EPTRecently, I had to take an AP European History Final. For extraneous circumstances, I was alone in a room with a cuckoo clock, with the only thing keeping me honest being the lack of 3G connection in the room. That's where your taxpayer dollars are going.
Anyhow, I got some sort of 80 percent. That's really nice for an AP class, especially when all your friends study way more than you and get 60s. Also nice, the final is just a regurgitated old AP test, so I could judge myself ready for the AP test this friday. Or could I?
The only thing I remember about the multiple choice is that it was all on things I didn't really know. The only thing I remember about the essays is that I was bullshitting really hard. But, I tried and succeeding.
What do you give value to in life?
It's pretty simple as a standalone question. But, you have to understand the premise.
School is theoretically important. If you get good grades you learn a good work ethic and get into a good school and have a high quality of life, in theory. I'm naturally good at school, being able to pick up knowledge and devote a small but not inadequate amount of work to manage all A's in any class that is important. So, I kick ass at school. You should give value to school, the benefits are only positive.
There are a few central dogmas engrained in my mind from my parents:
You can do anything you set your mind to.
You can do whatever you want to when you grow up, if you set your mind to it.
^These aren't ad verbatim, but they are pretty accurate to what I'm trying to say.
So I sing.
...what?
I sing!
As a young boy, I chose to stay in choir for my schooling. In 7th grade they needed someone to be Timone, I stepped up. My motivations were not pure. I simply did choir in 7th and 8th grade because then I wouldn't have to take 2 arts in 7th and 8th grade. Only one.
But then, I joined the chamber choir. It was an elite(as elite as middle school chamber choirs go) group of singers that met every morning. I would be at school 45 minutes early so we could rehearse sooner. So, I was a singer as a frivolous activity.
Enter Freshmen Year. Freshmen choir was still a shadow of a real choir, with the guys part never being defined. I was an anomaly in that only I sung out the guys part(it was accurate to the music, too!) and was heard by the audience. There is value in that, but freshmen choir is still the easiest and most pointless thing that ever existed.
Sometime during that year of Freshmen Choir, my teacher asked if anyone wanted to sing with the "West Shore Chorale" in Aita. My parents always listened to the musical Aita, it was practically engrained into my head. So I said sure, and went to my audition.
At the audition, I was made to vocalize and sightread. I did the vocalization as well as a still maturing voice could and the sightreading was subpar at best, not decent really. But, I told him I listened to Aita a lot and so I pretty much knew it like the back of my hand.
Unfortunately, it was actually the OPERA AITA. OPERA. OPERA.
OPERA.
ITALIAN.
OPERA.
This would present a problem to any reasonable human being, and I should have called it quits. However, I chose to tell my concerned mom that I would go and do it. I have no idea what made me think I could.
So I went. My brain seems to have blocked the awkward first rehearsals. Actually, I think my brain blocks off the awkward first times of everything I do. Anyhow, I eventually got the hang of kinda maybe sightreading, kinda maybe pronouncing the latin, and kinda maybe getting the notes right. I made a friend in the old guy next to me(keep in mind this is my freshmen self). I like to think his name is Frank, but it’s not. I don’t know what his name is. But I think it is Frank. But I know it is not. Long story.
In fact, this story is getting too long.
Long story short, I did Aita and then quit west shore chorale, citing reasons such as “didnt want to force my parents to drive me places”.
Where do I stand now? It’s a story for another time, but I’ll give you the gist. My choir teacher convinced me to try out for the Cleveland orchestra youth chorus, and I did and made it. I tried out for the high school version of the chamber choir and failed, and decided to take the west shore chorale up on their offer to “accept anyone into the choir that sung with us in Aita”.
Now, I have a dedicated voice teacher, piano teacher, am in the West Shore Chorale, COYC, A church choir, my school’s A cappella choir, and I’m trying out for my high school choir again. Look at where I stand. And look at how off-topic I am. I promise I’ll make a blog someday that explains this entire ordeal, but the point is I am a great singer now.
Back to the value debate, or should I say, Bach to the value debate
So, I performed Bach’s mass in B minor today with the west shore choral today. It was excellent.
To prepare, I played kingdom hearts 2 final mix all weekend and neglected my short story, lab report, and Ap euro portfolio. Only the short story is time sensitive to turnitin.com by 11:59 PM. It is now past that time, at 1:39 at time of typing this.
I got home from the performance at a stellar 10:30 pm, had a good poop/read teamliquid. I happened to read the thread about “tips from progamers”. In it, Jinro said “passion always fades so you need dedication to keep going. Its such a hugely true statement that applies to everything in life (marriage, jobs, etc).
It seemed like a god call. I had been struggling with, since the performance, the fact that it was quite excellent but obviously an imperfect performance.
I kept in mind what my gym teacher had told me regarding AP Testing:
Could you have done more? Probably.
Could you have done less? Most certainly.”
It seems fitting tribute to putting effort into something, so that it comes out well. But it also made me wonder why I had such an attachment to the performance this evening. And Jinro made me realize it was the dedication that kept me going.
Anyhow, I was done at 11 because I can read for a long time while pooping for some reason.
I went to edit my short story. It came out much better than before. Here it is:
Preface: Existentalism was one of the last things we learned in AP Euro. I had nothing to write about, so I chose it. I also essentially made myself the main character of my story, but tell no one. When I went to edit, the paragraph didn’t have enough words, only 1300 out of the 1500-1700 range. By 11:58, it was at 1776 and I had to turn it in for fear of being late.
Yet, I was satisfied with turning in something I had put a good amount of work into and was happy with the product. Even though it was blatantly wrong.
So, back to the question: What do you put value into? School or Choirs? I chose choirs, and my school suffered. But I’m fine with it. is that OK? Have a story.
The Story:
Existent
“Existentialism: The philosophical and cultural movement that holds that the starting point of philosophical thinking must be the individual and the experiences of the individual,” my history teacher droned on.
I decided to ask a question for the sake of the question, rather than the answer.
I threw out the first thing that came to mind, “Does reading books count as an experience for an individual?”
“If you want to be technical about it, yes. However, the main point of existentialism is in an empirical approach to philosophy,” my teacher wisely determined.
“Makes sense. Thanks,” I replied, satisfied with my endeavor into interactive learning.
As summer slowly creeps into the mind of every high schooler, they begin to want to act free of school even as their schooling continues. Such an occurrence was exactly my problem, and even my most standard troubleshooting actions were failing.I resolved to take for myself a sophomore lunch, the rule-breaking component of senior lunch, a privilege offered at my school to seniors that allowed them to eat out or at home during their lunch period.
Ring. I walked down the more deserted hallway to the parking lot, and a nervous rush overtook me. The kind of nervous rush you can only get when you are doing something bad and you know it. However, I was a smart rule breaker. I had learned from experience that if you act like you have business to do, you will look completely in place no matter wherever you are. To that extent, you could call me an existentialist.
Reaching my car, I felt the walls of freedom close in around me. As long as no one sees me, I can do whatever I want. If anyone sees me, my parade would be at an end. The drive to my home was a quick one, and I found myself getting from car to house quickly, as if someone could catch me. Whereas I had felt out of place at school, I felt completely in place at home. I took out the old faithful breakfast of cheerios with milk and decided to watch birds fly around. Outside, I marveled at the birdless trees. They were good trees, with many twisted branches and green leaves. These trees were pictures to me.
When I was little, I used to never be able to go to sleep. Youthful energy kept me awake and focused, and youthful superstition made me stare at the window when it was the moonlit night. Such a long time spent staring at the trees allowed me to make pictures out of the constantly in flux branches. Looking up at the trees now, I saw the familiar clown, the strangely proportioned hippopotamus, and of course, the pikachu with only one ear. Bird-ridden or birdless, at least I appreciated the value trees can have.
I finished my fourth bowl of cereal and my belly signaled its fullness. When I find myself in awkward situation like the present, I attempt to self-diagnose using some combination of philosophy and common sense. The diagnosis: I wasn’t being fulfilled by anything I was doing. Just a month ago, I would have a different choir to sing at every other day. I would fall into any piece of music like I was a natural. But as all of my concert had happened and ended, so too finished my drive.
Indeed, the choirs were much like the trees. Although the birds were not there, the trees still represented something important to me, something that only I intrinsically knew to be wonderful about them. Just as the trees were no longer full of birds, the choir seats were no longer full of singers.
Realizing the magnitude of what had just run through my mind, I spoke aloud in my empty home, “Existentialists rejoice, I am among your numbers now.”
I went down to my piano, purposely leaving my phone and any sense of communication or time upstairs with my empty cereal bowl. I opened up Praeludium, a piece I had bought on a whim at the piano store. It was by Bach, and furthermore it looked easy, and that was my principal motivation for obtaining it. Besides, if I could play a piece by Bach, surely I was capable of whatever I wanted? Capability, I thought, is a desirable trait. Eager to prove myself. I looked at the music.
It looked tedious. I had to write in the letter names of the first measure of notes to even get started, and then tap it out with my hands to ensure it was right. As I continued to the third measure, I realized a pattern was evident.
Just what I needed, I was calling for a challenge and Bach was responding. I took this as a personal challenge. 10 measures in, I decided this to be a stupid challenge. Every measure Bach would change the chord the notes outlined, and so every measure my hands would have to go through the same motions on different keys. It was frustrating.
I was brought back to memories playing Guitar Hero, when it was popular. Some rock songs have a tendency to repeat, and I always found myself frustrated to have to mash the same buttons consecutively, as it would confuse my fingers. One day, I found the mental hotspot of focus necessary to play a song with many repeats perfectly. It was my first perfect playthrough of a song. I had felt accomplished.
Such should be the same with this song. Even though it is written by such a prominent dead guy, it really isn’t the hardest thing I’d hazard to guess you can play on a piano. It’s just difficult for me, and that’s what makes me enjoy it, and be fulfilled by it. As I toiled away at it, each new measure familiar but different, I realized how much time must be passing.
Overcoming me was a state of intense mental focus. Every measure, I easily read which notes were in the repeating rhythm. Not allowing myself any breaks, I practiced chunk by chunk, so that I knew the progression of the different note patterns. I did everything I could think of to refine for what seemed like a longevity far too obscured from a normal attention span.
As I reached the end, I was amused and contented that it ended on such a simple chord. Really, this song could be considered the metaphor of life. Complicated and dynamic, yet clear cut and ending simply. Why was I trying to compare a song to life? I had to return to school.
Impulsively, I grabbed my Praeludium, took my phone, and drove back to school. I endeavored myself to not look at the clock, I was determined to go to the choir room where the grand piano was.
As I walked in, I heard singing, and knew choir was still going on. I wasn’t sure how I could talk my way out of not going to class, but I figured it was possible and was on my way to the choir room. As I walked in, the choir fell silent, clearly interested in why I was walking in late.
“Do you have a pass?” the choir director asked annoyedly, as most all people did not.
Rather than reply I took advantage of the silence, walked to the grand piano, pulled my Praeludium out, and started to play.
There is a certain zone one can get into when gaming or playing sports. When in this zone, everything comes naturally and the true essence of yourself is in the action. There are a select few video games in which I have reached this level of mastery, and I would go so far to distinguish it from the sense I had in guitar hero. Yet, to achieve such a flow is a pure concentration of talent gained from hard work.
Such flow was on my side. I played Praeludium as well as I had at home. In fact, I played better. I felt the true beauty of the music written so long ago rebirthed with my piano playing.
As I finished, I was at peace. I had done well for an audience. I had done the most eccentric thing ever, all because I wasn’t feeling school.
I remarked back to a past christmas, talking to my grandpa.
He had simply asked, “do you know how to be successful?”
I replied honestly, though not in the manner of a smart aleck, “not particularly.”
“Passion always fades away, you need dedication to keep going,” he imparted on me.
Returning to the moment, I found that my passion and then dedication must have paid off. I may have drawn off of something I was told, but I still had to find it true in my own life. As I scored another point for existentialists, I realized I had to somehow justify my actions.
I got up and asked, “can that be my pass?”
She nodded her head in awe, and I walked out.
I went into the bathroom,examining the mirror to see what superhuman being lie before. To the contrary, what lay before me was a familiar face. A heavier build, with medium short brown hair backed up by hazel eyes. The kind of eyes that would change color with your shirt, and let you know which girls actually paid attention to you by their comments on their flux. Deciding my contemplation was up, I exited the bathroom and headed for the door.
Looking out the door, a blonde. Freckles dappled her face, crisp blue eyes surrounded by the sun’s relics.
“Your eyes are green today, though they should be blue with your shirt,” she observed.
This girl was my type. She struck up a conversation purely because something about me interested her. Furthermore, she was having the same line of thinking I just had in the bathroom. She must like me, I asserted to myself. Why else would she pay such attention to such an intensive detail? I had to go for it.
“Your eyes are crystal blue today, and seem to hungering for some Robeks. Want to ditch this popsicle stand and oblige me some Robeks?” I asked, understanding all the multitudes of reasons to say no. At the very least I had gotten to say oblige and popsicle stand.
With a few choice words, she confirmed my greatest hopes, “A sound plan. Lead the way.”
She smiled at me, and I smiled back. This was straight flirting, and my heart was aflutter with the notion of it. She followed me as I went out the door into the beaming, warm sunlight.
Existentialists were right, you really can only base your ideas in life off of experience. Being stupidly lucky isn’t bad either.
PS: I’m sorry about the choral rant. With a little more effort, it could be it’s own standalone blog and much better for reading. I just wanted to blog for my own entertainment. I’m off to do the rest of my homework now.
