Bend, Little Willow

So the Fulbright application calls for a Personal Statement, in which I do the following in a page or less:

The statement should be a narrative giving a picture of yourself as an individual. It should deal with your personal history, family background, influences on your intellectual development, the educational and cultural opportunities (or lack of them) to which you have been exposed, and the ways in which these experiences have affected you. Also include your special interests and abilities, career plans, and life goals, etc. It should not be a recording of facts already listed on the application or an elaboration of your statement of proposed study. It is more of a biography, but specifically related to you and your aspirations relative to the Fulbright Program.

A PAGE or less.

I was a quiiiiiiite frustrated, but I think I've formulated an opening paragraph.  It's difficult to infuse much of my personality into all that they want me to say in a page, but I think I've managed to capture something here.

I grew up in the small town of Carrollton, Georgia, where my initial musical exposure consisted of singing hymns along with fellow members of Lowell United Methodist Church’s 25-person congregation. By the age of 5, I had progressed to the role of occasional anthem soloist in church, eventually expanding my repertoire to include countless Disney tunes and Reba McIntyre ballads. My first solo, as I recall, was quite the event. Cousins, family friends, and prodigal parishioners all piled into the pews at Lowell to watch me stand on a stool behind Pastor Willingham’s pulpit and meekly croon, unaccompanied, “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,” a tune I had learned in Mrs. McClendon’s general music class at Maple Street Elementary School.

Might be a bit cliche.  But I think I like it.  It's raw.

My damn bike was stolen last night. Right out of the basement in my apartment building. I went downstairs this morning, thinking I'd take a nice leisurely bike ride up to Coventry to buy these coasters I want at City Buddha. BUT NO! There at the bike rack was my lock, still intact, still locked--minus the bike. I feel like the biggest idiot on the planet. Last time I locked it up, I must've been in a hurry and neglected to ACTUALLY thread the chord thingy through the frame of the bike. And the part that sucks the most is that another bike was still on the bike rack--without a lock. I could die. It's not like it was the most awesome bike ever. I bought it used, cleaned it up, had it refurbished at a little bike shop down the street. And I was just learning how to ride it with toe cages. It has sentimental value, and it was a big investment for me! I know $400 isn't exactly a fortune in the grand scheme of things, but on my broke grad student budget, it's a huge deal. We were an item, my Trek 800 Sport and I. Sure she was a little on the heavy side, and sure she was about 12 years old with temperamental gear shifters. But dammit, she was mine. And she was charming. Copper Orange with rear and front wheel flashing reflectors, mountain bike tires (hence the heaviness), puncture-resistant tubes...the perfect bike for a beginning biker like me. We were going places.

I filed a police report once I scoured my apartment building, looking for places my Trek might've run off to. The policeman who came over was nice enough--knew MUCH more about bikes than I do. And it seems my only hope is the Cleveland Heights Police Department Bike Auction in October. I have to bring a claim ticket and look for my bike--if it has, indeed, been recovered. If it has, I can claim it before someone else buys it. Essentially...it's hopeless. She's gone. And I have to accept that.

But in the meanwhile, my downstairs neighbor, Niecie, just came up and knocked on my door. "I understand you had your bike stolen." "Yeah," I said, and I went on a little rant about how bummed I was and how I think our super only SAYS he locks the downstairs back door at night, etc. "Well, I want to give you my bike. I haven't ridden it in at least two years. It just sits and takes up space in my kitchen." I got all teary eyed and hugged her, which seemed to freak her out. "That's alright. It's no big deal. If you want it, you can have it," she said, pulling away slightly. What a dear. Her bike is a maroon Huffy Sandstorm--it could never replace my darling Trek, but I'll ride it happily.

Some people suck. But there is redemption in the people who don't.

I should be analyzing Debussy right now, but I don't feel particularly productive at the moment. Obviously.

A girl just walked into Phoenix Coffee. I recognize her from our mutual presence in various contexts--generally revolving around caffeine and the like. 1.) She works at Algebra Teahouse where I find myself from time to time [see post below]. 2.) She comes into Phoenix a lot, and she seems to be good friends with one of the baristas here. Whenever she comes in, they chat. 3.) I saw her in Starbucks the other day, and she saw me. We exchanged glances. It was moderately awkward, and I remember thinking, "Wow! And she seems to be so staunchly dedicated to the independent, local, anti-establishment caffeinated beverage scene!" She has several of the markings of a die-hard independent: rides her bike everywhere, plays Eliot Smith or something similar on the radio when she's working at Algebra...All she lacks are the conspicuously worn-in black converse, thick framed glasses, and American Apparel poly-cotton tee (and it is the absence of these last three that make me think she's for real). Who would've thought that she was just as much of a coffee shop whore as I? But then I really got to thinking...Maybe she was there as part of a sociological experiment of some sort? Maybe she was taking note of all the evil corporate things that go on inside a Starbucks, things the rest of us simply accept as we sit, complacently sipping our $3.65 Blended Iced Caramel Macchiatos, adding inches to our waste-lines and subtracting hours from our lives. We have NO IDEA.

I don't know why, but it would make me feel better if that's why she was in Starbucks. She doesn't belong, in my mind, in an institution like Starbucks. She's too pure. She shouldn't be drinking factory produced, pre-bagged teas and listening to strategically selected, corporately endorsed mix CDs of artists who sold their souls for faux alt culture exposure. It's okay for the likes of me. I've already made peace with the fact that I'm a coffee/tea joint whore....But if that's true, why do I keep averting my eyes every time she looks in my direction? Maybe I like to pretend; when I'm in Phoenix or Algebra, or Cafe Ah Roma or Moko Coffee and Teas; that I am, in fact, a die-hard localist. But she knows my dirty little secret. And maybe, just maybe, I know hers.

Sometimes I feel like there's a fine line between people watching and being creepy. I may have just crossed it.

Yesterday afternoon, I went to my favorite place in Little Italy--Algebra Tea House--about a 20 minute walk from my apartment, quite possibly my favorite place in all of Cleveland. So I got to take a lovely little walk--with Tom Waits in my ear--Heart of Saturday Night--great album. I met up with my buddy J. We always have really fabulous discussions about the state of the world, and I hadn't gotten to hang out with him since school ended. So we grabbed some tea and chatted for a while. And whilst we were chatting, this old Lithuanian guy decided to join us. His name is Naum, and he's an anti-feminist who enjoys getting rises out of American women when he discusses the need and desire of every woman to be married and reproduce. It is his belief that a woman will never feel complete unless she is married. "There is not a single woman in entire universe who does not want be married. Something they need. If a man never get married, he fool around and live like bachelor. Is fine. If a woman say she want to fool around, she belittle herself. She become a broken glass for the man she marry later." Oh. My. Dog. I was dumbfounded. Not that I'm particularly a fooler-arounder, but geez! I forget that there are still people who think like that. I agreed that such is the way women are often perceived in society and that it's a travesty, and I pressed on to say that I didn't care to be called a "they." When he asked me if I'd ever been married ("You must be at least 19," he said.), I chuckled and said something like, "no way, man."
"Why is 'no way'? You have problem with being married?"
"Not particularly; I just don't want to be married any time soon."
"Why is this?"
"I'm just not ready. I'd like to know who I am before I go cleaving myself to someone else for the rest of my life. I have a few things to do on my own first."
"Why you not do them with someone else? Is impossible to know who you are. You are a half. We are all a half. Not complete without another."
"Let's say it's a matter of opinion, shall we?"
"I tell you the truth, opinion or not."
"Marriage, I believe, is not something to be taken lightly. I believe I should be secure on my own. I'm not interested in settling for someone just because he makes me feel validated. Before I dedicate my life to living with and for another, I'd like to feel that it is impossible for me to live without him. Is that so much to ask?"
"You believe these things now, but you do not know. I have lived long, and this feeling, it never come. When you have waited as long as you say you wait, the thing you have is not marriage--not a road to finding the self--it is partnership. Just someone to have around to do the things you want to do."
"..."

Of course, I contested him for a while longer, but all evening, I've been thinking of what he said--especially that last part. I just can't get it out of my head. Is he just an old, crazy, embittered man? Why did he make sense to me (though I wouldn't acknowledge it at the time)? For all of my radical feminism, I may indeed long for someone to find myself in. I don't know if I care to accept it at the moment, but what if he's right? Is there a difference between wisdom and early onset dementia?

Why is it that every time I come home I feel like Reese Witherspoon in Sweet Home Alabama?--or maybe Zach Braff in Garden State, only everyone has southern accents. Does everyone feel that way when they come home? I guess that's why they make movies about it.

My extended family is kind of insane, endearingly so I like to think--most of the time. I keep telling myself that all of our painfully awkward holiday gatherings are going to make a really amazing memoir one day. We're pretty screwey, but we're honest, eh? I like that about us.

One of the drawbacks to having an 88-yr-old friend is that I often forget that she is, in fact, 88. There are certain difficult truths about growing older that make themselves insanely clear from time to time--this week's truth being that of senility.


Lillian: Hey Jenna, do you take some drugs?
Jenna: Well, I take allergy medication and One-a-Day vitamins, why?
Lillian: Are you sure you don't like to get a little high? Smoke some pot?
Jenna: What?! No! Are you kidding?
Lillian: I gotta talk to you
Jenna: How was your week with your family in town for Rosh Hashana?
Lillian: I had trouble on a count 'a you.
Jenna: Why's that?
Lillian: My sister got a call last Saturday at 12:30 in the morning!
Said it was a girl named Jenna, asking about cookies and milk! Did you have the munchies?
Jenna: Absolutely not! Lillian, I've never met your sister. What's her name?
Lillian: Shirley! You are never, under ANY circumstances, to call
over there...
Jenna: I can assure you that I did NOT call your sister. Wasn't your
nephew in town?
Lillian: Yeah, but he was upset because my sister was so upset. You
sure you don't smoke a little pot sometimes? Get a little high?

While I am moderately looking forward to being a ridiculously awesome old lady, I dread losing my sense of logic, though I'm seriously impressed that she knows what the munchies are.

So it's been a while since I've posted to the ol' Live Journal, but I'm in a procrastinating kind of mood. It's a lovely Saturday morning here in Cleveland, OH. High of 57 today, and I'm already wearing sweaters around my apartment. Winter is going to murder me. But let's not think about it.

As of September 11, I've been here a whole month. People are nice. I like my new surroundings, blahbidy blahbidy blah. Slowly but surely, I'm making friends. It takes a while to make real friends. There are the friends you talk to at school or work, but not really anywhere else. There are the friends you have over for dinner or movies. And there are the friends upon whom you dump all of your shit. I kind of feel like it'll be a while before I have any of the latter here in Cleveland. It's not so easy for me to unload on people. Feels like I'm being burdensome, even if I know that they love me and want to be there for me, and it takes a really long time for me to slip out of new friend accommodation mode--as I've come to call it. I'm good at first impressions--with most people-- unless they're just completely socially inept. I'll charm you to pieces, you'll laugh at my jokes, and you'll probably leave me thinking, "my, she's entertaining" or "good GOD, she's strange." Either way, that's kind of what I do. And very often, that's where I hide. I don't think it's a social disorder or anything like that. I'm not trying to remedy my behavior, by any means. I like how I am. But there's something intensely intimate in the sharing of burdens, and I can't be that naked with everyone I meet. I believe that's what I'd call emotional whoring.

I have, however, made friends in some very unlikely places. For example, a woman who lives in my building, Lillian Greenspan, has become one of my best friends in Cleveland. She's 88 years old, and she has the most delightful potty mouth. She can chat about anything, and she has a miraculous memory--better than mine. We have weekly dates where we go out to eat at hole-in-the wall restaurants. She knows nearly every independent restaurant in the Cleveland area, which I LOVE. How beautiful to find such a dear in such an unexpected place!

"You've gotta give a little love, give a little love, give a little love, to get a little love." -Rilo Kiley

"You realize the sun doesn't go down. It's just an illusion caused by the world spinning round."
-The Flaming Lips
"Those aren't real fireflies! They're just lights!"
-Taylor Terry, age 7 & 3/4

Why is everything like a zillion times more important when you're with small children? Seriously, I don't think I've ever been so fascinated with Saran wrap.

Tonight I went to the Fantasy in Lights at Callaway Gardens with my folks and a few of our Lowell United Methodist friends and their young'uns. There was a significant age gap between me and the rest of the people with us. We had the parental types (most of the people we were with practically raised me), the grandparental types, and the small human types (ages 4 to 10). I was definitely the odd ball, stuck in my cynicism. I feel like there's kind of a continuum with things like that. The munchkins are experiencing everything for the first time, so riding through a light bulb forest singing Christmas carols with an automated horse named Snowflake is the coolest thing ever--because it is! The college student, of course, is completely jaded by all of her "world experience." And the mid-40s plus crowd has come full circle. They're just happy they don't have to drive the big trolly thingy. They get to sit and be irresponsible for an hour, and if they get to look at a 600 Watt representation of Santa's workshop while they do it, then hells yeah.

Wouldn't it be nice if the world was still new?

Whooooooah there Snowflake.

This is my personal artist's statement that I've been working on for about five months. I just sent it to a few of my graduate schools. I had some compunctions about sounding like a total pretentious snob, but I'm told that self-assuredness is important when writing such things that define one as an artist, or, as the ever self-assured Arnold Schoenberg would say, a/the Creator. Jiminy Crickets.

Jenna Lyle
Born 11/26/84

Statement of Purpose

My aim, as a composer, is to generate art that challenges the notion of music as periphery. I strive to produce constantly shifting, communicative works that engage the listener to be an active participant in the musical process, all the while capturing the expressive quality of each instrument.

There is a certain eclectic expressiveness to my music, which, I believe, is realized through the use of multiple devices. I tend to be a primarily linear composer, as my background is in vocal performance. Therefore, most of my work is melodically driven. In my vocal works, I take great care in textual expression. In my art song, I am a Rose of Sharon, I separate each strophe as though it exists as a frame of mind, dramatically contrasting with that which follows and precedes it. Formal structures play a pivotal role in the expressive quality of my works. In my work for trombone, percussion, and non-pitched voice, An Ostinato for the People, each section is to be representative of a particular area of life and its mechanical nature. I also frequently employ mosaic forms, as they convey for me a sense of spontaneity, along with shifting meter, rapid textural variation, and complex rhythmic distribution. Life, I believe, is comprised of a series of events, some of them significantly less predictable than others. And while some might take comfort in that which is easily foreseeable, the uncertain is what drives all of humanity to function. While I emphasize unpredictability in form and material, I am not without a sense of variation and development. I enjoy manipulating successions of variation to occur in moment form. My approach differs from that of Stockhausen's moment forms in that I hope to achieve fluidity between smaller sections. I also endeavor to establish unity by constructing each portion as a variation of an original idea. My works, A Mosaic of Broken Glass Bottles and Neela, are prime examples of such practice.

Recently, I’ve experimented with using the voice, and perhaps more so the mouth and consonant attacks, in unconventional manners, an element inspired by certain works of Berio and Peter Maxwell Davies which can be found in my piece, An Ostinato for the People. In Ostinato, I employ my own system of vocal articulations and notation. The piece also involves sections of free, contemplative improvisation. I am intrigued by Pauline Oliveros’ writings on deep listening and its role in improvisation, the release of sound as opposed to its generation. In the future, I hope to explore extended vocal techniques more deeply, as a composer and a performer. I fully intend to be a performing composer, as performing certainly keeps me aware of the need to express my musical objectives clearly. In point of fact, I began my college career as a vocal performance major, a soprano. I’ve always enjoyed performing and still do. However, I consider composition a truer manifestation of my own creative voice.

I really feel like I'd be doing the entire world a disservice if I didn't share this, my most recent expedition into the twilight zone by way of my family's unparalleled antics (...aaaaand there I go again being attacked by the pedant-alert squirrels [see the post, "Still catching up"]).

Three days ago was my Great Aunt Marge's funeral. Wonderful lady. Just about every week night, she could be found at the Applebee's on Highway 27 having a drink while she waited for her daughter, my Aunt Debbie, to finish work at the Kroger across the street. Yep, Marge definitely enjoyed that whole life\living thing. She was one of the most active 85-yr-olds I know of. And she had the yappiest dog I've ever seen in my life. Used to drive me crazy. My sister and I were a lot closer to her when we were younger, not so much recently though. Anyway, that's neither here nor there.

The funeral: It took place at Rainwater Funeral Home in Bowdon, Georgia. If anyone has ever passed through Bowdon, Georgia, I doubt it took them much longer than about 12 minutes (Give or take--I could be wrong, but I believe all three stoplights are now fully functional). Well, come to think of it, Rainwater Funeral Home was probably in some sort of SUBurb of Bowdon, Georgia (as though a town like Bowdon, Georgia could possibly HAVE suburbs). We're talking backwoods here. The only sign of civilization amid the endless grove of trees and John Deer tractors is Indian Creek Baptist Church, about a half mile down County Road 3,467. Rainwater Funeral Home is nice enough--taupe walls, well-maintained bathrooms, pews, speckled with dozens of awkwardly smiling family members whom I haven't seen since Aunt Edna's funeral last summer (God those conversations are painful). Along with my pained cousins is just about the entire Applebees bartending staff. Those dear, poor, innocent people accounted for about half of the mourners present.

So the funeral begins. And my somehow distant cousin-in-law-ish-somethingorother gets up to sing. (Her name is Yung. She's Korean, about 35 years old, I'd say. We're pretty sure she married my 60-yr-old, Harley-riding, long grey hair in a ponytail-wearing cousin, James, with the sole intent of getting her green card. She speaks, maybe, 28 words in English.--just to preface) And before she can commence with the presentation for which she has been practicing for the past 45 minutes IN THE FUNERAL HOME CHAPEL for everyone to hear, she erupts into uncontrollable sobbing. With her crying and trying to formulate sentences, the noises coming out of her mouth sounded a bit like Norman Bates' leitmotif in Psycho, right before Jamie-Lee Curtis' mom gets stabbed in the shower, with the three really shrill, staccato, pitches in the violins and maybe flutes. No one really knows what to do, until Aunt Marge's son from her marriage before my Uncle Lem (who was a total hunk, by the way, looked just like Clark Gable, only tall--uncle Lem, that is, not son from previous marriage); kind of a Yul Brenner character with a bald head, odd facial hair, and a gold-plated shark tooth hanging from his right earlobe; speaks up in his Ol' Man River-ridiculously deep, bass voice, "You can do it Yung. Just sing your song. It's okay."

After several minutes of consoling from the gathered mourners, Yung begins to strum the tune to "Amazing Grace" on her autoharp. Yes. Her AutoHarp. And subsequently she begins to sing Amazing Grace. In Korean. With a vibrato so piercing on the top that I could feel the fluid in my eustachian tubes rattling inside my ears. She proceeded to perform "Peace Beyond the River" in the same manner. When she finished, her husband, dutifully and mournfully, trudged to the front of the chapel to take her arm and escort her back to her seat, as her exertions had no doubt left her (and everyone else present) devoid of any sense of directional orientation whatsoever.

And then comes the elected pastor for these proceedings. Good God. His talk went a little something like this: "In, aw, siteeations like eez here, it's, aw, difficult to, aw, recollect, aw, certain thangs. But I tell yeh whut, I do remember Miss Marge. Yep I do. She 'uz a quiet lady. Yep. But, aw, she did seem to enjoy my comp'ny. I wen' tover to vis't her and, aw, Mr. Lemuel a few times. And, aw, we had us some good conversations 'bout some thangs. And, aw, we enjoyed 'em very much. ... Yep. ... and if you have not been SAAAAAAAVED BY THE LORD GOD ALMIGHTY, TODAAAAAAAAY IS THE DAY OF RECONCILLIATION!YES! Now, there may have been many appointments in Miss Marge's life that she was unable to keep. Might've had thangs preVENTing her from keepin' 'em. Car trouble, perhehps. But I will tell you today that Miss Marge had an appointment with the LOOOOOORD that she did not MISS!NO! When the LOOOOOOORD calls we must ANSWER as it says in the GREAT book of REVELATION...." Need I go on? So he read a poem and prayed and sat down, only to be followed by a second musical offering. Mine.

I was to sing "Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing." Admittedly, it was chosen somewhat hastily, and it was the only thing that I happened to have an accompaniment track for, as there was no piano, much less accompanist, in the general vicinity of Rainwater Funeral Home. Now, the speakers in Rainwater Funeral Home are not designed for playing music to accompany singers. They are generally used for playing babbling brook noises with birds chirping and soft piano afternoons, things to soothe the wounded of heart and grieving. So when I got up to sing, after standing at the front of the chapel for about three minutes with the best 'funeral face' I could muster (I didn't want to look too sad or happy, no extremes. I was going for comforting, but I mostly just ended up looking constipated), the music began, practically inaudible, so I jumped in a couple of beats late after I realized there was sound coming from the speakers pointed away from me. But there was something else. It was more than me just being off beat and trying to catch up. I found myself working frantically to keep up with the music. I was short of breath, cutting off phrases. It was exhausting. THE CD WAS PLAYING IN DOUBLE TIME! By the time I got to the second verse, I decided that my rendition would be the liberated dissonance, 21st century, Charles Ives-inspired arrangement of the hymn. And when I finally finished, 20 something bars after the track had ended, I manufactured a constipated funeral smile and walked, in shame, back to my seat. All was dead silent (pardon the expression), except for the meek sounds of my grandmother smacking her dentures.

And ol' preacher man gets up again to do the committal. It's raining outside, and darn near freezing, so we can't do the committal at the grave site. I'll spare the details. He was followed by the stone-faced funeral employee, who in the most monotone voice imaginable, announced, "ThisconcludesthefuneralproceedingsofMrs.MargeRooks,ifthefamilywillremainseatedandthefriendswillstandI'dnowliketosummonthepaulbearers.Youaredismissed."

My mother, Aunt Karen, Great Aunt Belle, sister and I left Rainwater Funeral Home in Bowdon, Georgia in a state of total disillusionment. We ate our devilled eggs at Indian Creek Baptist Church about a half mile down County Road 3,460whatever with glaze over our eyes.

Did that really just happen?

I've got to say, I'm not sure what I want to happen at my funeral, but I hope with all of my heart that it is somewhere near as genuinely honest and f'ed up as Aunt Marge's. Maybe I'll ask for a sitar player in my will. To quote my cousin Tyler, "there's something beautiful about the insanity. Was it Dylan that said, 'don't criticize what you can't understand?' We'll be campy and irrelevant soon."

Aunt Marge once said to me, when I asked her if she'd like me to leave her hospital room so she could get some sleep, "honey, when you're my age, you sleep when you're dead."

Sleep well, Aunt Marge.

So I was filling out this Chi-O form thingy about myself, and I stumbled upon "much deep and profound brain things inside my head (King Julien, Madagascar)."


Chi Omega Senior Spotlight

We love our Seniors! Please fill out the following questionnaire and return it to me ASAP! Thanks a ton!

Full Name: Jenna Marie Lyle

Nickname: Jen Jen, J-Guar, J-Koala Bear, J-Leezy, J-Ly, Idiot, The Jenna Monster, Sissy, Pebbles, Mighty Mouse, My Hero, Oh Perfect One, Annoying Sister-in-Law

Birthday: November, 26th, 1984

Major: Music Composition

Campus Activities: Concert Choir, Hilltop Singers, Intellectual and Cultural Events Committee, American Choral Director’s Association (BSC Student Chapter), RUF, Birmingham Art Music Alliance, Music Theory Tutor, Nerd Alliance

A Quote from a Movie that Best Describes You:
I have a couple… Is that okay?

“You gotta hear this one song, it'll change your life I swear.”-Sam (Garden State)

“Amélie, your bones aren't made of glass.
You can take life's knocks. If you let this chance go by,
eventually, your heart will become as dry and brittle
as my skeleton. So, go ahead, dammit!"

—And no, whoever reads this doesn’t actually have to say, “Dammit” aloud in chapter. You can say something watery and demure like “fiddle-dee-dee” or “Fooey” if you like. On the other hand, if you’re feeling a little edgy, a bit daring, curse proudly I say! Embrace your liberation from the bonds of social legalism!

If You Could Live Anywhere in the World, Where Would it be and Why?
Seattle, perhaps—I always hear good things about the Arts there. I’d like to try the Pacific Northwest. It’s unfamiliar, which intrigues me. Besides, I really enjoy wearing my rain boots.

What is Your Dream Job?
Professor of Music/conductor/performer/composer extraordinaire at a reputable university in a cool town

If You Could be any Famous Person, Who Would it be and Why?
Myself, but famous (though I’m not so sure I’d want to be famous. Those poor people have nooo privacy). I’m an advocate of self-appreciation and originality. Why be someone else? It’s been done.
…Sometimes I feel REALLY self-involved... Maybe I should be okay with that.

What is Your Favorite Chi Omega Memory?
Driving to Bill Battle in the middle of a hurricane at midnight with some sisters in Bross’ car to do soccer laundry---That’s love--—braving tree-lifting winds to help your sister do OTHER PEOPLE’S laundry! I was really moved. Seriously.

Best Advice on Men: They need love and validation too, and most of the time, they’re just as insecure as you are. Not all of them suck, but quite a few do. Just because someone is wonderful doesn’t mean that he’s wonderful for you. Love comes in all different shapes and sizes, so don't fear it (easier said than done). Hold out for someone who appreciates all of the things that you like about yourself (and in turn, you should appreciate all of the things that he likes about himself. Both of you deserve that). Every relationship is a learning experience.

Where Will You be in 1 Year: I really hope to God I’ll be somewhere working on a Master of Music.

5 Years: ...most likely working on a doctorate…or living abroad on a Fulbright of some sort (that would be nice), or living in a box—I don’t know. We’ll see how the biz treats me. I do know of one composer who lived as an honest-to-goodness, dumpster-diving hobo for a fair few years of his life.

10 Years: …I’ll be going to work every morning, (I’d like to think I’ll be composing, conducting, performing, and teaching, but who knows? It’s quite possible that life could take me somewhere entirely different… Heck! I might just be a CPA! Ha! That’s impossible to say with a straight face.) If I don’t have a husband to knock around by then (I’m in noooooo rush to be Mrs. Anybody), I’m hoping this immunotherapy crap’ll kick in, and I’ll be able to have a dog that doesn’t give me hives.

So I'm sitting here at the Social Butterflies researching graduate schools because there's no one here. Customers mosey in and poke around, but I've made no sales today.

University of Michigan at Anne Arbor has just moved to the top of my graduate school choices because it does NOT require me to take the Graduate Record Examination. Nor does Duke, Rice, or Yale. Penn and the Universities of California are going to be thorns in my side. I can feel it.

I've been stressing a lot lately with the whole graduate school application business, because I know of zillions of other people who are a lot better at what I do than I am. However, I have resolved that stressing myself out isn't going to help me accomplish what I need to accomplish, and, according to M.E. Neal, comparing oneself to other composers never did anyone a bit of good. So I'm not going to--stress or compare, and if anyone catches me executing either of the aforementioned actions, slap me... It'll probably take a couple of slaps, so show no mercy. We're talking red hand print on the side of my face. I want to enjoy my life and be the best composer that I can be. So I believe that's what I'll do.

"Write good music, and treat people well. That's what the music business is all about." -Dorothy Hindman

Is it really sad that my life just isn't all that exciting right now? I mean, after a month in the most beautiful city in Europe, some things just don't compare. But I'm happy to be home nonetheless. It's pretty nice not to get the 'stupid American' looks anymore when I ask for directions. My flight back from Prague was nice. Well, it would've been, minus the four-hour layover in New York and the 3-hour wait for my luggage while I watched a big crowd filming a documentary about Lebanese refugees. Airports suck.

Carrollton, Georgia is a nice place. I think I had forgotten. I like when I know my way around and when I feel like I'm part of a community. I don't believe life is meant to be lived alone. We were made for fellowship and interaction--to have a community of grace around you to believe things for you when you can't believe them yourself. Birmingham, Alabama's a pretty rockin' place as well. All of the pretty sights and culture in the world couldn't replace being near the people I love.

Prague, Day 21

11:00 (ish) am
Last day in Prague: I’m on a bus, headed to Amerika (a big Bohemian Canyon). The bus stops get shoddier and shoddier as we get deeper into the country. We’ve bought some fruit and bread for a picnic when we reach the canyon, and the apples in my bag keep rubbing against my back. I’m used to carrying flat things in my pack, not apples. The bus has now stopped, shut off the engine and everything—no idea why. I like these houses. In this context, the look kind of unkempt and poorly maintained, but in the U.S., they’d be sooo en vogue. Yesterday (bus is moving again) I actually found myself hunting bathroom bargains! “Why pay 7 krowns here when it’s only 5 at the Metro station?” Yes, I’ve had to pay to use the restroom on numerous occasions. It’s sickening, speaking of which, the road’s getting bumpier—and curvier—I’m nauseated.

Amerika
1:00 (ish) pm
…Actually, it’s a quarry, with the bluest lake you’ve ever seen in its hull. We climbed down a steep, slippery, treacherous slope (similar to ‘the sea of swirly twirly gumdrops’). I, of course, fell, got myself a nice little souvenir on my backside. There isn’t much that words could do to describe such beauty, though it’s definitely more intimidating from a distance, when you can see its entire depth within an enormous scope. When you’re actually swimming around and eating bread and oranges, it’s just a lake with big rocky walls around it. You forget, for a moment, the struggle preceding it. Also, might I add, my party and I were among the only people in the Bohemian quarry with any sort of swim attire, so that part was slightly traumatic.

Mořina
4:00 (ish) pm
So we climbed out of the endless chasm and walked about four kilometers, past the biggest sunflower and wheat fields I’ve ever beheld, into the lovely village of Mořina (mostly because we had an hour to kill before the next bus into Praha). I smell. Bad. We found a little pub and had some Kozels for the road. I’ll miss them. Mořina is yet another quasi-abandoned provincial Czech town: old architecture, cozy streets… everything you could possibly want a European countryside village to be…beautiful. This has been a day of intense visual beauty. I’m kind of aesthetically exhausted.

Můstek
5:45 pm
We are now headed to shower (I’ve got to put some Neosporin on my rear end.). And then… TO THE SMELLY CHEESES!!

Kajetánka
11:06 pm
The smelly cheeses were FANTASTIC!! We just had the biggest meal of our lives—at the “cheese joint,” as Nathan called it. We shared an assorted cheese plate as well as a hugemongo Thanksgiving Dinner-sized platter of smoked chicken, ham, sausage, dumplings, potato pancakes, red cabbage, and horseradish. If I hadn’t gained any weight before, I certainly have now! I love food.

And I love art... and humans. Nothing is as important to a creative artist as having (in addition to talent and tutelage) a community of fellow artists to support and encourage her/him, as they are supported and encouraged by her/him. This has been a wonderful experience.

The fairies and I have packing to do..

“So you want to know about the smelling cheeses?”-Ladislav Kubík

Prague, Day 20

Health Status: I performed last night, so it doesn’t matter anymore!! That’s not true; we should all make efforts to be in good health at all times. I haven’t allowed myself ice cream for about four days (too much dairy = mucosal thickening = bad singing), so I’m totally stoked about double scoops! As a matter of fact, I’m eating chocolate right now.

Tuesday was lovely: Master class with Jon Blumhofer, Trey Tatum, and new guy Glenn (good atmosphere guy). We heard a piece of Jon’s based on 4 hymn tune tropes, which I really dug—excellent structure and use of line and variation—I admire his craft so much. We also heard Trey’s musical, which I saw in a staged reading at school in the spring—loved it. He’s so clever—wrote the script and lyrics as well as the music—kind of does the Charles Ivesy manipulation of a folk text (in Trey’s case, Christmas carols—In Jon’s case, hymns). Then we heard Glenn’s music, a solo cello piece and selected movements from a song cycle about prostitutes—neat ensemble color, jazzy.
That night, we were all pumped about going out for fun and fellowship, so we headed back to the dorm to rendezvous and clean up after sweating all day. We allowed ourselves 30 minutes to chill before go time, during which I thought it might be nice to read my book for a bit. I woke up two hours later with my book over my face. Ha. What a flake.
Wednesday was Concert number one. I performed my piece—went quite well, except for that one time when I thought it might be exciting to sing out of tune... G, A, Ab… whatever… Nah, it was a nice performance. The other performances of the evening (which totally deserve to be called something other than ‘other’) were sooo fabulous, as were the performances in concert number two tonight. I’ve learned so much from everyone here. So much talent and skill and craft.
After the concert last night, we went to the Popo Café Petal with Teresa and Lida (our two city guides, if you will). There was music, dancing, Sangria, and Fernet Stock Citrus. I ate chips and salsa for dinner because I hadn’t eaten since 3:00 in the afternoon. It was just lovely. Then, JP rallied a few of us to go out clubbin’ (as the kids call it). And again, we go back to the dorm to change (I had to change out of my fancy shmancy sangin’ dress)—bad idea. What does little Jenna do? She totally flakes! Again! I just sort of came to the realization that my heart was in for the late night adventure, but my exhausted legs and feet were not. Sad day.
After the concert tonight, we went for one last hoorah at everybody’s favorite Czech-Mex restaurant, Azteca!--Big, opulent dinner with lots of speeches and storytelling and book signing and hugging of the waitresses. It’s about 3:00am right now, Saturday morning. I’ve said most of my goodbyes—several people are leaving tomorrow (this) morning, including the unforgettable Miss Ruby Fulton and my CASMI Big Brother, Dave Biedenbender. I got to hang out with Dave-O today. We poked around, bought a couple of souvenirs, went to a sheet music store, and climbed through a cherry orchard up the enormous hill next to the American Embassy—gorgeous view of the city—we talked about life and music. I’m gonna miss that guy. If I play my cards right, I might just get to meet up with him and his lovely fiancée, Angela, sometime (perhaps for a recital of sorts).
Tomorrow, Nathan, Erika, two of Nathan’s pals from Vienna (Sara and Kaolin), and I are going to Amerika—it’s a big canyon in central bohemia—serious hikeage. “…gone to look for Ameri[k]a…” Then we’re hitting up a restaurant down the street from Malostranské Naměstí—I asked Ladislav (at Dr. Mason’s urging) to tell me about the smelly cheese, and what I got was an earful about the beauties of Czech cheese and where to get it. Evidently it’s a source of national pride for Czechs. And thus tomorrow, we intend to sample the smelly Czech cheese.
Also, today was the highest temperature Prague has seen since the 1850s (I was sticking to myself—gross). Thanks Global Warming! “Now we can swim any day in November.” And I heard that there has been an intense heat wave in Paris over the past week (people passing out and heat stroking and whatnot—like what happened in Chicago a few years ago). Scary. On a lighter note, isn’t it fun to talk about Paris like it’s your next door neighbor?

Prague, Day 17

I’m not discussing the Internet anymore. It’s depressing. It’ll connect for a split second in my room, then cut out, then connect again, then cut out again. What a tease.

Health: My throat’s a little dry—I’m singing in 2 days, so I need to fix that. Get excited about vocal rest!!

So right now, I’m sitting in Ruby’s room with Nathan, Erika, Ruby, and JP. They’re playing a card game I don’t know how to play –Quibbich—I believe. I’ve been watching, but I decided I’d go get my laptop so we could play some music before I join in on the card festivities. Elvis Costello is keeping us company at the moment.
I had a nice weekend—Friday was really chill—got some work done. Nice day. We got some coffee drinky thingies and yogurt-flavored ice cream in a little jazz café near one of the 7 zillion squares in this city. Saturday, Ruby, Matt, and I went to the Franz Kafka Museum—I mean, Great Metamorphic Castles Batman! It was fabulous, definitely the most insightful, innovative, graphically interesting display I’ve ever seen. Let me just share a few things I wrote in my notebook during my tour (Yes, I take notes in museums—Everyone knows nerds are sexy):

“This small circle…contains my entire life.”-Franz Kafka

“The writer twice drew out a small circumference condensing his entire existential space into that gesture. A narrow but still deceptive world, crammed with all the Prague circles that Kafka lays down with it….Prague was both a cage and a refuge…”

“He was the first man to consider that my defect was a constraint for me alone.” –Oskar Baum (of Kafka—Baum was blind, and noticed that Kafka bowed upon meeting him)

“We only perceive a tiny part of what is there. We fear the invisible, and we are adept at denying things that happen before our very eyes.” (introducing a totally intense audio-visual display that I can’t even begin to explain)

Kafkaesque: “The moment always comes when creation is no longer conceived as tragic; it is merely taken seriously.”

We took Before and After pictures of ourselves preceding and following our visit to the museum. In the Before, we were all “Woo! Kafka Museum!” And in the After, you would think we’d seen every puppy in the East Bloc murdered before our very eyes. Heavy dude. Okay, maybe not as bad as dead puppies, but at least really sad puppies..on mushrooms. Saturday was also Matt’s 29th birthday. We bought him an expensive cigar and dessert. Then we went to a little park next to the Charles Bridge and watched the sun set behind the big fairy tale castle. Beautiful evening.

“I mean, everybody’s got their little fix…I’ve got my Winstons; they’ve got their Stogies; Jenna’s got her matches…It’s a happy night.” –Ruby

Sunday, I got myself lost on purpose. I wanted to find neat things that I wouldn’t find when I was with the group. I ended up in a really artsy little area, where I found the most awesome vintage clothing store known to man and another little independent Czech CD store. Lovely time! There’s a new guy here (for the week), Glenn. He’s been in Berlin for the past 6 weeks studying with Sam Adler (composition professor at Juilliard—wrote my orchestration textbook). We took him out for cocktails, and he decided he wanted to go somewhere with “good atmosphere,” which is code for “over-priced tourist trap.” So, to the atmospheric Tourist Bug Zapper we went—a largish café with lame service and bad wine next to the Smetana Museum on the Vlatava. But hey, it had a great atmosphere!
Let’s just talk about the wonder and beauty that is John Paul Brabant for a moment…. His great grandmother invented 1,000 Island Dressing. Her name is Sophia Lalonde. That’s JP’s claim to fame, that and his dashing good looks. He’s looking over my shoulder right now.
And today, Monday: Master class, composing time, rehearsal with my accompanist (Let’s be honest, sometimes I just need to be slapped around a little—I’ll be a better counter for it)… Also, a few of us gathered in Erika’s studio room to sing through her choral piece sketches. What a beautiful world where you can get pieces read before you’ve finished them! Life is good.

Erika:...She looks like Diana Ross when she wakes up.
Jenna: Yeah, it takes a lot of make up to make me look like a white girl.

Prague, Day 14

Internet Connection: I got a Lexar Jump Drive Secure II yesterday. I save my journal entries in Microsoft Word on my Jump Drive, then I copy and paste them at the Internet Café where I pay for minutes. Not a bad deal…

Health Status: I just shot up with my allergy juice about 2 minutes ago, so my stomach itches. The cold is beginning to disappear (knock on wood), though the allergies, I fear, refuse to subside. I have two Singulair tablets left—I guess maybe I’ll save them for the days when I wake up and can’t breathe.

I believe I left off with my posts just before the 11th. Yes, lovely day, Tuesday. We went to the Antonín Dvořák Museum. I was significantly more interested in this museum because I’m actually familiar with Dvořák’s work. My dad and I saw the New York Philharmonic perform his 9th Symphony (The New World Symphony, which he wrote for the New York Orchestra while he was here in the early 20th century—really fabulous—Lorin Maazel is a pimp) on my birthday, and I’ve performed some of his Biblical songs in the past. I’m a fan. Also, the Dvořák Museum is the site of the concert where our works will be performed in a couple of weeks. Weird artifact at this particular museum: a posthumous ceramic mold of Dvořák’s hand—his dead, shriveled, post-rigormortis hand (sorry Larcie, I don’t think I spelled that correctly). You could actually see the wrinkles and imagine ol’ croaked out Antonín lying in a coffin with his hands placed just so so. Creepy. That night, I went on a run all over the city with the Daves, Jon (whom we’ve come to lovingly refer to as The Rock), and Ruby. Lots of hills, cobblestone—Get excited about shin splints. I’m still sore.
Wednesday, more master class and composing—love it, love it. And that evening, I went with the Brian, David Janssen, Jonathan, and Trey to see Mozart’s Don Giovanni at the Estates Theater where it was originally premiered in the 18th Century! The theater was really intimate, and I didn’t feel like I was missing any of the action by being seated in the second gallery (the top floor, right next to the spotlight—which was totally cheesy and unhistorical, by the way—as was the amplified echo effect they added to the voice of Commodore—such a gimmick). The performance, on the whole, was very enjoyable though. Leporello is my homeboy. The production was quite primitive, all except for the spotlight and the echo crap, supposedly in attempts to recreate the original performance—period costumes, raked stage, tapestry backdrops—I really enjoyed it. Others in our group weren’t so excited—Brian is the Opera critic of the year, and Don Giovanni is one of his favorites—he’s probably seen it about a zillion times. This, however, was the first time I’d ever seen Don Giovanni live. I’ve seen videos of staged productions, but of course, they don’t come close to the live experience. I was really excited, even wore my fancy dress (which I went back to the dorm to change into [enormous fiasco that I won’t even go into] Who wears Chacos to the opera? Not me, but evidently every other tourist in the city of Prague—There I was, in my black dress with the sparklies and my heels, sweating profusely, amid everyone else in polos and khakis –or T-shirts! I felt like a total idiot, again. But what’s new?).
And yesterday, I had my last lesson of the month with Ladislav—we decided that my piece is going to be a lot longer than I initially expected or planned. He says I have too much material to end it so quickly. That’s cool with me, but I sure was looking forward to having a piece completed—I’ve got a week left. We’ll see what happens. Maybe I’ll compose some today. I’ve found a little pizzeria near my dorm that I really like, so perhaps I can go and sit in a corner and sketch. Anywho, yesterday, after my lesson, I walked into the conservatory studio that I share with John Paul to find it unlocked, with all of JP’s things out and about. One curious issue though—no John Paul. So I wandered around to the other side of the desk, and what should I see protruding from underneath the desk but a pair of bare feet, attached to a body! It was JP! First, I put my hand in front of his mouth to make sure he was breathing; then I had a hearty chuckle and stretched out across some chairs myself. I didn’t want to wake him—he’d had a long night, so I took a nap too. When we woke up (that sounds so scandalous, but it’s really not), we wandered the city for second hand shops in search of some cool T-shirts with things printed on them in Czech. But alas, everything they print on clothing around here is in English—nowhere near the novelty I was looking for! (though I suppose English is quite novel in countries where it isn’t the primary language—go figure). I also bought some chocolate candy stuff in a grocery. They’re little bon bon thingies with a picture of Mozart on the wrapping—nice gimmick—worked on me--called Mozartkugeln, and they have some sort of praline paste with marzipan inside them! As a matter of fact, I’m still enjoying my Mozartkuglen experience right now. After dinner, The Rock, Dave B. (the Muscle), Dave J.(Waldo), and I (Spartacus), trekked across the bridge in search of the Cadbury chocolate of beers, Kozel—I might venture to say that it’s the best beer in the world, well worth the hunt it takes to find it. One glass is all one needs to savor the sheer joy and fulfillment that is Velkopopovizky Kozel Černy Pivo. It’s a meal in itself, at about 15 KČ a pop (that’s about 13 cents—beer is cheaper than water). *sigh* So the four of us cozied into a booth in an underground restaurant off Old Town Square and had some pizza with our new 15 KČ companion and discussed life and love and art. ‘Twas a beautiful evening. I really love my new friends.
P.S. I should just mention how much I LOVE Erika Pipkin. I'm so glad I get to room with her for a month. She is one of the loveliest, most wonderful humans I've ever met. I'm only sorry I didn't get to know her as well as I'd like sooner.

... 4 hours later...

I was sitting in a Paneria today eating a sandwich and writing some music (the pizza place didn't work out today) when I heard, between two folkish-sounding Czech songs on the radio, Toby Keith singing, “How Do You Like Me Now?” I thought Mom might get a kick out of that. On my way to dinner, I stopped by an antique book shop. I have a weakness, and I think it's pop-up books in German. Tomorrow, I think we'll go to the Kafka museum.

Prague, Day 10

Internet Connection: Forget it man.

Health Status: I hate nature.

Alrighty, it’s been a while. Where did I leave off? I believe I remember. Two days ago, we went on tours of two Czech castles: Karlštejn and Křivoklát in Central Bohemia (which, I’m pretty sure, is the southern area of the Czech Republic—Moravia is the northern—we saw a sculpture the other day of two men standing in a Czech Republic-shaped puddle thing [the men were to symbolize Bohemia and Moravia] urinating into the puddle—Trey thought it had something to do with the water cycle.).
Anywhoodles, Křivoklát castle was complete with a dungeon and a torture chamber—with a real-life replica of an Iron Maiden! A people juicer! I don’t know how I should feel about the fact that the torture chamber was the most exciting part of the tour for me… Should we worry? I’ll tell you what’s worrisome: (this is evidently a true story—seriously, I heard it from a tour guide, and we all know that everything the tour guide says is totally free of falsehood.) So there was this Queen Catherine Somethingorother, who happened to enjoy bathing in the blood of young girls—thought it was good for her complexion or something—,and she would have them brought in and juiced for her monthly bath. Pretty soon, a deficiency of pretty young girls arose in the villages, and Queen Catherine Somethingorother had to search elsewhere for young girls to fulfill her skin care regimen. Creepy, huh? Maybe that was the story they hacked for that horribly ridiculous Brothers Grimm movie. Oh, and I got my picture taken holding an owl. Then I got hives. Best 30 Krowns I ever spent—Well, I didn’t actually spend the 30 Krowns, my pals did—JP was carrying my backpack because I let him keep his folder in it—so Nathan, Stephen, and Ruby chipped in to help the wildlife (probably a made-up gimmick, but whatever) and get my picture taken with the bird of prey. They’re so great.
Sunday, we did the master classing and the individual lessoning again. I presented my music in master class, and I wanted to throw up all day after it (as I had wanted to throw up every day preceding it). It’s so scary to feel that exposed, first of all, because I feel severely behind the rest of these people—I’m coming to terms with my compositional youth—and secondly, because I have an intense fear of confirming everyone’s notions that I am, in fact, a total moron—once people have seen your music, you’re completely naked. You have nowhere to hide. It’s good and bad I suppose. I needed to see how my work compares to everyone else’s sooner or later, and let me tell you, it’s time for Jenna to quit screwing around. Isn’t it great that I stumbled upon this epiphany the freakin’ summer before my senior year!!!!???? It would’ve been nice to have stumbled upon it, oh, 3 years ago! Now I have to play catch-up and apply to graduate schools. Awesome.
And today, we went to the Bedřich Smetana Museum (Smetana was a Czech nationalist composer—wrote The Moldau, My Country, and The Bartered Bride, among other things—not my favorite composer, but maybe I just need to be more informed.), where we saw, under a microscope, Bedřich Smetana’s actual auditory oscicles—bones from his ears—does that weird anyone else out? I mean, a lot of good they did him. He went deaf! The oscicles were saved from an anthropological study of Smetana’s bones after his body was dug up. Again, quite creepy. The things people will pay to see… After the Smetana adventure, a few of us went to the park and chilled. I read my Salman Rushdie book while Erika and Nathan read my Czech phrasebook and made teenager jokes about translations—It was pretty cute. They’re pretty cute. Then, I went on a Jenna adventure and walked to Franz Kafka square, where I found the CD I’m currently listening to. Ladislav said I should listen to the Bartók Concerto for Piano and Orchestra to help me with my piano writing. I didn’t own a copy, and I figured it was about time I broke down and made the purchase. Now if I had a score, we’d be in business. I love Béla Bartók so friggin’ much it hurts. Why are some people perfect? I also bought an overpriced postcard in some little modern art gallery. I went in, just to look around. I was the only customer in the store (probably all day), and the sales lady got really excited and started pulling out every work by some local artist I commented on—Pikas. He does neat things, but I’m not paying 2,000 Krowns for an ink drawing. I ended up buying an arty little postcard that he designed (I pay less for beer than I paid for that postcard—I’m pretty sure I have the word, “Shmuck,” written in visible-to-sales-people-only ink on my forehead). Oh well, all the postcards here suck anyway. I’ll probably end up buying a couple of lame-o Charles River cards before I leave. Isn’t that a great story about postcards? I’m pretty sure it’s the most enthralling thing you’ve ever read.
I had Czech Mex for dinner, again, and after that, Ruby, JP, David J., Dave B., and I went to Prague Palace and the gardens to walk around a bit. The best view of the city is just past the garden in the courtyard where the guards stand. Then we came back here to good ol’ Kajetánka Dormitory, where I taught JP, Ruby, and Dave how to play the Lyle Family conglomerate version of Rummy. We were soon joined by Nathan and Erika for a rousing game of B.S. Today was good.

Prague, Day 7

Internet Connection: Up, but I didn’t get back to the dorm in time to pay for it so I can log on. Oy vey.

Health: I bought cold medicine and cough drops at the pharmacy today, and I’m feeling significantly better, but super tired. The cough drops kind of taste like cinnamon, and I like it.

So, I’ve skipped the ol’ post for a couple of days. They’ve been eventful, to be sure. The 6th, in addition to being a national Czech holiday commemorating the burning at the stake of Jan Hus in 1415, was also Brian’s 21st birthday. Brian is an upcoming senior at Shenandoah Conservatory. He’s quite a gifted composer (we heard some incidental music he wrote for a Shenandoah production of Romeo and Juliet). The man’s a wealth of musical knowledge. I’m pretty sure he could talk about nothing music all day and be really excited about it. He routinely does. He’s also a devout Catholic and hadn’t consumed much, if any, alcohol in his lifetime that wasn’t sacramental. Anywho, essentially, we took him out for his birthday. There’s a little pub up the hill from our dorm where beer is just under a quarter (in U.S. money—that’d be about 23 Krowns here), but Brian claims he’s “not a beer man,” though evidently, he is a Jägermeister, gin, cognac, and Jamison man. I sipped my vodka tonic (which came separated, by the way—a shot of Vodka with a large glass bottle of tonic water—which incidentally lent itself to accompanying another shot of Vodka later—Worry not Mom and Dad; I’m quite responsible.) and marveled at the young man’s stamina. He reminded me of a 4-year-old who has no conception of his own mortality and dives off the tops of desks. Supposedly, boys have higher levels of tolerance than the likes of me though—I’m pretty sure I would’ve ended up in a ditch somewhere in some sort of Edgar Allen Poe-esque scenario with a rabid squirrel (we won’t go into it) had I consumed such amounts. But our boy Brian was quite the trooper. He skipped back to the dorm and woke up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this morning for master class. Also, before the birthday festivities, David, Jonathan, Scott, John Paul, and I (Jenna and the Boys, once again—I’m just going to have to get used to it with a ratio like 3 to 13—I can’t just drag Erika and Ruby along everywhere so I won’t be the only girl--, though I suppose it’s not that bad. I haven’t had to open my own door in like 3 days.) went to the Charitativní Koncert Hall, where the premiere of Mozart’s opera, Don Giovanni took place. There’s actually a Mozart festival going on this month, and we’re going to try and get tickets. How awesome would it be to see Don freakin’ Giovanni at its original performance venue? It’d be like seeing Romeo and Juliet at the Rose! Then we got ice cream—again.
Today, after class, we went on a boat trip up the Vlatava (Moldau) River to the Czech countryside—absolutely gorgeous. There are swans in the Vlatava—just swimming around!—Like ducks, with their little babies, grooming themselves and whatnot. Swans man. Who just sees swans? And there was a wedding processional up on the hill in the country when we got off the boat. It looked just like the scene from The Godfather where Michael and Apolonia are having their wedding procession in Sicily, walking through the little farm area down a hill with those cool trees that look like upside-down cedars (I don’t know what they’re called) and the family walking behind them. I got really excited, but nobody got it. I kept thinking, “I know someone who would…and he’s writing a novel this month…” And, not to disappoint, we had ice cream afterwards. We’ve found a place just near Mala Strána where you can get double scoops. I like to get chocolate with raspberry. It’s just heavenly. Oh, and Erika and I went to a CD store today. We chatted with a little Czech fellow in Culinary school whose father owned the store. He was wearing a Sex Pistols shirt and pants with a patch advertising a British hard-core punk band, The Exploited. He let me listen to his mp3 player with all his favorite Czech punk bands and showed me some of his favorite CDs. Erika went a little crazy and bought like 50 zillion CDs, including one with a sumo wrestler on the cover, advertised by the store owner as the “wery bezt rahk bahnd in Czech Repooblik.” There is good music in this city. And there are good people. I’m a fan.
Prague is the dog-walkingest place, man. I see dogs everywhere! And I get depressed because I can’t pet them ‘cause I don’t always have a sink nearby so I won’t get hives. Bummer. Honestly, I think I saw the cutest dog in the entire universe yesterday. He looked kind of like Benji, but smaller: shorter legs, with curly hair and kind of a pointy snout. He was a little disheveled-looking, with half of his hair kind of a blonde color and half of it white, the two colors mingled together. He was on a leash and had a plastic Coca-Cola bottle in his mouth, holding it by the end you drink out of. I almost cried, watching him stare up at his owner, head cocked sideways, with a look like, “are you going to refill this sometime, or do I just have to keep pretending I actually like the taste of plastic?”

Prague, Day 3

Internet connection: still unsuccessful

Still can’t stop sneezing…and my eyes are watering.

Today was great. We had another master class, as we will pretty much every day from here on out, give or take a few. The prospect of me conducting my own master class in a few days really freaks me out. Everyone else seems to have such interesting things to say about their music, and they all have tons of recordings. I have one recording, and I feel like most of the things I have to say are a little on the flaky side. What if there’s really no substance to anything I write, and everyone knows it? I’d better know what I’m talking about, or this could be really painful. The graduate students, especially, give their opinions very decidedly, and they can always back them up. They just have so much experience and knowledge. Is it bad if I just like the way something sounds? Do I have to have a deep theological treatise to go explain the harmonic structure of every work? Do I have to compare everything I do to 50 other composers? I just don’t know. Today was refreshing though, because we got to hear the music of a fellow named David (Dave) Biedenbender. Everyone watch out for him. He’s going to be something ridiculously awesome. He, like me, is an upcoming senior in undergrad. He goes to University of Central Michigan. Absolutely fabulous composer… We heard an orchestral work he wrote his freshman year. If he wasn’t so darn nice, I’d hate him. I’m still working my way up to 5 instruments, and he wrote for orchestra when he was 18 freakin’ years old (it seems like lots of people here have done stuff like that—it blows me away every time)! However, despite his compositional excellence, I noticed some things in his music that I struggle with as well. It’s comforting to know that lots of young composers have the same issues. Many of us have a tendency to expose an idea, get tired of it, and expose another one. Development just isn’t my thing yet, but I’m working on it. Also, some of us (there are four upcoming seniors) were talking about how everything we’ve written up to this point has pretty much been an exercise in composition. It’s so true, and now, for the first time, I feel like my music really has a voice—and it’s kind of lush—I’m excited about it! Up to this point, I’ve mostly been taking ventures into different stylistic areas, like the Avant Garde or serialism or classicism, to see how they feel. This year was my year of going as far ‘out there’ as I could, really pushing my limits and laying myself on the line musically. I’ll admit, sometimes I took things a bit too far (my choral piece, for example—I can’t think of anyone in the entire world who would want to perform it—but I said what I had to say with it, so that’s something, right?).
I’ve also made a new friend named Ruby (like my great grandma). She’s a doctoral student at the Peabody Institute of Johns Hopkins in Baltimore, one of the most open-minded people I’ve ever met. And she really likes humans; you can just tell by the way she talks to people. Somehow she just knows how to connect and make you feel at home around her. I like that. I can’t wait to hear her music. In master classes, her comments always begin with the things she likes about the piece and end with something challenging and well-voiced—she’ll be a great teacher one day. I always feel really cool when she backs me up when the guys (there are 12 of them—3 females) gang up on us (and sometimes I get really insecure about my opinion so it’s cool when a graduate student has similar views). Like today, we got into a debate about whether or not it’s still effective to use sectional forms the way Stravinsky did. Ruby and I say, yes, she because she believes that’s how life works (like you’re flipping channels, from one idea to the next, all the time, kind of like having tunnel vision and seeing only one thing at a time), me because I probably have A.D.D. Opposite to the use of sectional forms would be the use of developmental forms, like the ones used (or shall I say, perfected) by Beethoven. He tended to overlap ideas and expand them for measures upon hundreds of measures. Stravinsky wrote in blocks, occasionally allowing some ideas to return, but only exposing one idea, or combination of ideas, at a time, you know, in sections. And then this group of squirrels on pogo sticks came bounding through the windows into the lecture hall singing Yellow Submarine …It was magical.
Also, I had my first private lesson today with Dr. Kubik, who insists I call him Ladislav—I kind of like it--makes me feel respected. It was a great lesson, not overwhelming at all like I expected it to be. I brought a quintet for piano and woodwinds that I started at the end of the semester with Dr. Mendel. It’s nowhere near being completed. He was very understanding and supportive of my ideas, though he didn’t pry. He allowed me to keep private what I wished about my inspiration. (Not everything is for the audience you know.) And he gave me some very workable and direct advice. I loved it. Then I went to my enormous studio in the pallace with the grand piano, full-sized desk, and view of the city and composed for two and a half hours. It was wonderful. I can’t remember when I’ve composed, like seriously created, for two and a half hours. Setting is everything. I’ll be ruined for my 4x6 practice room at school. I suppose time is everything as well. I’ve got to start planning my days at home better for composing. For Kevin Wilder and all you novelists out there, do you find that your workspace really effects how you write? Or are you so focused that you can just write anywhere?
I think I’m beginning to get a feel for the city. I haven’t exactly done the tram thing on my own yet (Don’t worry Mom and Dad; I don’t plan to), but I think maybe I could if I had to. Maybe.
Alright, enough nerd talk. Thanks for reading!