Reflections on my pride in my work in music so far

This month I’m preparing to start my second and final year as a masters student in music composition.

I’ve worked hard for the past several years to carve a niche for myself in music.

I love to make new music. I listen to recordings I’ve made, often with the invaluable help of friends and mentors at school, and I feel like I’ve done good work. I’ve created something of value that I can really appreciate and feel proud to share. I’ve added a little bit of light to the world, illuminating its beauty.

Some of my favorite pieces are not my most recent, but I’m still writing good music. My wish is that I write more and more, and find more and more ways to get out into the world with my positive energy and love of beauty.

I'm incredibly grateful to everyone who has helped me and collaborated with me along the way, and continues to support me in my work. I’ve learned so much, gained so much. I hope you feel similarly. Thank you!

Creating in a VISUAL Mode

Music events need posters to help in getting the word out, and one of the music-related jobs I've enjoyed is getting to design posters for concerts and other music-related events. I thought I would let folks on here know that I have a little "portfolio" set up on my Flickr account, here. Check it out!

Here are a couple of my favorites on there right now...




Something I enjoy is taking an image of a classic work of art and using it to represent a music event. Does art ever affect how you feel about music?

Listening to Beethoven

Listening to Beethoven

A young man presses the keys,
lightly steps a brass pedal,
and movement changes minutes to sunbeams
thrumming, moving, dancing lightly
like air over a cool mountain brook.
Carillon bells peal prayers of grotto monks.
Little bells ripple on a lake.
The smallest bells press tiny feet in soft grasses,
sweet blond hair flowing after.
Pulses race between flower petals
as soaring scents pollinate the breeze
returning with the stars and planets,
caressing like spring rain
tickling green moss.

The lifted door of the piano mirrors open faces
gathered to hear his play.


(2/11/13 & 3/5/13)

Contentment (2001)

Contentment

Contentment curls up on the rug by the fire.
Wind doesn't chill,
Rain doesn't soak, and
Worries don't dance with the shadows on the wall.

The unread book lies open on page one;
Leaves are uncreased,
Buds are un-pressed, and
The words of tomorrow are waiting to be told.


(4/19/2001)


I wish all cold winter evenings could fit the positive and optimistic image of this poem. This is an older one of mine as you can tell by the date. I started writing the dates on my poems at some point because, even if they are not published, I am curious about the sequence and the time of year. What was going on in my life when I wrote this? So the date is mainly for my own sense of personal history.

Not too long ago I submitted a small set of haiku to a local literary art journal but it was not accepted. I felt disappointed and a little surprised, but then felt amused when I saw the publication in print. I decided my work didn't really fit with what they'd printed. I suppose the meaning for me in this kind of experience – putting myself and my work out there for others to see and judge – is that I write poetry, music, etc. as I like it to be. I write to please my own sense of artistry. I then put my work out there because I don't want to be selfish and alone, because I genuinely want to share what I create with others, and because you just have to do work out in the public view to be an artist. But if someone doesn't like what I write, or it doesn't fit what someone is looking for, that should not be a problem. I will just keep on writing because it works for me. Even if someone were paying me to write or create something for them, I would still want that work to come from my voice and reflect my sense of what is good. I know when I've done a good job, and it's not when someone else says. This can create a sense of conflict, and I tend to feel timid and cautious about putting myself out in the world, but I know the real reason I create is not to please others but because creating pleases me and I need to be doing it.

In hindsight about this one case, I feel like maybe I could have "sold" my work better, too. But I'm still fine with it not making the "cut" because I know it wasn't because the work I'd done was not worthwhile.

Writers

I'm cleaning things up on my interwebs and want to "re-post" here a short reflection I wrote a few years ago.

Writers are:

• passionate, because they are fully engaged in a subject;
• considerate and friendly, because they care about others;
• playful, because they are connected to their "inner child";
• balanced, because they value diversity and differing perspectives;
• thoughtful, because they are careful thinkers and dedicated communicators;
• socially adept, because they engage, listen, and communicate skillfully;
• warm and caring, because they value people most of all;
• normal, because everyone is a writer, so they are no different;
• ordinary people, because they have the same needs and dreams;
• special, because they have found the calling to be artists of words.

I admit that all of these qualities may not be universally true and evident for everyone who writes. Everyone is a unique individual and makes different choices about how they express themselves and experience life. But I can't help but perceive that the act of writing itself must necessarily draw a person more deeply in touch with themselves, as well as with humanity.

The above statements may be the naïve notion of a young writer starting out, but I feel it is true for myself, if for no one else. And this is my motivation for writing.

Older poem: "rain song"

rain song

a faint mur-mur over the othervoice rooms,

trickle driz tric murr

soft song of a nother-world

a world of trickle-drizzle sounds

a world far from drylit place

look through clear-glass shield confirms

trickle driz tric murr

coming down with steadybeat wurrs

softandwet beads up where smooth

few dare go past safeguard doors

look at sky – not much to see

trickle driz tric murr

an ocean of grays above me

patting on the tiles – driz purr

sing until the morning sun come

(3/15/1988)

I wrote this poem for my literature class in the 8th grade. I'd dabbled in poetry starting in the 7th grade, and I was very impressed with a few poets we were reading, like Emily Dickinson, e. e. cummings, and Robert Frost.

I can see some features in this poem that make it like a song, and relate to my style as an artist: parallel, almost strophic structure with a refrain tying the three stanzas together and creating a distinct rhythm; occasional use of rhyme, but not following a strict rhyme scheme; playful running together of words to create image-phrase neologisms ("othervoice", "nother-world", "drylit", etc.). It would be interesting to try to set to music.

To me this poem doesn't relate a lot of meaningful feeling or reflection, just some images and sounds of rain and being inside on a rainy night. I think if it is very significant to me at all now it is mainly because my teachers liked it quite a bit, and I felt very self-conscious to stand out like that. I saw myself as an artist, a poet, but felt very sad at the time because that was not really an identity I felt comfortable in. I really did not want to stand out. I wanted to fit in with my age peers and have lots of friends. Needless to say, adolescence is a challenging time. In my case, I remember how I struggled with a crisis of identity mainly centered on who was I going to try to please, my parents and teachers, or my peers. (At the time it did not occur at all that I could follow my own inner voice.) Just for personal interest, I continued to write an occasional poem through high school, but by about the 11th grade had mostly stopped my creative writing. Some time after college, when I was thrown upon the reality of not caring about the kind of work I'd set myself up for, I started exploring my creative interests again.

Gentle Wind

Gentle Wind 

Tiny spider, your bones appear so slight 

that my barest breath near you comes 

over you as a hurricane of terror. 

The silk-taut line you tug and twist upon 

is invisible to my eyes, merely a 

suggestion of gossamer scaffold. 

You may now cling so tightly, and I fear 

you will fall instantly and be lost, or 

my breath draws you so close and 

you will grab my hair, burrow 

down my skin, down my back, and be lost. 

So we joust the air, my breath and you. 

Your silent twitching music of a 

one-cord harp bewitches my thoughts 

in this momentary song of emotion: 

I am suddenly in your place. I am 

this little fellow, pendulous to life. 

Dry tears touch my eyelids. I reflect. 

The artist 

blows upon the zephyr breeze of Being, 

and hopes the coming rain 

may not dissolve all. 

(6/18/2009)