(from my journal)
if ________ is here [at the concert], then today will mark the one year anniversary of the last time we said we would hang out.
my favorite part of riding the L train is that moment when, at 8th Avenue, the last stop, the door stays closed for an impossibly long time, sealing everyone in like fish in an aquarium, waiting, it seems, for panic to touch even the coolest passenger, and for that one person who will inevitably shout “fuck!”
i just looked up the expression “persona non grata” to see if it could in any way apply to how the piano faculty at IU has treated me since i graduated, and it turns out to be exactly the perfect definition.
a girl on the 1 train dribbles coffee on herself while taking a sip from her thermos, laughs in disbelief and says to the woman sitting across the aisle, “i fuckin hate this city.”
I often come across gifted but obscure composers whose creative timelines imitate the trends of whatever their more-famous teachers chose to follow. They have no arc of their own and disappear, appropriately I suppose, into history, into their mentor’s shadow. Philip Glass never, ever did that. With his story, and with his music, he reminds all of us: Make sacrifices. Kill your masters. Write your credo. And run with it. Happy Birthday.
…I feel this need to focus… I don’t even want to have a talk with somebody about what they did last weekend. I can’t think about anything. I just let it expand till it takes up everything. That’s not good and I don’t think it makes you play your best. It feels pure though, like you’re some kind of priest or Buddha or something, 14 hours of meditation, the ascetic disciplines, yadda yadda. It’s really not more real or pure. It just feels that way. Ultimately, the only thing real is how well you do what you’re doing.
I think with doing anything hard, you just have to jump off and trust you’ll land okay. You acquire the skills along the way.