Trying a little something new. Something I’ve wanted
to do for a while. For the next few days, I will be posting the pieces I
submitted for my Writing Minor Portfolio. They are all from classes I
took Sophomore to Senior Year at Keene State College. Most of them are
memoir in nature, but a few are slightly different. These are pieces I
love, but know still need work. If you would like to know more of the
stories behind the pieces, let me know and I will be happy to share!
Also, any and all constructive feedback is always welcome – just because these
were the final versions to be submitted doesn’t mean that they are perfect.
Oh, and also? These are mine. Do not
steal them. Thanks.
Strings
Written for Theory and Practice: Memoir, Written Senior Year.
Most people who know me know that I love
music. I have it constantly playing,
whether it’s on my computer, the radio in my car, or on my iPod as I take walks
around campus and town. If I don’t have
my tunes, I am lost. When asked what my
favorite music is, I always answer “everything”. A trite answer? Yes, but an honest one. I was raised on everything – from the
contemporary music of my childhood, back to classical greats such as Bach and
Vivaldi. My music of choice varies dependant
on my mood, and the task at hand. Happy,
care-fee mood? Dance music or pop, and sometimes big band. Feeling sexy?
Some Cibo Matto, or Back to Basics era Aguilera. Feeling pensive? Jukebox the Ghost. Stressed to the hilt? Classical. Preferably Edvard Grieg or any composer from
the Baroque period.
My love of
classical music, especially the pieces that heavily feature stringed
instruments such as the violin or cello (my absolute favorite instruments)
comes from Mrs. Johsnon and her violin classes.
In fourth grade, we could take violin if we wanted. In fifth grade, you could take up a band
instrument. Many took violin to tide
them over until they could play something more compact like the flute, or
cooler like the saxophone. Myself, I
took the violin because when I heard the strings teacher, Mrs. Johnson, play
for us in a demonstration, I was transfixed.
The way her body swayed with the music, the way the bow slid across the
strings to create such a beautiful melody convinced me – I wanted to play the
violin. I went home that day and
excitedly told my parents I wanted to play.
I was both
grateful and a little surprised that they let me take the violin. For years, I had begged them for ballet
lessons, and every year I was told “Not enough money this year – maybe next
year”. I suppose the reason I was
allowed to take the violin was because it was offered through the school, and
we were given a free violin from a family friend.
The violin I
had was too big, but I learned how to grow into it. At first I practiced every night, imagining
that I was playing for a big crowd in some ornate theatre. The music swelled from my instrument, my bow
gracefully danced over the strings. The
notes were clear and so beautiful, they would bring tears to my listeners eyes.
In reality, the “music” I made from my
violin surely must have brought tears to people’s eyes – tears of pain. It was not an instrument that came easily to
me, mostly because I quickly grew lazy and did not practice as much as I should
have. Besides, I had decided I wanted to
play the flute instead – my sister and my dad played the flute. I wanted in on that. But my dad convinced me to stick with the
violin, telling me that there are a million flute/woodwind players, but only a
few stick with the strings. So, I
toughed it out.
I stuck with
the violin, and Mrs. Johnson, all through high school. I was never very good at it, mainly because
by the time I reached high school, I was more focused on singing. Instead of the private violin lessons Mrs.
Johnson suggested, I opted for voice lessons.
I sang day and night, my violin slowly falling into disrepair from being
neglected. But for some reason, even
though it brought me so much frustration, I loved playing. The sound of a violin still evokes a sense of
peace and joy, especially when I listen to pieces I had once fumbled my way
through way back when. I can remember
how badass I felt when I was able to master the complicated runs of Pachelbel’s
Canon in D, and how I broke into tears when I heard my peers play the same
piece of music in a way I knew I would never be able to.
I still think
about taking up the violin again every now and then. I know I will never be a maestro, but I loved
to play, and that is all that matters. I
wonder if it would be different to play just for me, and not for my patient
teacher and an audience of my not so patient peers. Sometimes I catch myself listening to pieces
I once attempted holding an imaginary violin in my left hand, my fingers
positioning themselves to form the notes.
All I need is an instrument and a bow.
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