Scales

I am fully aware of the fact that I haven't written anything in awhile.  I certainly haven't been keeping up with the weekly schedule I promised.  And you'll have to forgive me, because, truth be told, I still haven't written anything for this blog.  But don't change that channel, there's more! I wrote something, it's just not exclusively for the blog

The following essay is actually a paper I wrote for a class called Freshman Colloquium.  (Don't know what freshman colloquium is?  Pick up a phone and let's have a conversation (561-531-4349).  Too close to make a phone call but still want a conversation, let's go out for coffee.  That's right, Nikki LaBonte is asking you on a pseudo-date.  Write that one on your resume.)  In writing this, I've sort of remembered how therapeutic writing is for me and how much I like to do it.  So, maybe, possibly, I'll write something within the next year.  Kidding.  Here's the prompt and paper.  Enjoy.

Prompt:  Dr. Burgett shared with us his mantra of “passion and ability drive ambition.”  What is your ambition in life?  What are your passions and abilities, and how do they drive your ambition?  How do you hope to utilize your time at Eastman to fulfill your ambition?




I know full well what is expected of me in response to this discussion.  I attend the Eastman School of Music.  Therefore, my response must be in turn that my passion derives itself from the namesake of the school.  My passion is, of course, required to be music because I am a musician.  My abilities?  An additional obvious answer is to be expected.  My talent, as an artist, must, logically, be used to service my passion.  And thus, the question is "answered" by my scholastic ties before I have the chance to speak.

You can see the dilemma if I were to argue otherwise.  A musician whose passion is not music? Blasphemy!  They must surely be sentenced to some kind of eternal purgatory or subject to the most horrific torture allowed by the Geneva Convention. As controversial as it may be I, myself, am not passionate about music.  Before the shackles are placed upon my wrists and I am expelled from Eastman, I must be frank in saying that I have never met a musician whose passion is music.   For, if one’s passion were truly music, they would be content with a daily routine confined to the space of a practice room.  They would be truly fulfilled to be given the opportunity to perform an endless drivel of scales and arpeggios for hours upon end, only pausing momentarily for the daily bottle of water and loaf of bread.  To those of you who protest to my statements, I urge you to think logically.  Are scales not music?  Then, if music were their passion, wouldn’t one be content with surrounding oneself exclusively with the company of scales until death pries them away from the piano?  If music is truly the passion of someone you know, I urge you to go out in your front yard and dig them out from the rock under which they reside.  Kindly tell them that it is the year 2013 and escort them immediately to the nearest symphony orchestra concert.

For you must be able to now recognize the error in describing my passion as music.  My ambition of being a musician cannot correspond to a passion of music.  An artist cannot have a passion of art.  They must have so much more than that.  My passion is not for the music on the page, it is for the people who have ears to hear it.   For a musician to have a love for anything else would defile the tradition music has set since the beginning of time.  Composers do not take joy from a soulless, yet perfect performance of a piece (if such a thing were to exist).  Music critics do not take a tally of the number of notes cracked by the brass section in order to judge a performance; for that horn players everywhere breathe a sigh of relief.  The pre-concert discussions preceding the greatest performances are never occupied by questions of “I wonder if the New York Philharmonic will hit all the right notes tonight.”  No, people search for much more than that in music.  Many a great teacher has stated that notes are merely ink on a page, and it is our job to make them come to life.  However, something rarely mentioned and a much harder truth to accept is this: no matter how emotionally charged the performance, these notes are still just sound--noise even.  The only object that has the ability to change this noise into an emotional force is the listener.  Again, I reiterate, my passion cannot be for music.  My passion is for people.

My abilities, therefore, cannot lie in musical talent, if indeed I have any talent at all.  They cannot lie in hard work.  My abilities cannot be calculated by how much time I spend in a practice room, how strong my ear training is, or how solid of a fundamental base I have on my instrument.  My abilities must be my own emotions.  I will be the first to recognize that this is not the ideal ability to further my ambition.  Emotions are subject to change, highly unreliable, and can be misinterpreted.  But they are all that I have.  Truthfully, emotions are all that any of us have.  So, as musicians, as people, we hope.  We hope that we can connect.  We hope that we, somehow, can be relatable to the audience that we play for.  We hope that our highly volatile and subjective emotions will somehow strike a chord with those who hear our music.  When this connection is made, it is always a miracle.

Of course, all that being said, how should a musician, or any artist, go about developing their art?  If there’s so much volatility in the task of a performer, how can we even begin to change the fate that we are subject to?  There are many answers to that question, many of which I have discussed earlier.  It can involve technical preparation, a limited degree of talent (if one is fortunate enough to have it), or a good work ethic.  I must confess that hours of isolated scalar practice, although incredibly mundane, is certainly a viable answer to this question.  However, it cannot be the only answer.  For this part of the equation addresses only the instrument, but not the people that lie behind it and before it.  In order to grow in your ability to impact others, you must first explore the great variety of humanity that surrounds you.  And you must discover yourself.  This discovery and exploration is what I intend to pursue not just during my time at the Eastman School of Music, but for the rest of my life.  And when this life is over, death will not be prying me from a piano after a lifetime of playing scales.  Instead, it will pry me from the hands of humanity after a lifetime of playing people.

Expecting

Before I begin, let me just clarify that I have never been pregnant.

At this point in my life, I'm content with food babies and infant animal pictures on the internet.

And I believe there is good reason for this.  If pregnancy were a prescription drug, no doctor in their right mind would recommend that.  Sure, in the stereotypical commercial for "Pregnancy" there'd be a mom with two adorable children.  It would start with images of the mother pushing her two perfect kids on a swingset and then cut to a scene of them visiting a beach completely lacking in annoying birds, seaweed, and middle aged men in speedos.  There'd be a soothing voice playing over the images talking about how before this woman had children, she felt lonely, depressed, and I don't know, maybe her eyesight was bad.

"But now, after Pregnancy, I feel so much more fulfilled, joyful, motivated, and I can see clearly now, the rain is gone.  Rasta la vista."

Slowly though, things take a turn for the worse.  Not in the video of course, the kids have stumbled upon an unusually safe and danger-free, naturally occurring tide pool while the mom watches from a far too distant location.  No, the audio changes as we hit the side effects.  Oh lord: lack of energy, back pain, moodiness, vomiting, and the most tragic side effect for women everywhere: extreme weight gain.  As long as those kids are playing with that starfish though, it's probably fine.  Right?

Sorry.  To me, that just doesn't seem like it would solve loneliness near as efficiently as a quart of ice cream and a tabloid magazine.  And as unpleasant as that sounds, I have something else.  I've noticed an additional situation that possesses many of the same qualities as mothers do when they are expecting.

Sending your kid to college.

Don't dismiss it, the similarities are startling.

Lack of energy and back pain:  Hulk Hogan doesn't usually wander around college campuses helping students move in.  That means you will be the one hauling that mini fridge up four flights of stairs.  Thinking that your lack of coordination might cause you to fall up the stairs?  Let's get ready to tumble.

Moodiness:  I've been in contact with the firefighters tackling those wildfires in California.  I keep trying to tell them that I know the solution to their problem.  I figured I'd try to put my mom's daily ocean of tears to some good use.

Vomiting:  What better way to have your final family breakfast than in the college dining hall with a plate full of powdered eggs and salty bacon?  Talk about morning sickness.

Extreme weight gain:  You can't exactly just go to college wearing only the clothes on your back.  And what do you do when you need to pack months worth of clothes into three suitcases?  Give up and ask your mom.  Freshman 15? I was thinking more like Freshman 150.

But, as much as my mom may be at home powering the neighborhood sprinkler system with her constant flow of tears,  I'm looking forward to college.  I couldn't be more excited about what Eastman has to offer.  Despite the fact that sleeping in will end, I'm ready for classes to start.  Whether it be the people, the professors, the classes, or those powdered eggs and salty bacon, there's so much to look forward to.  Worst case scenario, I can always just stick to cereal for breakfast. And even after my first week of orientation, I know the growth that I will experience as a person and a musician over the next four years will be incredible.

I guess you could say I'm "expecting" great things.

Broken Cell Phone

Anything can be turned into a method of torture.

Not a Wizard of Oz torture device either.  There's no hay tossing or dog-stealing or locking a completely helpless and useless character in a fully furnished room for 15 minutes while she goes about panicking and exhibiting her lack of intelligence and ability to be creative in her own dream.  What a protagonist.  The torture devices that I'm talking about are far worse than that.

Take anything in your room.  Let's see...broken phone.  And just turn whatever you've chosen into a person's name.  Adopt an orphan, and voila!  If you can tolerate the constant singing, obnoxiously red hair, and having to redo your laundry because someone keeps jumping in the bin, it's a one hundred percent way of effectively super-gluing a Kick Me! sign to little Annie's backside.

Before you go sending me to the nuthouse, several celebrities have already backed this plan.  It's already more sponsored than Paula Deen.  And are there some good ones: Apple, Blue Ivy, Blanket, and our most recent addition, North West.  I think Broken Cell Phone will just fit right in.  What's in a name? Just a water-damaged battery and a SIM card.

I'll give them credit, my parents did do a better job than Kanye West and Kim Kardashian.  (Don't be fooled by shouts in the hallways at school, my name isn't actually "Hey, Stupid!")  But, because I'm the ungrateful child that I am, I am inclined to point out the mistakes.

When my parents chose my name, they wanted something French that could be abbreviated.  The goal was to complement my French-Canadian heritage but give it a fun twist.  Business up front, party in the back.

Nikolette certainly can be abbreviated.  I've heard just about every way to abbreviate it: Nicky, Niki, Nicki, Nikke, Nycke (the last one was from Starbucks).  The only problem is, it's about as French as the fries.  Nicolette is French.  Nikolette is a Greek name.

It's a good Greek name too.  Back in elementary school during the "what does my name mean?" (and "why do I care?") project, Bobby would come in with his "bright fame" sunglasses and Stephanie would bring her princess tiara representing her name of "crown".  But, I would come in with a vast recreation of the battle of the 300 at Thermopylae. I'd be riding a stick horse and wearing a full suit of plastic armor, all the while skillfully fighting off the bad guys surrounding me.  Except in my version of the battle, the Spartans win.  Why? Because my name means "victory of the people".  Booyah.  Bring on your fame and crowns, I literally cannot lose.  To the victor go the spoils.

My middle name is much less confusing.  I guess you could say it's not all Greek for me.  It's Grace.  It's okay, you can laugh.  You aren't the only one.  My parents like to say that it's not a mistake they named me Grace.  After all, it's the only grace I have.  Yep, bring on the ridicule.

It's probably my their favorite joke against me just because of how often it comes into play.  Last Wednesday, I went to an indoor trampoline center with a few friends.  We quickly signed away our safety in a waiver and casually jumped around for a bit.  After awhile of watching six-year-olds jump circles around us, my friend and I decided that we should try to do a flip.  She eventually got it, but I was still having trouble.  I could flip all the way around, but I just couldn't stick the landing (that's the last time I ever make a snide comment about an Olympic gymnast).  Calling back my AP Physics knowledge, I thought that if I could complete the flip earlier, I could land on my feet.  I think I may have slept through that chapter.  On my next flip attempt, I over-rotated and landed smack on my nose.  I didn't realize there were that many vertebrae in my neck until I heard every one of them pop.  I rolled over, coming to understand the gigantic fool that I had just made of myself.  I did the only thing I could do: laugh with the pre-teens standing by in their Belieber shirts, marveling at my complete lack of coordination.  I don't think I ever got to introduce myself to them.  Although, I think that might have made it worse.  Nikolette Grace LaBonte.

So, here I sit.  My mother, the physical therapist, has finished poking and prodding my neck asking possibly the dumbest question known to man: "Does it hurt when I do this?"  Nope, your finger sticking halfway into my neck feels like heaven on earth, thanks for asking.  She's actually just run off to retrieve an electronic stimulation machine.  It shoots a "small" shock into your muscle.  She told me how it works, but I was busy worrying about the "small" electric shock.  I'll try to paraphrase: After the electricity has effectively microwaved the muscle and it has lost all sense of feeling, something will magically heal itself and then it's just peachy keen.  It sounds less and less like a deep tissue massage and much closer to Chinese water boarding for a strained neck.  Oh, no.  I think she's found it.  She's preparing the torture chamber.  I'm beginning to wish that she had just named me Broken Cell Phone.

Watermelon

My room is a hot mess.

It is just a plain old pigsty.  When company is over, I try to dress it up.  I see the poorly concealed looks of disgust (and a slight panic as to what sci-fi monster is hidden underneath all the clothes) and I create some excuse to set their hearts a little more at ease.

"Oh, I've been trying to get more in touch with my creative side, so I arranged the room according the Ancient Chinese art of Xīguā.  I just feel so much more in touch with the earth and nature, you know?"

I'll save you the trouble of looking it up.  Xīguā isn't some mystical medicine.  It means "watermelon" in Madarin.  I just copied it from the back of the fortune cookie that came with my Beef Lo Mein from last week (which may or may not still be in this room). 

In short, my room is what Sharknado was based on.

And so over the summer, I've been instructed to clean it.  Normally, I would wait until the last minute, but my mom has put me on a sort of mandatory time clock.  Don't worry, there's no electric shocks involved.  She just sends me a text at the beginning of the day with some easy things to do.  I just have to complete the three tasks by the end of the day.  If I don't finish, I don't get to eat for the rest of the week. 

I'M KIDDING! Please don't call Child Protective Services.  I need my parents to pay for my college tuition and they can't do that if they don't have custody of me anymore. 

Nevertheless, it's still difficult for me to get those daily texts accomplished.  I know a lot of people say that there's a satisfaction in cleaning.

"I just feel so productive and accomplished when I clean.  It's almost like hitting refresh on your inner free spirit."

Yeah, okay Snow White.  Why don't you and your happy-go-lucky animal pals come on over and whistle while you scrub my floors?  I just figured it'd be a great hobby for you since you enjoy it oh so much. 

I just flat out hate cleaning.  It's tedious, time-consuming, usually gets worse before it gets better, and, worst of all, it's vastly under-appreciated.  Something could always be improved.  Nothing can ever be right.  There's always a speck of dust or a stray pencil or an out of alphabetical order book.  Something.  I think Annie could come in and have my room shining "like the top of the Chrysler building" and someone would comment that it's not as pristine as the Bean sculpture found in Millenium Park. 

Quite honestly, I've come to the conclusion that cleaning is just a selfish art form.  You aren't helping anyone other than yourself and your own organizational issues.  It's certainly not the most productive use of your time.  And the goal is to mess it up anyway.  In order to take advantage of the organizational patterns that you've just created, you have to disrupt the whole system and ruin all of your hard work.  It's a Catch 22.  To be frank, you could honestly feel just as productive and accomplish more by donating a dollar to charity.  (The Save-the-Nikki-LaBonte Fund is currently accepting gifts of any amount.  With just five dollars you could help a starving teenager buy a Happy Meal.  I'll even send you a picture of me eating it if you want.)

I'm realizing now after rereading this post that I may be making my future college roommate very nervous and slightly afraid.  Mary, if you are reading this, I was totally kidding about the whole thing.  Haha.....pretty funny, right?  Oh, we will just have a good old laugh about this later.  Really, my room is as spotless as a dysfunctional twister board.

Maybe I'm not helping all that much.  In fact, I'm probably making it worse.  If I'm being honest, all I can really promise is to restrain the filth to my side of the room. 

I still have a lot to offer as a roommate.  I don't snore and I can sleep through a tidal wave (not sure if it's a good thing, but let's pretend).  Oh and I am also a certified instructor in the ancient art of Xīguā.

On second thought, I should probably just hope that you aren't reading this.

Broccoli

I've become the stereotypical high school graduate.

I don't think it happened overnight but I can't be sure. My family and friends probably noticed this fact far before I did and are probably having a good chuckle at this sudden realization that I'm having.  The whole situation is reminiscent of the piece of broccoli I had in between my teeth giving me the appearance of visiting the local college dental school for my orthodontic work.  

This high school graduate isn't exactly the worst thing to become.  There are far more taxing, embarrassing, and genuinely unpleasant things to experience:  taking out the trash in your pajamas, stepping in dog poop, or knowing all the lyrics to a High School Musical song that's stuck in your head.  No, my days are certainly not filled with reverberations of Zac Efron's voice.  And come to think of it, they aren't really filled with much of anything except for sleep and practicing.  

I think maybe the reason I'm so scared of this is because it goes against the 12 years of my life I've had thus far.  My memories of summer are similar to that of a haunted house.  You try to enjoy your time between surprise attacks but you always know that the ghost of procrastination past just waits right around the corner to give you a heart attack.  But that's all gone now.  This summer, it's like being home alone.  You are convinced that your ice-maker and air conditioning are serial killers and zombies, but then you remember that you aren't important enough to be murdered.  Pity.

Because my summer is no longer filled with assigned novels, I've discovered this wonderful habit of reading for pleasure.  (To those of you not forced to read Pride and Peace or War and Prejudice, I recommend The Alchemist by Coelho and The Interestings by Wolitzer).  And instead of being busy watching the movies corresponding to the assigned novels because I'd given up on force feeding myself literature, I've discovered one of my greatest and most loyal friends: Netflix.  I am having a side-affair with the movie theaters--please don't tell Netflix, he'd never forgive me.  It would appear though that my schedule is pretty vacant.

So, I wish desperately that I could give you a valid reason for this blog post being so late.  I wish I could tell you that it was because I was wrapped up in a tough calculus problem or that I just couldn't put the Catcher in the Rye down.   Really though, there's no good reason.  My days are only half-full (half full because I'm an optimist) and there is no logistical conflict that I had to prevent me from posting two days late.

But, I think this is a good thing.  Because this is how this blog will be.  Think of this site like a cream pie to the face.  It's random, a little humorous, though hopefully not too offensive.  It might leave you with some questions and maybe, if I'm lucky, it'll have a nice aftertaste.  When it hits you, you might mistakenly think that there is something of substance in it, but it's probably just fluff.

I can't make any promises about this blog because I've already broken the first one.  There won't be a schedule for posts.  The posts won't be about anything in particular.  I can't even promise that it will be that interesting.  I'm sure there are better cream pies out there but this is the only kind my poor culinary skills can throw together.

I'm only a high school graduate.  You can't expect much.  

Just be thankful I don't have broccoli in my teeth at the moment.

Welcome.

Don't worry, there'll be a formal update tomorrow about what this blog is and is about and such.  Sorry for my human need for sleep.

-Nikki