Thursday, July 28, 2005

Of Tutoring, Angles and Mediocre Poetry

Another three-station installment, I've missed these. Heading towards a lower common denominator with each passing paragraph, for better or for worse.

Turns out I will be at the Southeast Asian Youth Orchestra as viola tutor for another year. Though I did have some reservations about about it earlier in the year, I think it's a good challenge to take it up, and besides, I've done it once, have a better idea of what to expect and what not to expect, and have a few new things to contribute and share.

Every once in a while, teaching provides a little insight that only active attempts at problem-solving provides, though beyond that, if you're not a string player, you may as well skip the rest of this paragraph. Anyway, that little aspect of teaching is particularly helpful to me at present, because starting with an off-string up-bow under recital or audition conditions has tended to be rather shaky. Turns out, allowing the last finger to relax as the bow approaches the string, angling the bow counter-clockwise while moving it upwards, has a rather good effect on tone production as well as stability. Also, I found this site rather disturbing for pedagogical reasons. Everyone has their own way of teaching, but still...

And now I have a rather mediocre sample of poetry, which, with this disclaimer, doth dash out any guilt I may have on unloading some linguistic rubbish on you.

Spell I The End.

Once upon a time, you and I, we had something.
It was real, it was you… it was me. It fit.
It was no fling.
Wasn’t it?

Remember the times when you’d surprise me,
with taps gently on my window you would sound?
When I used to gently fall asleep,
your whispers all around?
And when I awoke, sometimes you were there, other times you had left,
Even the latter,
Did not quite matter,
For your lingering presence was in the air, your soul, my first breath.

But ever since I moved to the big city things have changed.
In your visits you inhale the worst of the fumes a big city proclaims,
And your words expound, dirty, strained, yet with thundering dark acidic acclaim.

You called me today when I was riding on a bike. I could not defer.
You knew I was there, that I could not, not answer.
Talking to you was like ten times taking a cold shower.
Soon, me ten pounds heavier, so it felt like. My vision blurred.

Now the mention of you, on my essence does stain.
Your name, your name:
four letters that on the cheer of the day does drain.
On this keyboard I spell it one last time, for it is for us, the end:

R A I N.

(graphic: original source unknown)

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