A first take on the required piece for a competition I'm doing this summer. I'm giving it a run tomorrow for a concert in Orange County. Sorry about the barking. Aiko has impeccable timing. (I didn't actually kick her at the end, although I wanted to- it was just a nudge...)
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Declaration of Attempt to Become a Writer
Can the dancer be a photographer, the potter a musician, the actor a sculptor?
Perhaps one language just isn't enough. Sometimes, the things that want to be said exceed their medium. I have a general sense of restlessness that goes through its peaks and valleys of activity. In the past, I've attributed it to too few amounts of meaningful personal interaction, general mental boredom, and lack of intellectual stimulus.
But what if it is really none of those things, and instead, the restlessness is an uneasiness created by potential for another form of expression that hasn't yet been realized? A medium that has been under my nose for my entire life, but not honed into a craft, not refined in the fire, not given the chance to speak much of the heart?
I really believe that there's an artist inside of everyone, and that connecting with this part of yourself is an essential aspect of understanding the Creator and yourself as a work of art. I gravitated towards the guitar at the age of five, for some reason unbeknownst to me. It pulled me and called me, and I was given the means with which I could answer. But I've always hungered to do more than just that; ironically, speaking without words has not always satisfied me. After much pondering, I'm going to take some of my friends' encouragement seriously and give writing a real shot. I just got the green light to do a minor field for my degree at USC's journalism school in arts criticism. We have a phenomenal Pulitizer prize-winning visiting professor on faculty right now who used to be the music critic for the Washington Post. And, his approval of my writing was a huge boost to my confidence. I sent him an academic research paper and to contrast, of all things, my blog entry about ramen- and he said he liked it enormously!
I'm really excited about this opportunity and have no idea what will come out of it. I don't even promise that I'll write anything good, or that I'll have the guts to share it. But, if this works out, I'll be taking his writing workshop in the fall. I'm not a natural critic, and am hoping that delving into the world of arts criticism will help me begin to articulate the nuances that make any work of art excellent, moving, shocking, or beautiful. I believe this will make me a better musician as well. I'm craving a new set of weapons to wield, and thinking about the possibilities unleashed by the power of the pen has me incredibly inspired.
Perhaps one language just isn't enough. Sometimes, the things that want to be said exceed their medium. I have a general sense of restlessness that goes through its peaks and valleys of activity. In the past, I've attributed it to too few amounts of meaningful personal interaction, general mental boredom, and lack of intellectual stimulus.
But what if it is really none of those things, and instead, the restlessness is an uneasiness created by potential for another form of expression that hasn't yet been realized? A medium that has been under my nose for my entire life, but not honed into a craft, not refined in the fire, not given the chance to speak much of the heart?
I really believe that there's an artist inside of everyone, and that connecting with this part of yourself is an essential aspect of understanding the Creator and yourself as a work of art. I gravitated towards the guitar at the age of five, for some reason unbeknownst to me. It pulled me and called me, and I was given the means with which I could answer. But I've always hungered to do more than just that; ironically, speaking without words has not always satisfied me. After much pondering, I'm going to take some of my friends' encouragement seriously and give writing a real shot. I just got the green light to do a minor field for my degree at USC's journalism school in arts criticism. We have a phenomenal Pulitizer prize-winning visiting professor on faculty right now who used to be the music critic for the Washington Post. And, his approval of my writing was a huge boost to my confidence. I sent him an academic research paper and to contrast, of all things, my blog entry about ramen- and he said he liked it enormously!
I'm really excited about this opportunity and have no idea what will come out of it. I don't even promise that I'll write anything good, or that I'll have the guts to share it. But, if this works out, I'll be taking his writing workshop in the fall. I'm not a natural critic, and am hoping that delving into the world of arts criticism will help me begin to articulate the nuances that make any work of art excellent, moving, shocking, or beautiful. I believe this will make me a better musician as well. I'm craving a new set of weapons to wield, and thinking about the possibilities unleashed by the power of the pen has me incredibly inspired.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Oh, the humanity
Today, I got rear-ended on my way to school. The damage was not that significant- a displaced bumper and a small dent. But I was pretty upset, only because the guy apologized to me, told me he would pull over, and then drove away speedily.
This threw my day into a bit of a haze, until a friend brought to my attention another hit and run accident that happened near campus last night. A driver ran a red light and hit two USC students while they were walking in a crosswalk, proceeded to stop only to remove the body of one of the victims from the hood of his car, and drove away. One of them died- an undergraduate student that was only 19. I can't imagine what her family is going through. I saw an interview with her mom on the news and it was so devastating. Read the story here.
Are we so numb to the well-being and livelihood of others that walking away is the easiest thing to do? Even if they are strangers? I put myself in the shoes of either driver from the above accidents. The temptation exists to just drive away, pretend not to notice, put it in the back of your mind and move on so you don't have to "deal" with the repercussions of your actions. And though my first instinct is to say that behavior like this is sickening with no regard to human life or decency, I know that I have done this in some form or fashion so many times when I have walked by someone who is hurting, hungry or broken, or run away from the consequences of my own sin. The choice is the same. The condition of sin runs deeper than we know. But the great tragedy of being human is that we are capable of so many things beyond our comprehension. We are capable of death, destruction, beauty, and compassion all at the same time.
More than ever, this realization makes me want to live my life loudly, with fierce passion for what I do, not letting anything stop me from expressing that there is always something worth living for, that people are worth caring about, and that humanity has always and will always be in need of a Savior.
This threw my day into a bit of a haze, until a friend brought to my attention another hit and run accident that happened near campus last night. A driver ran a red light and hit two USC students while they were walking in a crosswalk, proceeded to stop only to remove the body of one of the victims from the hood of his car, and drove away. One of them died- an undergraduate student that was only 19. I can't imagine what her family is going through. I saw an interview with her mom on the news and it was so devastating. Read the story here.
Are we so numb to the well-being and livelihood of others that walking away is the easiest thing to do? Even if they are strangers? I put myself in the shoes of either driver from the above accidents. The temptation exists to just drive away, pretend not to notice, put it in the back of your mind and move on so you don't have to "deal" with the repercussions of your actions. And though my first instinct is to say that behavior like this is sickening with no regard to human life or decency, I know that I have done this in some form or fashion so many times when I have walked by someone who is hurting, hungry or broken, or run away from the consequences of my own sin. The choice is the same. The condition of sin runs deeper than we know. But the great tragedy of being human is that we are capable of so many things beyond our comprehension. We are capable of death, destruction, beauty, and compassion all at the same time.
More than ever, this realization makes me want to live my life loudly, with fierce passion for what I do, not letting anything stop me from expressing that there is always something worth living for, that people are worth caring about, and that humanity has always and will always be in need of a Savior.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Ramen inspiration.
It's hard to keep blogging when you haven't had a profound thought in awhile.
And then, out of the blue, inspiration comes. Ever had one of those meals where you just couldn't stop thinking about it afterwards? That whatever you ate brought your taste buds such sweet pleasure that you felt like you'd just discovered a new addiction and were teetering in a hazy area between enthusiasm and obsession?
Well, I had one of these moments this weekend in the food court of Mitsuwa supermarket in West LA. An unassuming place for an amazing meal? You bet. Usually, this is also the best kind.
This ramen turned my whole perception of the art of Japanese flavors upside down. Santuoka, a Japanese ramen chain, exists at three different Mitsuwas in southern California and I feel blessed with good fortune. A salty pork-flavored broth with just a hint of sweet seafoodiness to balance. Perfectly chewy noodles that curled so beautifully in my spoon. Rich and fatty slices of pork to top, along with some pickled seaweed, fresh scallions, and (could it be?) fish cake that actually tasted like fish. I was floored by this umami perfection, and ended my meal by verbalizing this to my husband who was in an equally dumbfounded stupor. "It's perfect," I said. He nodded in between slurping, causing several drops of the precious broth to alarmingly fall to the table. Not wanting to tolerate any more waste, I picked up my bowl and drank every last drop of the sweet soup afterwards and considered ordering another, so delicious was this incredible nectar. We barely said two words during this meal, usually a sign that the food is good- especially when the two words were the ones I mentioned above.
But this was not just a fleeting moment of bacchanalian satisfaction. I felt inspired from this ramen. It made me believe that I could do anything. My perspective on the world began to shift. In a moment while slurping down noodles with my burnt tongue, I had an important realization. Thoughts become things. This ramen was once a thought. Now it is a thing. I'd just had a week where I wasn't doing much, feeling uninspired and lazy from an uneventful spring break. But this superhuman food brought me to my feet, recharged and ready to take on the world as a new woman. I can do anything. Thoughts become things. My thoughts can become things, too. I CAN DO ANYTHING! SLURRRPPPP!
To top it all off, they have double matcha green tea soft serve in the same food court. I haven't been this happy in weeks.
And then, out of the blue, inspiration comes. Ever had one of those meals where you just couldn't stop thinking about it afterwards? That whatever you ate brought your taste buds such sweet pleasure that you felt like you'd just discovered a new addiction and were teetering in a hazy area between enthusiasm and obsession?
Well, I had one of these moments this weekend in the food court of Mitsuwa supermarket in West LA. An unassuming place for an amazing meal? You bet. Usually, this is also the best kind.
This ramen turned my whole perception of the art of Japanese flavors upside down. Santuoka, a Japanese ramen chain, exists at three different Mitsuwas in southern California and I feel blessed with good fortune. A salty pork-flavored broth with just a hint of sweet seafoodiness to balance. Perfectly chewy noodles that curled so beautifully in my spoon. Rich and fatty slices of pork to top, along with some pickled seaweed, fresh scallions, and (could it be?) fish cake that actually tasted like fish. I was floored by this umami perfection, and ended my meal by verbalizing this to my husband who was in an equally dumbfounded stupor. "It's perfect," I said. He nodded in between slurping, causing several drops of the precious broth to alarmingly fall to the table. Not wanting to tolerate any more waste, I picked up my bowl and drank every last drop of the sweet soup afterwards and considered ordering another, so delicious was this incredible nectar. We barely said two words during this meal, usually a sign that the food is good- especially when the two words were the ones I mentioned above.
But this was not just a fleeting moment of bacchanalian satisfaction. I felt inspired from this ramen. It made me believe that I could do anything. My perspective on the world began to shift. In a moment while slurping down noodles with my burnt tongue, I had an important realization. Thoughts become things. This ramen was once a thought. Now it is a thing. I'd just had a week where I wasn't doing much, feeling uninspired and lazy from an uneventful spring break. But this superhuman food brought me to my feet, recharged and ready to take on the world as a new woman. I can do anything. Thoughts become things. My thoughts can become things, too. I CAN DO ANYTHING! SLURRRPPPP!
To top it all off, they have double matcha green tea soft serve in the same food court. I haven't been this happy in weeks.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Ode to Unemployment
Well, it's nearly official- Paul received an offer package from his future employer this morning!
We are excited that a new chapter is beginning. I've read in the news recently about how stressful unemployment is for so many people- particularly for men when the burden of provision in our culture is still heavier upon them. But not for this one. I suppose Paul and I are different in that I always need something busy and "productive" to do, and he is content and cheery whittling away the hours on various other types of activities- including, but not limited to, playing fetch with the dog, video games, reading random things on the internet and then telling me about them, writing music on Garage Band that sounds like electronic eurotrash, putting that music to a slideshow featuring pictures of our dog, playing basketball with the Filipino high school kids in our neighborhood, doing transcriptions on Sibelius for me, listening to audiobooks, and today, the most bizzare thing of all time: he voluntarily went shopping for me.
I have a concert this weekend in New York for which I've been picking an outfit for. I bought a new top at a sample sale last week and was having second thoughts about it. He wasn't totally sold on it either, but I decided I would just wear it since it was a sample sale and I can't return it anyway. I like it just fine and I really don't care all that much. I also don't have time to hit the mall between now and Saturday and things approrpiate to wear for a performance are hard to find for me.
So he insisted this afternoon to head to Macy's and basically raided the women's department. I told him my sizes, and that I generally like long-sleeve tops that have some sort or sparkle or interesting sleeves or something a little flashy for the stage. What did he bring home? About 20 different tops with some sort of sparkle or interesting sleeves in more colors than the rainbow can hold, including mustard yellow, pale gold, and magenta. He said he would return whatever I didn't want. Unfortunately, after trying on these nearly 20 different tops that were all pretty unflattering, I have decided to stick to the original top that I bought at the sample sale and fire him as my personal shopper.
Well, I was pretty blown away at his willingness to subject himself to the mall in an effort to help me, and we had a pretty good laugh when I tried on the mustard yellow top that made me look like a Star Trek character, the pale blue frilly top that should have been part of a clown costume, and the magenta top that I am convinced was some sort of maternity wear. All I can say is that I am excited for his new job to start and I am certainly glad that it's not in the fashion industry.
We are excited that a new chapter is beginning. I've read in the news recently about how stressful unemployment is for so many people- particularly for men when the burden of provision in our culture is still heavier upon them. But not for this one. I suppose Paul and I are different in that I always need something busy and "productive" to do, and he is content and cheery whittling away the hours on various other types of activities- including, but not limited to, playing fetch with the dog, video games, reading random things on the internet and then telling me about them, writing music on Garage Band that sounds like electronic eurotrash, putting that music to a slideshow featuring pictures of our dog, playing basketball with the Filipino high school kids in our neighborhood, doing transcriptions on Sibelius for me, listening to audiobooks, and today, the most bizzare thing of all time: he voluntarily went shopping for me.
I have a concert this weekend in New York for which I've been picking an outfit for. I bought a new top at a sample sale last week and was having second thoughts about it. He wasn't totally sold on it either, but I decided I would just wear it since it was a sample sale and I can't return it anyway. I like it just fine and I really don't care all that much. I also don't have time to hit the mall between now and Saturday and things approrpiate to wear for a performance are hard to find for me.
So he insisted this afternoon to head to Macy's and basically raided the women's department. I told him my sizes, and that I generally like long-sleeve tops that have some sort or sparkle or interesting sleeves or something a little flashy for the stage. What did he bring home? About 20 different tops with some sort of sparkle or interesting sleeves in more colors than the rainbow can hold, including mustard yellow, pale gold, and magenta. He said he would return whatever I didn't want. Unfortunately, after trying on these nearly 20 different tops that were all pretty unflattering, I have decided to stick to the original top that I bought at the sample sale and fire him as my personal shopper.
Well, I was pretty blown away at his willingness to subject himself to the mall in an effort to help me, and we had a pretty good laugh when I tried on the mustard yellow top that made me look like a Star Trek character, the pale blue frilly top that should have been part of a clown costume, and the magenta top that I am convinced was some sort of maternity wear. All I can say is that I am excited for his new job to start and I am certainly glad that it's not in the fashion industry.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Satisfied and dreaming
I have to say that I love my program. Lately I've been thinking that I think I would have been a much better guitarist had I come to USC earlier in life, like for undergrad or masters. It's a combination of the amazingly supportive guitar faculty who have the sharpest ears and most intelligent musical insight while being articulate enough to explain kinesthetic concepts and technical ways of playing the guitar easier, more efficiently, and more beautifully. I already feel that in the last 6 months of being here, I have learned more about how to be a better guitarist than I did in the past 6 years of schooling.
Which does not make me regret the decisions I made earlier in life, because I know that without being in those places, I would not be in this place. I also feel that with this degree, many aspects of my education are coming together in a way that weren't ready to be cohesive until now. In some way or another, it's all sort of coming together. A friend once told me that God doesn't waste anything. That is, the reason I majored in history, or played the cello, or ran for student government in high school will all come to fruition even if it doesn't look like it from the outside.
I also know that there is a reason I spend hours investing my time in playing the guitar better. I'm starting to feel immense satisfaction in even the smallest of improvements. There are many more to be made, but at the end of each day I have begun to feel that I am reaping some sort of fruit in a way that I have never felt before. At Juilliard, I mostly practiced out of fear of getting yelled at, or embarrassing myself in front of my peers. I was insecure and treaded carefully, trying to do the right thing, look altogether on the outside, and not rock the boat too much. I think I've needed to get that out of my system and although I still feel insecure at times, I don't work because I'm scared. I work because it is a choice I make every day out of pleasure, calling, and passion.
At the end of it, I don't believe that my destiny is to be a performer primarily. I've always liked to wear many hats. I have been dreaming lately about other things I'd love to do- like teaching guitar to adults in all walks of life, being a music history professor, mentoring students through the relationship between faith and music, organizing festivals, becoming a dean at a music school, working for the NEA. I feel great audacity in being able to even type these words because in the past I never verbalized what I really hoped for from life because of the fear of disappointment. It just occurred to be that I'm not afraid if I fail. I am satisfied even being able to just dream. God doesn't waste anything and I know He'll use me somewhere.
My husband (a hopeless dreamer) must be rubbing off on me.
Which does not make me regret the decisions I made earlier in life, because I know that without being in those places, I would not be in this place. I also feel that with this degree, many aspects of my education are coming together in a way that weren't ready to be cohesive until now. In some way or another, it's all sort of coming together. A friend once told me that God doesn't waste anything. That is, the reason I majored in history, or played the cello, or ran for student government in high school will all come to fruition even if it doesn't look like it from the outside.
I also know that there is a reason I spend hours investing my time in playing the guitar better. I'm starting to feel immense satisfaction in even the smallest of improvements. There are many more to be made, but at the end of each day I have begun to feel that I am reaping some sort of fruit in a way that I have never felt before. At Juilliard, I mostly practiced out of fear of getting yelled at, or embarrassing myself in front of my peers. I was insecure and treaded carefully, trying to do the right thing, look altogether on the outside, and not rock the boat too much. I think I've needed to get that out of my system and although I still feel insecure at times, I don't work because I'm scared. I work because it is a choice I make every day out of pleasure, calling, and passion.
At the end of it, I don't believe that my destiny is to be a performer primarily. I've always liked to wear many hats. I have been dreaming lately about other things I'd love to do- like teaching guitar to adults in all walks of life, being a music history professor, mentoring students through the relationship between faith and music, organizing festivals, becoming a dean at a music school, working for the NEA. I feel great audacity in being able to even type these words because in the past I never verbalized what I really hoped for from life because of the fear of disappointment. It just occurred to be that I'm not afraid if I fail. I am satisfied even being able to just dream. God doesn't waste anything and I know He'll use me somewhere.
My husband (a hopeless dreamer) must be rubbing off on me.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
21 days of consecutive practice
Today, I had a two-hour lesson at school with my guitar teacher. I wasn't feeling all that prepared going in because we had driven up to the Bay Area this weekend for a wedding, and though I brought the guitar with me, I didn't get nearly as much time with it as I would have if we had been at home for the weekend. But it was the first weekend traveling where I had to be sure to fulfill my New Year's resolution to practice every day this year. So on Friday, I made sure to practice before we left for San Jose- got about 1 1/2 hours in, on Saturday, I practiced about an hour before we got ready to leave for the wedding, and on Sunday, I practiced after the 5 hour drive back to LA when we arrived home at around 11pm. This one was a hard one. I wanted so badly to crawl into bed, but Paul reminded me of my resolution and helped me build the resolve to sit myself down. He also told me that if I practiced, I could have the sour gummy worms that we had bought for the road trip but had forgotten to bring with us. I jumped up- this was just enough motivation for my tired body to get on my red practicing stool. (I love sour candy.)
At the very least, I got some affirmation today at my lesson. Yesterday I barely got an hour in between cooking for our small group dinner, teaching my fifth-grade guitar class in East LA, getting a run in around the lake, finishing some reading, and being glued to the election coverage. But I did get about 1 1/2 hours in at the end of the night, and today after I played my piece, my teacher said these words:
"Wow! You've been working your ass off."
I beamed. He has never said this to me. In fact, I've never had a teacher say this to me in recent memory. It's usually, "Ok, good." Or, on a bad day, "Good piece, huh?" For someone that gets bored pretty easily, I've never been one to practice enough, ever. But I suppose the consistency is a great start. I've been working. And it feels good.
At the very least, I got some affirmation today at my lesson. Yesterday I barely got an hour in between cooking for our small group dinner, teaching my fifth-grade guitar class in East LA, getting a run in around the lake, finishing some reading, and being glued to the election coverage. But I did get about 1 1/2 hours in at the end of the night, and today after I played my piece, my teacher said these words:
"Wow! You've been working your ass off."
I beamed. He has never said this to me. In fact, I've never had a teacher say this to me in recent memory. It's usually, "Ok, good." Or, on a bad day, "Good piece, huh?" For someone that gets bored pretty easily, I've never been one to practice enough, ever. But I suppose the consistency is a great start. I've been working. And it feels good.
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