Ryansbündler

Prompt Courtesy of Stephen Drury: "So Orpheus and Prometheus walk into a bar..."

2011-01-21T20:55:00.000-08:00

and Orpheus says, "man, this place is a hell hole." To which Prometheus replies, "no doubt, but liver die, I'm getting laid tonight. Dude, check out that hot chick in the corner. She is on FIRE!"

"Well, go talk to her, but don't Titan up like you did last time!"

"I didn't Titan up!," Prometheus retorted passionately. "You're such a lyre!"

Orpheus peered over his shoulder at Prometheus with a look of self-assurance and said, "Yeah, well, I'm a guy who Styx to a plan."

"Sure... Now watch this! Hey babe, I'd carry the world on my shoulders for you."

The evening was a Hadeous failure.

Political Hate-Slogans Explained! (At least to myself)

2009-10-31T00:36:00.000-07:00

I was on the MetroRapid 754 from USC to Wilshire/Vermont and I was bored, so I automatically started inventing puns. All that came to mind were puns in the style of those hateful political slogans and mockery-names you see around election time ("NObama" and "The Goreinch Who Stole the Election", for example). The few I can remember are, "Between Barack and a hard place", "McPain 2008: ImPalin America", "O-blah-ma", "McCain and Able, 2008", "Go-bomb-a yourself", "Parah Sailin'." These are bad, even just as puns, but as I often feel when a pun pops up in my mind there is a certain satisfaction in the sensation of its creation, and it's likely the people who actually come up with such slogans may just invent them for the sheer pleasure of invention rather than to contribute to the general din of rally noise.

Anyway, as it turns out, a quick internet search shows that all these puns have been previously thought up, except the one about bombs which in truth is actually my worst. It just goes to show that someone out there really spends way too much time examining a candidate's name, teasing its sounds in the mouth a hundred times over and replacing every letter with another until these useless slogans become war-cries for a battle that everyone will have forgotten about within a couple of months. Perhaps I should find another way to entertain myself on the bus.

Day Three in Bulgaria

2009-05-22T02:47:00.001-07:00

I'm in Bulgaria to perform a chamber concert hosted by the local radio station Classic FM Sofia. The violinist in our trio, Maxim Eshkenazy, a Bulgarian conductor clearly well-recognized in this city, was the one who set up the concert, and the radio station has billeted myself and the cellist, Diego Miralles, at a very, very fancy hotel near the airport. The hotel apparently won some award for its design, which is very attractive in an elegant modern sort of way, and I have this enormous room all to myself, complete with large bed meant for two, this free internet connection, complimentary mini-bar, and a very high-quality breakfast paid for by the radio station. We aren't expecting to be paid much for the concert, but this hotel, not to mention the personal chauffeur (his name is pronounced "Saidso", which of course gives me way too much fodder for my already stupid puns) provided for us by the radio, will make up for whatever we may have lost in traveling here.

Yesterday we spent the day rehearsing and giving radio interviews. Our rehearsals took place at the school of music, a community school (much like Colburn School or Juilliard pre-college) that is constantly teeming with kids ranging 5 to 18 years old. The school's facilities are very run-down. Like many of the buildings in Sofia, there is a very clear reminiscence of Soviet days. Most buildings appear pre-fabricated, like big concrete blocks, all the wiring and plumbing exposed on the outside, and it doesn't look like anyone has replaced floor tiles or repainted the walls since the 80s. The school of music is a little bit of a mess. There is graffiti and writing all over the walls and one of the bathroom's toilets had been completely blown to bits, something I would only expect to find in one of those infamous inner-city schools in Los Angeles. The pianos we got to use, all Bluethners and Yamahas, were in terrible condition, and the ivories had been played so much for so many years that they resembled the foot-worn staircases of ancient cathedrals. But we made due as best as we could.

The radio interviews (on Classic FM Sofia and Radio France International) were fun, even if a little awkward. Most people here speak a little English, but very few of them speak it well enough to actually converse, so Maxim served as our translator on the radio interviews, something he's not accustomed to doing or seems very interested in continuing. Today we were asked to appear on Bulgarian national television (channel 2, I think) to speak about the concert and our trio with a woman named Rosta Slava, the station's "culture anchor". During the car ride to LAX, Maxim's girlfriend Georgia told me about a tabloid story that claimed Maxim and Rosta Slava had been in a relationship, but she (Rosta Slava) was cheating on Maxim with his cousin. Big gossip in Bulgaria, apparently, but Georgia made a point to clarify that Maxim hadn't denied the story when it first came out. Though Maxim spent the rest of the car ride (and most of this trip so far) doing just that, I'm sure it will have minimal effect.

Not many pianos here, so not much practice time for me. As I say this, I can hear Diego practicing in the adjacent room and I'm starting to get antsy about the concert tonight. We're also not sure yet if Classic FM will cover our hotel costs after we play the concert, though I guess we'll find out soon.

The city is surrounded by mountains and is actually situated in a very wide valley. The mountains are beautiful and I can see them from my hotel room, their tops still coated with a little leftover snow. It is rather warm, in the upper 20s and even 30s (Celsius), and a little bit dry. That coupled with the flowering trees and freshly cut grass has been mild torture for my mild allergies, plus everyone smokes, something we Californians don't tend to cope with well.

Bulgaria is an interesting place. The people are very generous and laid back, and perhaps a little bit aloof. To generalize somewhat, the men are usually stocky and clean-cut. I've not seen a single guy with hair much longer than one or two inches. Many of the women look like they're straight out of the OC, and they are usually dressed to kill. That's one obvious Russian influence, among many others. I'm slowly learning little bits of Bulgarian here and there, though whenever I try to use it I either don't speak up enough to be heard or I just sound bad, because no one ever even acknowledges the effort. I've still time to improve.

That's all I can think of for now. I'll try to write again after the concert. I wish this hotel weren't so far away from the city center. There is really nothing to do out here except blog my opinions about a country I've not had much opportunity to explore, but hopefully that will change after the concert is over.

Commencement speech for the Colburn School Graduating Class of 2009

2009-05-12T10:43:00.000-07:00

Many thanks to the faculty, staff and administration for inviting me to speak today. I also want to extend to them the very warmest appreciation for all the work they've put into developing this school. Unless you live and work here, it may be hard to understand how that this tight community is a very unique and potentially problematic ecosystem, and since I've been here they have worked tirelessly to fine tune the balances that make this place both a livable and productive environment for us. Many, many thanks to them for their hard work and great accomplishments. They have a difficult job and I don't envy them.

Let me say first that everything I am going to speak about now is meant as words of advice for myself, were I given the opportunity to time shift back four years and meet 18-year-old Ryan. I can't possibly hope to speak on behalf of everyone, and I don't mean to come across as preachy.

Colburn is unique on many levels, but what stands out most to me is that because this community is so small, so intimate and there are so few of us, there is very little feeling of competition between students and therefore more space for us to spread our wings. In addition, I really feel that the emphasis on artistry and musicianship is high, evident especially in the faculty's insistence on a heavy chamber music component. Like I said, don't let me speak on behalf of everyone, but I think all of this allows each person's musical individuality to develop in its own direction. There are many very unique artists at this school.

That being said, our bubble does not isolate us from everything, and it wasn't really until I came here that I had to confront head-on the issue of musical disillusionment as a result of external, non-musical forces. It is because of this I would have offered the following advice to myself:

Throughout our lives, each of us will receive countless accolades and rejections from competitions, orchestra auditions, graduate school applications, or simultaneously the highest praise and sharpest scorn from people who deliver their opinions with a menacingly compelling conviction; but so long as we are able to trust our own artistic intuition and give it the freedom to lead us in whatever direction it seems magnetically drawn, I think it would be very hard for us not to feel satisfied with our work no matter what the superfluous noise has to say. And unfortunately I am starting to realize that there is no such thing as a superfluous noise deficit.

I find that a person's music-making is very revealingly and somewhat disturbingly honest about his attitude towards his art. If I only feel 50% convinced with what I'm playing, whether it's on account of the piece or the interpretation or some other reason, then there is no way a listener can feel any more than 50% convinced of what he or she is hearing. This idea of unconscious communication is something I learned from my mom who is an Anesthesiologist. Because of the nature of her job, she is responsible for interviewing patients about their personal histories, essential information if you are supposed to keep someone unconscious for several hours without harming them. She use to tell me that she knew exactly how the patient felt during the preliminary interview--nervous, secretive, neurotic, honest, concealing, comfortable, etc--because she would realize she had taken on that mood herself.

The last piece of advice I would offer myself is that patience is essential. During school breaks I return home to Arcata, California, close to the border with Oregon, an area known for its Redwood forests. A couple of years ago I was walking to the university for a lesson with my old teacher and I walked past the stump of a freshly cut Redwood tree. They have a great earthy smell and that sort of alluring red color, and I couldn't resist stopping for a moment to count its many rings. At the center of the stump, the tree's growth appears at its greatest since from that point outward the distance between rings decreases. What I had never realized before is that with every passing year the tree's circumference increases, thus increasing the surface area that same amount growth has to cover. In this same way, at a certain point growth as an artist can seem slow and still like a doldrums, and bumpy (disrupted by forest fires and draughts, so to speak), but the growth is always present. Impatience only seems to yield cheap tricks; important tools in their own right, perhaps, but usually only temporary solutions. Screwdrivers are not meant to drive nails, even if they can, if you know what I mean.

I'd like to conclude by reading a short passage from one of German poet Rainer Maria Rilke's Ten Letters to a Young Poet:

"Being an artist means: not numbering and counting, but ripening like a tree, which doesn't force its sap, and stands confidently in the storms of spring, not afraid that afterward summer may not come. It does come. But it comes only to those who are patient, who are there as if eternity lay before them, so unconcernedly silent and vast. I learn it every day of my life, learn it with pain I am grateful for: patience is everything! "

Thanks again to everyone in this hall for a very interesting and life-changing four years, and the best of luck to all of you, my graduating and ever-ripening friends.

A Boring Post About Piano Technique

2008-12-15T11:02:00.000-08:00

Sixteen years of playing the piano, three full years of which were spent at the great Colburn Conservatory, and I never played a Mozart sonata until this semester. Should I feel guilty? Maybe not yet, but I do feel like I have been missing out on something truly beautiful. With the exception of Beethoven, I have avoided Classical-era music for as long as I can remember and have always regarded it as the brusselsprout of Art music repertoire. Mozart seemed pretty, and Haydn occassionally silly, but only when I heard them on the radio or at a concert, perhaps programmed next to some other piece of greater interest to me. My previous teacher had tried encouraging me to play a Mozart sonata during my first year with her, but I managed to procrastinate it off my to-do list and she only ever heard me play the last movement of a Mozart concerto. Years later she would finally hear me play Haydn, but only after two years with Mr. Perry had guilted me into conceding that Classical music might actually be worth studying. Now, finally, I may understand what it is that everyone seems to love about this music, and maybe also why I have been avoiding it.

Much of my dislike for Classical music may have to do with my technique. I am 6’1” and somewhat gangly, and so my arms and fingers are very long. I can comfortably reach the span of eleven notes and I can achieve a big sound without working too hard. But therein lies a problem. My long limbs and fingers are somewhat like heavy rowing oars, and in this case I am trying to use them with the precision needed in fencing. Like a lance, I can make very large gestures and hit objects at high speeds, but when it comes to very fine control on a small scale, I simply do not yet have the coordination. During my first year with Mr. Perry, he acknowkedged the benefits of my large hands, and also told me that I would have to work extra hard to strengthen them. Another observation he continued to make was that I always produce a “thick” sound, even when a “fine salted broth” sort of sound would have been more appropriate. He said this results from pushing into the keys. Weight and strength “dirty” a pianist’s sound, and the resulting microscopic change in the way the hammer strikes the string causes more wild overtones to pour out of the piano like gamma-rays. Every pitch starts to sound like a heavily orchestrated chord, and this sound is very appropriate for Russian romantic piano concertos and much 20th century music (not surprisingly, the two styles I seem to play best), but certainly not for the transparency of Mozart and even Beethoven.

Technique is often referred to as the “anti-Music”, but this recent venture into the world of Classical music has taught me otherwise. Changing my technique to something more Classically appropriate has changed the way I interpret the music itself. Every tiny subtlety changes the emotional impact of the music (in this case, wrong notes start to cross into the realm of somewhat-unforgivable), and so I need to be in a state where I can be aware of these small changes. When the skin itches, you scratch it. This is not because scratching your skin eliminates the itch, but it overloads your nervous system so that your brain can no longer detect the itch in the midst of so much activity. This is the same with playing piano. If I want to be physically aware of the sensation at my fingertips so that I can control exactly how I am touching the keys, then I need to deactivate everything above my wrists and play mostly with my fingers. What often happens, though, is that my arms figure that if they are not needed, they should go stiff, and that is no better than just using them outright. But if I can make it work, this also helps to eliminate the "thickness" that comes from playing from my arm muscles and I am not left physically exhausted by the end of a performance.

What I have learned in playing more classical music is that often the most beautiful moments are less exclamations than allusions. These moments can be a small wink, a slight of hand, or a brief seductive smile, and in every case they add a tremendous depth because they appear quietly and infrequently in the midst of such simplicity. This perspective could actually be extremely useful in any other music, which is probably why, consciously or unconsciously, so many teachers of any instrument like to start their students off with a large helping of classical repertoire. I am a little disappointed not to have realized this until now, but I am at least comforted to know that I honestly love and appreciate Classical music, rather than hating it for being that "thing" my piano teachers made me play.

Reflections on an Old Video

2008-11-05T18:44:00.000-08:00

Watching this video, I am most interested in how my concept of musical intensity has changed since this 2005 performance. At the time, keeping in stride with what should be expected from a young man of seventeen, I must have seen musical intensity as measured in volume of energy--more, less, louder, softer, faster, slower. My tempi fluctuate constantly and every entrance of every new musical character is illuminated with a limelight ever more brilliant and dramatic than the last. This upward climb eventually peaks and even though I’m left with few musical options, I keep pushing, and the sound begins to splash wildly like an irritated sea monster. Even so, there is enough of a conviction and enthusiasm for my own ideas that while listening to it now, the performance still works for me. I cannot remember why the beginning is missing, though I seem to remember my mother complaining about how the camera would not start recording.

I have since started to work on musical intensity as a very subtle magic, and it can be created by doing very little. One example is the last movement of Chopin’s 3rd piano sonata, a very volatile rondo that is often played too fast. Following a very symphonic introduction, a constant rumble of eighth notes continues almost without interruption to the very end of the piece. Chopin marks agitato, but this is the sort of agitation that comes from a deep feeling of suspense. The rhythm must be held steady-as-she-goes, or the performance risks capsizing in what can seem like a sea of noise. Excitement is more exciting than near-death, which is only scary; it’s no fun riding on a roller coaster that has been known to kill its passengers. If the rhythm is held, the intensity is not so much in the performance as in the audience’s perception. The best horror films, for example, rely more on the audience’s imagination than on raw gore. Most new horror films rely on an orgy of computer graphics animation to shock their audiences, and so the suspense is not in “what will happen next?” as much as “how much longer do I have to watch this?”. This sort of self-flagellation only makes sense as a religious mandate, but even then...

Nightmares about nightmares

2008-06-08T05:11:00.000-07:00

I don't have nightmares very often, and when I do they always feel like the classic estranged relative who arrives to collect a free dinner. Nightmares are always disturbing, but this one in particular took me in a rather hard way, mostly for the train of thought it inspired upon waking.

The worst part of a nightmare is the "bad trip" element. The body's warning systems buzz the mind awake, yet somehow the nightmare's undeniable presence is more comforting than to sit empty and alone in a place that no longer seems safe. Unfortunately, this dream preys on every possible discomfort in the room: the nightmare takes place at my grandparents' house, where I happen to be sleeping; and the "evil being" is an ailing grandfather clock a room and a hallway behind me, which moments after I wake chimes a quarter past five. It seems that clocks are my mind's current and only concern, and they are suddenly multiplying all around me.

The dream itself is very straight forward: this grandfather clock simply puts everyone in a bad mood, in particular the cat who can't decide whether she more enjoys cussing or making gashes in our faces. The insults are most frightening because somehow I know the cat's words are being channeled from the clock. In retrospect, the clock must have a very witty sense of humor because the cat's favorite insult is "you sons of bitches".

Maybe nightmares are diagnostic tests of our imagination, specifically the parts that can invent fear. Most people have had enough social training to know what is "nice" and what is not, but a normal person has probably also caused harm to someone else at least once, perhaps intentionally or by accident, out of spite or in misunderstanding. As I lie awake and frightened, it seems so clear to me that every single person has the power to be unbelievably cruel, and nightmares are a taste of our own bad medicine. This taste is far too familiar to me to have been experienced only in my sleep, and a sweeping self-doubt plagues me for the rest of the day.

On Learning and Experience

2007-11-14T16:32:00.001-08:00

I feel the urge to practice right now. I am unable to think of anything else. The feeling is irrational and compulsive, and it visits my consciousness as unpredictably as a crack addict relative fishing for money. Kerouac describes the development of a writer as requiring the obsession of a cheap dope fiend, never quite satisfied with his fix and always looking for ways to get more. I have an important concert in two and half weeks and the Beethoven concerto I will play is known as one of the most difficult works in the piano literature. I feel every corner of my body itching at me to go practice.

My mother started teaching me the piano when I was five-and-a-half, and she expected nothing more than for me to have had the same experience that she did as a young girl. She directed me to middle C, had me play simple five finger pieces from a book that she used at that age, and helped me coordinate by placing my small hands on top of hers to shadow her finger movements. I did not express any overwhelming interest--as is to be expected from most five-year-olds with an airplane fancy--and simply squeaked by in my lessons, never really practicing but never being admonished for poor work. My family was always surprised that I survived my teachers’ public studio recitals without major catastrophe, even being complimented for this or that expressiveness or technique or whatever. I did not care. I wanted to be a pilot.

All this changed. The mind is amazing when it genuinely wants to learn. When I was 11, my best friend’s grandmother was at her piano, demonstrating passages from a Rachmaninoff Prelude she wanted to learn. There was some quality in the music that captured me, a heaviness in the harmonies that engulfed my ears like winter, or piles of heavy blankets. I have always liked heaviness, either in sound or in feeling, perhaps reflecting my infancy in cold northern Massachusetts. This piece of music was something special and I had to learn it. I performed the Rachmaninoff very soon afterwards and began reading through piles of music for hours at a time, even beginning to compose my own. Like young lovers, falling into music happened without question or fear of consequence, and having this world revealed to me felt as normal as being informed that shoes will protect your feet from snow. These are optimal conditions for learning quickly and cogently, and from that point forward music became an all-encompassing part of life.

In the 19th century there were only a handful of prodigious classical musicians, all of them from or trained in Europe. Concerts occurred much less frequently and mostly in the large urban centers, and with the industrial revolution spreading pianos to all parts of the Western world, rich amateur musicians could hear music by playing it for themselves. Today with the Internet and the easy discrimination of recording technology, there are more young prodigies than ever in history, most of them with enough technical skill to play music that was once considered impossible. Children are not suddenly more talented than they were before, they are simply being exposed to information and experiences that were not previously available.

I had a conversation with my music theory teacher in which we discussed learning as it relates to aging. His analogy was that our minds are like a window and information flows in like a fresh breeze; With age the window gradually closes and our capacity to learn diminishes. It is said that older minds have more trouble learning a new language because they compare principles of the new language to their native tongue. This clogs the process with complicated translations that only reinforce the foreignness of these new concepts. It seems to me that as we learn, the window is not being closed so much as new information is being packed in around the edges. Further information must be squeezed through tight cracks or arranged in some way that will make it fit like an oddball jigsaw piece. Prejudices grow rampantly because new ideas will only be accepted if they fit logically with what already makes sense.

For me, practicing now is far more conscious an effort than it ever was. I am more dreadfully aware of deadlines and competition dates and weekly lessons and performance class and every other yardstick that actively measures and rates my playing every time I sit at the keyboard. Music is far more difficult to learn now than it was before--what I could have learned in two weeks takes well over a month or two before I’ll even consider playing it for my mentor. Of course my standards have gone up, my playing has a much greater scope than it did when I was 15 and I take much more care in managing details, but I never felt that music would be something from which I needed to take refuge. It is the self-conscious striving that overemphasizes the process of learning than the experience itself, and this seems to be what makes my art so much more difficult now. Whether or not I like it, the big change I notice now at this stage in life is a greater attention to material concerns. A car, an insurance policy, health care, taxes, credit cards and career all come to mind, and they were never of the slightest concern before. A person’s music is always a reflection of his or her life, and if that life has suddenly taken a turn for something more material-oriented, then material concerns will clearly permeate the performance.

If at all possible, I need to be sure that the pressures of being alive do not suck the magic out of a very important personal fascination. I have already seen that happen to some of my peers. We must always be careful not to manage our passions so that they are kept from growing naturally and at their own healthy pace.

On that note, I need to go practice.

Richard

2007-11-06T20:57:00.000-08:00

It is ironic how at times too much closeness can tear a relationship apart, while conversely the threat of lost opportunity can mend an estranged connection. My great uncle Richard was dying when I returned home at this time last year. His passing was not unexpected. By the time I arrived home for Thanksgiving, Richard was in a care home, unable to speak or even move, and the five of us in his immediate family circle were coated daily with the heaviness of his impending departure.

Soon after I arrived, my mom asked my brother and I if we were willing to visit Richard at the care home. A friend of mine from school was visiting and he graciously offered to come along for moral support. The care home was an antiseptic, federal-looking building, one floor only and with a beautiful view of Humboldt bay and the ocean beyond, but only from the parking lot. From inside the building the view was obstructed by a tall hedge at the limits of the property. The center’s deteriorating residents scraped their way through the hallways, casting inquisitive, surprised expressions towards my mom and us three boys as we walked reverently towards my uncle’s room. Once in Richard’s room, we saw that he had trouble moving, could say little more than single syllables at a time, and stared at us desperately when we did not understand what he wanted. Unable to reach the nurses’ call button, he was trapped by himself in this small, cold room, kept company only by the hedge and whatever memories he still remembered. He recovered some coherence with our presence, offerings of water (which he had been craving desperately, as he tried to explain to us) and cookies that we had made the night before. We were with him for an hour before we had to leave, and upon our departure he shook my hand, the first time I ever remembered him touching me expressively, and with more firmness than I expected from his condition. Two days later, my friend and I were talking when my mom informed me that Richard had died. Clearly he had been waiting for us to visit.

Richard was never really a significant part of my life. He had a more iconic place in my upbringing, “the Uncle” who came up more in conversation than he did to dinner, even though for much of my childhood he lived only two blocks down the street. He had been slowly deteriorating as I grew up, rarely leaving his little apartment and only opening the door when my grandmother visited to bring him food. Sometimes he drove his old, moss-covered, rusting Chrysler sedan to eat dinner with us at my grandparents’, and even to see my concerts when I was young, but most of my memories are of him in his home.

We would often take him a dinner, always at Thanksgiving, and our visits were typically long and slow. His apartment was musty with the smell of age and decades gone by almost unnoticed. My brother and I would always down handfuls of lemon drops from a Japanese rice cup perpetually stocked with these sour candies--I never saw Richard take one for himself. His rooms were filled with small items he had acquired over his life, most of them display pieces, and he spent most of his time organizing large collections of CDs and antique stamps. He was awake most of the night, usually until 4 am, and we would often walk by his house in the morning and comment on how he was probably just going to sleep. I later found out that his late bedtime was due to a fear of dying during the night.

He hated to be dependent on anyone. He had spent most of his life a fiercely independent bachelor, never had any kids or even a serious partner, and in younger days as an aeronautical engineer he traveled frequently from LA to Tijuana to drink and party with friends. The last five years of his life, however, were completely dependent on the benevolence of my grandmother, his sister, who brought him groceries every single day. He would usually shower her with degrading remarks or tell her that what she had gotten was not good, not the right brand, or not enough, and was hardly ever appreciative of this 85-year old woman’s selfless generosity. She never stopped providing for him, despite my grandfather’s complaints, and visited him as frequently even when the caring home was taking care of his needs.

I have not lost many friends or relatives, but upon hearing that Richard had died I had this uncontrollable urge to smile, not out of happiness, but because the sensation was too new and jarring and my body did not know how else to react. I feel a stinging guilt from this reaction, despite constant inward reminders that it was only a nervous twitch, but I feel like I could have known him better. While traveling a few weeks ago I encountered a TSA agent who made a tremendous effort to try uplifting the passengers who passed through his security checkpoint. He asked them how they were, complimented their clothing, carried their bags to the tray racks, patted them on the back, and was kind and funny with everyone he could catch. I cannot say how long he was there or how long he had been working this way, but it helped me, and I complimented him on it.

“You get back what you put out,” he said, ”and that’s the truth! You have a great day now, ya hear?”

I cannot help but feel that Richard’s fear of a nighttime death put him the very isolation he was trying to avoid. I am not necessarily referring to the precise moment his body ceased to function. Everyone in his family had gotten to see him, his sister left him only two hours before, and at his death he was kept company by a half dozen nurses who held his hands and let him slip away peacefully. But his death had begun many years before this moment, and though due partly to his age and physical condition, I see much of his seclusion as self-inflicted. My grandparents are both in their upper 80’s and never did they show any waning interest in their lives, especially in reference to seeing that my brother and I grew up as healthy and well-balanced individuals. Every person is different, of course, and I am certain that much of Richard’s seclusion was for reasons I will never know, but I am deeply moved by the security agent and his words. Much like in music, an attentive listener can pick up on a performer’s attitude towards his or her art, amplified in the large scale by years of practice and reinforcement. Richard’s situation seems to have proved a point, not at all that he died in vain, but that there are many more ways to live than we often allow ourselves to see.

We all die young (or "A young person makes ignorant assertions outside his realm of understanding")

2007-10-09T13:13:00.000-07:00

I don't have much to complain about. In fact, I try not to complain at all by keeping in mind that a complaint may be the result of my own misunderstanding of a subject. This essay is somewhat a complaint about complaining, only a very specific variety. Acknowledgment for my inspiration goes to Dorothy Parker's "Middle or Blue Period".

"Oh my God, I'm so old."

I can't describe it. I don't know why this quotation so bothers me. It has to be one of the 10 most repeated phrases in the 18-upward age group, and even younger people succumb to its influence. It's gotten to me! I caught myself checking the hair density of my scalp in the mirror this morning, quietly obsessing over whether I was turning white or bald or thin or whatever subconscious concern had me picking through each follicle. When I first began to hear the old-ness declaration from my companions, it seemed like a joke, someone's idea of stating the obvious as a sense of humor. "I'm growing old" = "I'm wearing clothing", etc. Well, obviously everyone has the same sense of humor, because I'm hearing it more times than I can laugh at it.

What does it mean? "I'm no good anymore"? With every year I learn new information, feel wiser and better equipped to be alive, more experienced and more generous. People are built like skyscrapers. The first dozen floors are a tantalizing experience. They are new and incredible and unique and quickly constructed in the context of the whole. At a certain point, the construction process seems to slow down. In psychology, Weber's law states that a just noticeable difference is in constant proportion to the intensity of an initial stimulus. In other words, as you keep turning up the volume, the volume must increase at a faster and faster rate if the ear is to make note of any change. My previous residence was on the 20th floor of an apartment complex in downtown Los Angeles, and on a clear day I could see all of East LA up to the bordering mountains. Now on the 10th floor of my school's dormitory and facing the same direction, most of what I can see is an aging persons' home across the street. One major difference between the young and the old is that the former absorbs an experience simply for what it is (closer to the Earth, to detail), and the latter compares to what it already knows (perspective, altitude). Is an old mind incapable of learning and experiencing the same as a young mind? Of course it would vary from one individual to another, but if you're sick of your view, hop in the elevator and go for a stroll on the sidewalk.

Maybe I'll understand this better as I collect years, but for the time being I am excited to live and see no reason why it has to stop, out of courtesy for being 35 or 50 or bald or whatever it is that makes some people write seething essays about aging.

More Listening

2007-10-09T10:50:00.000-07:00

Speaking of sounds, I set my radio alarm to wake me up at 6am. Once I realized it was 6:28, the radio was making frighteningly hideous noises. It was either Wagner or John Philip Sousa, cross fed with country music and coated with a thick layer of static. Felt like I had bitten into a sonic porcupine.

With Eyes Closed

2007-10-08T23:42:00.001-07:00

I was excited by an enlightening experiment this evening.

The practice rooms at my school, the Colburn music conservatory, are distributed across the second through the fifth floors of our new housing complex. None of these floors are isolated from each other and on each floor's east side is a cavernous, pit-like gap between the end of the carpet (there's a railing, of course) and the building's Eastern-facing glass wall. This space is five stories deep. There is a monstrous staircase that consumes only half the area of this massive cavity, and the staircase is flush with an inner extension of the building's terracotta outer wall. Segmented into large blocks, the orange terracotta makes a hollow, tonic "BONK" that resonates openly throughout the cavern, and each block has its own sound.

I am surrounded by sound. The practice room doors are notoriously heavy and the rooms are advertised as soundproof, but stepping out onto the staircase one can hear the egalitarian mesh of a dozen different sounds--a clarinetist playing Weber, a violinist practicing Brahms, a pianist beating away at Prokofiev, my knuckles on the terracotta wall, the Mexican janitors vacuuming the fifth floor, and a security guard complaining about his line of work.

What if this was all I had? The Western world is very visual-centric. Even our concept of sound and music is based on our concept of sight. Musical phrases have "line", harmonies are "vertical", the experience of a musical event is always "horizontal", as is the same with our concept of time. If I'm not mistaken, societies that aren't as deeply entrenched in visual symbology refer to the progression of life as being a sort of constant present, without beginning or end or linear organization. So I pretended to be blind for half an hour. It was easy at first and my strong visual memory still had a clear concept of the hallway and the distance from my practice room to the common area, but it wasn't long before my mind became disoriented. My hand touched the opposing wall a little bit too soon, or too late, I misjudged the staircase (navigating staircases with eyes closed: reason no. 205 why I'm an idiot), and of course I cheated to give a quick reminder of my surroundings, but my mind was utterly clueless when forced to rely only on the tactile senses.

I scuffed back to my practice room, fumbled with the smooth metal keypad several times, entered the pitch black room (my eyes were now beginning to see glimmering shades of dark blue and purple) and slumped down in my chair at the piano. Playing without any sort of visual aid is a liberating experience. Unable to rely on the alternating black-white pattern of the keyboard, each sound must be remembered simply for what it is: a physical sensation, a distance between the fingers, a "sound-object" that is experienced the same way one would test a piece of fruit at the grocery store.

Sound is easily neglected and I never cease to be fascinated by the orchestration of my surroundings, but only if I'm paying attention.

Imperfect

2006-11-20T09:40:00.000-08:00

It is an often involuntarily decision to judge a person's worth by their imperfections, but one's perfections are sometimes a closely accompanied or even direct result of those imperfections. That which is imperfect about another human being is often only a quality that inhibits our own self-perceived strengths, and because we do not feel our best we automatically assume that something must be wrong with the other person. No blame can be attributed for our perceptions, however, because we do not always see ourselves - just because we run the clock tower gears doesn't mean we know the time - but no one can argue with someone who chooses to see preferentially that which is most beautiful in each human being.

My First-Cast Vote

2006-11-07T21:36:00.000-08:00

I voted today. It was great. I filled out my absentee ballot with pride, circling each oval meticulously so that every little bit of space was filled completely. I put the ballot in my absentee envelope, only to realize a few moments later that I could not find the grey sheath into which the ballet was supposed to be inserted. It was found, I placed the ballot into the sheath and sealed the envelope, walked it to the polling place several blocks from where I live and proudly handed my envelope to the election volunteer. I returned home with my proud little sticker very proudly displayed on my shirt, and when I sat down at my computer to share my pride with all those who would be at all interested, I noticed the corner of a pink slip of paper that read "ballot receipt". This was the top of a larger rectangular sheet of pink paper with a dozen or so meticulously colored ovals, all neatly located inside a gray sheath. Not so proud anymore, I walked back to the polling place and sheepishly informed the volunteer of my idiocy. Knowing full well that the ballot box was locked, the volunteer offered to slip my ballot in anyway.

How very polite of him.

Mistakes

2006-10-15T00:09:00.000-07:00

The greatest mistake I could ever make is to make the same mistake twice. If I'm not going to make an effort to keep mistakes from repeating themselves, then I might as well save myself the self-flagellation routine and take pride in my actions, no matter how stupid.

Honesty

2006-09-07T10:35:00.000-07:00

Honesty, even the most brutal, must always be reciprocated with a near equal contribution. We are all lost in the same fairy-tale forest, and if I call out my position in the pitch black and receive no reply, I have no way to differentiate where my friend stands or my predator lurks. Constant introversion can only go so deep and last so long; solitude as a defense is too easy to be rewarding.

Memory

2006-09-07T10:31:00.000-07:00

Memory as its own entity is entirely useless. If somehow I could be certain I'm open enough to allow each life experience in every moment of time to change and contribute to my humanity, I would be willing to allow even the few remaining memories I still hold dear to my heart to slip through the holes in the fabric of my mind.

Hiding

2006-09-07T10:29:00.000-07:00

Hiding in the great wide open:
I don't (not) want to be seen;
I don't (not) want attention;
I don't (not) want any problems;
I don't (not) want to be hurtful;
I want to be perfect.

But I (don't) know I'm not.

My Soul

2006-09-06T19:41:00.000-07:00

My soul cracked one night. Wandering the cold avenues of my mind, he committed his will against the solitude of consciousness and decided to capture the attention of the sun.

My soul stripped off the thick woolen clothing that had protected him from countless blizzards (and simultaneously scratched at his skin).

The sun did not appear.

My soul untied the heavy rubber boots that had protected his feet from glass and snow (and weighed down his legs like blocks of concrete).

The sun did not appear.

My soul cut off the long, aged hair that had protected his skull from cold winds (and incited so many wasted hours of demented self-absorption).

The sun did not appear.

My soul tore out his voice, the medium by which he had tried to express love in so many other ways (though lately it had been babbling senselessly to an imaginary pair of ears).

The sun did appear, but only through the cold reflections of the moon.

For my soul this was good enough, though only until the moon hid itself behind a blanket of clouds. Now speechless and cold, my soul wished for nothing more than to take back the pain he had so uselessly self-imposed.

Or for the sun to make an appearance.

Marketing of Food: To be Fit or to Profit

2005-04-25T12:58:00.000-07:00

There is simply no malady for which we do not either have an effective cure or a research endowment dedicated to the development of one. The United States has become one of the best well kept societies on the planet, touting more advanced medical technologies and practices of any country. Why then, with all this knowledge, does the United States consist of one of the unhealthiest populations on the planet?

From a popular standpoint, we are a society obsessed with appearance. Much like the 19th century's obsession with Greek physique, we too have our ideals. The chiseled lines, the flawless face, the voluptuous chest and the rippling abdomen are all idols in our sexed-out temple of physical perfection. But is that the reality? When I stick my nose out the window and check the incoming weather front, I do not see crowds in the shape of Angelina Jolie, Harrison Ford, Zeus, or Athena. The shapes I see are like the sperm whale around which I could not maneuver at the supermarket, or the basking shark that could hardly fit through the door of its already too large SUV.

While the ultimate goals of these two eras of society may be similar, the means of execution are very different. In the 19th century, someone with the initiative to acquire that Zeus-like figure used exercise (in most cases) as the primary method of jiggle-reduction. Methodologies for weight-loss are far more diverse today. While regular exercise is still a popular path to body sculpting, it is clearly not popular enough for a population in which increasing numbers of people (according to the Frontline TV presentation "Fat", a nearly 370% increase since 1970) are being ranked as at least overweight, if not obese. In many cases, including medications and even such procedures as liposuction, gastric stapling and gastric bypass surgeries are pursued as weight-loss solutions.

Why is everyone so unhealthy? Where did all this extra skin and Paul Bunion waist sizes come from? Or at the other extreme lack of skin and stick figure physique? Not to mention all the diseases and disorders associated with these extremes in body mass. In need of an answer, food is generally identified as the culprit in this epidemic of unhealthiness, but the rabbit hole extends much further and in many more directions than so simple an answer.

Food consumption is not as bad an activity as often demonized by popular belief. The preparation, distribution and consumption of food is an integral part of every culture. Anyone who has been to a traditional Italian family dinner can safely say that the event is not just about nourishment. From personal experience, no matter how many times you "basta" your host, serving after serving and glass after glass will be almost forced upon you for many hours at a time to the point of complete and utter exhaustion. Food plays an important roll all over Europe and other regions of the world, yet why do they not have the same extent of health problems we do?

Humans do not become fat simply because of genetics or big bones. Fundamentally, a human becomes fat because it consumes more calories than its metabolical systems can manage and its daily activities can burn. According to Marion Nestle and Michael F. Jacobson in their article "Halting the Obesity Epidemic: A public Health Policy Approach", "because obesity results from chronic consumption of energy (calories) in excess of that used by the body, prevention requires people to balance the energy they consume from food and drinks with the energy expended through metabolic and muscular activity." In this regard there is not much of a difference between capitalistic Caucasian Americans and the game-hunting Bushmen of the African plains lands: anyone has the potential to lead an obese life. However, there are several factors that make America the unhealthy place it is:

Food is at a height of abundance and availability which, one could say, has never been seen before. Agricultural cultivational techniques are at a point at which the absolute maximum amount of produce can be siphoned off land which, without the constant doses of highly complex chemical fertilizer, ought to have been long frigid. Pesticides and anti-biotics have also aided in the preservation of crops (although we have recently seen a decrease in their effect), as has genetic engineering which has prolonged the shelf-life of foods which would otherwise have rotted. Because of this cheap availability, food is everywhere. Hunger has hardly a place in the American vocabulary, even among more impoverished members of the population, for some sort of nourishment is rarely more than a few minutes away from any given location. According to Dr. Nestle, "about 170,000 fast-food restaurants and three million soft drink vending machines help ensure that Americans are not more than a few steps from immediate sources of relatively non-nutritious foods." (110)

Furthermore, food is highly calorie-dense because of the complicated processes that go into its preparation, such as the biological tampering done to curb taste and amplify overall experience. The most representative example of this is the ever-infamous beef production feedlot. There cows are, in little more than a year, turned from gentle, awkward, 80-pound calves into un-naturally large, morbidly obese 1,200-pound, bloated monsters, designed as, according to Michael Pollan in his article "Power Steer", "efficient machine[s] for turning feed corn into beef."

Most importantly, though, is the amount of advertising that goes into the selling of food to the population. According to Nestle, "while not the sole reason for high caloric intake, massive efforts by food manufacturers and restaurant chains to encourage people to buy their brands must undoubtedly play a role... the food industry spends about $11 billion annually on advertising and another $22 billion or so on trade shows, supermarket 'slottinig fees,' incentives, and other consumer promotions." (109) And food advertisements are everywhere! Every time you venture outside the relatively safe enclave of your home, hundreds of colorful images literally jump out at you, specifically designed to induce the more primitive, pleasure-seeking centers of your brain to blindly seek out the most colorful product in a effort to quell this psychologically suggested hunger.

The latter concept is particularly important in the overconsumption of food. More often than not, people are stricken with obesity because of an inability to feel like they have satisfied their appetite. Somehow the connection between their stomach and their brain has been severed, preventing a full stomach from disengaging a food-seeking brain. As stated in Frontline's "Fat", "thin people can feel full [...] after a certain amount of calories." At a certain point, we have effectively lost perception of what it is to have had 'enough'. According to Shannon Brownlee in her article, "Portion Distortion---You Don't Know the Half of It", "How did today's over sized appetites become the norm? It didn't happen by accident or some inevitable evolutionary process. It was to a large degree the result of consumer manipulation. Fast food's [for example] marketing strategies [...] succeed only when they induce a substantial number of us to overeat."

This obsessiveness surrounding the consumption of food has created a highly profitable environment for those with the initiative to take advantage of the situation. To begin, our American democracy is the perfect environment for the cultivation of an impressionable culture. With so many different peoples co-existing under the same systems and living conditions, it is only natural that a certain level of confusion would arise as to one's perso susceptible to corporate influence. We are bombarded daily with a near overkill of advertisements, all of them promising something wonderful, beautiful, pleasurable, and otherwise greater than that which we could achieve on our own. According to Edward Rothstein in his article, "Damning (Yet Desiring) Mickey and the Big Mac", "in capitalism commodities are produced that will spur desire for still more commodities."

This cultural susceptibility has left us open to the most difficult of paradoxes. Most notably, this combination of the effectively unattainable yet largely sought-after (sometimes to the detriment of one's own well-being) "thin ideal" and the demonization of fatness, and the more-than-readily available supply of unhealthy carbon-based junk (one feels one must refrain from calling 'it' food) so strongly promoted by our carbon-junk-producing corporate friends. One can't help but laugh at fast food advertisements - young, thin, beautiful, sensual, happy, laughing patrons devour with gusto their 1000+ calorie meals and then skip off into the sunset with a giant smile on their faces. In the fast-food corporations' defense, who wants to see the reality? A 400-pound diabetic woman in her late 20s, devouring three hamburgers, a 32-oz drink, a large order of fries, all with some happy slogan bouncing over her bloated head. That would definitely turn customers away from the golden arches. But mass-media and corporate power set the perimeters in this arena, and in their universe anything is possible. According to philosopher Theodor Adorno as cited in Rothstein, "television, he said in a 1954 essay, was 'a medium of undreamed-of psychological control.'" Why does Orwell come to mind?

American "food culture" has manifested itself in every corner of the world. Not to mention, of course, with "over-arching" success. Like the British empire, "the sun never sets on the American franchise." Why have such capitalist, non-cultural concepts been so successful in places that have their own cultural identities? Probably just for that very reason. The non-culture is very attractive in so far as it places no rules or requirements on the participant. Again from Rothstein, "[it] seduces through sheer force of marketing and sheer promise of pleasure. [...] There are no restrictions of class or guild on either artisans or their public." One needn't speculate any longer as to why the more fundamentalist percentages of so many cultures feel genuinely threatened to the point of violence by the U.S. and it's impact on the former's way of life.

Indeed, American food culture has a very direct impact on the rest of the world, one blatant example residing in the feedlot. Americans have a widespread affinity for the taste of corn-fed beef, despite the health risks associated, and ranchers, having come to realize the economic benefits of catering to their public, are more than happy to make their customers happy. Because cows must be fed a great deal of corn, a great deal of corn must be grown, and thus a great deal of fertilizer planted for the corn to grow. Chemical fertilizer is made up of a great deal of ingredients, a significant one being oil. According to Pollan, nearly 1.2 gallons for every bushel. "The modern feedlot is really a city floating on a sea of oil." This has clear implications as regards foreign policy, particularly in how many people perceive our government's current actions in the middle east.

While one may not doubt the influence of oil in the decision-making process, our president's efforts to "spread democracy in the middle east" may be influenced by much larger ideas. On the one hand, beurocracy, requisite to any democratic system, is much more easily economically penetrated than totalitarianism. With a beurocracy, the "rules" generally remain unchanged, and since no fortress of red tape is completely self-enclosed, economic and political "airleaks" will always be open for external infiltration. Totalitarianist states are much less reliable, stable, or effective trade partners because, rule tending to be vested in only one person, arbitrary changes in opinion and ideology can occur literally overnight. This is not helpful if, say, the McDonald's corporation's plan to build a franchise in such a state is thwarted because dear leader's cat scratching his face put him in a very bad mood.

In conclusion, Americans seem to have been lured into this mindset of expecting everything: to eat all they want, but not gain weight. And if weight is gained, to be able to seek treatments that will immediately "cure" them. What's more, corporate powers will always be there to come up with a solution to these problems so as to prolong this cycle of binge-like consumption. What we must begin to realize is that our lifestyle is not the least bit sustainable - not for our environment, and certainly not for our health. As Brownlee puts it, "one way or another, as Americans wake up to the fact that obesity is killing nearly as many citizens as cigarettes are, jumbo burgers and super-size fries will seem like less of a bargain."

All Hail the D[OASA]EA: Drug [and Otherwise Arbitrarily Selected Addictions] Enforcement Agency

2005-04-25T11:54:00.000-07:00

Addictions are not necessarily bad. In fact, addiction is probably the single most important factor that has determined our survival as a species. Would it be so far-fetched to say that hunger, that unspeakable watering of the mouth and burning in the stomach remedied only by – as we have been conditioned from infancy – the consumption of some carbon-based foodstuff, is a heavy addiction? We get our fix three times a day, whether or not we need it. One could say sleep and the fatigue that incites our desire to hit the sack is an addiction, one with clear evidence of physical withdrawal. Furthermore, the desire to seek out sexual satisfaction is most definitely a manifestation of withdrawal, one that often blinds us to the future “consequences” of our actions.

Of course, without these activities our species could not have come as far as it has. (If my memory serves me correctly, it has been suggested that the reason our cerebral cortex is so large and complex is that our early ancestors had a little bit of a habit for hallucinogenics.) The body’s means of encouraging us to pursue the execution of these healthy activities is not that different from the yearnings of an unhealthy cigarette smoker. In all cases the body craves something, and it will make us as uncomfortable as possible until we satisfy the pain.

Any activity, though, can have a negative impact on one’s life and physiology if done in excess. For example, as we are witnessing in current times, overeating and the increasing numbers of overweight, obese and morbidly obese individuals in our country and around the world are having severe impacts (both “good” and “bad”) on economies, cultures, personalities and familial stress, among others. According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, “national costs attributed to both overweight (BMI 25-29.9) and obesity (BMI greater than 30), medical expenses accounted for 9.1 percent of total U.S. medical expenditures in 1998 and may have reached as high as $78.5 billion ($92.6 billion in 2002 dollars).” [I might add that while there are health risks associated with being obese, the coexisting health-affecting factor is in the amount of physical activity partaken by the individual, predominantly lacking in obese individuals.] To go even further, an article from the Wall Street Journal states,

"For obese people, spending on hospital and outpatient care is 36% higher and medication costs are 77% higher than for people in a normal weight range […]. For smokers, health-care service costs were 21% higher and drug costs were 28% higher than for nonsmokers. Costs increases associated with problem drinking were smaller."

Although people have not always been privy to the overtly negative health effects of smoking, I suspect there has never been any doubt that eating food was a far better activity than inhaling dirty smoke plumes of carbon-based material, no matter what level of coolness Joe Camel held in popular culture. In excess, the predominantly healthy activity of eating is almost as negative an addiction as smoking.

"According to the National Institutes of Health, obesity and overweight together are the second leading cause of preventable death in the United States, close behind tobacco use (3). An estimated 300,000 deaths per year are due to the obesity epidemic (57). "

The bottom line is that, as it would appear to me, humans are regular over-medicators. When we have substances and activities available in excess, we tend to use them in excess. We are evolutionarily programmed to seek out, by any means necessary, those activities and methodologies of survival most comfortable and easily self-rewarding.

I am not the least bit surprised by the high costs and mortality rates associated with tobacco-smoking, obesity, alcoholism, or any other unhealthy-if-in-excess activity. My mother, an anesthesiologist, often tells me (albeit illegally) about her patients. She recently described to a 200+ pound diabetic woman. This woman has been for many years taking anti-diabetic agents, all paid for by government health insurance (Medicare or Medical – in any case, taxpayers’ dollars), yet she still finds the nerve to have a large Coke and chicken McNuggets right before her appointment, subsequently complaining about her knees, chest pain, etc. etc. Do people not get the concept? Why do we pay to protect, bandage, parent, and otherwise backhandedly encourage activities that are in common knowledge known to be unhealthy?

Furthermore – and I know this is a rather cliché point – why do we pay to protect users and even encourage the use of alcohol, tobacco, and obesity while at the same time paying to subvert the use of other substances? All substances are used basically for the same reasons: it’s there, we like it, it feels good, and it gives us some escape from an overly unhappy, dehumanizing and ever growing urban landscape. No matter how hard the DEA clamps down, no matter how many Nancy Reagans toss off the problem as simply a matter of “yes” and “no”, people will always find ways to medicate themselves. And it doesn’t have to be in the form of snow, hash or booze. Jogging in excess could possibly result in a detriment to one’s health and livelihood, as could gardening, playing piano, watching movies, or any number of institutionally sanctioned activities.

The thing with drugs is that they are the easiest fix and give us the most satisfaction at the lowest output of effort. Since the health and general well-being of society does not seem to be much of a concern to the powers that be, the issue surrounding drugs is more a question of economics and business-against-business competition. Because most of the “bad” illegal drugs can be made at a low cost on a local and individual level, they are harder to control and would therefore be less profitable from a corporate standpoint. It would seem that the illegalization of drugs is simply in an effort to direct more business towards the more affluent (and largest politically-contributing) of the drug market, i.e. tobacco, alcohol and the minions of food producers.

Tobacco
http://www.tobaccofreekids.org/research/factsheets/pdf/0072.pdf - Campaign for tobacco-free kids
http://www.cdc.gov/mmwr/PDF/wk/mm5320.pdf - CDC

Alcohol
http://www.marininstitute.org/alcohol_policy/health_care_costs.htm - The Marin Institute
http://www.drugabuse.gov/NIDA_Notes/NNVol13N4/Abusecosts.html - National institute on drug abuse

Obesity
http://www.cdc.gov/nccdphp/dnpa/obesity/economic_consequences.htm - CDC
http://www.betterhealth.vic.gov.au/bhcv2/bhcarticles.nsf/pages/Obesity?OpenDocument – the better health channel: quality consumer health information for australians
http://www.karlloren.com/diet/p69.htm - Karl Loren, Researcher, Author and Philosopher home page
http://www.wvdhhr.org/bph/oehp/obesity/mortality.htm - west virginia department for health and human services

Participating in a Brazilian Samba Band

2005-04-25T11:44:00.000-07:00

Samba has had a lasting impact on me - in fact, my ears are still ringing. If there was anything I genuinely learned from the act of participating in this musical tradition, it was that the human ear can only take so much and in such a situation earplugs are a sound investment. When one considers this, though, the samba band's ability to sonically penetrate every corner of the human body is what makes this tradition such an effective means of turning a crowd into a mass of wild animals. It is no surprise then, that Samba, as I am told, is the prime music of the annual festival of carnival in Brazil, specifically in Rio de Janeiro.

Samba is a community activity. Not necessarily that only communities participate in the activity, but rather all sense of uniqueness and personal individualism is drowned in the sound of dozens of drummers beating stick on skin to their hearts' content. In this regard, Samba plays a very important roll in Brazil. As my informant tells me, originally informal institutions known as escolas de samba (samba schools), aside from providing that catalyst of uninhibition so important in Carnival, provide an important social foundation for the poorer Afro-Brazilian neighborhoods in that they bring together otherwise economically destitute communities and provide socially lost youngsters a loud activity to keep them out of trouble.

The highly syncopated and rhythmically complex texture is somewhat metaphorical for an ideal society, one in which all components of the larger mechanism function in "harmony" and rhythmic consonance. Any crackpot (like myself) looking to step outside the boundaries of what is musically expected of him by declaring his artistic individuality will completely destroy the synchronization of the gears and cloud the perfection of this artificial setting. It is the ultimate exercise in personal compromise.

When I step back from the group and observe the result of their efforts, it is obvious that we have a number of crackpots among the ranks, if not the entire group. Community participation is not a big priority in the United States. In fact, one gets the distinct impression that individualism is the preferred way of life. Everyone wants his or her own little plot with a fence that clearly conveys to passers-by, "this lawn is mine and no one else's." We are constantly bombarded with messages of fashion, the intention being to make us stand out and declare our independence from social norms. Ultimately, though, we end up looking just the same as everyone else, only we lack the ability to recognize, accept, or do anything with those similarities. Societies that function in unison, it would seem, tend to function better and without the same level of internal conflict as societies that do not function in unison. Samba is in this case a sort of religion, binding peoples together through one over-arching belief system.

This concept of "playing together" does not strike me as being a terribly western one. From my own experience as a western classical pianist, much of the music I play is laden with efforts by the composer to distinguish himself from contemporaries and predecessors. As Brazil was settled by a western power, Portugal, I wonder how such a community-based art form as Samba could come into being. As my informant tells me, the Samba tradition is very strongly influenced by the drum choir music of west Africa, even so much as the actual words of songs sung in vocal sections are in the original west African language, even if the core meaning is lost. Having played in an African drum choir before, the experience feels very much the same. Community has preeminence over the individual, and every part, while unique in its own right, has a specific roll in the larger rhythmic composite.

This kind of music is extremely exciting to participate in, and when in the right transient cognitive state one can go on for hours and hours without so much as a desire to even consider stopping. Just as an audience loses itself in the presence of samba music, the experience is as equally trance-enducing and uninhibiting for the members of the band. Unfortunately, as I did not know the individual "breaks" or repeated rhythmic patterns, I spent most of my intellectual power just trying to listen and keep up with the other members of my instrumental section, the tamborin (a small, plastic-head drum played with a hard, tri-shafted baton - very loud!). I was thus not able to enjoy the experience quite the same way one might if all 50+ breaks and physical choreography therein were known by heart. Although I tried to play off of sheetmusic, doing so was nearly impossible in terms of page turning. Furthermore, I felt that relying on scientific notation to dictate my playing of an oral tradition was a sort of lazy cop-out, and doing so only distracted me from listening to the others and observing my surroundings. Indeed, listening and imitating is how any kid pulled off the street by a samba school would have to learn, so why should I be any different?

Why am I here?

2005-04-19T23:16:00.000-07:00

In chronological order...

My attention was drawn to the spanky orange Blogger icon in my Google Toolbar.
My memory immediately hearkened back to Blogpages I had seen in the not-so-distant past.
I saw this as a golden opportunity to add yet another listing to the pages and pages of "Ryan MacEvoy McCullough" this and that which manifest when I Google my name [you should try it sometime - it makes me feel very full of myself.].
I figured that since my pseudo-philosophical inquiries into the nature of life's great mysteries are interesting to me, they would be outright ravishingly inspired to those [unfortunate] souls who happened upon this [overly self-promoting] oasis of intellectualism [perçu] in a desert of morbid stupidity.
I spent nearly twenty minutes thinking about how much of a smartass I could be on my first posting so as to make as bad an impression as possible on the many thousands of readers who would, out of mysterious impulse, make the digital pilgrimage to that Mecca of Blogage, the Ryansbündler.

And thus concludes the sad story of my pathetic existence. I wish you all a good night, and until next time...

... you are all my special sunshine.