Tag Archive: music


Sometimes You Just Have To Channel The Fire

 

Sometimes you just have to channel the fire
Of dreams you have dreamt; of all you desire
Into the heart of a phoenix whose song you hear true
And let hope spring eternal, like the flame within you

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I’m having a hard time with a project of mine.
It took me long enough to figure out what medium to start writing it in, but I can’t write the pinnacle scene. The reason I’m writing this show is to raise awareness about the origin of a certain aspect of rape culture; I can’t, however, seem to write the scene that it happens in. 

Because I imagine it as a dance, but I couldn’t for the life of you tell you what it looks like. 
Or, rather: raw, violent, manipulative, cunning, seductive, petrifying, and electric. 
But how do I write that into text? 
I do not believe she makes any sound.
Unless I actually feel it in music… Is this where my opera begins? Thus far the piece has been in verse format (indeed, I have included some text I wrote on this blog; the show ends with “Athena Learns the Truth”) and I’ve been wondering if – in order to have control as the playwright over the subtext of the dance – I’d have to write the music underscoring the movement. I am a composer, after all.
So far I have tried sitting at my computer, lined paper, plain paper. I have drawn a few stage pictures that may be helping one way or another.

My question is:
Where is the line between showing violence and perpetuating violence and encouraging violence?
How ‘interpretive’ can it be without also romanticizing it?  
Why subject humans to a violence that maybe only some of them will understand, and those that will are probably already the ones who understand what I’m trying to say? I do not want to preach to a choir; I understand that it’s hubristic to assume that I have the capacity to change minds; I also believe I have the capacity to change minds. 

Just have to keep sitting on it, I guess. Maybe soon at a piano. 

Soon

Old rotting love dies a little more each day
To make room for new to move in and stay
And shove out the hurt old memories bring
And soon the winter will melt into spring

It’s hard to forget, even more to forgive
But with burdens and grudges I don’t want to live
So with time I will learn to let go of the sting
And soon the winter will melt into spring

Open your windows and air out your rooms
Bring in the mops and the sponges and brooms
Invite your real friends, those who make your heart sing
And soon the winter will melt into spring

“Someone is Waiting…”

I didn’t go to FetLife to fall in love, but what do you do when someone posts:

“Ideally, I’d like to meet someone to explore new sights, new sounds, and tastes with me. Someone that’s as ambitious as I am and enthusiastically supports me in my endeavors. Someone that’s curious about the world and likes to keep up with what’s going on in it. Someone that thinks that staying in to cook dinner together and eating it with a bottle of wine makes a really good Friday night. Someone who will be silly with me. Someone that will take care of me while I’m sick (and vice versa). Someone that loves me despite my flaws. Who is close with her family and one day might want one of her own.”

 

This is everything that I want. Now be as beautiful as you sound, please, and love me.

“…Did I know her? Have I waited too long?
Maybe so, but maybe so has she.”

The Sound of a Breaking Heart

What is the sound of breaking heart?
The sound it makes as it comes apart.
Does it crack all at once or sound like glass as it shatters?
Is it muffled like cloth when shred into tatters?
Does it bleed slow like a wound or snap like a bone?

It sounds like all of these things when you’re listening alone.

I am now emotionally detached.

I realized this tonight as I watched him bring out a tulip of a home-rolled cigarette and I, hoping with all the Benefit of the Doubt I could ever muster, said, “Ooh that’s a big commitment.” [subtext: “that must be filled with a lot of weed.”] And he sheepishly looked back and said, “Nah. Different sort.” [subtext: “Yeah, this is that gross, dried out, 6+ mo. old tobacco my drug-dealing sidekick you don’t like very much because he occasionally ends up passed out in my bed at 3 in the afternoon while I’m holding up shop — he’d take the futon, but I’m already taking up the living room. He’s my buddy, what, so I’m not going to offer him my bed? I’m not going to accept his grody ass tobacco?”]

The fact is, though, that because you don’t eat properly and you smoke too many cigarettes, darling, you are a skeleton of what you once were. I have always known that I am attracted to beefy men. My father used to seem a lot bigger, even in his slimmer years, because I was (believe it or not, given my size now) somewhat smaller. My father has put on weight in his middle years, but he has incorporated it gracefully as a tall man and so simply has a more solid presence in the room … contrary, say, to his former days as a 1970s short-shorted high school varsity basketball player. His downtown corporate office city suits from our suburban American family days filled him out, and my own smaller stature. Also, my admiration for his achievements. My longing for his approval. My eagerness to somehow learn how to truly communicate with my father.

This sure sounds Freudian, but I definitely believe you remind me of my father. You too are from a small town, although you do not come with nearly as much affluence. This means, I think, that you do not believe in yourself (as in, yourself as a success who will continue to succeed). This does not mean that you don’t talk a big talk, but why do you think I try to shoot you down so much? I want you to see yourself as actually describing the reality of the situation, rather than the inflated hyperbole that you mumble on about.

You also both have dreams. I am not disputing that. My father has come a long way from the rural and remote of where my high achieving grandfather placed him to fly from to settle his roots elsewhere. My father has settled his roots down in a place that I’d like to think I helped lead him back to. The place where he married my mother. The place where his mother received her high school degree. I have rooted my parents there, no matter how many other pilgrimages they pursue. My mother, also, has traveled far, and stood strong as a grecian goddess of a pillar in my life.

The real difference, though, between you and my father, darling, is that while my father’s dreams incorporate only those less fortunate, those more needy, those more taxed, yours only include the betterment of yourself. My father is driven by a Divine Leading that I do not fully understand, but I believe is the same spark in me from which the music of my soul flows. My parents have taught me to seek to better those around me, because it is my duty, and also my Divine pleasure, to help. So I have tried to help you.

And now I see you wasting away. And smoking away. And drinking away.

I have become emotionally detached because I need to love myself first. I used to love you, love the idea of saving you and, most of all, used to love the idea of being with you once you were saved. I’ve often been accused of Falling In Love With Potential … Well there I did it again. And now I cannot watch any more. I am stepping above. I am stepping beyond.

I am also tiptoeing around the aura of another former Lovespark in Whom I Imbued Too Much Potential for the Period. But, after stepping away and letting go of the absurd human I wouldn’t watch him become, he stepped out and continues to surprise me with smiles every time I talk to him. Which I find wanting to be more and more frequent. Isn’t it funny, I’ve been in love with this young man since we were 13. Almost a decade. And I’ve never kissed him? Delusional, I know. But I’ve also been the closest to him without going further with the most electric magnetic pressure I’ve ever experienced. I’ve known him at highs and lows and loved watching where he discovers next.

The first play I ever wrote, I wrote about this young man with whom I hope to stay along my voyage away from this compound and towards my family vacation which I get to go on because I wasn’t, in fact, hired at the August internship I’d hoped for. As my mother would say, “Rats.”

I am on the verge of another change. I mentioned at Al-Anon the other day (I’ve started going; I think I will be ready for the real change when I can get away from him) that I was ready to have Freedom from this man. This tortured young man who has too much kerosene and spark and not enough slow burn. The Almost-Second Lover I took was far more gentle, far more loving in his embrace; I questioned it was merely a matter of softer fingertips in the most delicate, and sensitive, of places. I realized, even in my hazy state, that the answer was probably not; the answer was probably more linked to an awareness of the woman and her pleasure. Pursuing mine, because by being as pleasured as possible, he could tell, this temporary target of mine, that I would pleasure him back. Or did he? He just seemed intent on my pleasure. And I intent on his. Had the alcohol not derailed the physiology of our plans … well, we’ll never know, will we.

I am ready to feel a new lover’s touch. I am ready to find touch, if he is ready to give it and I am ready to receive it, the touch from this old Lovespark. As he is also a dear friend, I hope to one day explain our relationship using a term of my mother’s which is bound to surprise her: that he and I are “devoted to each other.”

I have this idea for a play in which a young open hetero couple gets accidentally pregnant and decide to raise the child… a few years later the woman has unprotected sex with another man and gets pregnant with his child. The two fathers decide to both be in her life as love interests, but they have to figure out how to explain it to her family, who is completely traditional. That is not to say conservative, but the idea of having multiple sexual partners, much less child rearing partners … It is not a matter of gender as it is a matter of number. 

But I digress.

I am seeking for a way to pleasure myself, because I deserve to be pleasured. Here I am stuck in a soon to be escaped delusion of being with someone I am ready to transcend. I am ready to grow and he is not. And I will be wounded still when I leave, perhaps more so when I am in nomad mode for a while. But exciting things are on the horizon, if I am just patient enough to get myself there in good enough shape to plant in soil anew and soak in the nutrients of a new, inviting, and exciting environment.

My future lies ahead and, believe me, good things lie in it.