Monday, March 2, 2015
Starting a short story/something theater
The lights dimmed in the movie theater, and they all gazed in unison upon the screen, just now lit, growing, glowing, glimmering with charming images and rude flashes of sick humor. She meant to look away, as she felt panic rise in her body. But her hands were strapped to the arms of the chair, and she could not look away. It was her life. It was unwatchable, like a car crash, but also sublime. She didn’t want it to all go so unplanned, but there was no other way. She smiled, and cried, and watched in awe as difficulties dissipated, replaced by newly born, beautiful dreams. She wished she could see the people seated next to her, but she could not. And she was fairly sure they couldn’t see her, either. They were all watching in unison, unable to turn away, unable to relate, but only to laugh together to acknowledge each other’s presence.
Monday, February 9, 2015
A Diary Entry About Musical Madness and ADD
The Experiences from the Mind of A Classical Musician (and Specifically An Opera Singer)
Morning. I need coffee. I need it because if not, I will stay in bed thinking about the music I have to practice today. I sit at the table looking at rehearsal schedules.
I suddenly start hearing the music from rehearsal
four years ago
for that one show
I never ended up doing.
It finally occurs to me— this is the La Traviata mens’ chorus music. I sing it before I remember what it’s from, in Italian, and then amuse myself with the ridiculously inaccurate translation that we used to have.
I feel like aliens have taken over my brain and are using me as a radio system. I write down this fact because I didn’t even remember that I did this. But I remember the music. I fear I am going senile for everything but classical music.
Shower. I sing an entire piano piece melody (and some of the supporting left hand parts). I can’t remember why I know it, and I still haven’t had coffee. Please just drink coffee. I still haven’t drunk the coffee I poured at nine o’clock.
I start to stretch and warm up, so that my constantly tense back/neck of a 90 year-old coal miner doesn’t inhibit my ability to perform.
My roommate must think that
I’m either doing tongue exercises,
or judging by the sound,
masturbating to piano music in the living room.
Yes, it’s just tongue exercises. I can’t believe I do these in public.
By lunch time I’ve looked through all my music for the day and sobbed inconsolably (at least on the inside). By just after lunch I have finally drunk my coffee, now cold. I make tea.
I have to go to work. I practice for a few hours, get dressed and run to the train. On the train I hear repetitive melodies in my head, so I turn on some completely different music to shut off my work. I get to work just exactly on time, not sure how. I spend a lot of time singing the tenor’s arias from the show in my head, which are much catchier and easier to love.
At work I try to hold back my excitement every time someone mentions music or art, because the geek parade that would escape from my mouth is painful to hear. I don’t like to be friends with other artists because they are obnoxious. But I can’t be friends with normal people without alcohol, because then we have very little to talk about.
I get home, feel guilty for the little time I have practiced, and punish myself with translations and musical analysis. In a few hours when that guilt has worn off and I’m too lazy to consider any more practicing, the wine and Netflix emerge from the shadows. It is time. I can bear planning lessons with my students much more easily with wine.
…But I will still take notice of every clipped piece of classical music in the movie's soundtrack. And what the music really means. And you will hate me. And I will not care.
Bedtime is usually difficult. I hate bedtime but I don’t want to get sick. Depending on how busy I am, I may have a dream that takes place in rehearsal. God help me.
I suddenly start hearing the music from rehearsal
four years ago
for that one show
I never ended up doing.
It finally occurs to me— this is the La Traviata mens’ chorus music. I sing it before I remember what it’s from, in Italian, and then amuse myself with the ridiculously inaccurate translation that we used to have.
I feel like aliens have taken over my brain and are using me as a radio system. I write down this fact because I didn’t even remember that I did this. But I remember the music. I fear I am going senile for everything but classical music.
Shower. I sing an entire piano piece melody (and some of the supporting left hand parts). I can’t remember why I know it, and I still haven’t had coffee. Please just drink coffee. I still haven’t drunk the coffee I poured at nine o’clock.
I start to stretch and warm up, so that my constantly tense back/neck of a 90 year-old coal miner doesn’t inhibit my ability to perform.
My roommate must think that
I’m either doing tongue exercises,
or judging by the sound,
masturbating to piano music in the living room.
Yes, it’s just tongue exercises. I can’t believe I do these in public.
By lunch time I’ve looked through all my music for the day and sobbed inconsolably (at least on the inside). By just after lunch I have finally drunk my coffee, now cold. I make tea.
I have to go to work. I practice for a few hours, get dressed and run to the train. On the train I hear repetitive melodies in my head, so I turn on some completely different music to shut off my work. I get to work just exactly on time, not sure how. I spend a lot of time singing the tenor’s arias from the show in my head, which are much catchier and easier to love.
At work I try to hold back my excitement every time someone mentions music or art, because the geek parade that would escape from my mouth is painful to hear. I don’t like to be friends with other artists because they are obnoxious. But I can’t be friends with normal people without alcohol, because then we have very little to talk about.
I get home, feel guilty for the little time I have practiced, and punish myself with translations and musical analysis. In a few hours when that guilt has worn off and I’m too lazy to consider any more practicing, the wine and Netflix emerge from the shadows. It is time. I can bear planning lessons with my students much more easily with wine.
…But I will still take notice of every clipped piece of classical music in the movie's soundtrack. And what the music really means. And you will hate me. And I will not care.
Bedtime is usually difficult. I hate bedtime but I don’t want to get sick. Depending on how busy I am, I may have a dream that takes place in rehearsal. God help me.
Monday, February 2, 2015
The "Super" Bowl, Trends in Music, and A Lesson in Junk Food
The Super Bowl was all right to watch. This year was pretty intense, and the game was well played on both sides. I've never actually sit down to watch a whole game before (and paid attention), so this is new for me.
The thing I have noticed about the Super Bowl this year is an overwhelming change in music and format. So, I decided to quickly research the history of the Super Bowl performances.
1960s: For the first few Super Bowl halftime shows, we see only performances by college marching bands-- which is typical of a football game. Sometimes the spectators get a treat, like military drum corps or the navy band.
By the 1970s, there are special guest hosts, celebrity personalities, etc. Still, however, we see a marching band as the main event. We even see some international bands with different world music.
By the early 80s, there are more regular celebrity performers, but again-- marching bands are the main event. However-- by the late 80s, the celebrities are taking over the show. We see Disney characters, TV personalities, pop singers, and maybe a drill team if we are lucky.
By 1991 we see the headliners as Disney characters and New Kids on the Block. No band.
By the mid 90s there could be as many as 6 celebrity performers.
You also see, starting in the 80s, that these shows begun to have big companies as their producers, unlike before. The Walt Disney Company had become a regular supporter and producer of the Super Bowl shows. Radio City Music Hall also had a pretty big hand in the halftime shows.
As we head toward the 2000s, she list of people involved gets longer and longer. Now, every show has not only a headliner, but a producer, and a sponsoring company (usually something colossal like soft drink names, banks, or cellular phone companies).
I researched two recurring producers from the 2000s and 2010s: Hamish Hamilton and Don Mischer. These are concert directors/producers who are responsible for some of the most successful TV events, such as the Grammys and the Academy Awards, and even social functions for the President.
Between the classic marching bands era (60s - 70s) and the pop singers (2000s - 2010s) we had world-famous, legendary performers (such as Ella Fitzgerald, Chubby Checker, Michael Jackson) combined with incredible stunts, and the occasional marching extravaganza.
It seems that we're slowly dumbing down even our sports entertainment, which was already fairly simplified junk food of the masses.
I'm not trashing "junk food" tv, because everyone needs time to relax and unwind, to not think.
I'm saying that it's not even edible anymore.
The thing I have noticed about the Super Bowl this year is an overwhelming change in music and format. So, I decided to quickly research the history of the Super Bowl performances.
1960s: For the first few Super Bowl halftime shows, we see only performances by college marching bands-- which is typical of a football game. Sometimes the spectators get a treat, like military drum corps or the navy band.
By the 1970s, there are special guest hosts, celebrity personalities, etc. Still, however, we see a marching band as the main event. We even see some international bands with different world music.
By the early 80s, there are more regular celebrity performers, but again-- marching bands are the main event. However-- by the late 80s, the celebrities are taking over the show. We see Disney characters, TV personalities, pop singers, and maybe a drill team if we are lucky.
By 1991 we see the headliners as Disney characters and New Kids on the Block. No band.
By the mid 90s there could be as many as 6 celebrity performers.
You also see, starting in the 80s, that these shows begun to have big companies as their producers, unlike before. The Walt Disney Company had become a regular supporter and producer of the Super Bowl shows. Radio City Music Hall also had a pretty big hand in the halftime shows.
As we head toward the 2000s, she list of people involved gets longer and longer. Now, every show has not only a headliner, but a producer, and a sponsoring company (usually something colossal like soft drink names, banks, or cellular phone companies).
I researched two recurring producers from the 2000s and 2010s: Hamish Hamilton and Don Mischer. These are concert directors/producers who are responsible for some of the most successful TV events, such as the Grammys and the Academy Awards, and even social functions for the President.
Between the classic marching bands era (60s - 70s) and the pop singers (2000s - 2010s) we had world-famous, legendary performers (such as Ella Fitzgerald, Chubby Checker, Michael Jackson) combined with incredible stunts, and the occasional marching extravaganza.
It seems that we're slowly dumbing down even our sports entertainment, which was already fairly simplified junk food of the masses.
I'm not trashing "junk food" tv, because everyone needs time to relax and unwind, to not think.
I'm saying that it's not even edible anymore.
Tuesday, December 16, 2014
Holiday post
At this point I'm just avoiding learning music. Rock on, ladies and gents. The Rockefeller tree is up, the holiday shopping began three weeks ago, and the season is almost here!
I'm feeling the holiday cheer, or maybe that's just my secondhand inhalation of the holiday weed smoke in the room.
Happy Festivus!
_____________________________________________________
Differences
I like staying in, alone, listening to the radio
Putting on a few records, pretending I’m in the 1940s.
At times I shovel too much on my plate,
And love the wrong men for no reason.
And most of the time I don’t know what love is.
I think that I love everyone.
Just because I want to be myself
That doesn’t mean I hate everyone else
There are plenty of square pegs in this world
If you want to hold me tight
Embrace my differences
I don’t care for big, fake parties
I long for quiet gatherings
I can preach about anything,
As long as you give me the stage.
I need to feel needed,
I’ll give you the stars if you want them,
But don’t leave me behind.
You’ll never know kindness like mine.
Just because I want to be myself
That doesn’t mean I hate everyone else
There are plenty of square pegs in this world
If you want to hold me tight
Embrace my differences
My mind plays in movies
With casts of a million multitudes.
I play out sickly sweet scenarios,
and dramatic daydreams.
I think in music, and see in art,
I memorize faces that are set apart from the rest.
I bet they are special.
Maybe I’m too quiet,
Maybe your too loud,
Maybe I like to disappear once in a while.
Maybe I’m fickle,
Maybe you’re right.
Maybe I’m just bored too easily.
Or maybe you’re boring.
Just because I want to be myself
That doesn’t mean I hate everyone else
There are plenty of square pegs in this world
If you want to hold me tight
Embrace my differences
Friday, December 12, 2014
A forgotten poem
I guess this poem is more important now, in the face of current events, than it was before. So now I'll post it. Before I do, here is a little background on why I'm so damned riled up.
I grew up in a city where I was around black people all the time. It wasn't an issue to me, until someone told me it was, until someone tried to teach me.
It wasn't my parents. My mother and father taught me to respect everyone equally.
But at every big family reunion, there would inevitably be the hatred, the racism, the "jokes". They weren't funny. This isn't what my mom and dad taught me. How did my parents learn to be different from their families?
When I was little, all I wanted was for my hair to be in braids, to have those pretty pink clips and twisty beads. I wanted a head full of twists and braids! They looked so wonderful. To me, that was the cool thing. That's what a lot of little girls had. But my hair lay limp like a noodle, almost unable to be curled at all, even with tons of hair spray! That desire for pretty braids was not "exoticism", but a child's admiration of something she could never have. (To be fair, I'd never encroach on someone else's fashion or culture to make my own empty fashion statement. The grass might look greener, but it's not my fucking lawn.)
Then, as I got older, and went off into the world, I became obsessed with diversity. I met all sorts of "white" people, and "brown" people, and "black" people, and so many colors in between, from so many countries, with so many languages and cultures. It was hard to tell if one color could define a country or language or religion. They all left behind invaluable memories, good times and great conversations.
When I returned to my home town, my own friends from high school were there, unchanged it seemed. Except, I noticed something I never noticed before--- they were horribly racist. They dropped slurs and curses about race like the words fit into normal conversation. Even the most LIBERAL hippies, dropping words I never thought I'd hear from such free thinkers. I didn't know what to say. I felt different. I felt like I had read the end of the story, and they were still somewhere around the beginning. I felt good that I knew the truth, but also horrible that they thought their reality was truth.
Still, I take measures every day to not buy into it-- because even those of us who don't feel racist, who don't involve ourselves in it, are subject to racism's mind-altering effects. I have felt the reactions myself. I take an aggressive stance toward any thoughts that leak in from those negative, horrible, poisonous people who HATE so completely. Get those ideas out. If you were afraid or angry, figure out why. Test yourself. Sure as shit, you were feeling that way for no reason, or because someone said you should. Now you just feel like a sorry piece of white trash. Breathe. The poison is leaving.
What I'm telling you is that even with your eyes wide open, you can be fooled. It has happened to me and it will continue to happen, and I will continue to swat away the parasites who feed on my mind.
So, this poem is about the word. It also concerns the meanings associated with the word and the physical color "black". I feel that "black" gets a bad reputation in Western mythology as being dangerous, scary, evil, and unknown. That is part of the reason why calling an entire race "black" can be damaging. So, let's flip that reputation a bit, shall we?
I hope you enjoy it. Please send me any thoughts, positive or negative.
___________________________________________________________________
The color black
Is admirable.
The color of undisturbed night.
The satin veil of starless beauty.
The unknown, the perfect fear,
The movie theater
After the final credits roll.
The end.
The beginning.
The everlasting.
The color that shows respect
For the valiant dead.
The hue of none.
The lack, and the filling.
The ombre, or the deepest sea.
The closing of the lid.
Everything held precious inside.
Enveloped by
Consumed by
Comforted by
Completed by
The natural quality of
Blackness.
3 May 2014
I grew up in a city where I was around black people all the time. It wasn't an issue to me, until someone told me it was, until someone tried to teach me.
It wasn't my parents. My mother and father taught me to respect everyone equally.
But at every big family reunion, there would inevitably be the hatred, the racism, the "jokes". They weren't funny. This isn't what my mom and dad taught me. How did my parents learn to be different from their families?
When I was little, all I wanted was for my hair to be in braids, to have those pretty pink clips and twisty beads. I wanted a head full of twists and braids! They looked so wonderful. To me, that was the cool thing. That's what a lot of little girls had. But my hair lay limp like a noodle, almost unable to be curled at all, even with tons of hair spray! That desire for pretty braids was not "exoticism", but a child's admiration of something she could never have. (To be fair, I'd never encroach on someone else's fashion or culture to make my own empty fashion statement. The grass might look greener, but it's not my fucking lawn.)
Then, as I got older, and went off into the world, I became obsessed with diversity. I met all sorts of "white" people, and "brown" people, and "black" people, and so many colors in between, from so many countries, with so many languages and cultures. It was hard to tell if one color could define a country or language or religion. They all left behind invaluable memories, good times and great conversations.
When I returned to my home town, my own friends from high school were there, unchanged it seemed. Except, I noticed something I never noticed before--- they were horribly racist. They dropped slurs and curses about race like the words fit into normal conversation. Even the most LIBERAL hippies, dropping words I never thought I'd hear from such free thinkers. I didn't know what to say. I felt different. I felt like I had read the end of the story, and they were still somewhere around the beginning. I felt good that I knew the truth, but also horrible that they thought their reality was truth.
Still, I take measures every day to not buy into it-- because even those of us who don't feel racist, who don't involve ourselves in it, are subject to racism's mind-altering effects. I have felt the reactions myself. I take an aggressive stance toward any thoughts that leak in from those negative, horrible, poisonous people who HATE so completely. Get those ideas out. If you were afraid or angry, figure out why. Test yourself. Sure as shit, you were feeling that way for no reason, or because someone said you should. Now you just feel like a sorry piece of white trash. Breathe. The poison is leaving.
What I'm telling you is that even with your eyes wide open, you can be fooled. It has happened to me and it will continue to happen, and I will continue to swat away the parasites who feed on my mind.
So, this poem is about the word. It also concerns the meanings associated with the word and the physical color "black". I feel that "black" gets a bad reputation in Western mythology as being dangerous, scary, evil, and unknown. That is part of the reason why calling an entire race "black" can be damaging. So, let's flip that reputation a bit, shall we?
I hope you enjoy it. Please send me any thoughts, positive or negative.
___________________________________________________________________
The color black
Is admirable.
The color of undisturbed night.
The satin veil of starless beauty.
The unknown, the perfect fear,
The movie theater
After the final credits roll.
The end.
The beginning.
The everlasting.
The color that shows respect
For the valiant dead.
The hue of none.
The lack, and the filling.
The ombre, or the deepest sea.
The closing of the lid.
Everything held precious inside.
Enveloped by
Consumed by
Comforted by
Completed by
The natural quality of
Blackness.
3 May 2014
A new poem called "Intravenous"
Good morning, Friday. And goodnight. I had too much energy from rehearsal, so I started up the phonograph-multimedia thinger and tuned the radio to NPR. (I would listen to my Christmas LPs, but it's still too soon!)
Here it is. The fruits of my brain labor. Blargh.
(Before you ask about the title--- no, this is not about drugs.
It's about how inspiration and ideas rush in your veins when you can't sleep.)
______________________________________________________________________
Intravenous
I am independent evolutionary scrap metal from ancestors who bore me.
I crave intellectual stimulation from people who attract me.
I need interpersonal relations with humanoids who enthrall me.
I want interrelated characteristics with friends who excite me.
I despise interrogation by loved ones who disbelieve me.
I love interpolated dialogue from like minds who challenge me.
I desire intercourse of ideas with gentlemen who fuck me.
I refuse interdependency with people who deprecate me.
I decide to internalize feelings from those who have damaged me.
I try to interpret the auras of strangers who SEE me.
I avoid intervention from nonbelievers in the divinity of art.
I have scars from men and women who needed me.
I make landscapes from dreams that spoke only to me.
I move mountains for oceans that should be.
December 12, 2014
Here it is. The fruits of my brain labor. Blargh.
(Before you ask about the title--- no, this is not about drugs.
It's about how inspiration and ideas rush in your veins when you can't sleep.)
______________________________________________________________________
Intravenous
I am independent evolutionary scrap metal from ancestors who bore me.
I crave intellectual stimulation from people who attract me.
I need interpersonal relations with humanoids who enthrall me.
I want interrelated characteristics with friends who excite me.
I despise interrogation by loved ones who disbelieve me.
I love interpolated dialogue from like minds who challenge me.
I desire intercourse of ideas with gentlemen who fuck me.
I refuse interdependency with people who deprecate me.
I decide to internalize feelings from those who have damaged me.
I try to interpret the auras of strangers who SEE me.
I avoid intervention from nonbelievers in the divinity of art.
I have scars from men and women who needed me.
I make landscapes from dreams that spoke only to me.
I move mountains for oceans that should be.
December 12, 2014
Sunday, July 20, 2014
Rant for "Images of Women in Theatre"
This was from 2013, for "Images of Women in Theatre" class at NYU. We were asked to submit a memory, monologue, rant, or prayer, like the Eve Ensler book.
If you know me well, certainly a rant was my medium of choice.
A Rant by Francesca Erni
Dearest loves of my heart, people that I care about: fucking shut your mouth. Wait, understand that I don't want you to be silent. That is the opposite of my desire. I want you speak freely and without shame. That is why I ask you first kindly to shut it, and learn my purpose.
You are all beautiful. You are all ugly. So am I, both together. You can be brilliant, and ignorant as hell. So am I, both together and it cheers me to say so. Tell me if I am wrong! I like nothing better than to learn. Honored is the person who allows herself to be as ugly and multifaceted as any man.
When I ask your opinion, promise you'll never again give this reply:
". . . I have nothing to say. I don't know anything about it."
This is foolish! This is so goddamned tragic that it burns in me with frustration.
This answer is easy, and lazy, and false! I know. I've given it myself. But never again.
You put in time in this world. You were raised in a way that molded you permanently, like feet bound to fit into a smaller shoe. You arrived at this point, partly by chance, partly by circumstance, and partly through your own decisions. To claim ignorance is to erase, to waste, and to lie.
I thought I was not the type made for academia. I thought I would never be the type to make serious decisions, or take risks. But here I am. I'm in the high place, that special, blissful state of accomplishment -- the place no one in my family has been. And freedom hurts, and I love it. And I'm with you, so I already have some idea of how you got here. You worked hard. You had purpose, and means, and a certain amount of luck. You know what exists in the future for a woman, and you decided to find out why. And guess what? You have the opportunity to get that answer.
Please, think enough of yourself to realize you have an opinion. Please remember it's fine to be wrong, and even finer to be right. But the greatest gift of all is the ability to have an opinion, a thought in your head. Of all the people on television, and radio, in magazines and newspaper columns, published in academic journals and seated at congress, who are allowed to spew opinions, how many are worthwhile? You would think we 'ordinary people' would be more outspoken. We live the stories told in the news. The ordinary are the inspiration.
So for the love of women, please do something besides listen. True love is in a stunning sentence, a thought connection made, an understanding. Show some love.
Spring 2013
If you know me well, certainly a rant was my medium of choice.
A Rant by Francesca Erni
Dearest loves of my heart, people that I care about: fucking shut your mouth. Wait, understand that I don't want you to be silent. That is the opposite of my desire. I want you speak freely and without shame. That is why I ask you first kindly to shut it, and learn my purpose.
You are all beautiful. You are all ugly. So am I, both together. You can be brilliant, and ignorant as hell. So am I, both together and it cheers me to say so. Tell me if I am wrong! I like nothing better than to learn. Honored is the person who allows herself to be as ugly and multifaceted as any man.
When I ask your opinion, promise you'll never again give this reply:
". . . I have nothing to say. I don't know anything about it."
This is foolish! This is so goddamned tragic that it burns in me with frustration.
This answer is easy, and lazy, and false! I know. I've given it myself. But never again.
You put in time in this world. You were raised in a way that molded you permanently, like feet bound to fit into a smaller shoe. You arrived at this point, partly by chance, partly by circumstance, and partly through your own decisions. To claim ignorance is to erase, to waste, and to lie.
I thought I was not the type made for academia. I thought I would never be the type to make serious decisions, or take risks. But here I am. I'm in the high place, that special, blissful state of accomplishment -- the place no one in my family has been. And freedom hurts, and I love it. And I'm with you, so I already have some idea of how you got here. You worked hard. You had purpose, and means, and a certain amount of luck. You know what exists in the future for a woman, and you decided to find out why. And guess what? You have the opportunity to get that answer.
Please, think enough of yourself to realize you have an opinion. Please remember it's fine to be wrong, and even finer to be right. But the greatest gift of all is the ability to have an opinion, a thought in your head. Of all the people on television, and radio, in magazines and newspaper columns, published in academic journals and seated at congress, who are allowed to spew opinions, how many are worthwhile? You would think we 'ordinary people' would be more outspoken. We live the stories told in the news. The ordinary are the inspiration.
So for the love of women, please do something besides listen. True love is in a stunning sentence, a thought connection made, an understanding. Show some love.
Spring 2013
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