Requiem Aeternam

Yesterday I and my choir performed John Rutter's Requiem piece. It's by far the most difficult thing we've ever done, and it went perfectly. I mean to say, after a few of the movements I had a hard time staying still for want to laugh out loud or burst into joyous tears. Not only was it a wonderful stretch for a Legato Soprano like me, it was a vibrant, nuanced piece of emotion set down in lyrical, expressive notation. I don't think I've ever felt so fulfilled after a concert before in my life. Nor have I felt so disappointed.

All the friends I asked to come save three missed it because I was stubborn and got the time wrong. I had a hard time getting into the mood of the piece at the beginning because I'd just found out that half of them would be arriving moments after the concert was over. Worse, they all blamed it on themselves. They wouldn't even make me feel bad about it. I'd expected them to be angry--annoyed, at the very least. But hey, I have wonderful friends. I suppose it was high time life gave me a reminder. I merely wish those fateful reminders did not take the form of my own personal blunders.

Our director told us that this morning someone came up to him, speechless at the performance. They tried to say something and then just began to cry. It's...awe inspiring to know that we did that. That's what ever artist strives for. I believe I learned more, about my ability and about myself as a person, while working on this piece than on any other one.

"For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord."

Other Blogs

Haha! Life is so busy right now I barely have time to think of something to write up here. Well, I must apologize. I'm actually resting up for a major choir performance tomorrow whilst practicing guitar and figuring out my new phone and trying to get over my stupid allergies enough to carrying a tune. I'm not worried, though; I always pull through during a performance. I've sung successfully through laryngitis before. Um.... I don't recommend it, though. You have to work you diaphragm so hard that your abs are on fire afterward. No lie.

Anyway, I have two blogs that you can look at instead, to appease yourselves. Write Badly Well by Joel Stickley is a wonderfully hilarious satire for differing writing methods. The other, Writing for Sanity, is actually done by my father. Before you cringe and walk away, let me remind you that he got first place in the first writer's contest he ever entered. That's gotta say something.

Anyway, I hope to bring another review to you soon, at which point I'll need to have the book read. -gulp- It'll be far easier to do that when not writing. You gonna do something, do it right.

Excitment, The Tragedies Associated with

Ever had those times where you're so excited about something you can't concentrate on anything else? Who am I kidding? Of course you have. Well, you could be a miserable miserable being with no aspirations or even mundane hopes, but I sincerely doubt that. After all, why would you be reading this? No no, check that. I suppose if you didn't care about anything you wouldn't care what you read, either. Am I right? Of course. I'm smart like that.

Anywho, as you can probably see by now, I'm having one of those aforementioned moments. I really want to work on my book, but I have this funky little story rolling about in my head about a werewolf and a schizo girl who can turn into a wolf (there's a difference, trust me). It was, oddly enough, inspired by my watching of New Moon last night, which sickened me so much I just had to...change it. You know? Omit the vampires entirely, make Bella a minor character and focus on the wolf pack? I'm sure you have no idea what I'm talking about. Don't worry. By the time I'm through with it it won't look anything like the original story anyway.

Only thing is, I have to get it out of the way before I can work on my book. I have to get rid of my constant headache to do either, and even if it goes away I'll have to do the school I'm putting off (for this very reason) before I get to anything else. Thus, by the time I have the time and capacity to write anything worth reading my excitement will have waned, and I will no longer have the motivation to write. Life is sad that way.

Also, my Macaroni tastes a bit like barbecue. Anyone wanna hazard a guess as to why?

Acquire the Fire

So, that trip this weekend? That was a church youth event called Acquire the Fire, with a whole lot of worship, messages, bible, alter calls, and love. At the risk of sounding dramatic and enraptured, there was a real presence of God's love, especially friday night. I couldn't not cry as I felt it, and I can't not mention how great my wonderful friend, Evan, was to me in my weakness. But I didn't really want to go on and on about the personal things God did within me.

No, what I wanted most to mention was the drama. Friday night there was a drama production called Surrounded, with many intersecting paths and stories. It touched on everything, from betrayal to deep hurt to love to guilt. The intensity was such that, even as I curled up as tight as I could manage, I had to cuddle a bit with my neighbor just so I wouldn't start hyperventilating. (No, I'm not a wimp. Prone to panic attacks, sadly, which triggers my asthma.)

At the same time, they managed to be extremely funny in parts.

On saturday, there who two things that really got my attention. First was a message by Nick Vujicic, who was born without arms or legs and has a website: Life without Limbs. There's really nothing I can say that would describe what it's like to meet him in person. He swims, he's happy, he's rejoicing in God's plan. Seeing him, and what he'd managed to do, I could no longer believe that God could never use me for His purpose.

The second was a talk on romantic love. Rather, a skit. The premise was this: what would foreign countries think of love in our culture if all they did was listen to our love songs? Songs like 'So What' by Pink and 'Bleeding Love' by Leona Lewis. The skit was five people acting out love songs in the same fashion as Whose Line is it Anyway. I tell you, there is nothing that puts the twisted, noncommittal version of infatuation of this country better than a literal analysis of our popular love songs.

School

Mood: Cumulus by Imogen Heap

I suppose that says it all. Today I realized that I have to switch geometry books again (I've had to twice already this school year), because the one I'm using doesn't prepare me at all for the SAT. As I am staking my life and future happiness on attending Christopher Newport University for college, I need a good SAT score. And, just to be clear, I'm not good at math.

Fine. Moms says I'm very able to pick up and retain the fundamentals of math. But let's face it: It's so boring! I want to write, and dance, and sing, and play guitar or piano (whichever is nearest at the time) even more than usual when I'm sitting down and trying to do math. Unfortunately, the world seems to view math as an important subject, and will teach us far more than we will likely ever use in our adult lives whether we like it or not.

On the other hand, I have basically everything else I need to get into college set, and a good idea of what I want to do. Multi-million-dollar author, anyone? Well, a girl can dream. In the absence of that, I'll be a psychologist. More specifically, a counselor for teenage girls, 'cause we definitely need more of those in the world. Not to mention, I'm a good listener. And I'm nosy. Well...not really. Merely an indomitably curious being.

In either case, I most definitely will not need very much higher math skill.

And while I write this I am wasting the precious little time I have to pack for a trip this weekend. I suppose I should get to that.

Great Hunter

He could remember it all. He'd been so tiny back then; no one had thought he could grow to be such a talent--such a power. He'd showed them. There was no greater hunter in the land, even with those two newcomers. Spoiled, both of them, they would follow their masters around and beg loudly for attention, grovelling and licking, purring and praising. Every once in awhile they'd digress into mini skirmishes with each other, growing more and more fierce before one would exclaim loudly and disentangle himself in a torrent of flying fur.

Neko wasn't like that. He was a king among cats--at least those of this household. For what other reason would he hold the honorable position on the top of the shelf? For what other reason was he always allowed on the top bunk of his masters' bed, while the other two were shoved to the bottom? None. He was king. He was powerful.

The sleek orange cat kept telling himself this as he stalked lithely from room to room. His bright orange eyes surveyed the surroundings, keeping tabs on the other two cats, Fiddlesticks and Jasper, while completely ignoring his human 'masters'. He slunk under the piano bench, crouching low to the laminate flooring as his thoughts began to blur in his mind. His ears splayed back like the wings of and airplane, and he felt himself shivering with excitement. He was a great hunter.

Fiddlesticks walked stately into the room, petite if it weren't for the fat he had accumulated during his time here. He was lazy, and rather laid back if it weren't for that timid streak. Neko kept his eyes fixed on this gray tabby--his target. Fiddle meandered around the other side of the room for a few minutes, considering the couch, the large cushioned chair, and the patch of sunlight equally before one of the humans stepped into the room and surprised him a bit. Then he began to walk toward Neko's hiding place, completely unaware of his impending doom.

Neko was truly shivering now, but he waited until Fiddle was only a few feet from him before striking. He was like a viper--he leaped forward, meowing viciously as his declawed front paw shot forward and slammed into Fiddle's unsuspecting face. Neko backed up two steps, staring menacingly at his prey. Fiddle sat there blankly for a moment. After a few seconds, Neko had mustered enough courage to have another go, moving forward threateningly, chirping in the most malicious way.

But before he could get another hit off, Fiddle made his move. He was like lightning, and Neko barely had time to register being tackled and batted twice in the face before he was mewing in panic and scrambling away from his assailant. Fiddle followed, tail held gaily in the air, batting at the retreating form that was easily twice his size.

Finally, Neko had escaped to his personal and safe ledge at the top of the shelf, watching Fiddle--who was sitting below him and staring at him innocently--and listening resignedly to the hysterical laughter of his master, who had witnessed everything.

Wolf Tower by Tanith Lee

Now, I'm not much into first person, and I'll tell you why. In first person, you only have one perspective, and thus the main character must be extremely observant and intuitive or the reader will have a highly limited point of view on the story. Thus, every main character is usually wrought from the same mold. I get tired of this.

However, this is not the case in Wolf Tower (or the subsequent books in the series, Claidi's Journals). Tanith Lee has created a character who is being swept up in a cascade of events beyond her understanding and yet manages not to be lost or confused the entire time. Claidi is a wonderful character with depth, fear, failure, and vast development throughout the story. She shares all her thoughts and wonders, and yet the action flows quite well. The perspective in this story walks a thin line, and there is little stumbling.

Another joy in this book is the imagery. Tanith Lee's concise use of words builds a world around the reader without pulling them out of the story itself. One of my favorite lines has been from the beginning: "And from it's mouth there burst an impossible ear-shattering thunder that was a scream." That sentence exemplifies the way Tanith Lee has woven imagery and action together.

Tanith Lee is an expressive writer, and she knows how to tell an entertaining story. However, there are many better writers, as far as mechanics. She chose a style of writing that spouts fragmented sentences as often as not, and it only works because the character herself is so identifiable. Also, since you only see the rest of the characters through Claidi's eyes, you do not get to see the depth of their thoughts and actions nearly as well, and may only interpret what they say through the biased view of the main character. While Tanith Lee does this very well, I must point out that because of this, I would not have read the books if Claidi herself hadn't been as fantastic a character.

Overall, however, Lee's plot is creative, premise is original, and characters are engaging. I highly recommend this book.

Fissures in My Mind

I suppose I'm really tired, or I had some sort of revelation, or something, because I have such a will to write right now. I get that a lot, but I don't have any stories going on in my head, or novels I want to express in four or less paragraphs. I just want to vomit onto the page and read it back tomorrow, laughing at my funky thoughts and whims. Everything i write, I don't have to look back and fix, or edit, 'cause I know I'm the only who's going to really read this. Unless, by a whim, I set this note to be open to the public. But even then, not many people care enough to look over the inner working of my mind when they try and fail to explain themselves within the boundaries of a single note. I suppose if they want to get a dumbed down version of me, they could look at what other people have said about my notes. But if everyone did that, I wouldn't have any comments at all. And that would make me sort of sad.

Single file, my thoughts roll down the ramp of my fingers and into the computer, popping up as neat little lines of letter on the screen. I think I'm doing pretty well until I get three or four extremely oppressive thoughts at once, and they tumble all over the path of my hand, and then I forget where I was going in the beginning. My train of thought is then struck by a curve-ball, and I must pursue it miles along this new track before I can get myself straight again, and by then I have forgotten most if not all of what I wished to say. Unless, that is, I didn't really wish to say anything in particular, at which point my ramblings will eventually follow themselves in circle, and my reasoning and beliefs will all follow back to the same point.

What I love the best is when fifty trains of thought are running around simultaneously. I have sometimes manged to be thinking coherently about five or six things at the same time, though I must admit that this is mostly the case only after i have been babysitting two or more children. It is remarkable how a woman can train herself to multitask when necessary. Even though, it seems, the mind cannot truly focus on two things at once, I believe multitasking is merely the pursuit of getting along with more than one goal and arriving at it passably well. Or, if worst comes to worst, in a way that has barred most major catastrophe's. After all, you will still get paid and thanked for babysitting even if you managed to get the young one locked in a room by itself, so long as you manage to get them out before it hurts itself or the parent arrives.

Mind you, this is not what we should strive for in our lives. Just as you are likely to cross any or all of your personal boundaries in your life my mistake, you are likely not to completely reach all of your goal. Thus, you must give yourself some 'wiggle room', holding yourself to a higher standard but not kicking yourself about your occasional failures. One the other hand, holding yourself to be perfect is an absolute trap, because then you become so worried about your goal that you give up many other things, such as enjoyment and attachment, in order to achieve it. No human is perfect, I believe, and I very much doubt any will be able to sway my perspective, for I have seen those little specks of evil in even the most saintly of my acquaintances, and much more than a speck of it in myself.

Then there come the times when your thoughts do not move at all. Your fingers and tongue are on their own, and until you can think again you must improvise everything you do and say, often making an enormous fool out of yourself in the process. I find this happens most often when a person is thrown headfirst into a new situation, and they look around blankly while their minds try and figure out exactly how they really feel about the situation. Either that, or they understand right off the bat that they are very uncomfortable, and therefore their minds just hide away, and refuse to work until they've had the time to rid themselves of the overload of the senses they were just experiencing. Some people are very adaptable. Some accept it, but are slow to change. Some resist most indomitably. Others, like me, very much dislike change in any way, but have grudgingly accepted the it's not the end of the world, and thus adapt quite quickly.

Lastly, there are distractions. It doesn't matter how focused and smart you can be if you didn't get enough sleep, and everyone has those days. As I write this, I fight the urge to answer a friends post on one of my sites, and my muse is flying about crazily in my mind, spouting out theories and dialogue and many other essential elements of word crafting. They come in all shapes and sizes, especially when one is thinking whilst on the computer. They never end, in fact, for one has toys and books and board games and Internet and console games and friends and TV and music and many, many other things. For one so tired as I, who got a maximum of five hours of sleep last night, this is all too much for me to handle, and I am apt to launch myself in one thing for fifteen minutes before realizing I had before been halfway through one thing or another. Listening to mood music helps, but sometimes it just makes me emotional and irrationally introspective, my logic warped by lack of rest.

I suppose the aforementioned was not lastly. Lastly is when I am alone, or with a small group of friends, in a world without distractions. We are together with God, and we are listening and praising him, and feeling contented and peaceful and not at all trying to quell our thoughts for want of hearing those of our friends. I suppose I have done it a dozen times or more, but I am always truly surprised at how much worry and panic my Lord can and will take away from me when I go to him. I realize which desires of mine are from him simply because they are not snuffed out first thing. I realize where I have been thinking and acting wrong, and I do not fight myself over it. I make it a part of myself, removing the old fiber and weaving in the new, improved one. And then I realize the most important thing of all: I am not the most important. I am the least, the last, and the smallest, and I am merely there to help others when they need it. I do not seek out others so that they may faun over me, but so that I may be their support and experience their laughter. It is most important to me that I am serving others, acting as unspoken guide and support. I draw more happiness from this than from any other activity I've ever ventured to try.