Sorry I haven’t written in such a long time. Music has occupied almost every space in my head while the days have been winding down to the start of school – like counting down the beads of a rosary while singing a cheerless holy tune. The rest of the space is filled with errands and tennis. Tennis!
Music on my mind, piano on my hands, drums in the future – hopefully.
I know I don’t play the piano that well, but I like the feeling of playing a song that I really know and playing each note solidly and deliberately. I like the sound of bass notes played an octave apart. I like the feeling that I can make a song out of the creative templates of my head’s slide show. And sometimes I don’t mind sharing this feeling in Costco.
Let me explain.
As I said earlier, if I’m not occupied with music, I’m busy with running errands or playing tennis. The other day, I was in Costco with my mom, off to buy milk and bananas. But really, I just wanted to play on the piano that they had on display there. It was a casio compact digital piano; here's the link: http://reviews.costco.ca/2070-en_ca/10317830/reviews.htm. You'll have to copy and paste it, sorry! I’m fond of pianos just as others are fond of car shows. Anyway, I played my usual round of songs, songs that I’m working on – either learning or making. I must have stayed on that piano for some time because I started to garner an amused crowd of three shoppers, their shopping carts surrounding me. The piano was set up so that it faced cardboard boxes containing replicas of that piano. If for example the piano was on the shelf, like cans in a grocery store, then I would be facing the shelf, not the aisle. Some people watched from a far and some watched over my shoulder. I naturally got nervous and sweaty. But when I was finished with a song, I looked up and said, “oh . . . hello.” I didn’t know what else to say.
One lady asked me how I learned – “piano lessons or by ear?” Well, I never took piano lessons, so I chose “by ear” as my answer. But in all honesty, I just applied what I learned in chorus and music theory class and put them together. I don’t know if that’s by ear though. I’m not able to recognize a chord just by hearing it, but I can by seeing it on the piano. I can however hear individual notes and guess which note it is on the piano by trial and error. Then I’d create chords out of that. I can read music, but I can’t play it fluently; I’d have to figure out the notes step by step, familiarize myself with the rhythm and then play it on the piano – it’s a long process, I tried it once.
I got a couple of compliments, but I guess it’s because they thought I was some kid prodigy. I never told them my 21st birthday would come next November though. I just took the compliments and ran away smiling. Don’t blame me for enjoying some stage time, shall I call it that. It was fun being in the spotlight for a little bit, just like my musical idols – both sung and unsung (Ryan Jones you are awesome!).
Later on my mom and I were joking around about what happened in Costco. I wished that the manager would see me and offer to give me the piano for free, since I was (in my wish) influencing other people to buy the piano. My mom imagined that a spotter was in Costco and saw me and signed me to a record label, and then I'd be on the Ellen DeGeneres show and she'd (Ellen) ask me how I got to be where I was, and I'd say I was "discovered in Costco." Our imaginations are endless!
But, unfortunately I feel I am far from that colorful thought.
Anyway, so that’s what happened in Costco and that’s what I talked about for the rest of that day. A highlight it had become to my humble status!
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Literary Movie Review: A grand tour through Gran Torino
My take on the film, Grad Torino:
It’s funny how one of the themes, explicitly touched upon in the film, was life and death. It’s funny because just yesterday, I didn’t know if I wanted to write a blog about what the deaths of two fish have taught me. Instead I wrote about something else. But now that the subject has declared its presence, shall we say, not once but twice, I feel as though it’s telling us to expatiate more about it.
So what can we say about it as it pertains to the film? In my opinion, this theme was almost inscrutably enmeshed in the conversations between the priest and Walt. The priest asked to talk about it that night at the bar, with Walt. And Walt certainly had something to say. He drew ever so rightly from experience rather than a handbook, as he put it to the priest. He taught him a thing or two that they don’t teach future priests in the seminary or priest school. He taught him that death comes and goes and comes back again, but killing stains the soul. How does death come and go and come again? Take his resilient reaction to the death of his wife as a cold, red brick of evidence, for example. He just moves on, all alone in the house, hating the world the same way he did when his wife was alive – at least according to his sons. The film starts and ends in a church for a funeral, to be more general about it. Obviously death never stays forever. It only seeps in and out of the lives of others. How does killing stain the soul? Walt locks Thao up in the basement. He doesn’t want Thao to live with the guilt of killing another person, just as he has had to do his whole life, after the Korean war. If anything, I think everyone can learn something from Walt – he is or seems to be the most experienced after all. He is the most unselfish person in the film. But I’ll save that discussion for later in this blog. What has Walt learned and taught about life? Well you gotta enjoy it – what else is it there for, right? Actually a great deal more than that, according to Walt. You got to do good in it, for others too. I don’t mean do well, I mean good deeds. He teaches Thao to do this, just as he himself does this. He teaches Thao to help around the neighborhood, just as he helped save Thao and Sue’s family from the Hmong gang. As for enjoying life, let’s just say that Thao’s going to be enjoying that Gran Torino for some time, after a brief test ride during his date with Daisy – “you gotta do it in style, don’t you?” I think that’s what he said.
The next theme I want to cover, is what I think is the main moral of this film and it has to do with our protagonist, Walt. For him, vengeance – his sacrifice – was his salvation. Early on in the film, the priest persistently visits Walt, at the request of Walt’s wife, before she died. He talked to him about Walt’s confession and how he hasn’t gone to confession in a long, long time – “since forever,” in fact. The reason one goes to confession is to be forgiven for sin(s) that he or she committed, so that he or she may repent and gain salvation. By the end of the film, this reason of persistence has had the chance to materialize, as Walt finally goes to confession, confessing minor things. He wanted vengeance on the gang and Thao knew it and he too also wanted it. But how should he go about it? Being a Korean war veteran has taught him some lessons on strategy. Yes, that and the fact that Sue and Thao’s family were seriously threatened (physically) because of his quick reaction to what they did to Thao (he beat up one of the gang members). Don’t react quickly because then you’ll make mistakes; instead, stay calm and plan it out. His vengeance became his ultimate sacrifice though, when he sacrifices himself to get rid of the gang that’s been attacking and threatening his Hmong neighbors. You see, that’s why he’s so selfless! And as he stands there preparing to get a lighter, preparing for that thing that comes and goes and comes again – death – he says his hail marys and finally achieves salvation with the knowledge that the gang won’t bother his friends, his Hmong neighbors, anymore.
One last theme I would like to expound on is family. This film redefines family, as it has been redefined in other forms of entertainment and literary art many times before. What is family? It is more than blood. It is a bond, a unit, a strong friendship built on care and respect. So while Walt may have a real “family” that entails his children and grandchildren, his real family is his Hmong neighbors. Simply put, they are closer to him than his real “family” are – which by the way are characterized overtly as the superficial American type. Speaking of characterization, let’s have a looksie more up closie at Walt.
Walt is the old school kind of guy who demands and expects respect, as well as discipline. That’s why he was drawn to Thao in the first place, when he saw Thao helping the elderly women in front of his house. Many times in the film, he has ordered, as an experienced veteran deserving respect would, others to do things for him. Little things like getting him another beer or . . . fixing the roof of someone’s house. He is the kind of guy who sees the world as a bundle of dirtiness in the expectations of how people of different races should act when encountering people of a different race. He said to Sue’s boyfriend, “Stop calling him (the black guy) bro.” Not only that, he also sees the wold as a dumpload of new found disrespect in younger generations (excuse the inappropriate language, appropriate only for the younger generations in Walt’s eyes). I like Walt. There’s a reason why he is the way he is. The world and life made him that way.
Before I finish analyzing Gran Torino, I must tell you about the pervasive theme – racism/discrimination. Perhaps one of the most aspects of the film that caught my attention almost instantly was racism/discrimination. And it’s inevitable that they should encase such a neighborhood in this imperfect world. With America being a melting pot of different cultures, the neighborhood that Walt lives in is the epitome of America. I may go so far as to saying that his neighborhood symbolizes America. The film uses white people, Hmong people, Hispanics, and blacks – and they don’t get along with each other. But of course Walt is a different case and so is the priest (for obvious reasons). Walt is the one who tears down the walls. He would have wanted revenge even if the people who hurt Sue, Thao and their family were his own race. He is the man who knows and does not deny that there is racism, but also the man who does not partake in racism.
This film has it all. And I thought Gran Torino was a car film.
It’s funny how one of the themes, explicitly touched upon in the film, was life and death. It’s funny because just yesterday, I didn’t know if I wanted to write a blog about what the deaths of two fish have taught me. Instead I wrote about something else. But now that the subject has declared its presence, shall we say, not once but twice, I feel as though it’s telling us to expatiate more about it.
So what can we say about it as it pertains to the film? In my opinion, this theme was almost inscrutably enmeshed in the conversations between the priest and Walt. The priest asked to talk about it that night at the bar, with Walt. And Walt certainly had something to say. He drew ever so rightly from experience rather than a handbook, as he put it to the priest. He taught him a thing or two that they don’t teach future priests in the seminary or priest school. He taught him that death comes and goes and comes back again, but killing stains the soul. How does death come and go and come again? Take his resilient reaction to the death of his wife as a cold, red brick of evidence, for example. He just moves on, all alone in the house, hating the world the same way he did when his wife was alive – at least according to his sons. The film starts and ends in a church for a funeral, to be more general about it. Obviously death never stays forever. It only seeps in and out of the lives of others. How does killing stain the soul? Walt locks Thao up in the basement. He doesn’t want Thao to live with the guilt of killing another person, just as he has had to do his whole life, after the Korean war. If anything, I think everyone can learn something from Walt – he is or seems to be the most experienced after all. He is the most unselfish person in the film. But I’ll save that discussion for later in this blog. What has Walt learned and taught about life? Well you gotta enjoy it – what else is it there for, right? Actually a great deal more than that, according to Walt. You got to do good in it, for others too. I don’t mean do well, I mean good deeds. He teaches Thao to do this, just as he himself does this. He teaches Thao to help around the neighborhood, just as he helped save Thao and Sue’s family from the Hmong gang. As for enjoying life, let’s just say that Thao’s going to be enjoying that Gran Torino for some time, after a brief test ride during his date with Daisy – “you gotta do it in style, don’t you?” I think that’s what he said.
The next theme I want to cover, is what I think is the main moral of this film and it has to do with our protagonist, Walt. For him, vengeance – his sacrifice – was his salvation. Early on in the film, the priest persistently visits Walt, at the request of Walt’s wife, before she died. He talked to him about Walt’s confession and how he hasn’t gone to confession in a long, long time – “since forever,” in fact. The reason one goes to confession is to be forgiven for sin(s) that he or she committed, so that he or she may repent and gain salvation. By the end of the film, this reason of persistence has had the chance to materialize, as Walt finally goes to confession, confessing minor things. He wanted vengeance on the gang and Thao knew it and he too also wanted it. But how should he go about it? Being a Korean war veteran has taught him some lessons on strategy. Yes, that and the fact that Sue and Thao’s family were seriously threatened (physically) because of his quick reaction to what they did to Thao (he beat up one of the gang members). Don’t react quickly because then you’ll make mistakes; instead, stay calm and plan it out. His vengeance became his ultimate sacrifice though, when he sacrifices himself to get rid of the gang that’s been attacking and threatening his Hmong neighbors. You see, that’s why he’s so selfless! And as he stands there preparing to get a lighter, preparing for that thing that comes and goes and comes again – death – he says his hail marys and finally achieves salvation with the knowledge that the gang won’t bother his friends, his Hmong neighbors, anymore.
One last theme I would like to expound on is family. This film redefines family, as it has been redefined in other forms of entertainment and literary art many times before. What is family? It is more than blood. It is a bond, a unit, a strong friendship built on care and respect. So while Walt may have a real “family” that entails his children and grandchildren, his real family is his Hmong neighbors. Simply put, they are closer to him than his real “family” are – which by the way are characterized overtly as the superficial American type. Speaking of characterization, let’s have a looksie more up closie at Walt.
Walt is the old school kind of guy who demands and expects respect, as well as discipline. That’s why he was drawn to Thao in the first place, when he saw Thao helping the elderly women in front of his house. Many times in the film, he has ordered, as an experienced veteran deserving respect would, others to do things for him. Little things like getting him another beer or . . . fixing the roof of someone’s house. He is the kind of guy who sees the world as a bundle of dirtiness in the expectations of how people of different races should act when encountering people of a different race. He said to Sue’s boyfriend, “Stop calling him (the black guy) bro.” Not only that, he also sees the wold as a dumpload of new found disrespect in younger generations (excuse the inappropriate language, appropriate only for the younger generations in Walt’s eyes). I like Walt. There’s a reason why he is the way he is. The world and life made him that way.
Before I finish analyzing Gran Torino, I must tell you about the pervasive theme – racism/discrimination. Perhaps one of the most aspects of the film that caught my attention almost instantly was racism/discrimination. And it’s inevitable that they should encase such a neighborhood in this imperfect world. With America being a melting pot of different cultures, the neighborhood that Walt lives in is the epitome of America. I may go so far as to saying that his neighborhood symbolizes America. The film uses white people, Hmong people, Hispanics, and blacks – and they don’t get along with each other. But of course Walt is a different case and so is the priest (for obvious reasons). Walt is the one who tears down the walls. He would have wanted revenge even if the people who hurt Sue, Thao and their family were his own race. He is the man who knows and does not deny that there is racism, but also the man who does not partake in racism.
This film has it all. And I thought Gran Torino was a car film.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Writing is hard, said the English major
I’ve told you how I didn’t win the short story competition, but that actually I won because now I can feed off of that experience. Well then, here’s the winning story in my eyes:
Sent Overcast
He was ten years old and took a liking to these yearly summer vacations. His name was Frankie and it was just he, and his parents, on the road for hours on end. They had gone to four different states since they first started this family tradition – or affair rather – four years ago. He remembered the first one vividly, because it was the first time he stayed out of the house for more than a day, experiencing the true outside world. He was different than most other kids; he didn’t have any other siblings and he didn’t mind that at all. He never complained to his parents that he didn’t have any brothers or sisters to play with, and often times he found himself immersed in his own little daydreams, as if his daydreams were his siblings whom he could play with and relate to. At one time he daydreamed he was on top of their rather non-sloping roof, drinking sunny delight as the summer sun was setting. At another time he was on the moon looking down on the Earth through his binoculars – his hands in the shape of “O’s” around his eyes – watching different people going about their impersonal business, while he was alone on the moon in comforting solitude among his stars.
By early afternoon, the sky had turned a thick gray – it looked as if the sky had no upper nor horizontal boundaries and was filled with endless puffs of clouds. White lambs grazing on soft, dark patches were gentle, piercing bright grays. These subtle rays hit the ground as if they came to this world with one mission in mind, which was to save the people in it.
The family had been driving for the past three hours and the father felt a brief respite from the road was in order. “How about we stop at a rest stop? Maybe get some lunch?” asked the father addressing his wife and child. It was around one thirty in the afternoon and his eyes were on the road, looking for street signs of a rest stop.
“That’s sounds fine, honey. Frankie, help Daddy and me look for a rest stop area so we can eat lunch and take a break from the road. You’ve been driving, what, three hours straight now?” said his wife looking up at him, rubbing his neck with her left hand.
“Yeah, but it feels like a lot more,” said the father with a deep, slow sigh.
“Our break will come soon, and then we can switch; I’ll drive and you can just sit and relax.” As she looked out the window for resting areas for tourists, which undoubtedly they were – both of this state and of the Earth, she noticed the weather; it seemed to never be too far from them. “The sky looks like it’s getting darker.”
Frankie sat in the back seat of their Civic and was already looking out the window before his parents gave him notice of a pit stop. He had been watching the lines on the roads – quick white dashes against a black background. As he lifted his head to look for signs for rest stops, water droplets started to decorate the car windows and the road. He imagined how hard it would be to catch them all.
Finally they parked the car at a rest area and ran inside before they got too wet from the now pouring rain. Frankie held his parents’ hands while running a little behind their steps. The sky looked too pure for him to believe the pelting rain was coming from it, but he still accepted it as something unexplainable but hopeful. As Frankie and his parents ran past a lonesome tree, Frankie looked back and saw that everyone else in the parking lot was doing the same thing – taking a supposed refuge inside the rest stop from what Frankie concluded was just a beautiful storm.
They got inside the packed rest stop, so hot and humid. The lines for food were long and people were complaining. The humidity in there was as thick as condensed milk and heavy cream mixed together. Heat covered every body like an invisible and unnecessary blanket made out of wool. Frankie breathed in body odor and ugly smiles while brochures were folded into fans that were unsuccessfully drying off the sweat from red, saggy, and wet faces.
Frankie’s parents told him to find a seat. His mother had to use the restroom, out of which formed a long line. To order food, the people had to wait in front of a square monitor, similar to a digital clock. On the screen of this monitor read, in red, the number of the next available register that was sounded by a lady’s monotonous and impersonal voice. His father was waiting on this long line to order food, like the rest of the other two legged barbarians – or so it seemed to Frankie. “Well listen here, buddy, I’ve been waiting for almost an hour and a half, so back off,” said a man wearing a dirty white T-shirt with yellow pit stains that matched his teeth. His mean eyes were as threateningly hungry as the anger and agitation that permeated throughout the rest area. Frankie looked to his other side hoping to see a better picture. Instead he got a glimpse of hell: rolling eyes, impatience and negative minds were the make-up of the contempt that spewed from the nostrils of every devil in the house – and Frankie hated it.
He began to think that everywhere he looked he would run into something he hated, until he saw an old man sitting at a booth near the window. This man must have been in his seventies and he wore a smile that was luring and true. Frankie walked over to him.
“May I sit down, sir?”
“Go right ahead. The name’s Gabriel, but you can call me Gabe.” As Frankie took the seat across from Gabe in the booth, Gabe turned his head toward the window, folded his arms on the table and leaned on them, smiling. “You don’t get many of these storms now-a-days. No, no this one’s special.”
“How come?” asked Frankie innocently while looking out the window joining Gabe. Before Gabe could reply, Frankie quickly glanced at his father to see if it was okay for him to sit with Gabe – a total stranger (to his parents, not so seemingly to Frankie). His father smiled and waved at him and he waved back, with suspicious surprise. Frankie could not believe his father would let him sit with a stranger. His father did not even bother to ask who Gabe was! Eventually Frankie shrugged off this little shock and continued to look out the window with Gabe.
“Well, consider this kiddo; I’d much rather be out there than in here. Wouldn’t you?”
“I hate this place. I hate the people here. It’s not happy. Why aren’t they happy?”
“I’m sure they want to be happy; they just forgot how to be. Are you happy?”
“I think I am . . . I don’t know, maybe not – not right now anyhow.”
“Are they rubbing off on you?”
“No!” said Frankie indignantly; he did not want to present himself as something weak and vulnerable. But he was used to telling the truth and at times that cost him his personal strength, the life in him. “Yeah, a little,” he admitted, looking down at his hands on the table.
The rain was pouring even more strongly. It produced telling craters on the soil as well as constant soothing sounds when it pounded the cars in the parking lot – like incessant and lively rhythmical movements of egg shakers. As the storm progressed, lightning strikes were splatters on canvas that quickly faded away. As for the thunder, timpani drums’ solo through drum rolls ending in the clash of two cymbals. The darkening of the clouds only made the rarer brighter rays glow more luminously on the ground.
Meanwhile, inside the rest stop, the people grew louder, more obnoxious and hideous.
Suddenly, the lights flickered off. “I’m sorry people, but it looks like we have a black out right now. Just stay calm!” said one of the workers behind the cash register. The crowd’s cacophonous growls, moans and complaints intensified.
“Great! Fine, we’ll stay in the dark! No problem here!” said the same man with the tainted white T-shirt, sarcastically. His attitude seemed to be the general reception of everyone there – except that of Frankie and Gabe. After the lights went out, they observed the people, philistines, as if through binoculars with disgust. Why couldn’t the people just stay calm? After a while, one of the customers jumped on the counter where the cash registers sat broken, and pumping his fist in the air, yelled at the crowd, “We want service! We want service! We want Service! Faster, faster!” The workers pulled him down, harshly from the counter. He banged his head on the solid floor and a loud thump was heard by every ear. They thought that putting down the agitator would calm down the overbearing crowd, but soon enough, all the people started to chant what the instigator had started – including Frankie’s father and mother. Frankie looked over at them, gaping. His parents had not noticed their son watching them, utterly stunned, as if petrified. A tear slid down his face and onto the table.
Something was building inside of Frankie; it made his face grow a deep red. Hot blood rushed through the capillaries in his cheeks and anger, intense disbelief and shame possessed his heavy, small heart so strongly, too strongly. He found it hard to swallow and tears were still flowing out of his eyes – this time, at a non-stop pace, although not a sound passed out of his lips. No, there was no time to cry out loud. Gabe saw all that was escalating in Frankie. The overcast turned storm electrified Frankie’s veins and arteries and when they reached his heart he could not take it. Gabe with thinking eyes said in a low and enticing tone, “I know what you mean, I know what you’re thinking.”
“No more. No more! NO MORE!” yelled Frankie so that all the adults in the rest area looked at him in consternation. “No more! Stop it!” He slammed his fist on the table where he was sitting with Gabe and he ran out of the door, the image of his parents in a wrestling position with a worker, in the corner of his crying eyes.
He ran to the only tree outside near the parking lot. The stentorian storm was heavenly to Frankie and he climbed the tree to be near it. As he did so he heard the crack of a single lightening bolt from the sky rush toward the tree.
The last scene Frankie saw were the faces of the people of the rest stop through the window. Looking back at Frankie, they were not fighting anymore. The arguing and fighting had gone away as did Gabriel.
Looking back with hindsight, I think this story is a bit immature. Over the next year, I’m going to try to produce another story to get some practice in, but with school creeping around the corning at the end of August, all my juices in me will lean towards school work. Next semester is especially special because it’ll be the semester where I actually take classes that are for my major, rather than the general classes I’ve been taking for the past two years, that are required. That means that I have to really do well because the real game is about to start. No more practice shots or fun tennis rallies.
But writing is hard.
However, speaking of juices flowing in the body, I ain’t got any, I’m all dried out of ideas and words for a short story. What’s the word, meaning dried up and unproductive? Oh yeah, I think fallow. With regards to short stories, I feel imaginatively fallow – barren of the seeds of fruits of literary entertainment. Nothing’s planting in my mind and I’m not exactly the farmer type or the old, kind lady who grows a small garden in her little backyard right behind the gas station in Queens.
Sent Overcast
He was ten years old and took a liking to these yearly summer vacations. His name was Frankie and it was just he, and his parents, on the road for hours on end. They had gone to four different states since they first started this family tradition – or affair rather – four years ago. He remembered the first one vividly, because it was the first time he stayed out of the house for more than a day, experiencing the true outside world. He was different than most other kids; he didn’t have any other siblings and he didn’t mind that at all. He never complained to his parents that he didn’t have any brothers or sisters to play with, and often times he found himself immersed in his own little daydreams, as if his daydreams were his siblings whom he could play with and relate to. At one time he daydreamed he was on top of their rather non-sloping roof, drinking sunny delight as the summer sun was setting. At another time he was on the moon looking down on the Earth through his binoculars – his hands in the shape of “O’s” around his eyes – watching different people going about their impersonal business, while he was alone on the moon in comforting solitude among his stars.
By early afternoon, the sky had turned a thick gray – it looked as if the sky had no upper nor horizontal boundaries and was filled with endless puffs of clouds. White lambs grazing on soft, dark patches were gentle, piercing bright grays. These subtle rays hit the ground as if they came to this world with one mission in mind, which was to save the people in it.
The family had been driving for the past three hours and the father felt a brief respite from the road was in order. “How about we stop at a rest stop? Maybe get some lunch?” asked the father addressing his wife and child. It was around one thirty in the afternoon and his eyes were on the road, looking for street signs of a rest stop.
“That’s sounds fine, honey. Frankie, help Daddy and me look for a rest stop area so we can eat lunch and take a break from the road. You’ve been driving, what, three hours straight now?” said his wife looking up at him, rubbing his neck with her left hand.
“Yeah, but it feels like a lot more,” said the father with a deep, slow sigh.
“Our break will come soon, and then we can switch; I’ll drive and you can just sit and relax.” As she looked out the window for resting areas for tourists, which undoubtedly they were – both of this state and of the Earth, she noticed the weather; it seemed to never be too far from them. “The sky looks like it’s getting darker.”
Frankie sat in the back seat of their Civic and was already looking out the window before his parents gave him notice of a pit stop. He had been watching the lines on the roads – quick white dashes against a black background. As he lifted his head to look for signs for rest stops, water droplets started to decorate the car windows and the road. He imagined how hard it would be to catch them all.
Finally they parked the car at a rest area and ran inside before they got too wet from the now pouring rain. Frankie held his parents’ hands while running a little behind their steps. The sky looked too pure for him to believe the pelting rain was coming from it, but he still accepted it as something unexplainable but hopeful. As Frankie and his parents ran past a lonesome tree, Frankie looked back and saw that everyone else in the parking lot was doing the same thing – taking a supposed refuge inside the rest stop from what Frankie concluded was just a beautiful storm.
They got inside the packed rest stop, so hot and humid. The lines for food were long and people were complaining. The humidity in there was as thick as condensed milk and heavy cream mixed together. Heat covered every body like an invisible and unnecessary blanket made out of wool. Frankie breathed in body odor and ugly smiles while brochures were folded into fans that were unsuccessfully drying off the sweat from red, saggy, and wet faces.
Frankie’s parents told him to find a seat. His mother had to use the restroom, out of which formed a long line. To order food, the people had to wait in front of a square monitor, similar to a digital clock. On the screen of this monitor read, in red, the number of the next available register that was sounded by a lady’s monotonous and impersonal voice. His father was waiting on this long line to order food, like the rest of the other two legged barbarians – or so it seemed to Frankie. “Well listen here, buddy, I’ve been waiting for almost an hour and a half, so back off,” said a man wearing a dirty white T-shirt with yellow pit stains that matched his teeth. His mean eyes were as threateningly hungry as the anger and agitation that permeated throughout the rest area. Frankie looked to his other side hoping to see a better picture. Instead he got a glimpse of hell: rolling eyes, impatience and negative minds were the make-up of the contempt that spewed from the nostrils of every devil in the house – and Frankie hated it.
He began to think that everywhere he looked he would run into something he hated, until he saw an old man sitting at a booth near the window. This man must have been in his seventies and he wore a smile that was luring and true. Frankie walked over to him.
“May I sit down, sir?”
“Go right ahead. The name’s Gabriel, but you can call me Gabe.” As Frankie took the seat across from Gabe in the booth, Gabe turned his head toward the window, folded his arms on the table and leaned on them, smiling. “You don’t get many of these storms now-a-days. No, no this one’s special.”
“How come?” asked Frankie innocently while looking out the window joining Gabe. Before Gabe could reply, Frankie quickly glanced at his father to see if it was okay for him to sit with Gabe – a total stranger (to his parents, not so seemingly to Frankie). His father smiled and waved at him and he waved back, with suspicious surprise. Frankie could not believe his father would let him sit with a stranger. His father did not even bother to ask who Gabe was! Eventually Frankie shrugged off this little shock and continued to look out the window with Gabe.
“Well, consider this kiddo; I’d much rather be out there than in here. Wouldn’t you?”
“I hate this place. I hate the people here. It’s not happy. Why aren’t they happy?”
“I’m sure they want to be happy; they just forgot how to be. Are you happy?”
“I think I am . . . I don’t know, maybe not – not right now anyhow.”
“Are they rubbing off on you?”
“No!” said Frankie indignantly; he did not want to present himself as something weak and vulnerable. But he was used to telling the truth and at times that cost him his personal strength, the life in him. “Yeah, a little,” he admitted, looking down at his hands on the table.
The rain was pouring even more strongly. It produced telling craters on the soil as well as constant soothing sounds when it pounded the cars in the parking lot – like incessant and lively rhythmical movements of egg shakers. As the storm progressed, lightning strikes were splatters on canvas that quickly faded away. As for the thunder, timpani drums’ solo through drum rolls ending in the clash of two cymbals. The darkening of the clouds only made the rarer brighter rays glow more luminously on the ground.
Meanwhile, inside the rest stop, the people grew louder, more obnoxious and hideous.
Suddenly, the lights flickered off. “I’m sorry people, but it looks like we have a black out right now. Just stay calm!” said one of the workers behind the cash register. The crowd’s cacophonous growls, moans and complaints intensified.
“Great! Fine, we’ll stay in the dark! No problem here!” said the same man with the tainted white T-shirt, sarcastically. His attitude seemed to be the general reception of everyone there – except that of Frankie and Gabe. After the lights went out, they observed the people, philistines, as if through binoculars with disgust. Why couldn’t the people just stay calm? After a while, one of the customers jumped on the counter where the cash registers sat broken, and pumping his fist in the air, yelled at the crowd, “We want service! We want service! We want Service! Faster, faster!” The workers pulled him down, harshly from the counter. He banged his head on the solid floor and a loud thump was heard by every ear. They thought that putting down the agitator would calm down the overbearing crowd, but soon enough, all the people started to chant what the instigator had started – including Frankie’s father and mother. Frankie looked over at them, gaping. His parents had not noticed their son watching them, utterly stunned, as if petrified. A tear slid down his face and onto the table.
Something was building inside of Frankie; it made his face grow a deep red. Hot blood rushed through the capillaries in his cheeks and anger, intense disbelief and shame possessed his heavy, small heart so strongly, too strongly. He found it hard to swallow and tears were still flowing out of his eyes – this time, at a non-stop pace, although not a sound passed out of his lips. No, there was no time to cry out loud. Gabe saw all that was escalating in Frankie. The overcast turned storm electrified Frankie’s veins and arteries and when they reached his heart he could not take it. Gabe with thinking eyes said in a low and enticing tone, “I know what you mean, I know what you’re thinking.”
“No more. No more! NO MORE!” yelled Frankie so that all the adults in the rest area looked at him in consternation. “No more! Stop it!” He slammed his fist on the table where he was sitting with Gabe and he ran out of the door, the image of his parents in a wrestling position with a worker, in the corner of his crying eyes.
He ran to the only tree outside near the parking lot. The stentorian storm was heavenly to Frankie and he climbed the tree to be near it. As he did so he heard the crack of a single lightening bolt from the sky rush toward the tree.
The last scene Frankie saw were the faces of the people of the rest stop through the window. Looking back at Frankie, they were not fighting anymore. The arguing and fighting had gone away as did Gabriel.
Looking back with hindsight, I think this story is a bit immature. Over the next year, I’m going to try to produce another story to get some practice in, but with school creeping around the corning at the end of August, all my juices in me will lean towards school work. Next semester is especially special because it’ll be the semester where I actually take classes that are for my major, rather than the general classes I’ve been taking for the past two years, that are required. That means that I have to really do well because the real game is about to start. No more practice shots or fun tennis rallies.
But writing is hard.
However, speaking of juices flowing in the body, I ain’t got any, I’m all dried out of ideas and words for a short story. What’s the word, meaning dried up and unproductive? Oh yeah, I think fallow. With regards to short stories, I feel imaginatively fallow – barren of the seeds of fruits of literary entertainment. Nothing’s planting in my mind and I’m not exactly the farmer type or the old, kind lady who grows a small garden in her little backyard right behind the gas station in Queens.
We are all entertainers
Last semester as you may or may not know, I took a music class. My teacher was really laid back and down to Earth and sometimes lazy. With that said, I was surprised to hear him say, one day, something that deeply connects to the world: “We are all entertainers.” I don’t know if someone else said this already or if he’s the first to say it, but I took this to heart. If we all just close our eyes for a second and imagine all the people in the world as entertainers, what would we see? I think we would see the world we see right now, except with less sadness. What does it mean to be an entertainer? What does it mean to entertain? To me, to entertain means to get people’s attention in a way that you like it and that the person being entertained likes it. Applying this definition to the world would leave out room for sadness and hate because there’d only be entertainers and good feelings around the world. I am an entertainer because of what I write both in school and out of school. I am an entertainer through conversations and chats and texts. I am an entertainer through the guitar and drums. My teachers, the source from which I draw the fuel to my engine, are entertainers. The music I listen to (principally Jason Mraz and the Killers) comprises of entertainers most certainly. The books, and therefore the authors, that I read are entertainers. The foods I choose to eat are entertainers (surely if they have a mind - and they may do, at least in my imagination); they’d probably like the fact that they are chosen over other foods. The friends I’ve been agreeably pulled into are entertainers. And so we see the world as a pool of entertainers feeding off of each other with mutuality, producing entertainment that is open to all.
There are the entertainers in the world and then there are your best entertainers.
Best friends make awesome entertainers. They are the best ranked out of all of your friends and if you don’t have friends or if you have only a few, then best friends are all too valuable, it’s unimaginable. That is the case with mine. I have to hold on to my best friend because if I loose her, I’d have no other stars in my vast infinity of space, to fall onto. Tiger is awesome. My relationship with her is like what most people say: opposites attract. That’s true! I mean, just take one look at me and her and and you’ll see why. She’s so different and I’m so different. But our differences are tolerable. She’s the type who presents herself in style, make up, pleasing clothes – the whole shebang. She’s my sociable Tiger with many friends; like I said one time earlier when we were still in high school: she’s the reason people bring cameras to parties. She’s so approachable and in control of situations. She’s so in control. Me? I’m the type who doesn’t like to wear clothes that seem too revealing. In fact, I detest V-necks. Although I may grow lenient to them. Speaking of styles, we even have different handwritings: her’s is the girl on the go type. Mine is the smart but chicken scratch kind. I am in no ways as sociable as she is. She may be in control of situations, but I have the power of persuasion.
Our differences are what balances us, but it is our similarities that hold us together – like nuclear bonds. We have the same sense of humor. Endless inside jokes are countless pieces of evidence of the history of our humor. We have the comfort factor that is the unstrange silence we sit through when we’re just hanging. It is the tolerance of the differences that we have for each other. The tolerance turned respect that is.
There are the entertainers in the world and then there are your best entertainers.
Best friends make awesome entertainers. They are the best ranked out of all of your friends and if you don’t have friends or if you have only a few, then best friends are all too valuable, it’s unimaginable. That is the case with mine. I have to hold on to my best friend because if I loose her, I’d have no other stars in my vast infinity of space, to fall onto. Tiger is awesome. My relationship with her is like what most people say: opposites attract. That’s true! I mean, just take one look at me and her and and you’ll see why. She’s so different and I’m so different. But our differences are tolerable. She’s the type who presents herself in style, make up, pleasing clothes – the whole shebang. She’s my sociable Tiger with many friends; like I said one time earlier when we were still in high school: she’s the reason people bring cameras to parties. She’s so approachable and in control of situations. She’s so in control. Me? I’m the type who doesn’t like to wear clothes that seem too revealing. In fact, I detest V-necks. Although I may grow lenient to them. Speaking of styles, we even have different handwritings: her’s is the girl on the go type. Mine is the smart but chicken scratch kind. I am in no ways as sociable as she is. She may be in control of situations, but I have the power of persuasion.
Our differences are what balances us, but it is our similarities that hold us together – like nuclear bonds. We have the same sense of humor. Endless inside jokes are countless pieces of evidence of the history of our humor. We have the comfort factor that is the unstrange silence we sit through when we’re just hanging. It is the tolerance of the differences that we have for each other. The tolerance turned respect that is.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
My Toca
I said one day that Steph is my Toca. Toca is one of Jason’s best buddies and he once said that his goal is to make Jason look really good. How selfless he is! It is with that same reason that I call Steph my Toca.
Jason Mraz, MORNING AND NIGHT!
Last night was one of the best night – if not, the BEST – night ever. Yesterday as a whole was the most amazing and far-fetched day I’ve ever experienced, and I’ve lived plenty.
My day started at the dawn of the wee hours, right after Thursday had past. Steph, my Dad and I had planned to sleep in Kuya’s apartment the night before Friday morning so that we would be near Rockefeller Center plaza – where Jason was to perform in the TODAY show. We got to Kuya’s house, via train and subway, by 1:10 am. I’ve never been on a train or subway that late before. I saw things that I expected but never expected to actually see. It was surreal, to say the least and boy was this an idiosyncratic feeling – the sense of being out and about late at night where possible dirty strangers roamed, was something a person as clean as I am would never forget. But it taught me about the night world and the night owls. When we arrived at Kuya’s apartment at 1:10 am, we cleaned up a bit. By 1:30, I was in bed. Our alarm was set for 4:15am because our goal was to get to Rockefeller Center plaza by 5:00am. With the prospect of seeing Jason not once but twice the next day, I was surprised to see that I slept pretty easily for a good two hours and forty-five minutes. We left Kuya’s apartment by 4:35, when it was still dark outside. And we were at Rockefeller Center plaza by 5:20am. The line for the fans without fan passes was so darn long, stretching almost the whole block!
We waited on line and by 6:00am, we joined the rest of the crowd in front of the stage where Jason was going to perform. Steph and I were near the back, but not as back as those who were across the street. Steph. She’s my best friend and she’s the one who carried me so that I could see Jason, above all the taller people and in and around their cameras held high. Jason rehearsed “I’m Yours,” “The Remedy,” (a new version of it!) and “Make it Mine,” until around 7:00am, when the TODAY show started. He talked some time for his interviews, but we couldn’t really hear him. Other news went on, as expected and at one point we saw Al Roker. He’s skinnier in person – either that or he lost weight. He’s such an enthusiastic man, speaking of which, at around 7:30, Jason started to perform his three songs.
During the whole time, standing and hoping to catch a glimpse of Jason and enjoying his beautiful voice with complementing songs, I really got to know the people crowded around me. One family man in his late 40’s or early 50’s showered his fatherly concern as Steph carried me as high as she could, making sure (the father) that she herself didn’t topple over. Two Indian girls were the average teenagers seen in movies and in high school, texting their friends or checking their facebook on their iphone. Another Indian lady was the more intimate type, calling her friend and saying, “this is for you, I love you!” holding her phone in the air so that Jason’s music can bless the receiver at the other end with his melodical and enthusiastic voice and his uplifting band. And you could tell that this American mom figure beside me was upset with the signs that were blocking the stage from her view, but too shy to really show her anger, laughing instead of scolding. One man, inspired by a painting on canvas that he brought, humbly brought his down, as many people shouted, quite politely, to him to put it down so they could see the stage. Everyone though, had one thing in common and it was their love of Jason and his music.
That finished at around 9:00am, at which time people started to leave. Steph and I went close to the stage, now void of Jason and his superband, so that we could take pictures of their instruments. Afterward, Steph and I hung out in Central park, climbing rocks and swinging on swings. We visited the M&M store on our way to the subway to go back home – a most stressful time for Steph, one that I did not want to particiapte in – and I didn’t. Did I say thank you, Steph yet?
We got home at around 1:45pm. Steph, my Mom and I were hungry. The only food I had eaten in the past seventeen hours were seven raisins, one dried pitted plum, a light dannon yogurt and a banana. We went to Costco and had a scrumptious and much deserved (and not to mention, satisfying) lunch. When we got back home, we had about two and a half hours to kill before we execute our night plan, which was to leave the house at around 5:30 pm to pick up my Dad from the train station from his work in Manhattan. He would then drive us straight to Jones beach. Fortunately we didn’t hit traffic and even more fortunately, we were able to find a parking spot quite easily. We had about thirty to forty minutes to kill before the concert was supposed to start (7:00pm), for goodness sakes! It seemed like Jason brought us luck today, starting in the morning with great weather and continuing in the evening with great weather still as well as good traffic and parking. During that spare window, we had some french fries and then we were off to have the best night of our lives.
This was the first real concert I’ve been to. What do you mean by real? Well, I’ve been to many concerts before, only they were with great pretenders – those imitating the classics of the oldies (to me). Not only that, they were also free. However, this concert in Jones beach was different and I’m glad it was. It may have cost us over $140 total, but it was so worth it! Our seats were great and lucky. You see, Steph was supposed to sit directly behind me, but we both knew that it would be better if she was right next to me. Thankfully, the kind couple next to me didn’t mind Steph sitting next to me. They scooted over one seat. so stretching away from me were Steph, then the couple (four seats). The person who was supposed to sit in one of the seats that the couple took, moved to Steph’s seat. This seating arrangement made the setting perfect for my first Jason Mraz concert! Who wouldn’t want to enjoy a concert with their best friend next to them?
The opening acts were a little entertaining to say the least. I felt that the first one, reggae based, was better than the second one. I want to talk less about these guys though, so that I can get on to Jason, so I’ll just tell you this: the opening acts were just shy of being frustratingly long. They almost pushed it too much. In fact, the real concert started at 8:50 to 9:00 when our tickets said it was to start at 7:00!
Once the opening acts were finally finished, Bushwalla, Jason’s college roommate and best friend, entertained us with laughter, literally. For those who don’t really know Bushwalla, he is a man born to entertain, whether that would be in the streets or on stage or in cafes/coffee shops. He is a man of the spreading of happiness to as many people as possible, through audience interaction. He and Jason are perfect buddies. He was our host for the night and his first instruction before the 30 seconds of laughter, was to get ready for a big night as they changed the set for Jason and his superband.
When everyone finally got back from crowded, yet efficient restrooms and long merchandise lines as well as hula-hoopers and guitar hero players, the whole amphitheater was almost full.
Finally, FINALLY, Bushwalla announced Jason’s arrival and the crowd went wild! Everyone stood up, clapped, screamed their head off, jumped – the whole enchilada. Jason was finally here and the rest of the night floated on cloud nine, with no ground in sight until 11:00 at night. My favorite part, was when we sang “I’m Yours” as loud as we could so that people can hear us “from space,” as Jason often puts it. That song then turned into Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds” song. We sang the verse, “‘cause every little thing gonna be all right,” so loudly, I think we could be heard from miles away. Just the crowd’s voices and Jason and his band’s voices soaking the air with easy meaning. Imagine a whole ampitheatre with thousands of voices in sync. It was such a high experience. To watch it on youtube, here's the link (the ending of that video is what I'm talking about): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GBAL3PH7Pzo. That’s just one of many good feelings felt last night. If I wrote everything that went on last night, I’d have nothing else to keep like a precious secret. I’ll just tell you this, the whole thing was unbelievable and downright amazing, as Jason turned into a “God energy” and got the crowd pumping like crazy.
But of course, one of the best parts of it was that I got to sit next to Steph. My Tiger.
In the car ride home, I was so sleepy and tired. I had only 2 hours and 45 minutes of sleep after all. I’m more than glad to say that the concert and Jason (Jason Mraz, can you believe it?!) was the last thing in my mind before I cave into my pressing sleep.
Thank you Jason, thank you Steph and thank you everyone else in between!
My day started at the dawn of the wee hours, right after Thursday had past. Steph, my Dad and I had planned to sleep in Kuya’s apartment the night before Friday morning so that we would be near Rockefeller Center plaza – where Jason was to perform in the TODAY show. We got to Kuya’s house, via train and subway, by 1:10 am. I’ve never been on a train or subway that late before. I saw things that I expected but never expected to actually see. It was surreal, to say the least and boy was this an idiosyncratic feeling – the sense of being out and about late at night where possible dirty strangers roamed, was something a person as clean as I am would never forget. But it taught me about the night world and the night owls. When we arrived at Kuya’s apartment at 1:10 am, we cleaned up a bit. By 1:30, I was in bed. Our alarm was set for 4:15am because our goal was to get to Rockefeller Center plaza by 5:00am. With the prospect of seeing Jason not once but twice the next day, I was surprised to see that I slept pretty easily for a good two hours and forty-five minutes. We left Kuya’s apartment by 4:35, when it was still dark outside. And we were at Rockefeller Center plaza by 5:20am. The line for the fans without fan passes was so darn long, stretching almost the whole block!
We waited on line and by 6:00am, we joined the rest of the crowd in front of the stage where Jason was going to perform. Steph and I were near the back, but not as back as those who were across the street. Steph. She’s my best friend and she’s the one who carried me so that I could see Jason, above all the taller people and in and around their cameras held high. Jason rehearsed “I’m Yours,” “The Remedy,” (a new version of it!) and “Make it Mine,” until around 7:00am, when the TODAY show started. He talked some time for his interviews, but we couldn’t really hear him. Other news went on, as expected and at one point we saw Al Roker. He’s skinnier in person – either that or he lost weight. He’s such an enthusiastic man, speaking of which, at around 7:30, Jason started to perform his three songs.
During the whole time, standing and hoping to catch a glimpse of Jason and enjoying his beautiful voice with complementing songs, I really got to know the people crowded around me. One family man in his late 40’s or early 50’s showered his fatherly concern as Steph carried me as high as she could, making sure (the father) that she herself didn’t topple over. Two Indian girls were the average teenagers seen in movies and in high school, texting their friends or checking their facebook on their iphone. Another Indian lady was the more intimate type, calling her friend and saying, “this is for you, I love you!” holding her phone in the air so that Jason’s music can bless the receiver at the other end with his melodical and enthusiastic voice and his uplifting band. And you could tell that this American mom figure beside me was upset with the signs that were blocking the stage from her view, but too shy to really show her anger, laughing instead of scolding. One man, inspired by a painting on canvas that he brought, humbly brought his down, as many people shouted, quite politely, to him to put it down so they could see the stage. Everyone though, had one thing in common and it was their love of Jason and his music.
That finished at around 9:00am, at which time people started to leave. Steph and I went close to the stage, now void of Jason and his superband, so that we could take pictures of their instruments. Afterward, Steph and I hung out in Central park, climbing rocks and swinging on swings. We visited the M&M store on our way to the subway to go back home – a most stressful time for Steph, one that I did not want to particiapte in – and I didn’t. Did I say thank you, Steph yet?
We got home at around 1:45pm. Steph, my Mom and I were hungry. The only food I had eaten in the past seventeen hours were seven raisins, one dried pitted plum, a light dannon yogurt and a banana. We went to Costco and had a scrumptious and much deserved (and not to mention, satisfying) lunch. When we got back home, we had about two and a half hours to kill before we execute our night plan, which was to leave the house at around 5:30 pm to pick up my Dad from the train station from his work in Manhattan. He would then drive us straight to Jones beach. Fortunately we didn’t hit traffic and even more fortunately, we were able to find a parking spot quite easily. We had about thirty to forty minutes to kill before the concert was supposed to start (7:00pm), for goodness sakes! It seemed like Jason brought us luck today, starting in the morning with great weather and continuing in the evening with great weather still as well as good traffic and parking. During that spare window, we had some french fries and then we were off to have the best night of our lives.
This was the first real concert I’ve been to. What do you mean by real? Well, I’ve been to many concerts before, only they were with great pretenders – those imitating the classics of the oldies (to me). Not only that, they were also free. However, this concert in Jones beach was different and I’m glad it was. It may have cost us over $140 total, but it was so worth it! Our seats were great and lucky. You see, Steph was supposed to sit directly behind me, but we both knew that it would be better if she was right next to me. Thankfully, the kind couple next to me didn’t mind Steph sitting next to me. They scooted over one seat. so stretching away from me were Steph, then the couple (four seats). The person who was supposed to sit in one of the seats that the couple took, moved to Steph’s seat. This seating arrangement made the setting perfect for my first Jason Mraz concert! Who wouldn’t want to enjoy a concert with their best friend next to them?
The opening acts were a little entertaining to say the least. I felt that the first one, reggae based, was better than the second one. I want to talk less about these guys though, so that I can get on to Jason, so I’ll just tell you this: the opening acts were just shy of being frustratingly long. They almost pushed it too much. In fact, the real concert started at 8:50 to 9:00 when our tickets said it was to start at 7:00!
Once the opening acts were finally finished, Bushwalla, Jason’s college roommate and best friend, entertained us with laughter, literally. For those who don’t really know Bushwalla, he is a man born to entertain, whether that would be in the streets or on stage or in cafes/coffee shops. He is a man of the spreading of happiness to as many people as possible, through audience interaction. He and Jason are perfect buddies. He was our host for the night and his first instruction before the 30 seconds of laughter, was to get ready for a big night as they changed the set for Jason and his superband.
When everyone finally got back from crowded, yet efficient restrooms and long merchandise lines as well as hula-hoopers and guitar hero players, the whole amphitheater was almost full.
Finally, FINALLY, Bushwalla announced Jason’s arrival and the crowd went wild! Everyone stood up, clapped, screamed their head off, jumped – the whole enchilada. Jason was finally here and the rest of the night floated on cloud nine, with no ground in sight until 11:00 at night. My favorite part, was when we sang “I’m Yours” as loud as we could so that people can hear us “from space,” as Jason often puts it. That song then turned into Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds” song. We sang the verse, “‘cause every little thing gonna be all right,” so loudly, I think we could be heard from miles away. Just the crowd’s voices and Jason and his band’s voices soaking the air with easy meaning. Imagine a whole ampitheatre with thousands of voices in sync. It was such a high experience. To watch it on youtube, here's the link (the ending of that video is what I'm talking about): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GBAL3PH7Pzo. That’s just one of many good feelings felt last night. If I wrote everything that went on last night, I’d have nothing else to keep like a precious secret. I’ll just tell you this, the whole thing was unbelievable and downright amazing, as Jason turned into a “God energy” and got the crowd pumping like crazy.
But of course, one of the best parts of it was that I got to sit next to Steph. My Tiger.
In the car ride home, I was so sleepy and tired. I had only 2 hours and 45 minutes of sleep after all. I’m more than glad to say that the concert and Jason (Jason Mraz, can you believe it?!) was the last thing in my mind before I cave into my pressing sleep.
Thank you Jason, thank you Steph and thank you everyone else in between!
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Juggling instruments
A couple of days ago, I just realized something that rendered me a rare gem. Me a rare gem! I humbly take the offer. Should I pursue drumming, I would be an open-handed drummer, a south paw drummer if you will. I read somewhere on the internet that if you put a 4 year old on a drum set he or she will start playing open-handed, no guidance given. I feel I am no different (although I am 20 years old, not 4). When I first started trying to teach myself to play the drums, I remember a moment where I realized that I could either hit the hi-hat (plastic bag) with my right hand or left hand. I decided to do what was most comfortable – and that was my left hand. An open-handed drummer is, in essence, a righty who hits the hi-hat with his or her left hand and the snare with his or her right hand. Usually, righties would hit the hi-hat with their dominant hand – their right hand (generally speaking, the hi-hat would be hit by the dominant hand). I guess you can say an open-handed drummer is a mix of both. Goodness gracious, the difficulties I would encounter when I play Rockband! But anyway . . . just thought I’d let you know because I myself am still surprised.
Still speaking of drums – and music in general, - my leisure life, I feel, revolves around a rotation of instruments. There was a time, when was it? Oh yeah, winter time. I was really into Jason Mraz a lot. I abandoned the piano and my make-up drum set, and even my djembe drum. All I played during those late night showdowns between me and the youtube videos of him was my classic guitar. Of course, the showdown was one-sided with Jason on the winning side. He could sing (that’s one point) and he could play better (that’s a second point) and he could play while singing (that’s a third point). I could barely sing well, I was just a beginner in guitar and I can’t even hold a note well while playing.
Then in early to mid summer, I got a new djembe drum. A 10’’ one. I switched gears and started playing the djembe drum a lot more often. I played as many Jason Mraz songs as my beginner skills would allow me and sometimes I played a song six or seven times in a row, literally – and it was a song that lasted seven minutes! Needless to say, that rendered some sweaty musical summer moments.
Then some day, as I was putting a book back on my shelf, I saw my collection of cd’s and thought back to which ones were my favorite and which ones I didn’t listen to for a long time. I noticed The Killers cd that I “borrowed” from Ate Sherry (for a year and a half, I must admit). Sorry Ate Sherry, but I love the cd, what can I do? Are you going to take it back? I learned some muay thai from Kuya. But anyway, I listened to the usual songs – those that are in my ipod. They would be: “Mr. Brightside,” “smile Like You Mean It,” “All These Things That I’ve Done,” and “Change Your Mind.”
I remember the first time I encountered the rock music of The Killers. I was at the computer upstairs – the main computer or family computer (we didn’t have all the laptops that we have now, back then) – and I saw this thing called Rockband. It sounded familiar. I had heard from Andrew, my cousin or something. No, it wasn’t Andrew. I heard it from my chorus class. Yes, on the last day of school, someone brought it in so that our teacher could play with it with the students. That night I played Mr. Brightside and the next day, that song was in my ipod. While I added it to Tiny, I saw other killers songs and added them too. Oops! Sorry for this little reverie of a deviation.
So I saw the cd on my shelf and started to listen to it again. But I was getting tired of the regular songs that I listened to. I started exploring. From that little curiosity adventure, I grew closer to “Jenny Was A Friend of Mine,” “Somebody Told Me,” “Andy, You’re A Star,” and “On Top.” But I was not satisfied with just four new songs, although at the time I felt that with each new song I started to like, I didn’t think I’d find a better one. Overall, I felt there could be more out there that I don’t know about, and why limit what I might like or even love? We only have one life, you know. A couple weeks later, I went to the library and borrowed the Killers’ second album and already I’m liking seven of their songs in that album.
Going back to my rotation of instruments, from listening to so many Killers songs, I started to rekindle my passion for smashin’ – on the drums that is. Not only that. Form The Killers’ “Exitlude” in the second album, I also started to return to the piano seat.
So I’ve gone full circle – the guitar, the djembe, the drums, the piano. Do I have a favorite instrument? Well, I’m in The Killers mode right now, although I’m going to see my favorite singer, Jason Mraz on Friday (I’ve been pumping myself up for his concert and trust me when I say this, I get pumped up easily). I would say that this question is expectedly difficult to answer because I don’t want to say that I like them all equally because that’s not true, to be honest. But at the same time, it’s hard to answer because I could be creative with each of them in their own meandering ways. I could hit my own little climaxes with each instrument, in other words. But the one that I enjoy the most, the absolute most, would be the drums, then the piano, then the guitar and then the djembe drum. But this count-down list may change in the future, of course. Oh man, I love the drums!
Still speaking of drums – and music in general, - my leisure life, I feel, revolves around a rotation of instruments. There was a time, when was it? Oh yeah, winter time. I was really into Jason Mraz a lot. I abandoned the piano and my make-up drum set, and even my djembe drum. All I played during those late night showdowns between me and the youtube videos of him was my classic guitar. Of course, the showdown was one-sided with Jason on the winning side. He could sing (that’s one point) and he could play better (that’s a second point) and he could play while singing (that’s a third point). I could barely sing well, I was just a beginner in guitar and I can’t even hold a note well while playing.
Then in early to mid summer, I got a new djembe drum. A 10’’ one. I switched gears and started playing the djembe drum a lot more often. I played as many Jason Mraz songs as my beginner skills would allow me and sometimes I played a song six or seven times in a row, literally – and it was a song that lasted seven minutes! Needless to say, that rendered some sweaty musical summer moments.
Then some day, as I was putting a book back on my shelf, I saw my collection of cd’s and thought back to which ones were my favorite and which ones I didn’t listen to for a long time. I noticed The Killers cd that I “borrowed” from Ate Sherry (for a year and a half, I must admit). Sorry Ate Sherry, but I love the cd, what can I do? Are you going to take it back? I learned some muay thai from Kuya. But anyway, I listened to the usual songs – those that are in my ipod. They would be: “Mr. Brightside,” “smile Like You Mean It,” “All These Things That I’ve Done,” and “Change Your Mind.”
I remember the first time I encountered the rock music of The Killers. I was at the computer upstairs – the main computer or family computer (we didn’t have all the laptops that we have now, back then) – and I saw this thing called Rockband. It sounded familiar. I had heard from Andrew, my cousin or something. No, it wasn’t Andrew. I heard it from my chorus class. Yes, on the last day of school, someone brought it in so that our teacher could play with it with the students. That night I played Mr. Brightside and the next day, that song was in my ipod. While I added it to Tiny, I saw other killers songs and added them too. Oops! Sorry for this little reverie of a deviation.
So I saw the cd on my shelf and started to listen to it again. But I was getting tired of the regular songs that I listened to. I started exploring. From that little curiosity adventure, I grew closer to “Jenny Was A Friend of Mine,” “Somebody Told Me,” “Andy, You’re A Star,” and “On Top.” But I was not satisfied with just four new songs, although at the time I felt that with each new song I started to like, I didn’t think I’d find a better one. Overall, I felt there could be more out there that I don’t know about, and why limit what I might like or even love? We only have one life, you know. A couple weeks later, I went to the library and borrowed the Killers’ second album and already I’m liking seven of their songs in that album.
Going back to my rotation of instruments, from listening to so many Killers songs, I started to rekindle my passion for smashin’ – on the drums that is. Not only that. Form The Killers’ “Exitlude” in the second album, I also started to return to the piano seat.
So I’ve gone full circle – the guitar, the djembe, the drums, the piano. Do I have a favorite instrument? Well, I’m in The Killers mode right now, although I’m going to see my favorite singer, Jason Mraz on Friday (I’ve been pumping myself up for his concert and trust me when I say this, I get pumped up easily). I would say that this question is expectedly difficult to answer because I don’t want to say that I like them all equally because that’s not true, to be honest. But at the same time, it’s hard to answer because I could be creative with each of them in their own meandering ways. I could hit my own little climaxes with each instrument, in other words. But the one that I enjoy the most, the absolute most, would be the drums, then the piano, then the guitar and then the djembe drum. But this count-down list may change in the future, of course. Oh man, I love the drums!
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
sojourn on cloud nine
I feel high.
Things have been going my way lately, and I don’t quite know why.
But I’ll take them and caress them until I get my fill.
And when their time has passed, I’ll darn well think of them still,
During those lonely pains, or when boredom reins.
And I will master their secret.
And how they came to be.
The glory rays of the sun will hit the Earth
And that’s when I’ll see.
Is it too good to be true?
Or are they messing with you?
After all, there is something to be felt and appreciated.
It is the crash of sharp waves that slap you in the face,
And the salt in your eyes that tell the story.
It is your dream sojourn on cloud nine, goodness gracious!
So just take the helpful hit and let strength ride you through the rest of your
Opening journey.
Let go and run towards the happening skyline
And let your driving music keep you feeling free and fine.
And you know that road is forever if you make it long enough.
Things have been going my way lately, and I don’t quite know why.
But I’ll take them and caress them until I get my fill.
And when their time has passed, I’ll darn well think of them still,
During those lonely pains, or when boredom reins.
And I will master their secret.
And how they came to be.
The glory rays of the sun will hit the Earth
And that’s when I’ll see.
Is it too good to be true?
Or are they messing with you?
After all, there is something to be felt and appreciated.
It is the crash of sharp waves that slap you in the face,
And the salt in your eyes that tell the story.
It is your dream sojourn on cloud nine, goodness gracious!
So just take the helpful hit and let strength ride you through the rest of your
Opening journey.
Let go and run towards the happening skyline
And let your driving music keep you feeling free and fine.
And you know that road is forever if you make it long enough.
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