“For the virtuoso, musical works are in fact nothing but tragic and moving materializations of his emotions: he is called upon to make them speak, weep, sing and sigh, to recreate them in acordance with his own consciousness. In this way, like composer, is a creator, for he must have within himself those passions that he wishes to bring so intensely to life.”—Franz Liszt
I imagine her dark hair was probably waist-length. She would wake up from her hungover slumber and run her fingers through it in lieu of a comb. Maybe she would braid it and pin it up in the back, tiny ringlets, a tribute to Shirley Temple in the film Heidi. She probably owned a big floppy hat, yellow or perhaps moss green with a polka dot ribbon wrapped around the base. She would put her feet up on the dash and he would drive along the California coastline. I’m sure she smelled of sea salt and lilacs, not lilacs, maybe lavender. She smelled like purple.
Her eyes were probably heavy, heavy carrying the burden of the pain she had seen. Perhaps an alcoholic father whose love of the bottle forced the family apart or maybe an automobile accident she witnessed and could not help and I’m sure she really would have wanted to. Heavy eyes but trusting and kind. The type you could see juggling clowns and baby lambs in. Eyes that told a story, eyes you couldn’t bear to look at for long.
Maybe she was Hispanic. Maybe she had hands that rolled tortillas and feet that could dance le Quebradita. She would have had brothers. Many, many brothers, brothers who loved her more than themselves but brothers who couldn’t express it. So she ran away. They were probably older brothers. I bet she loved to sleep, and read and write. I bet that’s why he fell in love with her. Her favourite position was curled up on the front porch hammock nestled between two blue posts of that California Victorian. That house was a place for misfits, for people who cared too much and people who didn’t care at all. She felt too much all the time, too much euphoria, too much sorrow, a roller coaster she got on that had no final destination. She was probably bipolar and chose to medicate herself with sleeping and reading and writing and coffee. Only black coffee, dark like her waist-length hair.
I bet she felt like Sunday morning. Her lips tasting like citrus, juicy and plump, lips that he could bite into and keep inside him. Lips you don’t forget. I’m sure her laughter was contagious, feeling her pain with every whimsical chuckle. I’m sure she was broken. I think he wanted to fix her. I think she would have liked him to but the broken can’t fix the broken so instead they chose to laugh, and sleep and drink coffee and dance le Quebradita. I’m sure she didn’t want to leave but when things go right for too long she jumps before they go left. Maybe she smiled as she ran, that smile he loved and lost himself in. A smile that inspires, a smile one only dreams of, a woman who is no longer real. Red and raw with love. Written by Natt Smith
“Making mistakes is part of learning to choose well. No way around it. Choices are thrust upon us, and we don’t always get things right. Even postponing or avoiding a decision can become a choice that carries heavy consequences. Mistakes can be painful-sometimes they cause irrevocable harm-but welcome to Earth. Poor choices are part of growing up, and part of life. You will make bad choices, and you will be affected by the poor choices of others. We must rise above such things.”—Brandon Mull (via aquaticuss)
“It was the secrets of heaven and earth that I desired to learn; and whether it was the outward substance of things or the inner spirit of nature and the mysterious soul of man that occupied me, still my inquiries were directed to the metaphysical, or in its highest sense, the physical secrets of the world.”—Mary Shelley (via aquaticuss)
I am playing this piece for my recital next semester. Read/Listen!!
Ravel’s compelling, unsettling Violin Sonata in G major was written between 1923 and 1927. It was his second sonata for violin and piano, and his final chamber work. Composed in the aftermath of the First World War, and also of his mother’s death in 1917, it is tempting to link the devastation of these two events with the sonata’s deliberate avoidance of the lush Romanticism that had characterized his earlier chamber works. Despite its apparent austerity, however, the sonata possesses its own particular beauty. The ethereal first movement, with its ceaseless ostinato patterns and airy textures, manages to be both bare and deeply expressive, containing some passages of extraordinary lyricism. Although grounded in G major, the movement flirts with whole tones, bitonalism and modality; new themes flit in and out restlessly, playing fast and loose with conventional sonata form. The second movement, entitled Blues, is (as one might expect) infused with the rhythms and harmonies of blues. The violin intersperses pizzicato chords with long, sinuous melodies and playful glissandi above dotted rhythms in the piano part. The movement was prescient: a year after the sonata’s completion Ravel embarked upon a hugely successful American tour. The finale, a rapid perpetuum mobile movement, begins with a few halting chords before the violin disappears into a virtuosic whirlwind of semiquavers. The restless interplay between the dizzying violin part and the sharp, staccato accompaniment draws the work to a climatic conclusion.
Click here to listen to Ravel’s Violin Sonata performed by Dong-Suk Kang and Pascal Devoynon [all links will open Tumblr in a new tab/window]:
“All human lives are so profoundly and intricately entwined those dead, those living, those generations yet to come that the fate of all is the fate of each, and the hope of humanity rests in every heart and in every pair of hands. Therefore, after every failure, we are obliged to strive again for success, and when faced with the end of one thing, we must build something new and better in the ashes, just as from pain and grief, we must weave hope, for each of us is a thread critical to the strength to the very survival of the human tapestry. Every hour in every life contains such often unrecognized potential to affect the world that the great days and thrilling possibilities are combined always in this momentous day.”—Dean Koontz, Corner of His Eye (via aquaticuss)
“I run for I don’t know how long. Hours, maybe, or days. Alex told me to run. So I run. You have to understand. I am no one special. I am just a single girl. I am five feet two inches tall and I am in-between in every way. But I have a secret. You can build walls all the way to the sky and I will find a way to fly above them. You can try to pin me down with a hundred thousand arms, but I will find a way to resist. And there are many of us out there, more than you think. People who refuse to stop believing. People who refuse to come to earth. People who love in a world without walls, people who love into hate, into refusal, against hope,and without fear. I love you. I love you. Remember. They cannot take it.”—Lauren Oliver (via aquaticuss)
“Creativity is the basis of self-expression. Why are some people supposedly more creative than others, and why can’t others open themselves up enough to be able to express who they are Creation is the birth of something, and something cannot come from nothing. When someone creates something: a painting, a poem, a photograph, the creativity comes from an idea, from a feeling, from emotion, or from a combination of ideas, feelings and emotions that are somehow ‘reborn’ from all our experiences and perspectives. Creativity is the desire to express ourselves. To formulate these expressions, we have to draw from our reservoir of experience, dreams, desires and experimentation and mix together what was, what is, and what could be… I don’t think you can learn it, it is rather something that evolves. Your perception of everything in your life fills up this reservoir.”—Peter Lindbergh with Lily, New York, June 1996 (via arreter)