“I’m bored’ is a useless thing to say. I mean, you live in a great, big, vast world that you’ve seen none percent of. Even the inside of your own mind is endless; it goes on forever, inwardly, do you understand? The fact that you’re alive is amazing, so you don’t get to say ‘I’m bored.”—
The idea for the fantasy was to bring a day of joy for Miles Scott, a 5-year-old boy who had been battling acute lymphoblastic leukemia since he was 20 months old. By the time he was rescuing the Giants mascot Lou Seal from the clutches of the Penguin, Batkid had become a national phenomenon.
“I’d imagine the whole world was one big machine. Machines never come with any extra parts, you know. They always come with the exact amount they need. So I figured if the entire world was one big machine… I couldn’t be an extra part. I had to be here for some reason.”—Cabret Hugo in Hugo.
I’m taking a Humanities course and we are going over the music of the Renaissance. This includes the Classical and Romantic Age. Of course, my mind goes straight to the all famous Turkish March and Fur Elise. However, what never occurred to me was the people behind the dainty and incendiary sounds of life coming out of the piano.
Mozart was the type of person who you would want to grab a cup of coffee and chat with. I’m sure I would be intrigued by his stories about playing for the King of England, George III. Maybe even be dazed as he explains how he began to write minuets at age 5. Truly, I would be in awe of this man; this coming from a girl who has never even played a chord on the piano. Tchaikovsky, good grief… He is the reason 4-year-olds dress up in white tutus and (try to) dance in unicent. Nothing beats four little swans tripping over their ballet slippers. Not to mention, anyone who uses cannons as a finale into symphonies (The 1812 Overture) has a place in the Hall of Masters in my mind.
However, no composer quite hits my music bone like Beethoven. The fact that he was deaf is not the characteristic that made him surpass the rest. He was arrogant, dogmatic, and a man of little words; the exact opposite of the charming Mozart. Beethoven was miserable his entire life and walked around with a constant cold shoulder. Nevertheless, he was a rebellious genius who defied the Classical Age.
The Romantic Age was not about love or being… Well… Romantic. It was about expressing emotions and feelings from your fingertips to a key. Symphony #5 by Beethoven was, at first, said to be the devils music. This type of music was unthinkable. I silently wonder at the fact that if Symphony #5 was seen as devil-seeking. What is modern music seen as? I wonder what Tchaikovsky would say to Lady Gaga. Maybe he likes the idea of aliens.
Everything in the Classical Age was precise, measured, weighed, and in perfect harmony. The Romantic Age broke from that cycle. A favorite of mine is Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. It’s rather light but you can actually hear the pain and yearning in every key.
I’ve branched a bit.
Beethoven, though brash, is someone I would want to sit in front of and have uninterrupted eye-contact with. No conversation, just an act of communication that brings out more feelings and emotion than any small talk could ever do. I’m not sure I would want to have a conversation with him. I’m sure he’d be dreadfully sorrow and spiteful. Sitting in silence with this man would quench the desire left, if any, to speak to him.
I stumbled upon you through GWP & have come to the conclusion that Im obssessed with you & your blog ( in the least creepy way possible I promise) The things you write about concerning school & life are all things I feel and relate to perfectly!
This is such a confidence boost! Thank you, that’s very sweet. :) I’m glad you’re enjoying my rants!
"Living here day by day, you think it’s the center of the world. You believe nothing will ever change. Then you leave: a year, two years. When you come back, everything’s changed. The thread’s broken. What you came to find isn’t there. What was yours is gone. You have to go away for a long time… many years… before you can come back and find your people. The land where you were born. But now, no. It’s not possible. Right now you’re blinder than I am."
Coming to terms with a new-found love for foreign film.
“We do not want merely to see beauty, we want something else which can hardly be put into words- to be united with [it], pass into it, receive it into ourselves, bathe in it, become part of it.”—C.S. Lewis
What I thought I learned last year and what I'm learning now.
In all sincerity, I shouldn’t be writing this. I should be studying for a test I’m taking tomorrow morning. But I can’t help but transfer a few thoughts from my head to my fingertips to the keyboard. Maybe this will clear my mind and keep me a bit more focused on the original task I set out to do this evening.
I killed it last year. I was one of three students in the entire junior class that got all A’s. That being said, I took AP and college classes, so don’t argue the possibility that my classes were easier than anyone else’s. The entire year, I was constantly writing papers, carrying out assignments, and studying to prove fellow pupils wrong. I wanted to prove that a girl who scored a.. Get ready for this… 20… 20! on the ACT could be just as determined, smart, and strong as some with a perfect score of 36. Throughout this time, I believed I was learning a lot. I shoved everything I possible could into my head and if it didn’t fit in my head I shoved it in my body (which was probably the reason I had an unhealthy amount of weight loss. Ahhh, the joys of stress). Instead of expanding my knowledge, I’m quite certain all I truly did was store “fake” knowledge or “teacher-pleasing” knowledge into my head. I learned how to give a teacher or professor exactly what they want, but what they want doesn’t actually matter in the long run.
I’ve learned more this past summer in my travels, encounters with wordly people, and self-reading than I have in all my years as a high school student. I think I have come to the realization that being a “teacher-pleaser” or one out of five thousand students to get a 36 on the ACT doesn’t compare to a world waiting to teach you and give you knowledge. Sorry Harvard, but I’d take a trip to Italy to study language and culture over a weekly class lecture about the history of Italy with 253 students and a heaping pile of study material any day.
For the time being, I’ll just eat ice cream and try to figure out how to do functions and solve solutions.
A few days ago I heard a horn while reading in my car, watching the sun spill out, and waiting for school to start and I thought of New York. I thought of the constant honking that comforted me while I slept above Times Square. Before my time in New York, I hated the sound of horns and whistles and all things that interrupted my thoughts. Now, however, they ease my mind of too many thoughts.