I really need a Tahitian hangover vacation.
I need a glass in my hand, the sand in my feet
and the wind in my hair.
I don't care how, I don't care when
Just get me there.
MB Disco.
Hmmm, I wonder how that intention will surface into a song...
Meanwhile, Time to write more playbook songs. I had my students turn their lunch duty blues into songs. Some funny stuff came out, including one of my own about sitting in spilt milk.
Try it -- for whatever in life ails ya', there's some healin lyrics and a song to be written that will turn your grimace into giggles.
Thursday, April 29
Wednesday, April 28
The Play Book
I began composing my Playbook Song Cycle this past packet period. Past packet. Ha. I like it. Nothing like beginning with the digression.
My first attempts at "play writing" involve card games. This whole --- chapter?, if you will -- is dedicated to the memory of my grandmother. I say her memory because that is what has gone missing. We all mourn the loss of her mind, particularly my mother who is her devoted and tireless caretaker. So far I have composed War, Solitaire and Pyramid. Next up are Hearts and Spades. I may write specific motifs as to the hands of Poker...and other ideas like that. So far I am shocked at the quantity of math and formula with which I am imbuing my work. It is as if my verbal and math mind are merging into one. I like that aspect of the works and hope to experience the recording and realization of the pieces this summer.
On another note, I am beginning my work with the Stoning of Soraya M. project. This weekend I hope to have thru-composed the first two movements of the piece as well as a skeletal draft of the remaining movements. I am including some poetry I have written called "Fairies" in the set and hope to include poetry and quotes of other women survivors of abuse, neglect and violence in my work. I am currently seeking those contributions.
My emotional journal has morphed in practice to a book of daily intentions -- like the daily prayers in a Catholic church but these are my smallest intentions set to improvisational music and voice. Only a few senteces each -- although I suspect a few diatribes are in my near future-- these give me the satisfaction and daily exercise of composing. I find as I incorporate more writing into my daily practice that I am more drawn to practices involving immersion in the moment -- particularly dance and yoga. I am starting back my dance and yoga practice on Thursdays. I cannot wait.
Hope the world is treating everyone swell,
MB Disco
My first attempts at "play writing" involve card games. This whole --- chapter?, if you will -- is dedicated to the memory of my grandmother. I say her memory because that is what has gone missing. We all mourn the loss of her mind, particularly my mother who is her devoted and tireless caretaker. So far I have composed War, Solitaire and Pyramid. Next up are Hearts and Spades. I may write specific motifs as to the hands of Poker...and other ideas like that. So far I am shocked at the quantity of math and formula with which I am imbuing my work. It is as if my verbal and math mind are merging into one. I like that aspect of the works and hope to experience the recording and realization of the pieces this summer.
On another note, I am beginning my work with the Stoning of Soraya M. project. This weekend I hope to have thru-composed the first two movements of the piece as well as a skeletal draft of the remaining movements. I am including some poetry I have written called "Fairies" in the set and hope to include poetry and quotes of other women survivors of abuse, neglect and violence in my work. I am currently seeking those contributions.
My emotional journal has morphed in practice to a book of daily intentions -- like the daily prayers in a Catholic church but these are my smallest intentions set to improvisational music and voice. Only a few senteces each -- although I suspect a few diatribes are in my near future-- these give me the satisfaction and daily exercise of composing. I find as I incorporate more writing into my daily practice that I am more drawn to practices involving immersion in the moment -- particularly dance and yoga. I am starting back my dance and yoga practice on Thursdays. I cannot wait.
Hope the world is treating everyone swell,
MB Disco
Thursday, April 22
Play Books
So I come from a family of sportaholics. The only part I inherited is the stubborn variety of the perseverence gene. I can run, I can play raquet sports fairly well -- I have a wicked backhand that will take you by surprise -- softball, horshoes, swimming, horseback riding, water polo...
I've tried on sports like most people try on jeans; and I've never found the right fit. Racquet sports come pretty close though.
I always took to music and poetry. I would write the most horrible stuff about this tree that I could see outside the window of my English classes. Each English classroom had a different view of the tree -- they were all spread across the left hand side of the second floor annex. I think the tree is gone now -- bulldozed when the high school sold its property to the college for the building of a bigger, badder library. And now all that is left of that tree is the fuzzy faded pencil lines of iambic pentameter.
Speaking of poetry, I have rediscovered the delight and joy I once found in the art form. The delicacy of line, the originality of thought in verse form...epic! Today I discovered a way that is most beneficial for me to capture the voice of my poems through chord cluster choral settings of my text. In a somewhat minimalist Arvo Part meets Eric Whitacre style, I am approaching my poems from the standpoint of a musical impressionist -- using chord clusters to suggest or embody *(emsound?)* the mood and memory of the work. I am going for less movement and more continual suggestive atmosphere through the use of sustained fourths and major second intervals within the clusters that never resolve. In theory, the "mood" of the poem or memory is not something that yearns for resolution -- it simply "is." Artistically, I see no need nor feel the desire to contradict this "is-ness" of mood in the text through musical resolution of the chord. The memory moves me, but the memory itself has little if any motion. From a compositional perspective, this makes the writing part much simpler and draws on my theater background to determine and choose the precise moments in the work which call for movement or a slight musical progression. Is it even correct, though, to use the word "progression" when the movement does not have an end goal? It is not functioning in a progressive manner so I am more inclined to call it a ripple in the sound pool I am creating through the five part voices. I can hear it all in my head -- 2 men and 3 women. It will be gorgeous and I just may be able to grab a quick recording of it in the next two weeks. It would complete my chlidhood set for this semester.
Amazing to me is the progression (regression actually in a psychological sense but progressive in that I am moving not backwards but forwards in my understanding of self) from exploring my own inner ecology and emotional landscape to the rediscovery of childhood. All of my work is very much based in the encounters with my inner child. I suspect my dreaming is reflecting this as well, although I have done a terrible job of keeping up with dream documentation and analysis. I think there is a deep rooted reason for this which I have decided to explore in the next two weeks -- my dreaming frustration, that is.
Alas, dear reader, I fear I may be approaching the level of boring you to death with my own inner constructs and journeys. Stay tuned for more sonnets, songbooks, and sonic maps and imagery.
Over and out,
MB Disco
I've tried on sports like most people try on jeans; and I've never found the right fit. Racquet sports come pretty close though.
I always took to music and poetry. I would write the most horrible stuff about this tree that I could see outside the window of my English classes. Each English classroom had a different view of the tree -- they were all spread across the left hand side of the second floor annex. I think the tree is gone now -- bulldozed when the high school sold its property to the college for the building of a bigger, badder library. And now all that is left of that tree is the fuzzy faded pencil lines of iambic pentameter.
Speaking of poetry, I have rediscovered the delight and joy I once found in the art form. The delicacy of line, the originality of thought in verse form...epic! Today I discovered a way that is most beneficial for me to capture the voice of my poems through chord cluster choral settings of my text. In a somewhat minimalist Arvo Part meets Eric Whitacre style, I am approaching my poems from the standpoint of a musical impressionist -- using chord clusters to suggest or embody *(emsound?)* the mood and memory of the work. I am going for less movement and more continual suggestive atmosphere through the use of sustained fourths and major second intervals within the clusters that never resolve. In theory, the "mood" of the poem or memory is not something that yearns for resolution -- it simply "is." Artistically, I see no need nor feel the desire to contradict this "is-ness" of mood in the text through musical resolution of the chord. The memory moves me, but the memory itself has little if any motion. From a compositional perspective, this makes the writing part much simpler and draws on my theater background to determine and choose the precise moments in the work which call for movement or a slight musical progression. Is it even correct, though, to use the word "progression" when the movement does not have an end goal? It is not functioning in a progressive manner so I am more inclined to call it a ripple in the sound pool I am creating through the five part voices. I can hear it all in my head -- 2 men and 3 women. It will be gorgeous and I just may be able to grab a quick recording of it in the next two weeks. It would complete my chlidhood set for this semester.
Amazing to me is the progression (regression actually in a psychological sense but progressive in that I am moving not backwards but forwards in my understanding of self) from exploring my own inner ecology and emotional landscape to the rediscovery of childhood. All of my work is very much based in the encounters with my inner child. I suspect my dreaming is reflecting this as well, although I have done a terrible job of keeping up with dream documentation and analysis. I think there is a deep rooted reason for this which I have decided to explore in the next two weeks -- my dreaming frustration, that is.
Alas, dear reader, I fear I may be approaching the level of boring you to death with my own inner constructs and journeys. Stay tuned for more sonnets, songbooks, and sonic maps and imagery.
Over and out,
MB Disco
Thursday, April 15
signposts and metaphors
Dear reader, self and sympathetic universe,
What a week this has been?! Countless self-discoveries, great boons and gifts balanced with difficulties and challenges. I am still far ahead in the balance of the positive so I am not one to complain. Life is still beautiful and one day I hope that someone else will walk under my window and greet me with a warm "bon giorno,m principesa!"
Until then, I will list some blessings:
new friends
new opportunities
more chances to concertize
new successes
valuable failures
renewed connections
travel to expand awareness and abilities
forged art practices
new growth in the garden
continual personal and practical weeding
And now on to the Signs and Metaphors...
The back story is that for a period of a decade now I have been in an active process of personal discernment. I feel that this is coming to fruition in this turning over from my twentieth decade to my thirtieth and ushering in a new wave of dedication, energy and artistic pursuit. I want to -- have wanted to honor this in some way for a time. Some kind of cultural ornamentation came to mind -- but whether a piercing, scar or tatoo...I was on the fence for over 10 years now. Until a month ago --
The tatoo found me. I was drawn to the bearer as well but there was a message in the tatoo. Unfortunately, the symbol only spoke Greek so I was S.O.L. for over a month trying to decipher the message. The symbol also was sneaky, so by the time I translated the message, it took another week to recognize that the message was an inversion. I was further perplexed as I misinterpreted the reference point of the tatoo. The original, symbol says, literally "brothers" whereas the message to me was the compliment -- sisters. But then that started me thinking about my sister and my friend "sisters" and other frames of reference. It was only today that it dawned on me that the universe wanted me to remember my forgotten sisterhood -- a group of women joined in intention, path, and artistry. In my isolation from the fraternity, I had forgotten so much. I had forgotten beautiful ceremonies, idea-clad women, and songs of idealistic triumph and unity. I had forgotten, in my loneliness and trials, that I am not alone -- that others share my convictions and drive for beauty and truth. And then I knew what I had to get -- my symbol speaks greek as well -- to keep these sisters closer to me and more present in my awareness. What better to mark my thirtieth year than a symbol to remind me of my sisterhood, etched into my brain, more or less.
In my life, I never thought to scar my pristine skin with any kind of permanent mark -- heck! earrings even give me trouble on occasion. However, other things and people have taken great liberty in leaving permanent marks burned into my psche. This is a mark of my choosing. That act for me is powerfully symbolic, liberating and healing. How poetically ironic -- using a scar to heal. I don't want to forget any part of my story. But I see this as stamping a chapter closed and sealing within its pages a load of pain, hurt and injustice. This book can go up on the shelf because I'm writing the next chapter now and I want to physicalize my moving on through this permanent sign. The permanence reminds me that while I cannot erase parts of my story, no matter how painful, I can absorb them and I have taken these into the fabric of my being...and I am still beautiful, still whole, and simply more complex.
And so on Friday, I will go and make my mark, or rather, bear theirs, to signify that I am part of a greater chain. There will be a place I can physically touch -- a visual touchstone -- when I am lonely, afraid, faltering, or ashamed and from it will flow the strength and courage of women over a thousand strong: my sisters. It will bear our colors and our sign. I have never felt more sure of something in my life...and never more excited to bust out a true confession at the next family holiday gathering!
What a week this has been?! Countless self-discoveries, great boons and gifts balanced with difficulties and challenges. I am still far ahead in the balance of the positive so I am not one to complain. Life is still beautiful and one day I hope that someone else will walk under my window and greet me with a warm "bon giorno,m principesa!"
Until then, I will list some blessings:
new friends
new opportunities
more chances to concertize
new successes
valuable failures
renewed connections
travel to expand awareness and abilities
forged art practices
new growth in the garden
continual personal and practical weeding
And now on to the Signs and Metaphors...
The back story is that for a period of a decade now I have been in an active process of personal discernment. I feel that this is coming to fruition in this turning over from my twentieth decade to my thirtieth and ushering in a new wave of dedication, energy and artistic pursuit. I want to -- have wanted to honor this in some way for a time. Some kind of cultural ornamentation came to mind -- but whether a piercing, scar or tatoo...I was on the fence for over 10 years now. Until a month ago --
The tatoo found me. I was drawn to the bearer as well but there was a message in the tatoo. Unfortunately, the symbol only spoke Greek so I was S.O.L. for over a month trying to decipher the message. The symbol also was sneaky, so by the time I translated the message, it took another week to recognize that the message was an inversion. I was further perplexed as I misinterpreted the reference point of the tatoo. The original, symbol says, literally "brothers" whereas the message to me was the compliment -- sisters. But then that started me thinking about my sister and my friend "sisters" and other frames of reference. It was only today that it dawned on me that the universe wanted me to remember my forgotten sisterhood -- a group of women joined in intention, path, and artistry. In my isolation from the fraternity, I had forgotten so much. I had forgotten beautiful ceremonies, idea-clad women, and songs of idealistic triumph and unity. I had forgotten, in my loneliness and trials, that I am not alone -- that others share my convictions and drive for beauty and truth. And then I knew what I had to get -- my symbol speaks greek as well -- to keep these sisters closer to me and more present in my awareness. What better to mark my thirtieth year than a symbol to remind me of my sisterhood, etched into my brain, more or less.
In my life, I never thought to scar my pristine skin with any kind of permanent mark -- heck! earrings even give me trouble on occasion. However, other things and people have taken great liberty in leaving permanent marks burned into my psche. This is a mark of my choosing. That act for me is powerfully symbolic, liberating and healing. How poetically ironic -- using a scar to heal. I don't want to forget any part of my story. But I see this as stamping a chapter closed and sealing within its pages a load of pain, hurt and injustice. This book can go up on the shelf because I'm writing the next chapter now and I want to physicalize my moving on through this permanent sign. The permanence reminds me that while I cannot erase parts of my story, no matter how painful, I can absorb them and I have taken these into the fabric of my being...and I am still beautiful, still whole, and simply more complex.
And so on Friday, I will go and make my mark, or rather, bear theirs, to signify that I am part of a greater chain. There will be a place I can physically touch -- a visual touchstone -- when I am lonely, afraid, faltering, or ashamed and from it will flow the strength and courage of women over a thousand strong: my sisters. It will bear our colors and our sign. I have never felt more sure of something in my life...and never more excited to bust out a true confession at the next family holiday gathering!
Tuesday, April 13
Mary Mary...
So here is the gist of it. I walked around my yard today ... and cried. Not the bawling, face splattering kind of tear-struck emotional outpouring, but a gentle welling up of the soul via tear ducts. You see, this yard project sprung up out of a time of great pain, personal sacrifice, and loss. In the design and planting of it, I knew that my yard's blooming would also mark the period of time that I took to heal, regroup, and redirect my life. Seeing the tangible fruition of my labors took my breath away. There is still much to be grown, for both of us -- my yard and me -- but what I see already is so beautiful. It is not that the outward beauty has reached its zenith, but more the visual proof and showing that everything has found its place. I have 100% success with my transplants, all of which are sporting new sprouts, first flowers, and new shoots. The birds and bees are humming and squirrels are making merry. One variety of hostas all came back in my shade garden! I thought between my efforts to pull them out and the rabbits ravenous eating habits that they were all but done for and yet, I stand surprised and gape-mouthed at the six survivors. There are roses, azaleas, laurels, spider lilies, bridal wreaths, jasmine and berries.
Most importantly, pink abounds. Pink, the symbol of everything I have considered weak, vulnerable and therefore "less-than" has triumphed in my yard. Slowly and steadily, she has claimed her stake and in so doing taught me a lesson about myself. Pink has re-gifted me my vulnerability in this new package that I can marvel in and cherish. Pink is the color of our insides, our guts. It is what makes us go, yet I spent years eradicating this color of health and vitality from my life. It seems so silly now, as if the very flowers are laughing at me and saying "I told you so."
Stemming with gratitude today,
Yours,
MB Disco
Most importantly, pink abounds. Pink, the symbol of everything I have considered weak, vulnerable and therefore "less-than" has triumphed in my yard. Slowly and steadily, she has claimed her stake and in so doing taught me a lesson about myself. Pink has re-gifted me my vulnerability in this new package that I can marvel in and cherish. Pink is the color of our insides, our guts. It is what makes us go, yet I spent years eradicating this color of health and vitality from my life. It seems so silly now, as if the very flowers are laughing at me and saying "I told you so."
Stemming with gratitude today,
Yours,
MB Disco
Saturday, April 3
A new ID
Dear Fans,
There is a moral to this story. To save you the time of reading the story and me the trouble of typing it, here goes: If you are going to run and get back into the "best shape of your life" do not think that keeping your Drivers License and Debit Card in the back pocket of jeans that used to fit super tightly is a "safe place." However, if your current ID represents and encompasses a certain period of life that you no longer IDentify with, perhaps this is the smartest idea ever. You end up with an official police report, a nice policeman's card with your case number in case you are pulled over prior to the DMV reopening and a new start -- a new ID.
Lessons abound in the universe. You also learn who will walk with you willingly when things get sticky.
All for the affordable price of $10.
Zenfully yours,
MB Disco
There is a moral to this story. To save you the time of reading the story and me the trouble of typing it, here goes: If you are going to run and get back into the "best shape of your life" do not think that keeping your Drivers License and Debit Card in the back pocket of jeans that used to fit super tightly is a "safe place." However, if your current ID represents and encompasses a certain period of life that you no longer IDentify with, perhaps this is the smartest idea ever. You end up with an official police report, a nice policeman's card with your case number in case you are pulled over prior to the DMV reopening and a new start -- a new ID.
Lessons abound in the universe. You also learn who will walk with you willingly when things get sticky.
All for the affordable price of $10.
Zenfully yours,
MB Disco
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