Gotta hurry up and jot all this down before I run out of coffee and the manic episode subsides

Now that I've begun a self-imposed regimen of partial mobility (unbeknownst to my doctor and to the chagrin and bemusement of my saintly boyfriend, who is doing his best to be a supportive boyfriend and a non-judgmental doctor), a glimmer of hope has been reintroduced into my daily routine. I've once again resumed planning for future projects. The apartment has returned to an acceptable level of tidiness, even though it still takes me nearly twice as long to hobble around putting things away and placing them in pleasing perpendicular angles to one another. (I know I have many issues, and I should probably see someone about them, but since I can't afford that, this blog will have to do. The eternal void that is the Internet shall be my therapist, and we'll be collectively worse off once this is all over.)

I've been having a lot of thoughts, as is my wont when I have oodles of downtime wherein my idling brain, naturally ambitious and prone to dissatisfaction with its present circumstances whatever they happen to be, itches to make contact with a tangible, meaningful goal. I thought back to the last time I allowed myself to be truly creative, without fear of rejection, failure, or boredom. You know when that was? Over a decade ago. I must have been 13-14-15, right after I dropped out of middle school and before I began preparing for music school auditions. Every new day brought an unbridled output of reading, writing, drawing, every day, for hours on end, I didn't have an agenda and wasn't worried about who would see my work or whether or not I was going to make any money with it. None of those projects ever really amounted to anything--I have always been my own worst critic and had a bad habit of abandoning writing projects halfway through because I thought they were no good--but the fact is I was doing it, every day, writing, sketching, experimenting with all sorts of media. I worked on a sweeping epic fantasy novel with a royal female protagonist. It was, in my delusional fifteen-year-old mind, a hybrid of Ken Follett and J.K. Rowling. (When Eragon was published, I remembered feelings of jealousy and contempt upon learning that the author had been in his teens.) I dabbled with charcoals and pastels and photography. I tried to teach myself Photoshop before it was even really a thing.

That unabashed creative license, free from the restrictions imposed by adulthood (and shielded from the distractions of Facebook and Netflix) made those years some of the happiest of my life. Then I grew up. My focus shifted and narrowed, and I set aside those other creative passions in favor of music. I've often thought about picking up those old hobbies again, dusting off the old chops and building up that old callous I used to have on my finger from holding a pencil so often. Something always held me back; either a fear that I would be wasting my time, that it would detract from my musical pursuits, or perhaps that I would discover I wasn't good enough to cut it, and it would no longer bring me joy. And here I think we are arriving at the main thesis of my perfectionist persona that has been holding me back for all this time: I am good at the things I enjoy, but what if I only enjoy them because I am good at them?

I have no regrets with my decision to focus on music, but lately I have wondered if perhaps my relinquishment of those other artistic outlets was premature. I have always and will continue to believe that music is a universal language that is able to transcend the bounds of perceptible thought. But what good is a language when no one is listening? Maybe it's time to switch the method of communication.

#epiphany #maniccynicism #nostalgia

This rant brought to you by Lagavulin

I broke my ankle hiking a month ago, but it feels like years have passed since I was able to move around with ease and run and jump without fear of breaking something. Has it only been a month? Limited mobility is a drag I wouldn't wish on anyone.

OK, the Scotch has taken the edge off a little bit already, so this rant isn't going to be as animated as it would have been had I been writing twenty minutes ago from the parking lot that was 10th St. Allow me to explain.

It snowed in Atlanta today. And by snowed, I mean an hour and a half of steady flurries bookended by mild to moderate rain. Definitely unpleasant, but nothing catastrophic. But judging by the poor display of driving I saw on my way to and from Emory this afternoon, you'd think the apocalypse was nigh. Keep in mind that the drivers in this city are terrible under the best meteorological circumstances. Add a little frosted cloud powder to the equation and it's unmitigated chaos. It took me 45 minutes to drive four miles (plus another fifteen minute walk from the garage to the performing arts center, in slippery snow-slush, on a broken ankle no less, shhh don't tell my doctor) to have a five minute meeting where I was basically just told a bunch of stuff I already knew. Then another 45 minute drive home.

I know this is all sounding very grandparent-y, when-I-was-your-age-I-walked-twenty-miles-uphill-in-a-blizzard-both-ways kind of ornery, but that's how I feel right now. I have no reason to, because even in my crippled state I've managed to find some work and continue to book gigs and more or less doing OK for myself. I knew the process would be slow, and I honestly didn't expect to start getting work as early as I did. But I am not a patient person, and this ankle fracture coupled with trying to start over in a new city has been an exercise in infinite patience. I'll get through it, if it doesn't kill me first.

#rant #Scotch #broken

Cleaning House

With powerful men in Hollywood dropping like flies amid a relentless barrage of accusations of sexual misconduct varying in hue from Harassment Chartreuse to Assault Hangover-Poop-Black, it leads me to wonder how many other fields will follow suit (the glaring exception being the executive branch of our government, which is apparently exempt from even the most basic laws of humanity, much less morality or actual judiciary law).

The music business, after all, is just another branch of the entertainment field, and though classical musicians are held to an invisible loftier standard, anyone who's watched a handful of "Mozart in the Jungle" episodes or been to any classical summer music festival anywhere in the world would beg to drastically lower said standard.

Classical music is teeming with a cast of temperamental, perverse, whimsical, sexually repressed-and/or-depraved maniacs (and I proudly include myself in this crowd) who are somehow egotistical and delusional enough to think that an intelligent, discerning portion of the population care about what they have to say or play. Sounds like Hollywood, right? But the nascent history of Hollywood male indiscretion, barely a century old, is a mere fledgling compared to the hundreds of years men--re: old white men--have dominated the classical music industry, shaping its course, abusing their power and stifling countless voices along the way.

I've been in the business long enough to hear countless sickening stories, and have even collected a few of my own. I'm not ready to share them yet, but this power imbalance has shaped the very way I interact with colleagues and potential clients. Finding that I have to be polite and sweet to people I find morally (and musically) reprehensible because they hold the key to the gigs. Wondering if I'm only being hired based on my visual appeal rather than my musical ability. I have been luckier than most. For the most part I have been fortunate to have older male mentors who have respected me as a musician first, and have championed my playing because they believed in my art. But it only takes one person to shatter that illusion, to make you feel like an object, something to be looked at and not heard. Even people who mean well, their comments leave indelible grooves in the psyche: "Your playing is fantastic, and it doesn't hurt that you're so pretty!" It's a compliment. And it's belittling.

I am both thrilled and appalled by the men and women who have spoken out against their aggressors; thrilled because it's about damn time, appalled by the sheer number of incidents, and the unspoken implication of countless more behind the scenes who, like me, aren't ready or willing to talk about it just yet. Let this be a call to arms. I hear you. We hear you. Speak.

#louisCK #harveyweinstein #kevinspacey #etc #etcetc #etcetcetc #classicalmusicsdirtylittlesecret #oldwhitedudesinpower #why #Imaybealittleangry