Yet you feel for the boy because he now realizes what people were telling him was right: alone in the wilderness, he is no good to anyone. You watch in horror as an already small man becomes tinier. Soon, even if there were game, he is too weak to hunt it. When he realizes he is going to die, he makes a sign that identifies him and says goodbye.

I'm not sure how I feel about this film, other than it stayed with me. I didn't expect Chris to die. I thought, like a typical American, that he would find a way out. But he didn't. The film did touch off a minor essay in my head regarding technology vs. nature. I think many people who claim to 'love' nature don't—they admire nature. We all claim to love being out in it, and we do for very short periods of time, but eventually we want our technological comforts. People like Chris really do love nature, and had he been a bit older he might have been more aware of nature's indifference humans, and therefore a little more prepared. It took an older man whom he befriended for him to have a machete, a knife, and a fishing rod. I think Chris's mistake—and you see it throughout the film—is that a larger part of him than he would like to admit accepts both technology and humans. It takes total isolation for him to see that. Yet, if he had never gone, he may never have been able to work out his demons.

Podcast Number One

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This was fun. I feel like I need to listen to more audiobooks, though, to get the hang of this. You might want to keep your volume down, as I clip on a couple of the p's.

The Beginnings of An Old Story

"You must be freezing," the old woman said—who, incidentally, smelled as if she bathed daily in urine and feces. "Come warm yourself by the fire." She pointed to the group of people huddled around the trashcan. The cars overhead rumbled by steadily, their occupants oblivious to the people below.

Sammy gathered her pillowcase more tightly in her hand. The pillowcase held the only possessions she had left. After a moment of consideration (and only a moment—it didn't take much persuading in this weather, no matter how the person making the offer smelled) she said, "Okay."

"There's food, too. Soup. We got it from you-know-where." Sammy knew the woman just couldn't remember the name of the shelter from which the food came, but in the dark, the woman's statement sounded secretive. Sammy swallowed a lot of things in that moment: her pride, her sense of dignity, and the growing sense of dread she felt throbbing in the middle of her throat—the sense that she'd run out of chances, that she was becoming invisible, like the group standing under the bridge. But she was hungry and cold. She'd take the offer. 

They walked toward the overpass, making their way slowly because of the woman's bad back and knees. Sammy held her elbow, trying not to breathe too deeply. She imagined the stench would be worse when they got to the fire, and she told herself to get over it. It was, and she did. 

When they got to the overpass, a man who was sitting on an up-ended crate offered her his seat. Sammy thought back to all the times she'd been on the train, surrounded by bankers, lawyers, salesmen, and students—supposedly respectable people—and only one time had anyone offered her a seat, a small, Spanish-speaking woman who undoubtedly made no more than ten thousand a year, judging by her clothes. 

At first, she tried to wave the man off, but he took her by the elbow and sat her down. Then he went about getting her some soup and some bread. The old woman took a seat on the ground beside her. 

"Oh, you should take the crate," Sammy said, starting to get up.

"No, dear, I'm fine," the old woman said cheerfully. "Doctor tells me sitting on the ground is better for my health." She cackled heartily as she said this, as if she was a comedienne trying out a new joke on the house before she took the stage. "Once I get some soup in me, I'll be as good as new."

"I don't think I ever got your name," Sammy said.

"I never told you," the woman said. She shrugged at Sammy's expression of surprise. "Anyway," she said, as if she'd gotten off-subject. "I have a lot of names. You will, too, if you stay one of us."

"One of you?" Sammy said. She tried to keep her expression neutral. It wouldn't do to insult the only people who'd offered her warmth, food, and a place to sit in the past two weeks.

"Yes, Samantha Charmaigne, one of us," the woman said, rolling her eyes. Sammy couldn't be sure, but it looked to her as if the woman's irises rolled all the way back to the opposite side of her eyeballs. For a split second the woman looked as though she was blind, or an alien. Sammy couldn't help but think of Reagan from The Exorcist. She decided to put it out of her mind. Then she realized she'd never told the woman her last name.