woostering: (Default)

I am nothing but a little black bird,

Flitting between your branches

Perching amongst the lines

Of the fairytales.

Some days I am still,

Rocked by the wind and strains of song

Some I hardly set down at all

Needing to take flight

Around, between

The trees I have taken to watching.

Some days I am a starling

Inconsequential (one of many)

Some I am the raven

Solitary in my wisdom, in my sight.

But most important, I

Am ever black

And can travel to dark places

And I do not fear, for I too

Am a little dark. (A bearer of the light.)

Let me stay, that I may sing

Or at least

Shed my feathers

(my only mark of passage)

Near the wide branches

Of the only trees that felt like home.


Dec. 4th, 2011 01:05 pm
woostering: (Default)
Share a furtive glance,
gaze darting like
fish in a murky pond
Outside, eyes
do not wander
On windblown empty sidewalks
The distance between us
as we pass
is set.
Our kind,
we do not speak
our words
black feathers against gray sky
You, determined, taciturn
And I
lip curled up from
an internal Cheshire
my ears catalog
the fading clicking of your stride
on cold pavement.

The Concert

Jul. 5th, 2011 03:04 pm
woostering: (goldy)
Pre-concert is all bustle and gossip. Getting into concert dress, fiddling with hair and makeup and tuning. Putting sheets of music in order, some crisp and new, some old and creased and faded. Checking that reeds aren't chipped and valves aren't stuck. Chattering to make the clock go faster.

Roughly twenty minutes before, and everyone is gathered. Ceremony, tradition, a superstition for good luck. A prayer, said together. The band is ready to play.

Walk to the stage, put the folder on the stand, wait for the nod from the director to sit. Rearrange the dress and the chair and the stand. Wipe off palms gone clammy with sweat. Play the Star Spangled Banner. Feel slightly calmer, as you know the ins and outs and the flick of the conductor's baton by heart. Carry out the wave of the last symbol crash, and sit, and breathe as the director turns to introduce the songs.

Wipe off hands again, wonder if sweaty palms are bad for the satin dress. Lick anxiously at the reed and tighten the ligature to make sure it's perfect-- a nervous habit. Raise the clarinet in sync with the baton, and everything fades away except the notes on the page and the anticipation of the upbeat telling you to go.

When the song starts, you become it-- the push, the pull, the slide of fingers over keys, by muscle memory now. You do not become a mistake that causes your physical body to flinch, even as your mind and heart and hands are living the next note. You do not become a sneeze in the audience or the creak of a chair. You become the song and the song becomes you. The pattern of the baton sliding through the air, the proud bray of the trumpets, the warmth of the trombones, the pulse and punctuation of percussion, the soft flutter of the flutes, the hum of the saxophones behind you. And then your own notes, sifting, playing, building between in the the spaces the composer left just for you. In that place between first and last breath, drawn through the clarinet by the conductor's hand, is the music, and therefore you. Each piece has its own nooks and crannies, its edges and gentle waves, familiar through practice but bright and crystalline now. One eye follows the ink on the page and the other the director. Lungs expand and contract by his hand. Fingers guide the sounds shaped by your clarinet and the song itself propels them out to wrap around the audience sitting at the edge of your consciousness. Each song feels different, moves differently through you, and the self you become is never quite the same. You are the song as it should be.

Some are intense, engaging the mind so completely nothing exists outside the collective vibrations of air at any given time. Some are gentle, some are sad, or happy of playful or fierce. Some shout a victory, demanding the audience hears the melody and counterpoint. Some sing a sighing breeze the pulls mournful ocean waves from the shore. Some direct themselves toward one person, some to the whole crowd, the building, the world.

The last note holds the charge in the air longer the it can physically be heard. The baton lowers and the band collectively exhales as the audience applauds, reorienting your consciousness and awareness in your body and not somewhere just above it. There are breaks through the night, announcements, acknowledgments, explanations, shuffling of music and seats. And at the end, the last chord of the last song, finally released into air and memory, you hear the clapping and you don't let go. Like a child clutching a jewel to their chest, you don't quite leave that state of being where you conscious self hovers an inch or two above you head even as instinct takes hold and you stand and bow and exit to pack up and put away before finding family and friend. Voices ring in your ears and the lights bleed through your eyes because in your head, you are still the song.
woostering: (snoopy)
But hey, yesterday wasn't.

Yesterday was my seventeenth birthday, which, compared to certain other landmarks far in the future is wildly insignificant, it is a birthday nonetheless.
My horoscope was incredibly good. Not that I'm inclined to believe the dinky newspaper horoscopes, but it's nice to see. My friend Hayley is still here and will be for another few days. I REALLY don't want her to go back to Vegas. Really, really don't. But sadly she has only the rest of this week here in Chicago. I owe her a lot- only yesterday, helping me put up streamers (why not?) that she informed me they taste very salty. This later resulted in an incident where I was laughing so hard I literally could not breathe. Well, actually it was more like I started laughing and then I didn't breathe back in. We were also vamped up on cake and soda.

I have actually gotten something done in that I completely redid my first chapter/intro to Stormballad. Somehow it is still very short, despite turning it all pretty, but at least it has some substance now. I think I found a style that's not overly flowery but finally get the description I want out of things. Thank you for writing [livejournal.com profile] smokingguncafe Sunny Disposish. That and I've taken to reading the first sentance or paragraph in all my favorite books to get a feel for that initial start for a story. Hopefully through the school year I can keep up marginally with Stormballad, in the sense that I won't have left it in a mental drawer.

I got my schedule (FINALLY) but two classes and my studies STILL aren't scheduled. Ugh. Something is taking painfully long st school this summer. Maybe because they, I believe, laid off a number of people and similar things.

So. I have a busy weekend ahead- my dad convinced me to go visit Beloit college saturday and I'm helping with a picninc sunday. Somewhere in there is a visit to my aunt's house. August 8th I'm taking some people to the bristol renaissance faire (and I found out a friend of mine has been meaning to go but never has. He was very excited when I mentioned it to him)... and then I think I have (eeeeeewww) band camp.

The days are long, but the weeks ahead look dreadfully short from here.


woostering: (Default)

May 2014



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