Marathon Rehearsal

Today was our pre-tour rehearsal extravaganza. It was characterized most memorably by remarkable patience from Fountain and horrible faxed parts for the Chinese pieces. It was fabulous to look across the orchestra to see John, Henry, and Christian (and to hear some damn fine alumni violinists bringing up the rear of the sections). It was not fabulous to have my cell phone go off in the middle of the whole thing. Since my phone makes a horrible and unsophisticated sound, Fountain asked with very British indignation: "What IS that noise?"

Benny D was feeling a bit tired, having just flown into Nashville with his parents (who are chaperoning us!) this morning:



But the 2nd stand of second violins (Eva and Kayleigh) and the 1st stand of cellos (Micah and Sarah) were feeling frisky.





On my walk home from rehearsal, I got pretty nostalgic. This whole lead-up to tour makes me so incredibly grateful for a place like Blair. All these people who know me as a person and as a musician, all these incredible teachers. When I have days that make me think I have to be a musician forever, I sometimes wonder if I just want to be a Blair student forever. Which is pretty impossible. Although Connie Heard has nearly done it.

A late night game of Capture the Flag is being secretly planned to take place in Blair today. I hope I can get some pictures of THAT, by God ... but in the meantime, here is a cute picture of TZ with the Blair Nutcracker, whose whirring motor makes us all think someone is vacuuming, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.



Bless you Mr. Nutcracker!

Pre-tour phase begins.

A small impromptu gathering of friends on the night before our first rehearsal yields some key revelations: Abi has learned a pretty excellent amount of Chinese, for example. I may or may not cling to such folks once we get there. Or just study really hard with my little CD, which jumps wayyyy too quickly from "hello" to "we have a reservation at this hotel." Whoa there.

It's going to be fabulous and a little surreal to see yesterday's alumni playing in the same orchestra with today's freshmen. A kind of time warp orchestra. Perhaps the kind of orchestra we all wish we could play in: made up of friends from different times and places, but of course, conducted by Robin Fountain. (David Zinman is my second choice.)

Upon John and Dave's return, they will find that little has changed. There's still a little homoeroticism bubbling under the surface:



And we find that little has changed with them, especially with regards to John's "whatever" pose:



We've got rehearsal today and I've not been a very diligent violinist this week. Better hit the ground running ...

Yesss, another tour journal.

For the third time in my life, I have a Tour Journal. I'm really excited about this. It's a sort of unofficial tradition in my life, which I'll now have to keep every time I travel, especially in groups. I have a blue-and-gold spiral journal from the summer of 2002, in which GBYSO traveled to Central Europe for a concert tour. I have a very organic-looking purple one from summer 2003, when we went to San Francisco and Napa Valley.

These journals are primarily my own: I kept them with me, wrote in them all the time. But as often as I could, I handed them to my friends on the tour bus, and they jotted down their own entries. As you can imagine, the entries from my sixteen-year-old friends back in high school range from the silly to the naive to the amazing and profound. It is wonderful to read them.

Of course, this means I have to keep the tour journal pretty 'clean', so you know, if I end up having some kind of whirlwind romantic affair, it will be unprintable in a journal which is by necessity sort of public. (That's why I'll take along a second journal, only for what truly must be private. Possible inclusions: dirty dreams I had, unsympathetic rants, hit lists, anti-equal rights statements ... the usual.) No really, when a girl's got two journals, you know you're dealing with something serious. I'll probably use the tour journal as a guide for this site, the most public of all journals. Oh, the Internets; oh, the Earth.

Five days before takeoff ...

For the next few weeks, this blog will transform from Plain Ol' Blog to Amazing China Tour! Blog. A fabulous and easy transition, which occurs only because a) I start writing in this thing again, and b) the orchestra goes to China.

Small flurries of excitement are traveling from computer to computer on facebook. Little postings of anticipation have been left on walls everywhere. Juliet posted photos of our most exotic destinations on the still-thriving "Tune That Shit" page. We're all isolated from each other this week, but are united by the unreal prospect of traveling across the world to play some concerts.

It's been five years since I left the US, and for lots of orchestra members, this will be their first international experience. So many things I have difficulty believing: are people really going to stop just to get photos with some white people? Is Robin Fountain really going to conduct the Cowboys Overture in front of thousands of Chinese?

It remains to be seen. I've got a new winter coat, a new digital camera, and a reinvented blog. Tools for traveling success. Now about that long underwear and anti-diarrhea medication ...

Also, crying?

Another tiny baby theme I've been tracing through my life lately: crying. A bit stressed and emotionally unbalanced, I've been prone to tears lately. But I'm not crying over my million rehearsals & unread pages of book; I'm usually crying for happiness over something tiny. On Wednesday, which was a terrible day, two people smiled at me orchestra rehearsal -- as is normal, because we're human beings and friends -- and I felt tears springing to my eyes. It was such a feeling of total beauty, relief and shared humanity. I looked down at the floor, humbled, thinking: that's the solution; that's why we're here. I don't really know what I was talking about. But even just now, as I sat down for early Saturday morning schoolwork, I got a little teary to hear Norah Jones singing me awake. Life is good?

Breath in music

Breath in music: for some people, the two are completely inseparable. Singers, wind players can't build a phrase or do much of anything without breath. But, I'm finding, neither can anyone else. Or at least, anyone who really makes music well.

In my lesson with Carolyn yesterday, every time there were rests in my Brahms part, she breathed sharply and audibly before each of my entrances. [It's as if, listening to anyone play, she's very nearly playing it herself. Can hardly help it.] In piano trio today with Micah, I found that whenever I felt awkward violinistically, a good exhalation could take care of it. And then there's the fabulous double bass phenomenon: Edgar and his breathing, clucking and tsking sounds; J. Digerness back when we were freshmen. And my new friend Mike does it too, on the bass and jamming on the piano. It's fascinating, how deeply important it is for all of them. And these are all musicians that I really like, really respect. I love their playing, love their breathing, and so, love their existence. What could be more basic to a person than breath?

Stray dog at Foster Falls.

Today, my friend Jen Chang (longtime friend from the old days of youth symphony; now just as fabulous as she was before, plus fabulous job at Baltimore NPR affiliate - the woman rules) and I traveled East on I-24 in Tennessee, to pay a little visit some gorgeous scenic points and that cute little restaurant in Sewanee, Shenanigans.

We decided to drive out to Foster Falls, a 100-foot waterfall, and after some negotiating with bad directions, we made it. As we set out on the trail, I noticed a dog watching us from perhaps fifty yards away, sitting shyly at the edge of the woods. As we got on our way, we discovered that he was following us. Whenever we stopped, he stopped, keeping a safe distance, but giving us an intense stare. The quick hike to the base of the falls wasn't easy, especially after hours of rain, but he negotiated the rocks and logs and the rope bridge beautifully. He was skilled. He was following us. We were a little nervous.

But on our way back up the trail, something lovely happened: he guided us back up. He went first, bounding up the path faster than we could -- but he kept stopping to wait for us, looking back, checking that we were fairly close before pressing on uphill. "I trust him!" I exclaimed to Jen; "I feel so calm!" Jen replied. I named him Virgil, thinking of Dante's guide in The Inferno . Dorky, I know.

As we reached level ground again, we tried to give Virgil the right of way to lead us, but he stopped in front of us and collapsed softly to the ground. I had no idea what he was doing -- was he tired? he looked so strong, so muscular -- until I recognized his posture. It's the same position my own dog takes when he wants to have his belly rubbed. It was quite sweet.

He got up, took a few more steps, and -- perhaps encouraged by some friendliness in my voice -- got down to try again. When we didn't go for it, he literally broke out into a HEARTBREAKING smile. A doggie smile. Tears sprang to my eyes and I turned to Jen, hand over my mouth. I felt so sad. It was like a human was trapped inside him, expressing a need for affection.

I'll try to turn the experience into a long-form poem, I think, but for now my brain is too frazzled and dazzled by the happenings of the weekend.

A poem, for a new friend on his birthday.

Birthday Poem

Welcome here again.
There are men who know
there is a god and there are
rooms full of people who know it.
There is a good price on pitchers of beer.
There is the night cooling outside
when you’ve heard enough music.

Celebrate. Decide again to stay, though
most people would not miss you:
you who will collect nearly
the same books as the others.
You who will feel the same way
about the banjo as it plays.

Baked ziti, Brecht, a factory-made guitar.
It seems in order. But I cannot close my eyes
and if I could, there you would be. There you are.

- September 3, 2006

On the idea of an activist support group

Today as I scrubbed my kitchen floor here in Nashville (having returned a month ago and, without much thought for this blog, immediately plunged myself back into commitments here), I thought about the potential of LIVE (the group dedicated to the living wage campaign here at Vanderbilt) becoming essentially an activist support group. We are both the activists and the support group, and it's the former which necessitates the latter. Frankly, I could use up entire meetings talking about our feelings, none of which are necessarily mobilizing or inspiring or even activist: doubt, overwhelmedness, fear, anger. Anger is surely the most mobilizing -- that sense of justice violated is what motivates me to keep going. It needs to be bubbling on the surface, in order for me to truly feel invested in what I'm doing with the group.

But if we spend too much time talking about our feelings and not enough time truly ACTING, doing, then we've failed. It reminds me of a very simple strategy of mapping one's motivations as an activist: take the words Think, Feel, Act. Presented with injustice, in what order do you do those things?

Joel Dillard once responded Think, Act, Feel.
I responded Feel, Think, Act.
They're very different. You need all kinds to form an organization like LIVE.

So we must press on, occasionally taking a moment to acknowledge that what we are doing is extremely difficult. To comfort, congratulate, and motivate one another. We're coming up to a very intense phase of the campaign and will need as much emotionless (acting) time as emotional (feeling) time. This may seem overly philosophical, but it's fascinating to me.

To check out the basics of LIVE, go to www.vanderbilt.edu/students4livingwage.