If only- # 357

If only... I had stuck with playing the piano.

I started playing piano at the age of four- no lie. My parents began training my brother and I with the Suzuki method, whoch focuses more on learning the fundamentals of playing music- rhythm, melody, fluidity, etc., rather than note-reading. As one advances, they must of course learn to read notes, but the key is a gradual building up to note reading, so that once you get there all you have to do is recognize which key to hit, and you're all set because you have all the other essential basics down.
So at the age of four I had my first suzuki lesson, which consisted of sitting cross-legged on the ground, hitting a stick on the floor, trying to keep pace with a metronome. Primitive, yes, pointless, NO. The suzuki method also incorporates lots of concerts in front of other students, so that children at very early ages become comfortable playing in front of others. Throughout the rest of my life- quiet though I can be- I can honestly say I never experienced stage fright during school plays, or singing in front of people, and of course, while playing music. I remember many Christmases where my parents would make my brother and I each sit in front of family and guests and play for them. I might have rolled my eyes like a true adolescent, but never did I experience any sort of fear.
Eventually, I moved on from the Suzuki method to a very strict, Classical teacher, one Ms. Uhlig, who used to grab my hands and slam my fingers down on the correct notes if I misplayed. I remember being so terrified of her and her house, how the smell of it made me queasy, and how she never really complimented my playing, but rather would say I'd simply "completed" a piece when I was able to play it to her satisfaction- completely memorized, of course.
After Ms. Uhlig there was a string of others. I even experimented with a jazz teacher for a while, but he unfortunately did not last long. Firstly, after playing strictly classical for most of my training, the concept of syncopation was very hard for me to grasp. I could not convince my fingers that this odd, untimely plunkering of keys was in fact the way the music was supposed to be played. But perhaps the main reason my jazz teacher did not stick around long was because he had the worst case of halitosis I've ever encountered. The man's breath smelled like feces- end of story. And, unfortunately, end of my jazz career.

I bounced around to a few different teachers after that but none seemed to fit. By age 13 I decided that I was just no longer interested in playing the piano. Nevermind the fact that by this point, I'd been playing for 9 years and was pretty damn good, if I do say so myself. Nonetheless, I was much more concerned about the fact that practicing for the necessary hour each day was interfering with my growing, teenage social life. I wish I could travel 10 years into the past and slap that Julia and say "you are throwing away the greatest gift you were ever given." Though I doubt she'd listen.
By the age of 16, I actually did begin to miss playing again. I started up with a little old woman who lived within walking distance of my house. The process of beginning to play again was painful. I remember being insulted when she started me off with very easy pieces, thinking I was way too good for Bach's early Sonatina's. However I was quickly humbled when the very same peices I had mastered at the age of 8 took me weeks to re-learn. In just three years I had lost so much of my talent. To say this was frustrating doesn't even begin to cut it. But I persevered, worked hard, and for maybe the first time ever I did not see practicing as an unwanted obligation. I looked forward to my time at the piano each day and would sit for sometimes two, three hours trying to perfect a piece.
Unfortunately, as my piano life was progressing, so was the rest of my life- quite rapidly at that- and I became part of a highly competitive crew team that practiced at 5 am each morning before school. When I got home each day I could barely keep my eyes open long enough to finish my homework and eat dinner, let along practice. My skills began to slip, my fingers began to slow, and eventually I had to quit my lessons to make Crew my number one priority.

Since then I have graduated from high school, moved to a different state, traveled and lived abroad in Europe, graduated from college, finished my first year as an 8th grade science teacher for Teach For America and never, ever, has the thought left my mind that giving up music was the worst decision I've ever made. Beautifully played piano pieces bring tears to my eyes, and anyone who plays them I see as practically holy. To make music is an incredible thing. To make your hands become vessels that bring black specks on a page to life to make a sounds- sweet, harmonious sounds that can silence and touch a listener- that, I believe, is one of the closest links between man and divinity. As human beings, I believe we have a responsibility to create; we should strive to make something tangible in our lifetime, something beautiful that we leave behind, to make our lives mean something, and to be sure that we don't take all the beauty around us for granted.

Recently, I acquired a not-so-old, but not-so-new Yamaha keyboard. It has a pedal, which is essential, but unfortunately it also has a pretty crappy sound. I stole some sheet music from my parents when I was at home this summer, and I have been trying to get back into playing over the last few weeks. I may never become the piano player I could have become, should I have not quit as a young teen, and this a fact that I will always regret. Nevertheless, I can try.

Current endeavors: Eric Satie's Gymnopedie #1

The Turtle

I’ve spent most summers of my life at my family’s little cottage in Door County, Wisconsin. When I was fourteen, my mother put our turtle, Yoldla, outside for some fresh air on a hot day, and she died from heat stroke. My mother was terribly upset, blaming herself for Yoldla’s death, and she spent the greater portion of days on end weeping. In an effort to cheer her up, I decided to paint a memorial rock for Yoldla, to be put over her gravesite in our backyard. I had just finished reading “The Grapes of Wrath” that summer, and a quote from the beginning of the book seemed to me to be an extremely appropriate tombstone epitaph; it read “Nobody can’t keep a turtle though. They work at it and work at it, and at last one day they get out and away they go.”

I painted this on a large, flat rock, along with a stunning portrait of Yoldla and presented it to my mother proudly. Like most moms, mine gives me a lot more credit than I deserve, especially when it comes to my artistic abilities. As such, she thought this rock was the most beautiful thing ever, and instead of putting it over Yoldla’s grave as I intended, she put it on the mantle of our fireplace and there it has sat for nine years now.

As a semi-adult with a full time job and an apartment of my own in St. Louis, MO, I no longer can spend long, lazy summers in Door County. However, I try to visit whenever possible, and I am currently three days into a five day vacation there with my Mom, my cat Henry, my mother’s two dogs, and her new turtle, which she found on the side of the road and never gave a name to. This turtle without a name (she calls him “The Turtle”) is also without a real home, because my father told my mom she is not allowed to have any more animals. She hides The Turtle in a garbage can when my dad’s around, and sets up make-shift, easily disposable habitats for The Turtle in his absence. My mother paints animals on rocks and sells them on ebay. Her specialty is turtles. When I asked her why she needed to have this secret, stray turtle, she told me “Julia, how can I be a legitimate turtle painter and not have real-life inspiration?” Well, you can't argue with that... so The Turtle spends most of his life in a bathroom size, blue plastic garbage can, where he’s been this whole trip.

I stayed up late last night reading, so I was not ready to be awake when my mom burst into my room screaming “Julia! You have to wake up! I need your help NOW. Your fucking cat knocked over The Turtle’s cage (garbage can) and I’ve looked everywhere and I can’t find him and I have to be at the bike store at 10, and I haven’t even showered, and…” my mother has a tendency to ramble, so I’ve developed a tendency to turn off my hearing (it’s self defense, really). I got up, put my glasses on and crawled downstairs.

Everything was in uproar; chairs were turned over, couch cushions on the floor, cabinets moved… she had clearly been at this a while and still, no turtle. I walked into the living room and noticed Yoldla’s tombstone glaring at me from the mantle. If I believed in things like that, I might have thought that I cursed our house- “Nobody ever could keep a turtle though-" but I don’t believe in that kind of stuff. Even still, realizing that my mom would assume responsibility for this turtle’s demise as she did Yoldla’s, and not wanting to see her so upset again, I got myself a flashlight and crawled all over the house on my hands and knees, looking under every piece of furniture and in every crevice. I scoured our damp, moldy, dungeon of a basement, while my nose and throat screamed with allergic rage.

Two hours later I took a break. “Maybe we should just stop looking for a minute, Mom,” I said. “Maybe if everything is quiet for a bit, The Turtle will come out, or at least move around and we could hear him.”

My mom was still on all fours at this time, a bright red nervous wreck, and almost in tears. “Julia,” she spat out, “I know this turtle. He’s a frantic turtle. I’ve found him standing on his back legs. He’s not gonna come out.” This stream of logic didn’t quite make sense to me, but I understood it to mean that my mother was not going to stop looking for The Turtle until she found him. I was desperate for a cup of coffee or some breakfast, but I also knew that there would be no relaxing until he was found, so I got up again, picked up my flashlight, and resumed my crawling.

Minutes later, my cat went flying down the hallway towards the bathroom and we heard a mad shuffling of feet -- turtle feet! The suddenly, from behind the open bathroom door (the most obvious hiding place in the whole world) came The Turtle, running for his little life from Henry. My mom started screaming unnecessarily, and running after the turtle too, whose heart was probably very close to bursting with fear. Luckily she reached The Turtle before Henry could and she scooped him up exclaiming “I’m so happy to see you!!! I thought you were gone!” You can’t really hug a turtle, but my mother did her best to do so, and then walked over to me and said “you’ve never really even looked at him, have you? Isn’t he beautiful?” As she raised The Turtle to my eyes I looked into his wrinkly face. He is pretty, I guess, for a turtle. He has green skin with yellow stripes, orange, surprisingly expressive eyes and a multi-colored shell. He squirmed in my mother’s hand, and she held him tightly to her chest saying “praise be to God.”

Eccentricity often comes with a negative connotation, but what does it really mean to be an "eccentric?" To me, it just means that you care a lot about things that the majority of people find strange, or just could not care less about. And why is that a bad thing? I spent many childhood days rolling my eyes because of something crazy my mother said or did. Now, however, I take a look at my closest friends and realize that they themselves are a bunch of eccentrics; I have selectively chosen to spend all my free time with, and desperately enjoy the company of people who are about eccentric as the come- for our age group at least.

Unfortunately, it is rare to find people my age who really care about anything, be it something strange or something totally normal like a pet. Strong opinions do not flow freely from the lips of most 20 somethings- and if they do, then another 20 something usually gets offended by said opinion, which brings good and interesting conversation to a screeching halt.

To make a long story short, I'll take eccentricity over "normal" any day.

Simple Twist of Fate

(See title) My favorite Bob Dylan song, decidedly.
I heard it performed by a very old couple with just a guitar and a ukulele at Fred's Six Feet Under tonight (behind Iron Barley in South City- every Thurs. there's an open mic night there, FYI ) and as usual, it shook me to my core, because I believe in fate.
Oh Bob, how you crawl into my soul.

"People tell me its a sin, to know and feel too much within."

Prior to showing up at Fred's, my friend and I drove past a place called The Wedge, which had a sign out front that read "Ukelele Fight 9pm," and we both thought for a moment that maybe we should go to the Wedge instead- I mean, Ukelele fight? Too good, right?- but he had never been to open mic night and really wanted to check it out, so we passed it up. Much to our delight, however, Ukelele Fight Club (their official name) made a surprise appearance at Fred's. No fighting, unfortunately, just 10+ ukelele players having a good time drunkenly strumming some classic tunes. Fate, indeed.

SATC2

For years I have defended one of my favorite shows, Sex and the City, from many, many people who said it was garbage. These critics said it was shallow, unbelievable, immoral, etc. etc. But I stood by Carrie, Samantha, Miranda and Charlotte like they were family. I praised the show for its insightfulness, and for the fact that so many women could relate to it. I spent countless hours watching, and re-watching every episode. I cried like a baby when Carrie and Big finally got together. I bought the entire DVD set and didn't even blink when it cost me over $200.

So imagine my delight when, a few years after the show ended, the first movie came out. It wasn't great, but I still loved it. I felt like I was checking in on my girls after a few years without seeing them. The movie was like a mature version of the show, and rightfully so, as years had passed before its premier. Some people didn't like it because it was "depressing," but I thought the depressing parts were what gave it it's strength and made it more down to earth. The wedding blowup aside, there was nothing over-the-top about the first movie besides the girls' clothing, which is what made the show so great in the first place.

About 2 weeks ago, Sex and the City 2 came out. I'd first read about the sequel in some magazine about a year ago, then the previews proved the rumors true, and I could not have been more excited. About a week after it came out, I, with wings on my feet, flew to the theater to see it and...
IT. WAS. TERRIBLE.

Unbearable, actually.
I almost left the theater halfway through. I checked my watch and my phone countless times (which my friends tell me is a sure sign that I'm bored/ edgy), and didn't even care that the theater I was in served alcohol. No wine goggles could make that movie good. It was tacky, cliche, and just tired.
The trailer teases you with Jay-Z's "Empire State of Mind," but only about a fifth of the movie actually takes place in New York. The rest of it is spent in Abu Dhabi, a setting which, like the entire movie, is just ridiculous.

The series itself is like Seinfeld for materialists; it follows the lives of four "fabulous" women who live in New York. Sure their lives have ups and downs, but for the most part (shoe fetishes and sexual encounters aside), the show is not very dramatic, and fairly laid-back. Nothing extraordinary happens, usually. There are no zany antics, no slapstick humor.

Sex and the City 2 however, is za-a-a-ny, full of shenanigan after shenanigan. The ladies drive around in Maybachs, ride camels, get arrested, and worst of all, sing karaoke. And I'm not talking drunk, Cameron Diaz in My Best Friend's Wedding karaoke- theres' was supposed to be "spontaneous" but in reality was quite choreographed, they all sang in harmony, and, worst of all, the song of choice was "I am Woman." Oh, wait- I take that back- the worst part of all was that of course, every woman in the night club where they sang joined in, stood up, and made gestures of feminine strength. Ew.

The show itself was watched and loved by thousands of people for all seven years of its existance. I understand that movies are fundamentally different than tv shows, but why dramatically alter the style of a show that was so good to make a movie that is so bad? The entire thing could have taken place in New York. The trip to Abu Dhabi was distracting and unnecessary. Carrie's eye makeup was over the top and the joke about Charlotte having a camel toe while riding an actual camel, well, let's not even go there.

It feels blasphemous to be so negative about this film after years of total adoration of the tv show. But there's just no way around it. Ebert was generous to give it even one star.
"If it ain't broke, don't fix it," and please, don't break it.


Bad:

The Final Countdown

5 days of teaching left in my first year of being an 8th grade Science Teacher at Compton-Drew Elementary; a middle school in St. Louis, MO.

I find it hard to imagine saying goodbye to a lot of my students. Frustrating as they can be, I've learned just as much from them as (I hope) they've learned from me this year. That being said, I've come closer than ever before to ripping their darling little heads off in the last week. I think it's because as the end rushes near, I've been realizing that some of the leaps and bounds I thought I made with them- in terms of both behavior and academics- were just a pipe dream. I watch them do the same stupid things that they did at the beginning of the year (throw classroom materials at one another and then lie about it to avoid- gasp- picking it up), and I hear them speaking more vulgarly than ever, when I'm standing right next to them. It's not me they're swearing at or about, but I take it as a personal jab that they don't have enough respect for me to speak politely IN MY PRESENCE. Ironically, here I sit complaining about what my students have not yet learned, when clearly, I have not yet learned the most important teacher lesson of all: don't take it personally. Maybe one day I'll get there.

When I see or hear these things I find myself lashing out more angrily and loudly than ever before this year. Why do I think I can change them with 5 days left? What can yelling them into submission really teach them? The answer of course is nothing. Be that as it may, I am getting angry just writing this, and thinking about the things they do and say.

Bottom line is, if there were any more than 5 instructional days left (1.5 weeks after that, but each day has a scheduled graduation activity), I would probably kill one of them.

Thank God being a teacher comes with a summer vacation.

La-de-da, La-de-da...

What is it about spring that just makes you wanna...dance?

For the last few weekends I have had one single aspiration: to find myself in the middle of a pulsating throng of people and to lose my mind and body to any kind of music, really- terrible (or fantastic?) pop music, rap, hipster electronica- I don't care. Like the inspiration for Keb Mo's greatest hit, "She Just Wants to Dance," I've got a one track mind. And I must say I've done a pretty good job of satisfying that desire at least once a weekend for the past couple of weeks, despite the lack of good dance clubs that afflicts the good ole' Lou (needless to say, I've done some significant standard lowering in order to meet my goal). This past Friday I even managed to have a lot of fun at the "Lodge," behind Morgan Street Brewery, though it boasted, by far, the dampest dance floor, the ugliest crowd, and the worst music of any club I've been to for a while. Nonetheless I enthusiactically put my hands "uuup" for both Beyonce and Miley, without a second's delay.

Perhaps it is the increased amount of pheromones in the air, or the inverse relationship between temperature and the amount of clothing necessary to be comfortable. Or maybe my body is trying to declare independence from my mind as the end of a grueling, no fun possible work schedule is drawing very near. Whatever it is, I'll just have to soldier forth, like a woman possessed... if you know any good dance spots in St. Louis, please let me know.

STOLEN GOODS!

This is a picture from my friend Leigh's blog, which she took during a recent trip to Rome. However it is incredible and I had to share. I lived in Rome for a while, and at first the graffiti all over the city really bothered me, but by the end of my time there I grew to love it. Like everything else in that city, I think it is beautiful.