my family is moving next week so I started packing up what is now angela's room (used to be mine & eunice's). I mean really, how many blue bear/hello kitty/badtz maru/mashimaro pencils, rulers, notebooks, exacto knives, stationary papers, stickers, etc. does one need? and glitter glue! lots and lots of glitter glue! and gel pens (I used to collect them in middle school. I also collected pencils, stamps, foreign currency, rocks, stickers, erasers and more! I liked to collect things and never use them.) it was so overwhelming that after I had dumped all of those on the floor to sort through them, I decided to move on to the bookshelf.
I found some old essays and such that I wrote over the years. here's a poem I wrote in tenth grade for english class.
At church this morning
holding their hymn books
a couple came up
their looks...
the lady in a cotton candy pink suit
the man in purplish plaid
they sang a song
I, having a critical mind
at first thought of
how far behind
they were on the rhythm
how tone-deaf they were
what plain voices they had
compared to their bright wear
their voices were more like
the dull brown church chair
but then I saw
their joyous expressions
through their face and body
their complexions
made up for the voices, tainted
their presence
was like a scene, painted
they were praising God, the Sublime
through their simple hymn
which at first, stung me like lime
exacerbating a paper cut
but finally I realized,
this is beautiful.
I have been thinking about this - what music is - what beauty is. last week, a friend took me to a piano bar, where people sing from the great american songbook with the piano man. most people couldn't sing all that well but they seemed to be having a fantastic time, singing the pop songs of their day to their heart's content. I found it really interesting. I tend to judge music through this elitist lense, where people need not participate, unless they are highly qualified - my musical upbringing has reinforced this notion at nearly every step of the way. past classes and lessons have taught me to listen to myself and others with a critical ear but I wonder if I have been critical based on incomplete criteria. how do you measure value in music?
anyway, I should really get back to "packing" before jelly starts accusing me of an unhealthy addiction to my laptop again. she is just bitter because I refused to play crash team racing with her. she must think the only reason I'm home is to play with her. oh no, here she comes noW!
