Concentrations pt.II

My dreams have been commandeered by insane Nordic musicians galvanizing stages across Seattle. Bass riffs storming the marrow of my bones, vocalists just a hairsbreadth from my face and singing so close I can feel the heat and wetness of their sweat, grasping hands with them for just a split second of forever...all these things have happened to me in the past few months, but not recently, and that’s the painful bit. I miss my Finnish bands, the Norsk and Swiss…

I’ve also been thinking about my concentration quite a bit. Some sort of triumvirate of earth, rhythm and words. The stringing-together of words to imitate—and, essentially, create—life; drumming and rhythm as evokers of emotion and energy. Humans and the planet we inhabit inspire me. A muse birthed from the chiseling of earth and nature by human hands. Inspiration driven by decay, the seasons, a mouse, slow supernovas. Stories written about the current suicide mission of homo sapiens and improv on the drum set that emulates the clicking of beetles. These are the emotions and images and thoughts I want to bring to my concentration.

I remember my writing transition from last quarter: I was so adamant that I’d be studying storytelling through creative writing and percussion . And before that, in spring quarter of my freshman year, I was sure I would use Tolkien as the focus of my drumming and writing concentration. I certainly haven’t lost interest in any of these sparks (I’m avidly following the The Hobbit movie blog and recently memorized Tolkien’s Shadow Bride for Poetry and Sound), but what I’ve come to realize is that I should focus on an idea rather than a singular project (such as putting Tolkien’s wildly complex Silmarillion to percussive song…which would still be awesome). I shouldn’t limit myself. I should become widely versed in a focused area of study (such as words, earth and rhythm) and from there, go crazy (I can probably check that last bit off the to-do list). Of course, come spring quarter, I’ll probably have stumbled upon another epiphany. Doubtless it will still involve words, rhythm and earth.

Even so, my plan is to take the concentration seminar next quarter, to expand my self and my passion. Ultimately, in my collegiate afterlife (and perhaps before), I’ll be an internal, self-sustaining cycle, feeding myself with my passion. My food will be my drumming and my writing (literally, if I manage to support myself with them). And at some point, I won’t be waiting for those Nordic musicians to come to me. I will go to them.

The usefullness of Fairhaven's stairwells

Read poetry in one of Fairhaven’s many stairwells yesterday:

By flat tink
or tin, or thin
copper tong
brass clang
bronze bong*

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Where else but in Fairhaven could you sit in a dim and drafty stairwell and recite poetry? Put like that, it sounds dismal, but I honestly love those stairwells; the shadow of rain falling through window , the resonance and echoing acoustics …perfectly atmospheric for reciting poetry focused on sound. Every alliteration and assonance was amplified and accentuated by the stairwell’s hollow depths.

…so maybe I’m dramatizing the atmosphere of Fairhaven’s stairwells, but they served their purpose: a place to read, listen and feel the poetry.

Class began with a cookie. Let me explain—it’s not uncommon for Mary Cornish (an especially excellent poet, person and professor at Fairhaven College) to begin the first day of class by reading about the sweetness of learning. Of course, for any of us especially intelligent college-goers, such things need validation. Thus the cookie.

And with cookie in hand, we embarked upon the study—no, the experience—of Poetry and Sound (the title of the course). Started off with a video by Evelyn Glennie (an amazing solo percussionist) about the importance of listening. Later, we broke into small groups to read poems and discuss their play with sound.

And ever since class finished, I’ve been splashing in puddles, listening to the way my hair-in-the-wind sounds like the rustle of thin metal filaments and so on…after I made it to the house I share with five other girls, about 3.5 miles from campus, I practiced my drum set for two and a half-ish hours, listening to how the vibrations and the sound of the drums spoke, just playing them in weird ways.

It’s this that I love about Fairhaven. I’m not simply going to class, studying, sleeping eatingbreathingexisting during every insipid moment of the day. No. I’m living—my passions intersect with my academics and not in an overburdened, suffocated way. It’s more of a harmony.

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*Bell, by Valerie Worth

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...feedback is always a good way to get me to write more. Of course, if you don't want me to write more, you should still comment and tell me that...