I've been hacking away at exercising for the last year. I've lost a chuck of weight, but to be honest, all this work still kind of sucks. One of my favorite exercises is to walk up and down the stairs with a 50 pound backpack on while listening to classical music. My favorite piece to listen to while I do this is Mozart's Piano concerto no. 5. It is such a fitting tune, speaking of a that hippy metaphorical stuff. (That and the tempo is great to step too.)
Bogged down. Shoulders burdened with a great weight. How can we possibly trudge up hill? Life is hard, at least with any real aspirations. All those motivational guru's speak of positivity. Good and well, but how do I really achieve a positive mind set. Some seem to suggest by ignoring negativity. Others seem to suggest positivity is a matter of kicking myself in the rear and yelling 'fight it.'
I'm not sure if K. 482 has the answer, but it presses on. Mozart wrote this piece around the time he was working on The Marriage of Figaro. He had his own set of obstacles to climb. The song doesn't ignore the fact that life is hard. It doesn't try to say, 'hey that pack is not really there.' This piece has a slapping myself in the face, keep going tone. So, I will. Trudge that steep ascent toward my aspiration (in the case of exercising: perspirations) with that weight on my shoulders.
Monday, November 9, 2015
Wednesday, August 26, 2015
Quote Challenge: Day 3
"If people could see into my heart, I should almost feel ashamed... All there is cold, cold as ice."
For my last quote in this challenge, I went a shade darker. In the second quote, Mozart shows himself as a man who didn't let people's opinions affect his craft, while juxtapositionally craving praise. Both attitudes (not caring what people think and over-caring) have a common seed--a lowered view of humanity. Mozart saw people as objects for his passions, not the purpose of his passions.
Yes, Mozart wanted people to be moved by his music, yet not for their sake, but for his. And this mentality is dangerous. It was dangerous for Mozart. The quote was written the year before he died. With people no longer (if having ever) satisfying his passions, Mozart lost love toward humanity. He grew depressed. Bitter. Insulting. And, I wonder if he could have ever received enough praise. So, he spiraled downward, delving into drinking and sex. It was possibly the combination of the two that killed him. (Although, he was disgusted with himself to know that he shouldn't have been consumed by such cold thoughts.)
There is danger in finding our joy in the praise of others, or in the belittling of others for amusement. Both the glory-seeking flatterer and the jerk-face cynic see humans as fodder bolstering their own status...
Why did I start this blog? I could spew out the noble answer: 'To get people to learn about Mozart and enrich their lives.' But honestly, I wanted to do something no one else was doing to put my name out there as a creative force. Sure, if lives are enriched by my posts, I won't complain. I may even feel good about myself (for a spell). But, even that end risks becoming about me. "Boy, I'm such a profound person, I can change lives." Or, I would think such things.
Now, I have tried hard to appeal to as broad of an audience as I can (considering that I'm writing a post about a refined PBS-lover art form from an unrefined troglodyte tongue). So, I have tried not to ruffle the feathers of the few perchance readers. But, from time-to-time, I must stray from my own name-building, to speak of matters of more controversial significance. To say words, that I believe (feel the complete liberty to disagree) are for the good of those reading.
Putting a gob of work into a venture and not wanting some sort of attention is darn near impossible. Then add insults and mocking, how can one not become bitter? How can one hold onto a passion for an audience? The key fix: we need to change our view of people. People are not objects out to cater our passions. Does that mean we shouldn't have passion? Certainly not. I'm just saying, poorly directed passions lead to death.
When our passion is not dependent on human acknowledgement AND when it is serves a higher purpose, then we can bear ambivalence and even mockery aimed our way. Plus, if we were ever to find a passion that cannot be taken... Such passion is freeing, but can it really be mastered? Through our own methods, I would say this is impossible.
Yet, a perfect example has walked among us. Of Jesus Christ, 1 Peter 2:23 says, "When he was reviled, he did not revile in return; when he suffered, he did not threaten, but continued entrusting himself to him who judges justly."
From here, I will avoid getting all preachy or long-winded and encourage readers to chew. Speaking of properly directing passions will likely goad various 'How dare you question my passions' passions. Fair. Mozart's emotions lead to beautiful music for us, but damaged him. Maybe he was selfless. Plus, Mozart's music does not reflect the way things should be, but the way they often are.
For my next part of the challenge, I challenge Stephen Willcox. The associate pastor of my church, he is someone I actually know in person. He writes on the blog 4Men1Hope and writes on matters of faith and theology. There's a good post on Jonah the speaks nicely of some of these same themes. He's got a lot going on right now, since the head honcho is gone, but I'd bet he'd conjure some good quotes. (Just to highlight the rules: Write about one quote a day for three days, challenging another blogger to do the same each day.)
For my last quote in this challenge, I went a shade darker. In the second quote, Mozart shows himself as a man who didn't let people's opinions affect his craft, while juxtapositionally craving praise. Both attitudes (not caring what people think and over-caring) have a common seed--a lowered view of humanity. Mozart saw people as objects for his passions, not the purpose of his passions.
Yes, Mozart wanted people to be moved by his music, yet not for their sake, but for his. And this mentality is dangerous. It was dangerous for Mozart. The quote was written the year before he died. With people no longer (if having ever) satisfying his passions, Mozart lost love toward humanity. He grew depressed. Bitter. Insulting. And, I wonder if he could have ever received enough praise. So, he spiraled downward, delving into drinking and sex. It was possibly the combination of the two that killed him. (Although, he was disgusted with himself to know that he shouldn't have been consumed by such cold thoughts.)
There is danger in finding our joy in the praise of others, or in the belittling of others for amusement. Both the glory-seeking flatterer and the jerk-face cynic see humans as fodder bolstering their own status...
Why did I start this blog? I could spew out the noble answer: 'To get people to learn about Mozart and enrich their lives.' But honestly, I wanted to do something no one else was doing to put my name out there as a creative force. Sure, if lives are enriched by my posts, I won't complain. I may even feel good about myself (for a spell). But, even that end risks becoming about me. "Boy, I'm such a profound person, I can change lives." Or, I would think such things.
Now, I have tried hard to appeal to as broad of an audience as I can (considering that I'm writing a post about a refined PBS-lover art form from an unrefined troglodyte tongue). So, I have tried not to ruffle the feathers of the few perchance readers. But, from time-to-time, I must stray from my own name-building, to speak of matters of more controversial significance. To say words, that I believe (feel the complete liberty to disagree) are for the good of those reading.
Putting a gob of work into a venture and not wanting some sort of attention is darn near impossible. Then add insults and mocking, how can one not become bitter? How can one hold onto a passion for an audience? The key fix: we need to change our view of people. People are not objects out to cater our passions. Does that mean we shouldn't have passion? Certainly not. I'm just saying, poorly directed passions lead to death.
When our passion is not dependent on human acknowledgement AND when it is serves a higher purpose, then we can bear ambivalence and even mockery aimed our way. Plus, if we were ever to find a passion that cannot be taken... Such passion is freeing, but can it really be mastered? Through our own methods, I would say this is impossible.
Yet, a perfect example has walked among us. Of Jesus Christ, 1 Peter 2:23 says, "When he was reviled, he did not revile in return; when he suffered, he did not threaten, but continued entrusting himself to him who judges justly."
From here, I will avoid getting all preachy or long-winded and encourage readers to chew. Speaking of properly directing passions will likely goad various 'How dare you question my passions' passions. Fair. Mozart's emotions lead to beautiful music for us, but damaged him. Maybe he was selfless. Plus, Mozart's music does not reflect the way things should be, but the way they often are.
For my next part of the challenge, I challenge Stephen Willcox. The associate pastor of my church, he is someone I actually know in person. He writes on the blog 4Men1Hope and writes on matters of faith and theology. There's a good post on Jonah the speaks nicely of some of these same themes. He's got a lot going on right now, since the head honcho is gone, but I'd bet he'd conjure some good quotes. (Just to highlight the rules: Write about one quote a day for three days, challenging another blogger to do the same each day.)
Tuesday, August 25, 2015
Quote Challenge: Day 2
Yeah, I'm pretty sure I was supposed to this challenge for three days in a row, but we went camping this weekend, where I was thrown off a horse. Don't worry, I didn't get hurt. I was riding bareback, and my nephew jumped on a tent. The horse spooked, and I landed on the ground. I just had to tell that story to salvage some manly pride, since I have not done this challenge properly.
Next Quote:
"I pay no attention to anyone's blame or praise. I simply follow my own feelings."
To be honest, I am not a fan of this mentality. (Although, I likely have it). So why did I use this Mozart quote? On the surface, I wonder if it was even true for Mozart. I think he cared deeply and immensely about people's praise and blame. He craved adulation. He was driven to despair by criticism, especially from his father.
Yet, deeper... And concerning his craft... Mozart didn't let the opinions of others affect what he wanted to create. His father, the one with the most power over him, often reminded him not to neglect the popular. Call it what you may, stubbornness, arrogance, inventiveness, or genius, he couldn't confine himself solely to the music people wanted him to write. Salzburg didn't want piano music. He wanted to explore the newfangled instrument. So he moved to Vienna for creative freedom, but just bumped into another group trying to tell him what to create.
Thus, he sank into depression when he didn't get the praise he wanted. What type of questions did he ask himself as criticism came his way? Reactions we tend to have when dwelling with... gnawing on criticism: "What the hell is wrong with them? What hell is wrong with me? Why don't they like it? Why do I?"
The battle becomes even harder when one doesn't like, or is tired of, the artistic norms. This can, at times, be dangerous closed-thinking. And, my own writing struggles surface. I finished a work a couple of years ago, and I can see why people wouldn't like it. And, I don't even know what market it would appeal to. But, I think I am too attached to it, to do the major changes some might want to see. (That's not to say I believe it is perfect.) What do I do? Just work on something and attach less emotions to it? (Sure, been trying that too).
(The following comes from a comment I made on Emily Moore's blog post on criticism.)
When is it right for an artist to say, ‘you’re wrong’ concerning criticism? I am not out to stress a kumbaya mentality that states ‘It only matters if you like it,” for if we want our work to sell, someone, somewhere has to like it. And certainly, I have issues creating this shell of arrogance that says, ‘they’re just not smart enough to understand what I’m trying to do.’ (Clearly Mozart did as well.) As do a number of indie and literary writers out there that criticize everything and anything mainstream. Maybe, others are smart enough, and they simply don’t like it. I know there have been works (supposedly deep ones) that I have understood, but haven’t liked..
But, how does one know when the critics are wrong? I remember hearing Cloris Leachman once speak of how, because certain actors ‘know’ the right things they’re supposed to do, they believe they are good actors. She in turn stressed they are not good actors, but cliché. I liked that application for writing.
So, what do you do with criticism that goes as such, “for this genre you’re supposed to yada…” When in you’re thinking, “Yeah, but I hate it when they do that.” Didn’t many of the great transitionalists meet such criticism? Yet, I guess, maybe… that’s the hope arrogant wannabe writers cling too? I don’t know.
The next target of this challenge shall be Rachel Stevenson who writes the blog What She Wrote. A writer with a nice gritty voice (in her works not her blog), she has hosted a couple of critique party's on her sight. And, I have received valuable feedback from a couple of my less emotionally-attached works. She may be busy with her own projects, but I wouldn't want to miss the opportunity to promote her blog. (Just to highlight the rules: Write about one quote a day for three days, challenging another blogger to do the same each day.)
Next Quote:
"I pay no attention to anyone's blame or praise. I simply follow my own feelings."
To be honest, I am not a fan of this mentality. (Although, I likely have it). So why did I use this Mozart quote? On the surface, I wonder if it was even true for Mozart. I think he cared deeply and immensely about people's praise and blame. He craved adulation. He was driven to despair by criticism, especially from his father.
Yet, deeper... And concerning his craft... Mozart didn't let the opinions of others affect what he wanted to create. His father, the one with the most power over him, often reminded him not to neglect the popular. Call it what you may, stubbornness, arrogance, inventiveness, or genius, he couldn't confine himself solely to the music people wanted him to write. Salzburg didn't want piano music. He wanted to explore the newfangled instrument. So he moved to Vienna for creative freedom, but just bumped into another group trying to tell him what to create.
Thus, he sank into depression when he didn't get the praise he wanted. What type of questions did he ask himself as criticism came his way? Reactions we tend to have when dwelling with... gnawing on criticism: "What the hell is wrong with them? What hell is wrong with me? Why don't they like it? Why do I?"
The battle becomes even harder when one doesn't like, or is tired of, the artistic norms. This can, at times, be dangerous closed-thinking. And, my own writing struggles surface. I finished a work a couple of years ago, and I can see why people wouldn't like it. And, I don't even know what market it would appeal to. But, I think I am too attached to it, to do the major changes some might want to see. (That's not to say I believe it is perfect.) What do I do? Just work on something and attach less emotions to it? (Sure, been trying that too).
(The following comes from a comment I made on Emily Moore's blog post on criticism.)
When is it right for an artist to say, ‘you’re wrong’ concerning criticism? I am not out to stress a kumbaya mentality that states ‘It only matters if you like it,” for if we want our work to sell, someone, somewhere has to like it. And certainly, I have issues creating this shell of arrogance that says, ‘they’re just not smart enough to understand what I’m trying to do.’ (Clearly Mozart did as well.) As do a number of indie and literary writers out there that criticize everything and anything mainstream. Maybe, others are smart enough, and they simply don’t like it. I know there have been works (supposedly deep ones) that I have understood, but haven’t liked..
But, how does one know when the critics are wrong? I remember hearing Cloris Leachman once speak of how, because certain actors ‘know’ the right things they’re supposed to do, they believe they are good actors. She in turn stressed they are not good actors, but cliché. I liked that application for writing.
So, what do you do with criticism that goes as such, “for this genre you’re supposed to yada…” When in you’re thinking, “Yeah, but I hate it when they do that.” Didn’t many of the great transitionalists meet such criticism? Yet, I guess, maybe… that’s the hope arrogant wannabe writers cling too? I don’t know.
The next target of this challenge shall be Rachel Stevenson who writes the blog What She Wrote. A writer with a nice gritty voice (in her works not her blog), she has hosted a couple of critique party's on her sight. And, I have received valuable feedback from a couple of my less emotionally-attached works. She may be busy with her own projects, but I wouldn't want to miss the opportunity to promote her blog. (Just to highlight the rules: Write about one quote a day for three days, challenging another blogger to do the same each day.)
Thursday, August 20, 2015
Quote Challenge: Day One
So, I woke up from a day of sleeping, went to my Twitter account and saw that Emily Moore blogger of A Cup of English Tea dared me to participate in a Quote a day challenge. Like Marty McFly being called 'chicken', this troglodyte daren't refuse a challenge. (Not that I actually minded, I thought it would be fun change of pace in the midst of all the secret stuff I've been working on.)
Because this is a blog about Mozart, I guess I'm bound to use a Mozart Quote. (Not really, It's my blog, I'll do what I want, but it is a good exercise to use his words.) This is a bit hard, because I haven't come across that quote of his that has kicked me in the throat. And, many of the most powerful words from his music didn't likely come from him (he was simply a genius at finding the right music for them).
Anyway, here's the 1st quote it picked.
"The Music is not in the notes, but in the silence in between."
This quote applies so brilliantly to Mozart's music. His music carries such subtle shades of emotion. What appears to be a happy song, if really listened to, turns out to be that of a melancholy soul faking it. And, that brings me a bonus quote I ran into on the internet by Douglas Adams.
"Beethoven tells you what it is like to be Beethoven, and Mozart tells you what it is like to be human. Bach tells you what it is like to be the universe."
Maybe, this is why I was drawn to Mozart, beyond many of the other composers. While I do love Bach and Beethoven, Mozart's subtle emotional approach connects better with me. Whereas Bach and Beethoven's music expresses emotions I want to feel, Mozart describes how I actually feel. He best captures the messy emotions and thoughts I want to express, yet wrestle how to say.
Such principles can (and should) also be applied to writing, and speaking (or any art form). How can we get people to consider what we want to say to them? Especially those that disagree. How can we get them to understand what where we're coming from? What we're feeling? Most troglodytes, myself often included, have been guilty a saying something akin to, "Stop being mealy-mouthed, and just say it like it is..." That's all good and well, but does anyone really like to listen to that jerk who spews his or her opinion about everything, all the time? Without filter? (Again especially when they disagree).
And vice-versa, gobs of hippies out there, will say, "Just share your feeeeeeelings." Sure, we all have feelings, but those who are constantly hijacking conversations in order to whine about something grow exhausting. (Go ahead and watch the Debbie-Downer SNL skit.) And people have a hard time taking them seriously. But, if you take the other extreme, and bottle your feelings like a good troglodyte is supposed to do, you may come off as not caring, when in fact you may care deeply.
Mozart's music reflects such struggles, as well as suggests how someone can find a way to get others to contemplate his or her thoughts and feelings. Not through forceful declaration, but via what may not even be said. That old throw a frog in boiling water axiom applies. Music, today, rarely carries that depth (sorry for speaking Troglodytian, but it's my native tongue).
Yet, honestly (and I think Emily hinted at an experience earlier this month) some people are thick. They don't get subtly. And so, both Mozart's music and this quote teach us a more important skill. Not how to get others to understand, but how to listen to what others are truly saying. Few are really truly gifted at boldly and clearly blurting what they want to say. For most, their meaning is not in the notes, but the silence in between.
Or... Some people are particularly gifted at getting others to absorb all sorts of philosophies without them knowing. As a philosophy major, I get told that I over think things. My wife is often one. She complains from time-to-time how a ruin movies for her. I don't think (confession: I'm really arrogant about this) many people reflect on what others are really saying. They passively absorb contrary gobs of information.
Ahhh... I got way more long-winded than I intended. Probably because I can't quite pin down what I think or feel about this quote. ...............
So, next I guess I'm supposed to challenge some one else to this. First, I'd have to go with Isaac Selya, conductor of the Queen City Chamber Orchestra. He's been very helpful in with my pursuit of trying Mozart. He has put many of the lesser known Mozart works on Youtube, including the purest version of Zaide online. He's likely a busy man, but I wouldn't want to miss the opportunity to promote his work. (Just to highlight the rules: Write about one quote a day for three day, challenging another blogger to do the same each day.)
Because this is a blog about Mozart, I guess I'm bound to use a Mozart Quote. (Not really, It's my blog, I'll do what I want, but it is a good exercise to use his words.) This is a bit hard, because I haven't come across that quote of his that has kicked me in the throat. And, many of the most powerful words from his music didn't likely come from him (he was simply a genius at finding the right music for them).
Anyway, here's the 1st quote it picked.
"The Music is not in the notes, but in the silence in between."
This quote applies so brilliantly to Mozart's music. His music carries such subtle shades of emotion. What appears to be a happy song, if really listened to, turns out to be that of a melancholy soul faking it. And, that brings me a bonus quote I ran into on the internet by Douglas Adams.
"Beethoven tells you what it is like to be Beethoven, and Mozart tells you what it is like to be human. Bach tells you what it is like to be the universe."
Maybe, this is why I was drawn to Mozart, beyond many of the other composers. While I do love Bach and Beethoven, Mozart's subtle emotional approach connects better with me. Whereas Bach and Beethoven's music expresses emotions I want to feel, Mozart describes how I actually feel. He best captures the messy emotions and thoughts I want to express, yet wrestle how to say.
Such principles can (and should) also be applied to writing, and speaking (or any art form). How can we get people to consider what we want to say to them? Especially those that disagree. How can we get them to understand what where we're coming from? What we're feeling? Most troglodytes, myself often included, have been guilty a saying something akin to, "Stop being mealy-mouthed, and just say it like it is..." That's all good and well, but does anyone really like to listen to that jerk who spews his or her opinion about everything, all the time? Without filter? (Again especially when they disagree).
And vice-versa, gobs of hippies out there, will say, "Just share your feeeeeeelings." Sure, we all have feelings, but those who are constantly hijacking conversations in order to whine about something grow exhausting. (Go ahead and watch the Debbie-Downer SNL skit.) And people have a hard time taking them seriously. But, if you take the other extreme, and bottle your feelings like a good troglodyte is supposed to do, you may come off as not caring, when in fact you may care deeply.
Mozart's music reflects such struggles, as well as suggests how someone can find a way to get others to contemplate his or her thoughts and feelings. Not through forceful declaration, but via what may not even be said. That old throw a frog in boiling water axiom applies. Music, today, rarely carries that depth (sorry for speaking Troglodytian, but it's my native tongue).
Yet, honestly (and I think Emily hinted at an experience earlier this month) some people are thick. They don't get subtly. And so, both Mozart's music and this quote teach us a more important skill. Not how to get others to understand, but how to listen to what others are truly saying. Few are really truly gifted at boldly and clearly blurting what they want to say. For most, their meaning is not in the notes, but the silence in between.
Or... Some people are particularly gifted at getting others to absorb all sorts of philosophies without them knowing. As a philosophy major, I get told that I over think things. My wife is often one. She complains from time-to-time how a ruin movies for her. I don't think (confession: I'm really arrogant about this) many people reflect on what others are really saying. They passively absorb contrary gobs of information.
Ahhh... I got way more long-winded than I intended. Probably because I can't quite pin down what I think or feel about this quote. ...............
So, next I guess I'm supposed to challenge some one else to this. First, I'd have to go with Isaac Selya, conductor of the Queen City Chamber Orchestra. He's been very helpful in with my pursuit of trying Mozart. He has put many of the lesser known Mozart works on Youtube, including the purest version of Zaide online. He's likely a busy man, but I wouldn't want to miss the opportunity to promote his work. (Just to highlight the rules: Write about one quote a day for three day, challenging another blogger to do the same each day.)
Friday, July 17, 2015
Mozart's Daughter
While particularly heavy into my Zaide research, I was fooling around with a monologue contest. I thought I'd try to enter something that might emote why Mozart scrapped his work on Zaide. In all likeliness, what I wrote is not close to reality, but it was fun to think about how much his heartbreak from Alloysia played into the creation of the work. But, this monologue didn't win, and I didn't want it to die fully, so I wanted to share it.
(If there is anyone in desperate enough need for a free monologue, fell free to use this. I simply request credit be given to the author.)
Mozart’s Daughter
(Mozart writes, quill in hand, to his love, Alloysia (Al-uh-wish-uh))
Alloysia. I will prove it to you. You shall see. My name will be great one day. We will not live in poverty. I know you didn’t mean it. You were scared. You still love me. I feel it. Isn’t our love worth it? Who could punish you, when you found what you’re looking for? True love. No misery can scourge our love.
But, I am bound in misery without you.
I know. I know. I could not find a job... Mother died. If anyone has the right to be upset… (scribbles paper with quill)
When I returned from Paris, I was a miserable wreck. I understand I frightened you. Believe me, I’m stronger now.
If only I had been stronger then. If only I hadn’t let father send me to Paris… Perhaps mother would still… (scribbles violently) Perhaps you would have… (scribbles)
I am working on an opera. A beautiful opera... The most beautiful opera ever. This opera will bring me great fortune. It will bring me fame. This opera in devoted to you. This opera is our daughter. (stops writing, looks to the side)
I have a letter. (Mozart leaves his table and returns with a letter and a deflated face)
(silence)
Alloysia has married.
(after a moment of silence, Mozart crumples letter and throws it across the room)
(stands silent)
(from his desk, he grabs a stack of sheets and tucks them into a leather portfolio)
Goodbye Zaide. I’m finished with you.
Wednesday, July 15, 2015
K. 51, La Finta Semplice, Cosa ha mai la donna indosso
I've heard it from a movie, Ghost of Girlfriends Past, (not recommending the movie) "the power in all relationships lies with whoever cares less." Now, power shmower. I'm not out to say the deep down all people want dominance over every relationship, but I do believe they want to be taken seriously. They want their voices respected. Their opinions heard. Their passions shared. Sometimes I wonder if it is difficult to be taken seriously, when a person cares more. It is often the exuberant and excitably passionate individuals have a hard time being taken seriously. They care for the cause, but lack power to rally others behind them.
"But, isn't it passionate people who change the world and achieve success?" Some may ask. Yes and no. There are a whole mess of terms one has to define first. But, I won't dabble too much into that. No matter what someone says, everyone is passionate about something (even if it is the desire to be left alone). But, the world does not take those goofy excitable individuals seriously. That's not to say they don't like them, or even that they do not have awe, just there's a lack of... umm... respect.
Mozart was that kind of person. Yes. His culture appreciated his music, but did not take him seriously as a musical authority. This was likely all the worse when he was 12. Sure, everyone gets a kick out of watching a passionate little kid with talent. But, put that bossy mongrel in charge of adults... Who'd take him seriously? Regardless of his talent. This is the time La Finta Semplice was birthed. They, as Salieri's father suggests in the movie Amadeus, likely saw him as a trained monkey. Sure, everyone loves a trained monkey, but do they take them seriously as a positional authority?
And, what causes this 'trained monkey' impression? Oblivious passion. So, where I had said before that it takes a passionate person to gain a following, more often than not, it is focused passionate individuals. A focused passionate person calculates, considers, (and the yucky word people like me hate) plans. He or she reels in skills outside his or her passion in order to accomplish the passion. The obliviously passionate throw themselves headlong into a pursuit, ignoring everything else. They have a hard time considering others' opinions. Don't take criticism well. That's not to say such a person never does great things, if fact they often do, but the journey is harder. And they have to be either immensely talented, or lucky. And, many with that mentality wear themselves into a depressed funk.
Now, add this personality trait into the realm of love and relationships. (A good study when I get into Mozart's relationship adventures of the Kochel.) A man falls in love with a woman. The obliviously passionate man throws himself at her. How does that usually work out? Do women respect such a man? If not, how does a boy get the girl? That's a mess of stuff I can't answer, because really there is no science to it. Thank God I'm married, that's about all I have to say about that. This brings me to Cosa ha mai donna indosso. Polidoro, one of the men the semplice is to charm, speaks of his passion for women. "Why do I love them so?" "Any man should be cursed if he doesn't appreciate his wife." Isn't this the kind of passion a woman would what? (I am asking, because I don't know the answer.) Yet, he is portrayed as the fool.
The music of the aria is that of yearning. Unfulfilled yearning. It is only fitting that the movie Amadeus uses the term 'unfulfilled longing' to describe Mozart's music. Some say the scene is the best description of music. Possibly why I'm drawn to it, Mozart's music brilliantly captures unfulfilled passions.
And of course, at the end of the opera, Polidoro doesn't get the girl. The brooding 'I'm not going to let a woman get to me' figure does. (That doesn't sound at all familiar in romance). Then, Polidoro turns bitter.
Once growing tired of not being able to share his or her passions, such person pulls his or her desires in. Hides them. Morphs into a bitter outsider. Or, sinks into despair. It is not that individuals lose their passions, just the desire to share them. To be fair, I must say this is not always the fault of the world. I wonder if, for some, no amount of passion praise will ever be enough. Now, if such a person can coerce others to share their passions, either via guilt or force, can such praise ever truly satisfy? Sure, one could be like the Sultan in Zaide, and force a lover to stick around, but what would that do? Or, a powerful and rich man could force groups to accept him as an 'artist', but... Deep down, we want others to want to love what we're passionate about. And, sometimes they're not. What? Are they supposed to change who they are, in order to accept who we are?
I don't know. Often the sissy inside me gets whiny when people don't like what I want them to like. Or, when I think they're only pretending to like what I want them to like.
"But, isn't it passionate people who change the world and achieve success?" Some may ask. Yes and no. There are a whole mess of terms one has to define first. But, I won't dabble too much into that. No matter what someone says, everyone is passionate about something (even if it is the desire to be left alone). But, the world does not take those goofy excitable individuals seriously. That's not to say they don't like them, or even that they do not have awe, just there's a lack of... umm... respect.
Mozart was that kind of person. Yes. His culture appreciated his music, but did not take him seriously as a musical authority. This was likely all the worse when he was 12. Sure, everyone gets a kick out of watching a passionate little kid with talent. But, put that bossy mongrel in charge of adults... Who'd take him seriously? Regardless of his talent. This is the time La Finta Semplice was birthed. They, as Salieri's father suggests in the movie Amadeus, likely saw him as a trained monkey. Sure, everyone loves a trained monkey, but do they take them seriously as a positional authority?
And, what causes this 'trained monkey' impression? Oblivious passion. So, where I had said before that it takes a passionate person to gain a following, more often than not, it is focused passionate individuals. A focused passionate person calculates, considers, (and the yucky word people like me hate) plans. He or she reels in skills outside his or her passion in order to accomplish the passion. The obliviously passionate throw themselves headlong into a pursuit, ignoring everything else. They have a hard time considering others' opinions. Don't take criticism well. That's not to say such a person never does great things, if fact they often do, but the journey is harder. And they have to be either immensely talented, or lucky. And, many with that mentality wear themselves into a depressed funk.
Now, add this personality trait into the realm of love and relationships. (A good study when I get into Mozart's relationship adventures of the Kochel.) A man falls in love with a woman. The obliviously passionate man throws himself at her. How does that usually work out? Do women respect such a man? If not, how does a boy get the girl? That's a mess of stuff I can't answer, because really there is no science to it. Thank God I'm married, that's about all I have to say about that. This brings me to Cosa ha mai donna indosso. Polidoro, one of the men the semplice is to charm, speaks of his passion for women. "Why do I love them so?" "Any man should be cursed if he doesn't appreciate his wife." Isn't this the kind of passion a woman would what? (I am asking, because I don't know the answer.) Yet, he is portrayed as the fool.
The music of the aria is that of yearning. Unfulfilled yearning. It is only fitting that the movie Amadeus uses the term 'unfulfilled longing' to describe Mozart's music. Some say the scene is the best description of music. Possibly why I'm drawn to it, Mozart's music brilliantly captures unfulfilled passions.
And of course, at the end of the opera, Polidoro doesn't get the girl. The brooding 'I'm not going to let a woman get to me' figure does. (That doesn't sound at all familiar in romance). Then, Polidoro turns bitter.
Once growing tired of not being able to share his or her passions, such person pulls his or her desires in. Hides them. Morphs into a bitter outsider. Or, sinks into despair. It is not that individuals lose their passions, just the desire to share them. To be fair, I must say this is not always the fault of the world. I wonder if, for some, no amount of passion praise will ever be enough. Now, if such a person can coerce others to share their passions, either via guilt or force, can such praise ever truly satisfy? Sure, one could be like the Sultan in Zaide, and force a lover to stick around, but what would that do? Or, a powerful and rich man could force groups to accept him as an 'artist', but... Deep down, we want others to want to love what we're passionate about. And, sometimes they're not. What? Are they supposed to change who they are, in order to accept who we are?
I don't know. Often the sissy inside me gets whiny when people don't like what I want them to like. Or, when I think they're only pretending to like what I want them to like.
Saturday, June 20, 2015
K. 51, La Finta Semplice, Ella vuole ed io torrei
Back in my 4-H days, we'd have horse practice three days a week. I hated going to practice and on a particularly rushed day, my mom was harping on me to get my horse caught. I think this was Chiam (Kai-am). I can never remember which one I used which year. His advantage over other horses, he was easy to catch. In addition, it was a hot day. Horses aren't anxious to move on a hot day. So, I walked up beside him with sloppy, careless, yet confident steps. He started walking away. I followed. He walked faster. I trotted along side. He took off. He had never taken off. I ran. With a burst of gas and a flung rear hoof, he kicked me in the upper thigh.
I collapsed in pain. Screaming. Yelling. I lay in the hardened hoof-hacked dirt. Grinding my teeth, pissed off at that horse. Chiam stopped, turned, a wondered back over toward me. He lowered his bobbing head, his eyes carrying apologies. I didn't care. Grabbing a clod of mud, I chucked it at his face. He spooked and ran off. Worst of all, my parents still made me go to horse practice, with Chiam and the hoof-shaped bruise he left on my thigh. (I don't bruise easy.)
And this bring me to Cassandro, the woman-hating rich gentleman, whom Rosina is trying to make fall in love with her. She works her 'pretend simpleton' magic on him, softening him up: until she asked for a ring (of course for all this to happen in one night breaks a bit of time constraint logic). Here's where he breaks into the aria Ella vuole ed io torrei. Something must have happened. Something made him bitter and jaded. The music starts of noble,"I won't" then intensifies with a mix of fear and anger. After the first huff, it sighs as he says, "Once she gets my ring, her love will be done." Following the breather, it gets more intense. With the music, young Mozart nicely flecks out the confused emotions of a once beaten dog, wanting the meat, yet seeing a lofted stick. (The simile is at the end of the aria.)
I would venture to say, La Finta Semplice was Mozart's first occupational kick to the thigh. I could imagine a youth, who'd received nearly nothing but praise, going into this project with lofty hopes, and even arrogant assumptions. Even, if he was correct in his assumptions, I doubt divas and royalty would have taken too kindly to such boldness. They didn't. And, I don't think they even gave him a fair chance. Leopold was no help, either. And, the Mozart's felt that hoof strike. Leopold grabbed his own clod of mud, trying to put a hurtin' on those who refused to pay for the opera. He took the lot to court. In the end, the Mozart looked the fools, and lost their loot. Their looking like fools likely stole away the archbishop's patience for their having been gone much longer than planned.
Consequently (I'm not sure what Mozart learned), Leopold grew shrewder. He lost trust and when he ventured to Italy, he made sure to get payment in advanced. I can't help but wonder if he lost a hint of trust in Mozart? A burrowing mistrust in Mozart social capabilities, that created a need in Leopold to do everything for his son, instead of teaching him to take care of himself.
I collapsed in pain. Screaming. Yelling. I lay in the hardened hoof-hacked dirt. Grinding my teeth, pissed off at that horse. Chiam stopped, turned, a wondered back over toward me. He lowered his bobbing head, his eyes carrying apologies. I didn't care. Grabbing a clod of mud, I chucked it at his face. He spooked and ran off. Worst of all, my parents still made me go to horse practice, with Chiam and the hoof-shaped bruise he left on my thigh. (I don't bruise easy.)
And this bring me to Cassandro, the woman-hating rich gentleman, whom Rosina is trying to make fall in love with her. She works her 'pretend simpleton' magic on him, softening him up: until she asked for a ring (of course for all this to happen in one night breaks a bit of time constraint logic). Here's where he breaks into the aria Ella vuole ed io torrei. Something must have happened. Something made him bitter and jaded. The music starts of noble,"I won't" then intensifies with a mix of fear and anger. After the first huff, it sighs as he says, "Once she gets my ring, her love will be done." Following the breather, it gets more intense. With the music, young Mozart nicely flecks out the confused emotions of a once beaten dog, wanting the meat, yet seeing a lofted stick. (The simile is at the end of the aria.)
I would venture to say, La Finta Semplice was Mozart's first occupational kick to the thigh. I could imagine a youth, who'd received nearly nothing but praise, going into this project with lofty hopes, and even arrogant assumptions. Even, if he was correct in his assumptions, I doubt divas and royalty would have taken too kindly to such boldness. They didn't. And, I don't think they even gave him a fair chance. Leopold was no help, either. And, the Mozart's felt that hoof strike. Leopold grabbed his own clod of mud, trying to put a hurtin' on those who refused to pay for the opera. He took the lot to court. In the end, the Mozart looked the fools, and lost their loot. Their looking like fools likely stole away the archbishop's patience for their having been gone much longer than planned.
Consequently (I'm not sure what Mozart learned), Leopold grew shrewder. He lost trust and when he ventured to Italy, he made sure to get payment in advanced. I can't help but wonder if he lost a hint of trust in Mozart? A burrowing mistrust in Mozart social capabilities, that created a need in Leopold to do everything for his son, instead of teaching him to take care of himself.
Wednesday, June 3, 2015
K. 51, La Finta Semplice, Marito io vorrei
As I have said, I have been chewing on Mozart's Opera La Finta Semplice for a spell. I'm trying focus. Trying to figure out what I want to write. "Can I devote enough words to one blog?" I've asked my self. No. So, I'll hit a few chunks here and there. A La Finta Semplice series is a'coming. This is a crucial benchmark work in Mozart's life.
La Finta Semplice. 'The pretend simpleton.' Why pretend to be a simpleton? Wouldn't you want people to know you're smart? Hmmm. Children, until a certain age, are obliviously honest. They spit out whatever they're are thinking and feeling. And, they often surprise adults with their comprehension. Of course, this honesty makes it hard to get away with things. And, it also heaps expectations. I know if my kids are capable of something, I expect them to do it. Then, they turn the age where they learn to 'play dumb.' Oh, I see this tactic used all the time from the boys at the residency where I work. "Ah... Well... I didn't know that we weren't supposed... yada." Not buying it. Not buying it.
I can hardly blame them. I've done it. I still do. Even this blog is a shell of me playing dumb. From time-to-time I tell my lazy self, these post don't need to be perfect. I've out right declared that I'm a troglodyte. They expect me to be stupid. "So what, if I get something wrong?"
And, poor Mozart. He laid all his talent aces on the table at a very early age. He lost any chance of being the pretend simpleton. And, he may have never had to have worried about it up to this work. A gob of effort poured into a full length opera. Never to be performed in the city having requested it. Maybe only a patronizing pity performance was later requested from the Archbishop a year later.
So, why pretend to be simple? I think sometimes, it simply makes life easier. Even in the realm of love. That's why I chose the aria marito io vorrei. A key motivator of simplicity (not the right use of the word, but I'm using it anyway). Sung by Giacinta, this aria speaks of a woman who wants love. She has recently had a bit of a spat with her love. Realizing the work a relationship takes, she sings with a longing voice. A pining voice. A voice we have all bellyached within our lives. "I really really want something. I just don't want to deal with all the strife it takes to get it." Giacinta's actual words, "I want a husband, but without the work. To have him if he suits me, to leave him if he is troublesome... I just want him to do whatever I want him to do." No one today in our selfless society says such babble.
And, we too want our life goals to come easy. I want my work accepted by the masses after the first draft. I want to create what I want to create, without catering or even seeking what others might be interested in. But, life is not that easy. I'm not that great that I can just whip out something without work and get others to like it. Even if I was that talented, it wouldn't matter. Mozart was, but he still couldn't get everyone to swoon over all his stuff.
Sure, you can tell me we need to follow our happy-hippy dreams, but we can't expect them to come easy. And, we can't expect to be entitled to them. (I'm yelling at myself about this all the time.) It is hard. Most dreams won't come true by playing dumb. And so, I'm reminded of something I wrote from my book Schizic.
Monday, May 25, 2015
K. 45, Symphony No. 7
Mozart fled to avoid the Viennese smallpox epidemic, but that didn't turn out so well. He got it anyway. Then, he returned back to Vienna. And, this is where/when he wrote K. 45. As I have mentioned, I am also chewing on La Finta Semplice, and it is interesting to note that this symphony is used for the overture.
The first movement chugs out with the-little-engine-that-could aggressiveness. As if to say, "This is tough but I'm going to gnash my teeth and push through this with positivity and eagerness." It toots exhausted here and there, but keeps pressing on. The 2nd movement, is that of exhaustion, but not despair. "I need to rest," it says. Some places sigh darker. The 3rd strikes like a slap in the face, marching, pressing on with new sets of motivation. It gets exhausted again once more, but slaps back some motivation and continues. The 4th chunk, is a looking back of all the trails, as it stands on top the hill and shouting, "Hey world. I did it. So there!"
I wonder which movement would best have illustrated Mozart's mood during that point in his life. I'd go with the 3rd, maybe the 2nd. His world was starting to make its demands. It needed something in return. Archbishop Schrattenbach was no longer bearing patiently with Leopold's absence. Critics and skeptics scowled. Mozart was growing pass the cute stage. The novelty of watching a kid do tricks was wearing, yet he wasn't old enough to be taken serious as a 'real' musician. This trip did not end with a 4th movement victory proclamation. But, with broken promises, courts complains and tort tirades. (Will elaborate more when I post on La Finta Semplice.)
Ultimately, this trip did not go according to plan. And, all those involved didn't take too kindly to the Mozarts after that lot. That's life. Generally people will tolerate failure, only if they still get something from you. And, they love seeing failure from those who rub them the wrong way. Mozart was losing his cash-calf status.
The first movement chugs out with the-little-engine-that-could aggressiveness. As if to say, "This is tough but I'm going to gnash my teeth and push through this with positivity and eagerness." It toots exhausted here and there, but keeps pressing on. The 2nd movement, is that of exhaustion, but not despair. "I need to rest," it says. Some places sigh darker. The 3rd strikes like a slap in the face, marching, pressing on with new sets of motivation. It gets exhausted again once more, but slaps back some motivation and continues. The 4th chunk, is a looking back of all the trails, as it stands on top the hill and shouting, "Hey world. I did it. So there!"
I wonder which movement would best have illustrated Mozart's mood during that point in his life. I'd go with the 3rd, maybe the 2nd. His world was starting to make its demands. It needed something in return. Archbishop Schrattenbach was no longer bearing patiently with Leopold's absence. Critics and skeptics scowled. Mozart was growing pass the cute stage. The novelty of watching a kid do tricks was wearing, yet he wasn't old enough to be taken serious as a 'real' musician. This trip did not end with a 4th movement victory proclamation. But, with broken promises, courts complains and tort tirades. (Will elaborate more when I post on La Finta Semplice.)
Ultimately, this trip did not go according to plan. And, all those involved didn't take too kindly to the Mozarts after that lot. That's life. Generally people will tolerate failure, only if they still get something from you. And, they love seeing failure from those who rub them the wrong way. Mozart was losing his cash-calf status.
Tuesday, May 19, 2015
Zaide (The Young Adult Novel) Chapter 3: Ruhe Sanft
Currently, I am chewing on La Finta Semplice. I don't know how many times I have to watch it or what-not before I will find the right words. This work is indubitably a character creating milestone of Mozart's personality. I would declare it to be Mozart's first experience of a major failure. (Not saying the work was a 'failure' but its reception).
So, as I chew on this opera for a spell, I will nurture the suckling throngs of fellow troglodytes desperate for their weekly fix of Mozart, offering another bit of opera dabbled on during Mozart's wound-licking period following his biggest failure. Zaide. This may even represent a failed dabblement of my own. But, hey, I wrote it... Just as well share some of it. The third chapter of my Young Adult novelization of Zaide. The Ruhe Sanft chapter. The chapter devoted to the most beautiful aria in all of opera. If you haven't read the other chapters you can read the on my Zaide page.
So, as I chew on this opera for a spell, I will nurture the suckling throngs of fellow troglodytes desperate for their weekly fix of Mozart, offering another bit of opera dabbled on during Mozart's wound-licking period following his biggest failure. Zaide. This may even represent a failed dabblement of my own. But, hey, I wrote it... Just as well share some of it. The third chapter of my Young Adult novelization of Zaide. The Ruhe Sanft chapter. The chapter devoted to the most beautiful aria in all of opera. If you haven't read the other chapters you can read the on my Zaide page.
3HREE
Ruhe Sanft
Gomatz smashed his pick
into the dirt. His palms burned as if the shaft was a smelted rod. The rest of
his muscles grew past pain into numb-deadened weakness. Nothing but will was
moving them. He tried not to let himself think. Only nasty thoughts slipped into
his head when he did. His jaw ached from teeth gnashing when he let his
thoughts think.
From pick swing to pick
swing, Gomatz looked to the hillside. A drab green dress fluttered with the
grass. The woman who had saved him watched over the slaves. He breathed the
breaths of a brooding strings section.
His last glance on her, stirred his brain. Why is she watching us? Is this a game to her? Foul creatures everywhere. Enjoy the pain of others. Or could… The brooding string section mood switched to that of a lone, hopeful oboe. Does this girl care? Is she… Darker moods returned. Back and forth, hopeful tones clashed with brooding moans. It couldn’t be. How could she care? Why should I care? Stuck with criminals. Forced into slavery. Why didn’t I just let grandfather die… No… No.. Stop such laments. But, why? To what end. Why should we both die? His soul’s prepared so is mine. If I remained here longer… I could… But, it is too late. I’ve made my bargain. I may keep up with the work today, and even possibly tomorrow, but surely at this pace, I will die. Ah, but death could only ease my sufferings. Death shall be my salvation. I could have ignored my grandfather’s plight. Only to have swallowed more misery for a longer time. Yes. Gomatz. You have chosen correctly. Freed from guilt today. Freed from a life of slavery tomorrow, or at least soon. Oh. My head. My eyes. They are growing black. I shall die among criminals, as my savior. Faint… Go ahead just faint. It would be a sweet release right now.
His last glance on her, stirred his brain. Why is she watching us? Is this a game to her? Foul creatures everywhere. Enjoy the pain of others. Or could… The brooding string section mood switched to that of a lone, hopeful oboe. Does this girl care? Is she… Darker moods returned. Back and forth, hopeful tones clashed with brooding moans. It couldn’t be. How could she care? Why should I care? Stuck with criminals. Forced into slavery. Why didn’t I just let grandfather die… No… No.. Stop such laments. But, why? To what end. Why should we both die? His soul’s prepared so is mine. If I remained here longer… I could… But, it is too late. I’ve made my bargain. I may keep up with the work today, and even possibly tomorrow, but surely at this pace, I will die. Ah, but death could only ease my sufferings. Death shall be my salvation. I could have ignored my grandfather’s plight. Only to have swallowed more misery for a longer time. Yes. Gomatz. You have chosen correctly. Freed from guilt today. Freed from a life of slavery tomorrow, or at least soon. Oh. My head. My eyes. They are growing black. I shall die among criminals, as my savior. Faint… Go ahead just faint. It would be a sweet release right now.
Gomatz trembled.
He swooned and began to collapse.
“Time to go everyone,”
Osmin yelled.
Gomatz woke from his
nearly fainted state as slavemasters gathered up everyone and chained them neck
and neck. And now I must bear that dreadful tune once again.
Osmin yelled at Gomatz.
Gomatz understood it to mean, he had been successful, but the following days
would be difficult.
As the shackles went
around his neck, Gomatz took one last glance over to the hillside. The
woman was gone.
***
Brothers, Brothers, be
now merry
Find your courage,
swallow your gripes
The Earth is cursed,
we’re all doomed
Everyone, too, is
wrought with strife
Let us sing
Let us laugh
You can’t make it any
different
This world, this pain,
doesn’t matter
No one, no where is free
of pests.
The slaves trudged
through the valley like a mud-thickened river. Osmin swung his arms as he
marched along side. His face beamed with the pride of a hard days work.
Zaide followed from the
hilltops using that song as her guide. The sun’s last crest dipped below the
horizon. The valley was dark. The hilltops glowed. Having still not
eaten, Zaide’s legs slugged through the grass. Her stomach gave up its ache,
knowing she wasn’t going to feed it. Her head turned to complaining instead. He
is going through much worse. I can bear this for a day. Zaide chided her
headache.
Let us laugh
Let us sing
The music stopped, down
deep in the dark valley. Zaide trotted to the top of a hill. Reaching a lone
cypress tree, she leaned her chest against it, staring down into the valley.
From below, a light shone from the barn, a stone building dug into the hillside.
The stones came from the fields, built by the slave that stayed there.
The large opening without door glowed, torches burned on each side. The
slaves marched just inside and waited to be unchained.
“Oh poor Gomatz. I have
to help. I have to do something. No way will you survive. What can I do to give
you strength?”
As slavemasters unlocked
the group, Zaide trickled down to the barn. Her lungs found it hard to digest
her breaths. Her ears heard every step as thunder. Her throat seemed as if it
was eating itself. Zaide reached the outside wall, throwing her back into the
rock and mortar. She found a shadowy nook where a pillar blocked the torch
light. Closing her eyes, she listened.
Slavemasters shouted
orders, laughing from time to time. Most were ready to be done for the night.
“Finish locking them
up,” Osmin said. “Give that one some extra food. I want to keep him alive for
one month. I must leave. Allazim will be back tomorrow.”
Zaide held her breath as
Osmin walked outside the door and down the dirt road. He didn’t look back.
Rubbing the rock grains with her palms, she exhaled, waiting for Osmin to move
out of sight.
With small, shifting
steps, Zaide shimmied closer to the door. Once to its side, she peered around
the support beams. The livestock scents of hay and filth hit her. Cages of
rusty iron were spaced far enough apart to make whispering between impossible.
Gomatz chewed a dry hunk of bread, as a slavemaster guided him toward his cage.
A tear dripped from Zaide’s eye as she studied his haggard head. Extra
bread, will do no good. She had learned to tell when death was
stalking a slave.
The slavemaster didn’t
throw Gomatz into his prison. They didn’t need to. As soon as his feet hit the
heather, Gomatz collapsed.
Sparse, yet intervaled,
metallic clanks echoed throughout the barn as the rest of the slaves settled
into their beds. Once everyone was locked up, the bulk of the slavemasters
left. One lone guard watched the lot for the night. He usually tucked
himself in the back of the barn and slept. No one was worried about anyone
escaping. Even if they managed to get out, slaves had nowhere to go.
Once the guard trickled
to his place, Zaide snuck in. All the torches but one had been snuffed. It cast
dancing shadows between the cages. Zaide tiptoed toward Gomatz’s prison.
Half-snore breathings calmed her, letting her know everyone was likely
sleeping.
At Gomatz’s cage, Zaide dropped to her knees. His face rest on the bars. Belly down, he breathed heavy into the heather. A patch of fuzz fluttered beneath his nose. Zaide reached a hand through, stroking his soft, oily hair. Leaning her forehead into the bars, she began weeping, tears falling on Gomatz. They struck him both sharp and soft, like a violin string plucked with the meaty portion of a finger.
“How can anyone be so good? So pure? So noble? I will never deserve someone like this. I have my reward in Soliman. But, if only… Oh Gomatz. Why should you die, because of your pure heart? Can I do anything to give you strength?” Her whispers seemed to flow in harmony with his breathing. Zaide placed her hand on her aching chest, grabbing her dress, clenching tight the cloth. The pocket underneath stirred a hint of hope.
At Gomatz’s cage, Zaide dropped to her knees. His face rest on the bars. Belly down, he breathed heavy into the heather. A patch of fuzz fluttered beneath his nose. Zaide reached a hand through, stroking his soft, oily hair. Leaning her forehead into the bars, she began weeping, tears falling on Gomatz. They struck him both sharp and soft, like a violin string plucked with the meaty portion of a finger.
“How can anyone be so good? So pure? So noble? I will never deserve someone like this. I have my reward in Soliman. But, if only… Oh Gomatz. Why should you die, because of your pure heart? Can I do anything to give you strength?” Her whispers seemed to flow in harmony with his breathing. Zaide placed her hand on her aching chest, grabbing her dress, clenching tight the cloth. The pocket underneath stirred a hint of hope.
Reaching in, Zaide
pulled out her pocket. Crafted from the finest lace, it held her most priced
possession. She pulled out her picture, staring a briny stare, examining her
ideal self. “This is the kind of girl you should have.” Zaide folded the paper
and tucked it into Gomatz’s hand.
“Sleep, my dear. Sleep
like you have never slept before. Sleep until your strength has returned. I
give you my portrait. Let it penetrate your dreams. See my smile. My tender
smile. A smile I have never smiled, but want to. Let that smile fill you with
the sweetest dreams. If your spirit is renewed by the photo, then I too will be
renewed.”
She let a few more tears
fall on Gomatz and left.
***
Patterned mosaics
covered the seraglio walls. A bath of several hues of blue tucked itself
beneath window well. The stained-glass slept for the night. Torches flickered,
their lights catching the glossy strips of tile. Zaide dropped her veil.
Jasmine floated in the air, but it couldn’t quite kill the humid stale smell.
Wives and odalisques giggled, their echo cackled against the arched ceilings.
Zaide walked through the
gaggle of gossiping woman. “Hail. The Sultan’s favorite. Enters as late as she
pleases.” The oldest wife said. She was just over thirty.
Zaide closed her eyes,
rolling them in their sockets. I can’t deal with these women. “Quiet, or I’ll
tell Soliman you beat me.”
The woman scowled. “The
day you run out of favor…”
“The haggard buzzard seeks
prey. The ugliest of birds can’t kill on its own, so it has to wait for
something to die.”
Wiggling her finger at
Zaide, the woman’s mouth dangled open. Her raging lips trembled toward shut and
then back open as if they were trying to say something, yet couldn’t find the
right words. After a sneering shake of her head, she whipped around and left.
The rest of the women gawked at Zaide as if their throats were stuck shut, mid
gulp. They parted, letting the young girl through.
Untying her sandals,
Zaide sat at the bath’s edge, lowering her dirty cracked feet into the water. Oh.
Zaide. You have to be more careful. You can get in trouble letting your feet
spoil. Digging the corner of the soap in the her feet, Zaide massage
each sore spot. The cracks were small, barely breaking the skin. Once she dried
off, she rubbed her feet with oil. The jasmine scented oil wafted into her
breathes. She relaxed and closed her eyes. The raw area lost their burn as she
massaged for a few minutes.
Feminine chatter
softened, as doors opened and closed. Zaide stood and stretched her legs. They
ached a dull and deep, with viscous weakness.
Huhhh. Ffft. Huhhh.
Sniffling sobbed from
the other side of a pillar. Zaide walk to the pillar of blue and gold. She
caught the edge of sandy hair dangling over the knees of the fetal sitting
girl. Her arms pulled her legs tight against her chest.
“That’s the new girl.” A
fellow odalisque said, lounging on the nearby couch. “She was given to her new
husband.”
“Hmmm.” Zaide stepped to
the side of the pillar and leaned against it. She stared straight ahead, not
daring to look at the girl. Forcing her tone callous, she said, “She’s going to
have to get used to it.” Then she switched to English. “It doesn’t get any
easier, you just get harder.”
Even from her
peripherals, Zaide recognized the girl. She looked up, her makeup smeared black
and blue. Her crimson dress with gold trim was a far leap from her previous
drab black and dingy white outfit. “He didn’t touch me.” She sniffled.
Zaide’s brows dropped as
she looked a hint more toward the girl. “Why are you crying then?”
“They touched me all
over when they washed me and forced me to wear these dreadful clothes and
makeup. For what purpose?”
“You belong to someone.
You must please your master. Who were you given to?”
The girl shuddered. “I…
Um. He was older. Alli… Alla.. Some name of that sort.”
“Allazim?”
“Yes. Yes. That is it.”
Ah, that is why he was
not in the fields. “Blessed are you among
us.”
“How am I blessed?”
“You could not have been
given to a better man.”
“But, I am still owned.”
“Isn’t everyone? Better
to belong to someone good.”
“Could anyone good, own
another?”
Zaide shrugged. “So what
did Allazim do?”
“When he saw me in bed
crying, he patted me on the back, said something I couldn’t understand, and
left. A few hours later, they brought me back here.”
Zaide stared forward,
quiet.
Although Zaide had been
no comfort, the girl inhaled and wiped her eyes as if she felt better. She let
her legs drop forward. And stared forward in the same way as Zaide.
“What is your name?”
Zaide sighed.
“Abigail. Yours?”
“Zaide.”
Abigail over to Zaide.
“Do you know how my family is doing?”
“I have seen your
brother.”
“How is he?”
“He is brave.”
Abigail smiled. “I
know.”
“It will probably get
him killed.”
Abigail dropped her
grin. “I know.”
Monday, May 11, 2015
Abduction from the Seraglio via Queen City Chamber Opera
I remember those middle school days. (I hated Jr. High). We'd taken a trip to a youth convention in the Black Hills. A gob of guys had Magic: The Gathering cards. I watched them play from the side. 'Oh, that looks so fun,' I said to myself. I kept asking them questions. Why did you do that? What does that monster do? What's the difference between water monsters and earth monsters... As I yapped like an annoyed lap dog, the nerds (sorry for my bitter words, I'm not really stereotyping) grumbled with snappy, short, uninformative answers. I never learned how to play. Probably for the best, it is most likely a time-wasting, mind-warping drain--I have twitter for that. (Deepest apologies, for those who play, for I speak from a place of ignorance.)
Of course they wanted to. With gleeful faces, they trotted over to the refilling station. The men let them help, answering questions. And, they even let my boys push the handle for the train 'merry-go-round'. When the day was through, my wife and I even donated extra money to the cause. (We rarely do that, because we're cheapskates.) If anyone is ever in the Wisconsin Dells area, I highly recommend you visit the Riverside & Great Northern Railway.
Now, onto an opposing example. We'd taken a family vacation to the Wisconsin Dells. My oldest son (Byron) loved trains. Having seen a brochure for train rides, we thought it a no-brainier. "We have got to do this." The prices were reasonable (touristy places often jack up prices) so we went. The trains were charming, small steam engines--not pupil popping giants. The ride down was beautiful. Pleasant. (Though, Byron did get a little scared from the vibrating sound.) The ride alone was well worth the money, but it was the above-and-beyond bits from the volunteer-staff that made an impression. When the ride was over with, my sons watched as the men tinkered with the train. Coupling, uncoupling... and a gob of other trainy words that I don't know. They gentlemen saw my boys watching, came over and asked if the wanted to help fill the train with water and coal.
Of course they wanted to. With gleeful faces, they trotted over to the refilling station. The men let them help, answering questions. And, they even let my boys push the handle for the train 'merry-go-round'. When the day was through, my wife and I even donated extra money to the cause. (We rarely do that, because we're cheapskates.) If anyone is ever in the Wisconsin Dells area, I highly recommend you visit the Riverside & Great Northern Railway.
People are often afraid to outright ask about something they are interested in. There is no greater way to kill a cause, than to trample on the hint of interest someone reveals. On the flip side, you can nurture an interest, like the volunteer from the railway. Seeing a new face watching everyone play, you can be the person to go over and invite that person to join.
So, what does any of this have to do with The Queen City Chamber Opera's performance of the Abduction from the Seraglio?
There are a gob of academics, and artsy-hippy types wondering how to get our youth interested in classical music. And, there is all kinds of debate as to whether or not classical music is dead. (To a troglodyte, the deadness of something only adds to its appeal.) And, if it is dead, how does one revive it? Some say, the answer lies in bigger, better productions. Others say, more radical, modern performances.
Neither are the answer. Both solutions are simply for those who already love classical music. The former, for those who want to see their favorite music at the peak of perfection. They want every note humming in an environment that cascades forth at its purest. (This tone-deaf man wouldn't be able to tell the difference between a tap-water note and spring-mountain-rain note.) The latter solution comes from those bored with hearing the same music, the same way.
Accessibility. Accessibility is the key to spurring a love for a cause. Oh, how fitting that I speak of Queen City Chamber Opera's (QCCO) performance of The Abduction from the Seraglio for such a post. Whereas Zaide struggles truer to the way things are, The Abduction calls softly for the way thing ought to be. Pasha Selim desperately wants Konstanze to love him. He's being patience (by patient, I mean his understanding of patience). But, Konstaze just can't love him. She just can't force it to happen. This big towering figure is not accessible to her heart. After a series of up and downs, twists and turns, threatening of lives, Selim captures an escaped Konstanze and her true love, Belmonte. Their fate is in his hands. But, here's where Selim truly shows he loves her. He let's her go. In turn, Konstanze can praise Selim. Not in the manner he wants, but still praises him.
A bit back, QCCO performed The Abduction. They have recently posted pieces of that performance on Youtube. I'd been eagerly waiting for it. I encourage you to watch, here. This organization has the right philosophy to spur a love for opera. A love for Mozart. Accessibility. This is not saying, they aren't focus on quality, because the voices and the music are very good. I'd bet my right hearing (not that I need it), that this performance sounded better in person. From the first time I saw their production of Zaide, Isaac Selya, the conductor, has illustrated this philosophy of accessibility--from posting less common works on Youtube, to positive feedback of a lowbrow wrestling with the highbrow.
Though, it does take discipline... You love something. You want others to love it as well. Takes discipline not to force it on other. My wife often laughs at me when I speak of a disdain for 'elitists', yet she is quick to point out I love classical music. But, it's not the art that makes one an elitist, but the pressure to push any given love upon a populace for its own good.
Of course how does one even make the music accessible? How do you educate without a hint of prodding? I don't know. And, aren't there gobs of organizations that are accessible? Yeah. Yeah, there are. Unfortunately, accessibility does not guarantee appreciation or love, but it is necessary. It takes patience and a soft, enduring passion to spread a love for a cause.
Monday, May 4, 2015
K. 43, Symphony no. 6
Following a respite in Salzburg, the Mozarts whisked away to Vienna once again. Vienna was that day's Hollywood. (But, I'm sure there are no parents today bringing their kids to Hollywood, so they can get rich and famous.) It seems that anything that could have gone wrong on such a trip, did. The royals had their own set of concerns (a death and whatnot) as opposed to entertaining the Mozart. Small Pox was gnawing. They had to leave the area for a spell. Mozart got sick. And, a gob of patrons cheated the family out of money. All of which I will explore as I venture into this Vienna chapter of Mozart's life.
Now, onto K. 42. A work dabbled on while at the Archbishop Schrattenbach's brother's house. A place the ran, to flee smallpox, only to have Mozart catch the illness. He got so sick he lost his sight for days.
The music is increasingly grabbing my attention. A four movement work, his first I believe, the symphony starts with robust zest. "I'm going to take this challenge on. Kick some rear."
Then comes the sweet sound of the second. A tune all too familiar to me. I know this music. I've heard the opening before. Zaide. Yes. It is likely because I've listened to Zaide so many times, I caught it. The Andante opening is the exact same, as the music from Herr und Freund. But, yet elsewhere have I heard it. Apollo et Hyancinthus. The aria Natus cadit atque Deus. My most notable piece from that opera, is in fact this song. I've heard it was natural for composers to recycle their work, but I guess I'm just surprised that Mozart joined in. And, as an adult he recycled something he wrote when he was 11.
I know when I have created some sort of idea, that I believe is brilliant, I like to incorporate it where ever I can. Is that what is going on here? Did this bit of music stick with Mozart all his life? I'm curious to see if I'll find it else where as I explore further. Or, to be more cynical, was this an issue of laziness? Not, as if I could blame a young Mozart, going through crazy hell. Both as he wrote K. 35 and Zaide. Why not use some of his older 'good stuff' to make the assignment a bit easier.
Confession of the nature of my own evilness: In college, I did use some my old papers, and retro fit them for later assignments. And, even more brazen, I suspected a professor wasn't even reading those end of chapter questions he had assigned. He simply checked to make sure we had written something. So, for one of the assignments, I answered the first and last question with the same paragraph. I got a completion. I later grew even bolder, copying and pasting random blurbs of writing from other assignments. I mean, really? What's the point in writing anything, if no one is going to read it. (Yet, I still write this blog.)
Whether he simply loved this music and wanted others to love it the same, or he needed a break and found some work he had already done, I get why Mozart did what he did. And, this piece of music is very beautiful. The music plays with emotions in a way only Mozart can do. To describe it best, I would say this aria is one of joyful crying. But not in the manner of Bach, as if to say, “I’m suffering this horrible trail, but I have found peace through it.” But, more as if to say, “I’m going through this horrible trial, and I’m so miserably happy that you’re willing to go through it with me. I’m helpless. I can’t do this alone, and you’re actions have given me hope, even if I still have no chance of escaping this trial.” The music is that of a man on his knees, sobbing, repeating his thanks. (If one can comment about the irony of the last chunk I wrote, that would make my day.)
The third movement is nice, and I think I'm getting a feel for what a Minuet sounds like. The fourth movement has this galloping chunk that reminds me a bit of Osmin's Aria Wer hungrig bei der tafel sitzt. It's not as exact as the other... Maybe I just want to find a link. How many more recycled chunks are out there? How many will I miss, because I haven't let the music nest itself into my conscience? Keep reading. If you know something I don't, let me know.
The music is increasingly grabbing my attention. A four movement work, his first I believe, the symphony starts with robust zest. "I'm going to take this challenge on. Kick some rear."
Then comes the sweet sound of the second. A tune all too familiar to me. I know this music. I've heard the opening before. Zaide. Yes. It is likely because I've listened to Zaide so many times, I caught it. The Andante opening is the exact same, as the music from Herr und Freund. But, yet elsewhere have I heard it. Apollo et Hyancinthus. The aria Natus cadit atque Deus. My most notable piece from that opera, is in fact this song. I've heard it was natural for composers to recycle their work, but I guess I'm just surprised that Mozart joined in. And, as an adult he recycled something he wrote when he was 11.
I know when I have created some sort of idea, that I believe is brilliant, I like to incorporate it where ever I can. Is that what is going on here? Did this bit of music stick with Mozart all his life? I'm curious to see if I'll find it else where as I explore further. Or, to be more cynical, was this an issue of laziness? Not, as if I could blame a young Mozart, going through crazy hell. Both as he wrote K. 35 and Zaide. Why not use some of his older 'good stuff' to make the assignment a bit easier.
Confession of the nature of my own evilness: In college, I did use some my old papers, and retro fit them for later assignments. And, even more brazen, I suspected a professor wasn't even reading those end of chapter questions he had assigned. He simply checked to make sure we had written something. So, for one of the assignments, I answered the first and last question with the same paragraph. I got a completion. I later grew even bolder, copying and pasting random blurbs of writing from other assignments. I mean, really? What's the point in writing anything, if no one is going to read it. (Yet, I still write this blog.)
Whether he simply loved this music and wanted others to love it the same, or he needed a break and found some work he had already done, I get why Mozart did what he did. And, this piece of music is very beautiful. The music plays with emotions in a way only Mozart can do. To describe it best, I would say this aria is one of joyful crying. But not in the manner of Bach, as if to say, “I’m suffering this horrible trail, but I have found peace through it.” But, more as if to say, “I’m going through this horrible trial, and I’m so miserably happy that you’re willing to go through it with me. I’m helpless. I can’t do this alone, and you’re actions have given me hope, even if I still have no chance of escaping this trial.” The music is that of a man on his knees, sobbing, repeating his thanks. (If one can comment about the irony of the last chunk I wrote, that would make my day.)
The third movement is nice, and I think I'm getting a feel for what a Minuet sounds like. The fourth movement has this galloping chunk that reminds me a bit of Osmin's Aria Wer hungrig bei der tafel sitzt. It's not as exact as the other... Maybe I just want to find a link. How many more recycled chunks are out there? How many will I miss, because I haven't let the music nest itself into my conscience? Keep reading. If you know something I don't, let me know.
Monday, April 27, 2015
K. 42/35a, Grabmusik
Early apologies. For as refined as I may have pretended to be, I am still a troglodyte clinging to an ancient hope. I am not enlightened enough to adhere to the solely material. And, I ain't no hippy out to say every belief is equally valid. I get some may not like that. Sure, I'm out to explore Mozart's music, not preach. But, I'm tackling a religious work, so I will not be able to intellectually and honestly avoid a religious talk. Yet, for the sensibilities of those who may not care to hear the barbaric, I will comment on the music first.
Mozart grew up Catholic. It permeated his familial life. Leopold made major family decisions to ensure they lived in a Catholic region. (They could have had some good prospects had they taken employment in London. It worked for Handel and Haydn. But, alas...) So, of course, a young Mozart would have had composed music for mass. And, we come to another of many.
K. 42, Grabmusik is his longest mass work at this place in the Köchel, I think. (Unless you count K. 35.) This work is a Passion. Or, it focuses on the suffering Christ went through when he bore the cross. Heavy themes to find the right music. I'm not sure young Mozart carried the emotional-evoking burden well. It is a work of four movements. The first is the most emotionally tone-deaf. (Ha. Ha. Look I'm calling Mozart tone-deaf.) I'm not saying, the music is no good. In fact, it is very nice. It has the same sound of many of his later operas. But, for a song speaking of the soul crushing guilt that Christ had to bear such torture for our sins, it is too jovial. The first movement is redeemed, however, around the 3.5 minute mark. This is actually the best bit of brooding, dark music that reflects real anguish from guilt. Unfortunately, it returns back to a rumpus frolic, with laughing included.
The second movement holds sorrow. And yes, what fitting emotion to carry when singing of remembering Christ's death. But, the lyrics seem to call for more rumble. I mean... Boulders split... Sun, moon and stars take flight... Thunder! Flames and Lightning...? The third does well enough to reflect guilty sorrow. Sorrow that leads to repentance. And the last bit declares victory. Victory in the death of Christ. "Feed us with thy broken body, now in death's agony."
And, this is the faith that pressed itself upon Mozart. It stayed with him. He would have unlikely ever given it up. Mozart saw his faith as his identity. (Even though, this religion was not what he believed. When I dabble in his Freemason ventures, I'll elaborate more.) He grew up seeing Christ as the suffering servant--which he was. But, this suffering focused unduly on the physical. The triumphant stamp was Christ's death. His physical death. As a protestant, I stress the stamp of victory was his resurrection. There are plenty of Catholics who would say this is a valid point, but even then there is a theology (prevalent for Mozart) that emphasizes an idea of the physical suffering.
Thus the physical, the material, dominated the Mozarts' fears. And, Mozart's fears, even those fears we might believe were spiritual.
But I must say, Christ's physical torture was not the pinnacle of the Passion.
The night He was betrayed, Christ wept, trembling with fear for what was about to take place. To the point of sweating blood. I can hardly imagine not having the same fear. Yet, later, when many of the disciples were martyred, history speaks of the peace they had. Stephen celebrated he was going home. Peter picked a more gruesome death. What? Did they have more courage than Christ? Some may say, 'They had the Holy Spirit.' But, in one sense, isn't Christ the living embodiment of the Holy Spirit. Equal in nature and in strength?
So, am I calling Christ a coward? Be no means! The physical suffering was nothing compared to what he was going to take upon himself. The wrath of God. (A hint of this comes from a sermon I heard. And I do not know all his references, so I apologies for lack of citation) Every forgiven sin, ever committed, Jesus absorbed that wrath. And, even though some believe they have bore guilt and fear, no one can truly know what that kind of wrath is like, but God alone. Christ, God in the flesh, knew what was coming. He fully and completely understood.
We can never know what it was like for Christ. In fact, we have an aversion to the idea that God would take our sins that seriously. In my own sinful flesh, I have a hard time accepting it. So, I'm sure someone who has gotten this far is gnashing his or her teeth because of how 'barbaric' I sound. I'm not trying to offend. But... Everyone can agree that there are, and have been, horrible individuals that were flippantly callous about their actions. Do you think Hitler felt sorry about what he had done? And, in the small odds that he had, would the hint of guilt he could conjure ever be enough?
I know. I know. This is difficult stuff to wrestle with. But, our physical fears are the only fears we can somewhat understand. Thus, they dominate our lives. As with Mozart. And, even the times we wrestle with the spiritual, how do we determine legitimate fears when we have primarily physical experiences?
Ultimately, there are two types of people: Those who do not fear the wrath of God. And, those who do not need to fear the wrath of God. The former do not believe their actions render such consequences. (They may be right.) And, those who do not need to fear the wrath of God. This could be because He doesn't exist. OR... Or, because one has let Christ bear the punishment for the sins we have committed. Let Christ bear a wrath we cannot fully comprehend. And, let Christ bear a wrath we will never have to.
A troglodyte, as I, strives not to let either physical or spiritual fears dominate my life. I do what I can to cling to a confidence in Christ and his actions. Yet, like just as Mozart's music sings, I fail...
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