SHE was not a girl I loved, or liked. SHE was not someone I knew personally. And most importantly, SHE ruined everything.
It starts like this. A boy (me) finds interest in an instrument that his parents aren't really forcing him to play. The more accurate term would be "nudging"; they were "nudging" me. So this boy plays for fun, follows along the instructional CD, and even begins to learn songs by ear. Call it natural if you may, but I really liked it. Then this WOMAN comes marching into my house every Thursday at 4:00 demanding more practice. Then the parents would demand practice, not satisfied by how much they were paying her. Not only that, but in retrospect, she was a horrible teacher. You'd think that with that much yelling some of it was for good. I'd have to say no.
Instead of teaching me the chromatic scale and all other related necessities in western music, she taught me that certain dots on the graph with 5 lines represented a finger I should hold down on my violin. This was already a plan for failure. Three Suzuki books in and I still wasn't capable of reading music. All I knew were fingers 1, 2, 3, 4 and occasionally 5, my pinky finger. Damn that woman. Really. Except the few times when she would scream G-STRING and me and my brother would just laugh because she said G-string, as in man thong. Besides that, she ruined it.
The overjustification effect in full effect I started to hate violin and violins in general. If dreams of burning violins isn't a sign of animosity, then I don't know what is. It's simple, force a kid to do something he already likes to do and he will slowly(or quickly) begin to hate it. Yes, even eating ice cream.
SHE came in to my life and blacked out music for 5 years, just like my high school language arts teachers turned reading into taboo. She didn't even teach me any music theory that I could accidentally recall now and then. Just 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. And here I am now desperately trying to make sense of the circle of fifths and pentatonic and diatonic scales.
I'm not regretful. Just mad. Age 17, it's not too late. Maybe I'll come out of the smoke victorious. Maybe I'll show this woman how much she sucked and become another worthless loser. Either way, when I have a kid, I'll nudge him to play some instruments. Then get him some worthless teachers. Then let him rinse and repeat on his own kin. Yea right.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Good Writing.
If the back cover synopsis of the the book you're reading turns out to be just that, a synopsis, then perhaps you'd be better off flushing that book down an industrial strength toilet and waste away in front of the glowing box. I mean, at least you'd enjoy the moments as your bone marrow rots away one atom at a time. The back cover should beckon you as does a seductress, but at the same time it should be an understatement of the prowess of prose and literary technique bound within.
In light of college apps, I've realized one thing. Good writing makes you think. It makes you flip back to page one when you read something that was innocuous and unimportant. Later you realize that the author gave you the conclusion clear as day 342 pages ago. So what about books makes taciturn children abide to and older adults hoard to? It's simple. As I said before, it makes you think. It draws you in. It only gives you enough information to go on with your daily life, without exploding in someone's face. Screaming, "WHAT HAPPENS TO MR. EDWARD DAMMIT!!!!?!?!" Perhaps you'll never know. Or at least not until volume two. For the same reason people play sudoku, people read. But instead of jogging your brain, it makes it run.
In light of college apps, I've realized one thing. I fail to write cohesively. Good writing reflects back on itself, or if it's a convex mirror, into itself. OooOoOo I actually learned something in Physics- watch out. Every line, every word, 342 pages in, or 23 pages back, it all reflects back on that main idea. As I attempt to write my personal statements, I find myself lost in a maze of fun house mirrors. Every sentence foreign to the one adjacent to it. If my essays had an attention span they'd be a about as long as... What was I talking about? I find myself reading books in hopes that the good writing will impress on me. But instead of writing and revising my personal statements, I find myself writing on meaningless unread blogs. I think "Let this essay be the end-all and be-all." Then instead of writing the essay, I go complain and whine about it on some useless sloppily written blog.
Ironic that I say I realized just one thing yet write about several separate and novel ideas in one essay. Like I said, I have a problem. Shakespeare wrote in Macbeth, "Glamis hath murdered sleep, and now Cawdor shall no longer" (Yea, I actually learned something in school.). In writing this essay, I've realized one thing. Reading good writing has made me a better writer. Whether I'm writing for college or for nonsensical teenage blogs, it all makes me a better writer. This essay is proof, I am not the same writer I was forty pages ago. Coherent, check. Cohesive, half-a-check. Well-written, for now we'll give it a minus sign with a few plus signs surrounding it to even it out. Willis hath murdered writing cohesively, and now more placebos for good writing, called blogs, shall be created.
In light of college apps, I've realized one thing. Good writing makes you think. It makes you flip back to page one when you read something that was innocuous and unimportant. Later you realize that the author gave you the conclusion clear as day 342 pages ago. So what about books makes taciturn children abide to and older adults hoard to? It's simple. As I said before, it makes you think. It draws you in. It only gives you enough information to go on with your daily life, without exploding in someone's face. Screaming, "WHAT HAPPENS TO MR. EDWARD DAMMIT!!!!?!?!" Perhaps you'll never know. Or at least not until volume two. For the same reason people play sudoku, people read. But instead of jogging your brain, it makes it run.
In light of college apps, I've realized one thing. I fail to write cohesively. Good writing reflects back on itself, or if it's a convex mirror, into itself. OooOoOo I actually learned something in Physics- watch out. Every line, every word, 342 pages in, or 23 pages back, it all reflects back on that main idea. As I attempt to write my personal statements, I find myself lost in a maze of fun house mirrors. Every sentence foreign to the one adjacent to it. If my essays had an attention span they'd be a about as long as... What was I talking about? I find myself reading books in hopes that the good writing will impress on me. But instead of writing and revising my personal statements, I find myself writing on meaningless unread blogs. I think "Let this essay be the end-all and be-all." Then instead of writing the essay, I go complain and whine about it on some useless sloppily written blog.
Ironic that I say I realized just one thing yet write about several separate and novel ideas in one essay. Like I said, I have a problem. Shakespeare wrote in Macbeth, "Glamis hath murdered sleep, and now Cawdor shall no longer" (Yea, I actually learned something in school.). In writing this essay, I've realized one thing. Reading good writing has made me a better writer. Whether I'm writing for college or for nonsensical teenage blogs, it all makes me a better writer. This essay is proof, I am not the same writer I was forty pages ago. Coherent, check. Cohesive, half-a-check. Well-written, for now we'll give it a minus sign with a few plus signs surrounding it to even it out. Willis hath murdered writing cohesively, and now more placebos for good writing, called blogs, shall be created.
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