Vökuró

5:14pm: Ah, Livejournal!
I remember you. If only my fear of authentic journaling had not defeated me.

Here is a poem by Lucie Brock-Broido.

"Soul Keeping Company"

The hours between washing and the well
Of burial are the soul's most troubled time.

I sat with her in keeping company
All through the affliction of the night, keeping

Soul constant, a second self. Earth is heavy
And I made no wish, save being

Merely magical. I am magical
No more. This, I well remember well.

In the sweet thereafter the impress
Of the senses will be tattooed to

The whole world ravelling in the clemency
Of an autumn of Octobers, all that bounty

Bountiful and the oaks specifically
Afire as everything dies off, inclining

To the merciful. I would have made of my body
A body to protect her, anything to keep

Her well & here--in the soul's suite
Before five tons of earth will bear

On her, stay here
Soul, in the good night of my company.

4:12am: Spring is here, and the air is growing discernibly warmer. The insects are back in force and birds are chirping even now outside my window.

It seems this is nature's reminder that there are just 4 weeks of class left before the end of the semester, and all the things I said I would accomplish before then have mere instants to come to fruition. Mainly putting more effort into assignments and into my general upkeep, both which have become regrettably lax as of late.

Plus I need to do better on finals than last semester. No more mediocrity!

As for the summer, I've determined that my job at the computer clinic stretches from June 18th to August 15th with possible escapes on the weekends, plus my class will be on marine biology with an eventual field trip to the rocky intertidal region of Nahant, MA.

It'll be slightly sad not to be at home for summer, but I've always been adaptable and had an inclination toward the nomadic lifestyle. The value goal-wise and the pay are not easily dismissed.

Again I feel nostalgic for eras that do not exist. I begin to suspect this is a problem only solvable by the writing of another novel, regardless of how terrible it, too, will turn out.

11:11pm: First, an indirection: I posit that a certain sense of history is conveyed via the use of antiquated media, even when the content itself is of the most contemporary character. Take for example the photorealistic paintings of Rudolf Stingel in his 2007 exhibit at the Whitney: despite being based on digital prints, the vast canvases reveal themselves to be done by hand when examined closely. However, awareness of the artist's hand in the matter burgeons in a much different way than in an old Impressionist masterwork, wherein the texture of the paint itself calls attention to the expressiveness of the creation.

In much the same way, the use of classical instruments in music creates a certain expectation that the piece itself will possess comparable attributes. Of course this expectation can be overturned, either through the adoption of a "new" yet still Eurocentric/academic style (extended technique, atonality and neotonality, etc.) or by imposing different forms, especially those of popular music (consequently, music derived from African-American traditions). It is this latter concern to which I turn today.

In short, my differing experiences in singing with two campus choral groups have illustrated a wider point about how I want to live my life. The first semester I sang in the Harvard-Radcliffe Chorus, an initially pleasant but ultimately somewhat mediocre chorus comprised mostly of (much) older community members who have somewhat decrepit voices and are, shall we say, not particularly inclined to hang out with raw youths like myself. This semester, I joined the gospel group Kuumba, a chorus comprised of many races and creeds, and many without prior singing experience: however, what they lack in training they compensate for in unadulterated spirit.

The inciting event for a kind of renewed realization came last week. The voice is an instrument, too, and as limited as my vocal ability is, what knowledge I have of singing is in the classical paradigm. On Thursday, one of the senior members of Kuumba sat next to me in rehearsal and asked if I was accustomed to singing classical music. After complimenting me (undeservedly) on the quality of my voice, he noted that I was using vibrato, and advised against it due to its inappropriateness in the style. I was of course aware that the aesthetic did not incorporate that technique, but it was such an established habit that I did not realize I was doing it.

I endeavored somewhat successfully to fix my error, but the problem was not merely one of vocal technique. I could not help but acknowledge that this music and these words come out of a spirituality and a culture which are known to me but not intrinsic to my personhood. However much I love the experience and find it enriching, there is a subtle divide that starts from the moment I open my mouth. This is no fault of Kuumba, which is wonderfully inclusive, but of my own cultural indeterminacy that has persisted since the peculiarities of a biracial childhood.

The crucial thing is that this divide is not insurmountable, nor does it prevent me from having the fullest appreciation for the depth of feeling inherent in the group. Last week, we circled up as we do normally at the end of rehearsal, but rather than the usual prayer which I expected, the director had us do another rendition of "Hold On." That song, while always enjoyable to sing, was suddenly elevated into a soul-wrenching experience. I make no exaggeration to say I was awestruck by the surge of feeling that passed through all of us, strengthened precisely because there was no one who was not fully engaged with the experience.

College has long been the place where I imagined I would find people with whom to hash this out, and while I am grateful for the many friends I have and the many opportunities for cross-cultural sharing I've experienced, it seems the process of realizing fully the notion of a bicultural existence still requires much more effort. My identity has by now largely crystallized, but my mode of expression (especially in "polite conversation") is still constrained by the trappings of mainstream white heteronormative discourse.

I believe it is time to externalize the way I feel, since a sense of inner stability alone is of little use to others in the struggle to live well. Recent interactions with peers have shown me it is insufficient to be self-aware, since one must strive to make others and oneself reach greater awareness in all arenas, especially those regarding living and working in a diverse environment. This is by no means a suggestion to indoctrinate anyone or impose a certain view of identity upon others, but to always raise the question whenever any issues arise (especially ones not commonly viewed as intersecting with identity), so that uncritical assumptions about what it means to be black, or white, or bisexual, or leftist, can be suitably challenged.

These interactions of which I speak have been ongoing, and have taken their toll on my relationships with several people at school, especially in terms of a highly charged emotional confrontation about housing for next year. It has basically worked out now (though not entirely to my liking), but it did have the effect of jolting me out of my inaction as far as such matters were concerned, and I think now that I will be viewed in a different light by said individuals. Indeed, I see myself differently for having been so vehement in contrast to my usual nonchalance, since only one confrontation in my past has taken on similar proportions. Regardless, I am optimistic, since I believe this living arrangement will be a growing experience for all of us.

If my voice is to be heeded at all, I want to be the instrument not of some ivory tower tradition but of myself and those peers who have my respect, striving to encompass all of our complexities. It will not be easy to commit to this role fully, but it seems more necessary than ever to do so.

Anyhow, back to work. Peace to you all.

12:56am: In real life, in which Ms. Kiefer has just passed away, I am not at all happy. Yet in the bubble of college, things at least have the semblance of progressing apace. I confuse and disappoint myself. Walt Whitman and multitudes, I guess. More on this later.

[EDIT]
I started another orchestral piece. It is not very good at all yet nor is it really relevant in any meaningful way, but I dedicated it to Mary Kiefer, which gives me an impetus to finish it even if I never deem it fit for the public.

Love.

1:40am: 5077 | nye ba zaa
5078 | ti naangmin teung
5079 | bon ben be

"In God's country
what is there
to surpass this?
--from the Myth of the Bagre

2:46am: College...
and all its attendant expectations are on the cusp of becoming real. I have classes, readings, membership in a few clubs, an on-campus job, a paper lantern, a houseplant, posters in the mail. My sociopolitical assumptions are being mildly contested, my discourse is taking on new and lofty dimensions in response to the level of those around me. I may or may not be becoming an openly avowed anarcho-syndicalist.

It's still not there yet, however. (This applies to all of the aforementioned.)

For some reason, at this very moment, I feel especially calm and receptive, but I have no outlet for this intuitive burgeoning. I haven't written anything since I arrived, and it seems that those defining experiences which will inspire such efforts are as yet in potentia. ("Till the bridge you will need, be form'd...")

My, how I have always loved parenthetical remarks (at least, since I can remember). And terseness. Speaking of recalling, though, some attempt should be made to bring together the disparate threads of memory that defined my childhood in New York and Seattle. I might find it valuable to be able to remember details of my upbringing, if I might thereby better evaluate my current situation. In fact, this is just as I am learning to do in "Africa and Africans," a course that seeks to explain the continent's current status of economic immiseration via historical and geographical means.

A lot of people here seem to like living in a dreamworld. I guess I'll join them. Good night.

4:40pm: Sigh.
Someone broke into my house through the dining room window. Fortunately, we're fine and they only took my old laptop with a broken screen, rather than anything of value. Still, it points out the vulnerability of our position here -- especially since, had I come home a little earlier, they might have taken my Macbook which I dropped off or even been in the house when I arrived.

Perhaps I ought to be a little more shaken, but I view it mostly as a lesson learned.

Oh, and I graduate today. Woohoo?

7:35pm: Well.
Acceptances (only first three are ordered by preference):
McGill
Harvard
Stanford

Boston U
Columbia
Northwestern
Princeton
Rochester
UC Berkeley
UCLA

I would be lying to say I'm not happy, but honestly, how am I going to make a choice now?

As an aside, I think Eastman's rejection was a positive thing. Otherwise, I would have been tempted to Rochester despite my misgivings, which I now realize should have warned me away. Not that it and the others here aren't great schools: just not quite right for me.

I foresee a busy spring break...

11:04pm: "Galatea"

Stone against metal, glass,
light and mechanical chatter

beautiful like the tone
of a celeste cascading sparks;

all the art humans possess
and the breath that animates,

all the carefully chosen detail
of gears and clockwork: the time

we measure in feigned flaws chiseled
on the visage, solemn and chaste.

Now she departs alone,
my willful satellite, erratically

weaving through the interstices,
a malleable rush of vessels

undulating across a higher plane
than this that we have known.

But oh! to catch a glimpse, a glancing touch
pulsed over oceans on the wire

or given to the angels, a word
flown with the traffic of heaven

to every crevasse and mountain,
to the green and growing things

as if to say: here is all the perfection
you can never have.

Each tear you weep shall be as crystal,
and the sky taste bitter in the morning.

10:54pm: The classroom is idle.
The student reads a page, hears birdsong
dancing over words like sunlight
in the company of marigolds.

And you may ask, "What use are the senses
that so deceive?"

Still I beg you, though you may have
more troubles than hearers to receive them:
listen attentively, for those who cannot.
Else, each inhalation is oppression,
as if we had been running too fast
through the ant-tunnels of forgetfulness,
heat down the neck,

laminar flow splitting our skulls repeatedly
like a thousand fragile exoskeletons
crushed effortlessly underfoot.

One remembers such inculcation
on a dripping walk through woods
when Nobody watches you stumble
and when from the shadow bodily
the scion of centuries rises to meet you.

Behold! The graying phantom
of a formicine schoolmarm, chiding,
is come carrying all the lessons
you never learned.

"They turn with the sun," she says, breathless and continual.

3:13am: In 15 minutes, I have to "wake up" and get ready to go to Walt Disney World. I've no idea why I thought it would be a good plan, but here we are, as it were. How surreal, to reflect on my past self with such distance that the decisions I made are incomprehensible!

I have my first audition at Northwestern on February 2nd, a mere week after returning. This "vacation" is poised to bring the Sword of Damocles crashing down on me, particularly given my spectacular slop-up at Erie County. (In fact, I got a 99/100, but with their inflated scores and my ill-adjusted attitude, it feels like failing. In my defense, in any such context there are always objective, subjective, and totally spurious ratings; this was not the first two, my friends.)

The mere fact that I fear the futility of the course I've chosen tells me that perhaps I should have waited to pursue music at all, particularly with the stratospheric goals I set for myself, but I suppose it's necessary for me to undergo these trials if only to confirm my suspicions. Then again, it might be argued these doubts and challenges are all part of being an artist, if that is indeed what I want to call myself. Time to prove that I didn't write a book about that notion for nothing.

In other news, after hearing Vienna Teng for the first time a couple weeks ago, I have been haunted by the infectiousness of her song "Whatever You Want," with its self-deprecating chorus and wrenching narrative. Quite readily, I could remain lying prone for hours listening, but it seems as though that is not to be.

See you in a few days.

1:05pm: Um...

Yeah.

Now if only this one didn't suck.

3:20pm: ...and Athens.
Here are some pictures of various sights in Greece, and here are the ones from Cyprus.

I'm very sorry for all those who are without power. (Although obviously you probably can't read this...) I feel almost guilty that I'm not at home having to deal with this. My dad is almost certainly stuck without it, but our heat is gas-based and the thermostat is battery powered, so he should be alright. I'm worried about the iguana, though... ah well, there's nothing I can do.

8:13am: Cyprus...
is very interesting, although I decidedly wouldn't want to live here. Having never been to a Mediterranean country before (except Italy, and that was very much a packaged experience), I was unaccustomed to the distinct nature of the culture, social interaction, and general mores of the place. From what I've observed, it's very male-dominated and somewhat pushy if not actually aggressive; a little disorganized; and generally very laid back (except on the roads, where people are of course crazy; viz., mopeds on sidewalks, loose adherence to traffic laws and speed limits, and so on). This part of Cyprus, Nicosia (AKA Lefkosia, the proper Greek name) seems sadly almost devoid of museums; I've had to wander through town aimlessly, not wanting to go to any shops but having little else to do. We're on the Greek half of the island, but some Turkish influence reveals itself, both on TV with Turkish subtitles, and in the food and ethnic backgrounds of the inhabitants. Apparently this city was originally divided between Greece and Turkey (think the Berlin Wall), but I haven't been to the border site so I can't speak as to how the "other half" lives; still, you can probably guess.

An aside: will somebody please tell me why my hair is such an object of fascination? (Rhetorical, of course.) Both here and in London, three or four different people have stopped very obviously and unabashedly to take a picture. Not to mention all the grins, random shouts, chuckles, and so forth. Someone at the skate park near the National Theater in London said it was "orgasmic. Like, I'm coming as I see it." Too much information, my friends.

One incident alone restored my confidence that people do in fact have better things to do with their time. When I was sitting in the lobby of the Classic Hotel, some Spanish youth were checking in at the front desk. One rounded the corner, chuckled and called back "¡Mira a aquel muchacho!" (Look at that kid!) One of his friends came to look, glanced at me, and asked "¿Qué sobre él?" (What about him?)

Gracias a dios.

Anyway, I went to an Italian restaurant last night; it was too late for us to find a restaurant far from the hotel, so we stayed close rather than seeking out authentic Cypriot cuisine. There were a couple of Latin American immigrants who sang and played guitar and sax, performing some standards; I recognized "Girl from Ipanema" and "Guantamera", among others the names of which I can't remember. How I do love globalization! (Well, the positive, culturally-enriching, edifying-rather-than-assimilating, non-imperialist kind.) I took a picture of them which I shall try to post later.

Also, I *will* attempt to expand on London a bit more... I've been too busy with the actual travelling part to spend much time chronicling.

God, another chuckler! Now, as much as it's my fault for making my hairstyle (non)decision, these people really need to grow up (not to mention expand their experience of black people, although in their defense I have not seen more than two during my time in the country).

...Okay, another one, in a car, as I was typing that. COME ON.

It's so sad, really. Farewell.

12:14am: The briefest of updates:

I'm in London -- Saw a concert of Steve Reich and later one of Konono no. 1 (sweet Congolese group) -- went to Ben Jonson's "The Alchemist" -- gotta go, it's really awkward to be down here alone with the hotel desk clerk.

Bye!

1:50pm: How sad.
Several others have already noted this, but Steve Irwin died from a sting ray attack.

It's especially strange to think that of all the dangerous activities he had performed, merely passing by a creature known for its docility was the one responsible for the death of the comparatively young cultural icon.

It also makes me anxious a little for my brother, who often goes scuba diving as part of his work on the submersible robot exploring the coral reef. This worry isn't necessarily well-founded, since this type of thing is so rare; nevertheless, it remains a concern.

10:30am: Ho hum, no bassoon lesson after all. Mrs. Kerr never showed, so we went outside and played from the bassoon book for a while. Well, I use "played" in a liberal sense... I was almost playing acceptably, but lord knows what Garrett was doing.

But of course, when I went in, I happened to go up to the office -- who should be there but Mary Kiefer, wielding a deadly sword of reproach. She asked me about the extended essay right off the bat, yet as it turned out, she merely wanted me to get in touch with Sra. Cedeño before much longer. Apparently they're having lunch this Thursday; I should have known they would be in cahoots.

Ms. Mays pointed out how astonished she was that we were seniors already. It really was blindingly fast, in retrospect.

11:27pm: I haven't written in a while.
Primarily because I've been preoccupied with the same old quotidian stuff. I've been writing music constantly, but it mostly doesn't turn out satisfactorily and it's not the kind of substantive music that will help me get into college.

The trouble is, I need further education and guidance for my approach to work. I don't know how strong my portfolio has to be, how many pieces to include, what to work on for instrumental repertoire... a thousand obstacles and confusions present themselves to my plans. I haven't started any applications or essays yet.

It's apparent, though, that nothing else would satisfy me to the same degree as composition in one form or another (at least at present). Hopefully, this commitment will translate into motivation to perform the attendant drudgeries.

Plus, extended essay. (!!) I am interested in my topic (José Martí's work and its relationship to its sociopolitical context), but have done no research and have yet to contact Sra. Cedeño.

But all this in time. For the present, I have to get to bed for a bassoon lesson early tomorrow.

Adieu.

7:11pm: I'm back!
...And shortly, I'll be leaving once again. I travel to Minnesota and Wisconsin on Monday, not to return until Tuesday, August 8th.

I miss Eastman. :(

12:02am: Phew.
The concert is this coming evening. I'm not especially nervous, since this particular piece has already been stress-tested as it were; it's the same string quartet that was performed this April. I had finished the other work, which ended up being voice, two clarinets, and piano, but we didn't have enough rehearsal time to get it together well enough for the concert, sadly. Still, none of the other composers have two pieces either, so it would have seemed incongruous; thus, it's probably for the best.

I've really enjoyed this camp: I feel it's been a good mix of productivity and sociability. Out of the structured activities, the composition lessons were the best: freeform, but still immensely useful in speeding up the lengthy process. However, apart from those, it's clear that the kids and not the classes make this program what it is. That's not to say that writing the little piano piece in Theory hasn't been fun or that "Analysis" hasn't been... extremely bizarre, but I've met so many great people that have an amazing degree of commitment and enthusiasm for their art. I think, if nothing else, my time here shown me that this is something that I can really do, and that regardless of my current technical level or instrumental chops, there's a place for me in this realm. The beauty of it is that it's not escapist, this world of music: it has a very authentic connection to the emotions and ideas of all people, and though the mechanisms differ, there's always a soul and a passion behind the work.

Soon, of course, I'll have to float down from my cloud and start work on the extended essay and the assigned summer reading. For now, though, I'm content to settle in with my manuscript paper and Lucille Clifton's poems and daydream.

I hope you are all enjoying your summer, as I am. Best wishes!

6:21pm: I'm working on a piece for piano, clarinet, and voice based on everyone's favorite poem by Ruben Dario, "Primaveral." The verse translation I found is insubstantial enough to be much easier to set to music, and it has a fair amount of potential. Of course, now that I've said that, it may turn out to be horrible.

Other than that, being here is SWEET. Much love.

12:12am: Second day (sorry for being overly informative)
I've got my class assignments. Theory A1 and Sight-Singing C. Because they didn't want to foster a competitive atmosphere, they purposefully made it so that the A, B, and C classes didn't go in order of difficulty, since we had to test to get into them. I believe, however, that those are the highest levels of each. I have the first theory class tomorrow, so we shall see.

( My schedule )
This is really more for my benefit than yours, but it's there if anyone's interested. It may appear light, but a lot of free time will be spent practicing/actually writing, so it's not quite as open as it seems; plus, the private composition lessons will take place in some of those empty spaces. There are a lot of activities to occupy the downtime as well, so I'm in no danger of being bored or unoccupied while here.

The nearby cafe makes excellent chai, I was pleased to learn. They have sandwiches on weekdays if I want, but the meals from the cafeteria are already paid for and not at all bad. But it makes me feel quite guilty that we're not even allowed to clean up our own trays; instead, we put them on a rack that lies between us and the kitchen staff. It bothers me, but what will one do.

Anyway, I'd better get to sleep, since I was up so early this morning in order to get in a shower. Therefore, good night!

12:01am: Well, I've arrived at Eastman!
The school's official wireless is closed to us, so internet access is dicey, but I've been getting a pretty steady signal from somewhere. Let's hope it holds out.

I've met about 15 out of the 60 or so that are here, and hopefully will come to know more. It's quite an eclectic group, from all around the country. I already encountered all of the composers (there are only 4 of us here, including Kat and me). It was interesting to note that humor is perhaps the most important tool in this sort of social situation, when everyone doesn't know anyone else [at least in this initial time]. I'm definitely not great with this sort of thing, but I think it'll turn out well enough.

I still don't have the faintest idea what I'll actually be doing here; personalized schedules are said to be disseminated tomorrow, so I'll know how things will fall out during the week. Most of my time seems like it'll be spent actually composing, since I don't have any of the piano classes during the day (a 3-4 hour block) and only an hour or so of analysis or voice class per day. Depending on my placement in the vocal ensemble, that may be part of my day too, but it's not a great length of time.

My excitement has not waned; this is a good sign. Now let's see if this place can live up to expectation.

12:51am: Yale...
was sound academically and had good facilities. It's quite a beautiful campus.


That is one of the courtyards of the 12 residential colleges that make up the undergrad part of the university. The admissions counselor likened the system to that of Hogwarts in a dubious attempt to make the arguably pretentious English-ness of it accessible to us proles. Each residence is similarly appointed, with a courtyard, well-furnished common room, and a basement with such amenities as a movie theater, a rock-climbing wall, etc. depending on the particular college. One would not want for entertainments, supposedly.

The music department had a wonderful concert hall and gleaming new offices. My mother joked that I was evaluating schools based on the appearance of their music facilities, but it blew Columbia's sorry little 6th floor annex of a music department out of the water. Stanford's has been the only one that is comparable in newness and size (if not actually a little bigger than Yale's, not counting the space for the hall).

Our tour guide was a Jamaican art/pre-med major who bore a slight resemblance to a darker-skinned Rosario Dawson. I was hopeful that her presentation might be more revealing than that of the white male biochemistry major whom all of the science/engineering students followed. However, she was unreadable when it came to the question of race relations on campus. I was inclined to like her, but I don't honestly know if she even gave it any thought, which was somewhat disappointing.

I know that the campus is about 9% African-American, but I was unclear about the visibility/activity of student groups. I picked up the periodical put out by the so-called "Afro-American Cultural Center" (only one copy in the visitor's center? Hrm.), and it was heartening and concerning at once. There were several positive developments: a new tenured professor in the African-American Studies department, the gospel choir toured to South Africa, a service mission to New Orleans, helping to reconstruct homes, clear debris and give voice to the greviously underserved people there (while acknowledging them as people, rather than an amorphous mass of the oppressed and downtrodden, which is key). But the op-ed pieces towards the back of the paper revealed a narrative of estrangement, alienation, "faux" minorities and faux devotion to the "black community" (which one of the students basically suggested did not exist, given the degree of division amongst students).

( Elaboration )
...Well that was long.

Oh, and the food was mediocre at the diner across the street. Can we say, "Bye bye, Yale"?

P.S. WISE needs to be revived in earnest as a forum for this sort of contemplation. I can't come to all the conclusions on my own, since I don't even pretend to know how to reconcile the (perhaps) racist and privileged attitudes of the places I was so sure I wanted to go with their academic excellence and the opportunities they provide, either in a way that makes it palatable to me to enter into that kind of a situation, or in a way that makes it alright for me to accept "less" with regards to my education and future in exchange for solidarity and a real community. (Yet can it really be less, if so much is gained?) The thing is, I fear that I've already invested too much in the idea of going to an upper echelon school, and thus I will be obliged to deal with the choices I have made and am making about where to visit and apply, for better or worse. I suppose that the best I can hope for is to go to a school that will further my personal development as well as provide me with some semblance of community, and if the community does not exist and has to be forged, so be it -- after all, isn't the promotion of unity and cooperation part of our responsibility as human beings?

To quote Forrest Gump, "That's all I have to say about that."

9:40pm: Aaand my hair is now braided? O_o
My aunt did it, really quickly (10 minutes at most). I don't know what to think about this.



...?

Anyway, I visited Columbia today. The information session was more successful than most, my dad and I agreed. We went up to the music department, but it was as devoid of people as I anticipated, so no interviews for me.

We decided that NYU was out, on account of several negative reports of their composition department. Therefore, tomorrow is to be devoted to Yale, which is nearly a 2 hour drive but a hopefully worthwhile trip.

So many of these places are appealing in their own way. At least I'll have a few factors to help determine my decision, especially my peculiar requirements for curricular offerings and my comparative fondness for the cities involved. And of course, MONEY. I have a bad feeling about that last... but I'll try to find outside sources for scholarships, get a job as soon as possible, and generally make it work. In theory.