Composing and Catherine Catastrophe

Wow, September is here and that feels strange. It is the first week of public school, and while I am not a student or an official teacher in a school system, the schedule change affects me in a big way. Most of my students are kids, so I am also beginning a school-year schedule, which of course means most lessons are late in the day. And, since I do teach part-time at a pre-school, I get to return to the world of three-to-five-year-olds learning Spanish. This year, I am also teaching Music at that same pre-school. Expect blogs.

We had our first Calliope rehearsal of the season last night, and, wow!, there is always a lot to digest in those rehearsals! Lots of new faces, which is way exciting, lots of new music, lots of new energy. I have had the honor of spending some time this summer working on a couple of arrangements for the chorus, so I am really looking forward to hearing them! Calliope has also agreed to learn a piece I wrote (many moons ago) in college, for the St. Kate's Women's Choir, and when we took it out last night, I realized that it had numerous errors (mispelled enharmonics resulting in unsingable intervals, that sort of thing). Eek! Luckily, a choir full of sweet souls can be very forgiving. We will see how it turns out!

I am also working on a few other pieces at the moment, specifically a Woodwind Quartet and an art song (Our Eyes Would Whisper For Us) for soprano, piano, violin, viola, and flute. Both of these are from the vaults, and one of those got a performance in its day, but looking back, I'm not sure how because it is terribly repetitive. Retrospect is a funny thing.

All of this energy toward composing is....making me a little crazy. Composing, I suppose like any art, is funny. You spend so much time creating, in a really personal, private space, and then, if you're lucky, you send it out into the world for many eyes and ears. And while you are in that private, cozy space, you forget that what you are creating is actually going to be public. I had a professor who said, "All writing is public." It seems strange, spending so much time in your quiet, small, cocoon of an apartment writing music, and then suddenly realizing that it will escape you, it isn't just yours anymore, it belongs to the performers, to the conductor, to the accompanist, the musicians who take it and make it alive. What you have spent your time laboring over is really just a set of guidelines, a roadmap.

And, if you are prone to insecurity and anxiety, handing over your roadmap can be a bit daunting, to say the least.

And, if you have spent three years not writing a drop of music because you were busy recovering from and eating disorder and chemical dependency, and if your identity has been wrapped up in success and failure, and if your biggest advocate has died of cancer along the way, you are certainly going to feel a little unsettled.

My friend Catherine, who passed away last October, sat by me in choirs for years. She was the soprano that sang my art song, the last public performance of my music until now. She watched me work and stress in college over a piece that finally was performed for a large audience. She likened the process of writing music to pregnancy. She said, "Liz, you have worked on this for months and months and no one has seen it, and now it is going to be birthed to an audience of hundreds of people." That rang very true to me too.

I can't help but miss her as I start to reclaim composing and choral singing. It is strange singing in a choir without her next to me. She was that friend I would go to when I felt anxiety about the pressures of the music world. She would wave her hand and say, "You are doing a good job, it's not worth your time to worry so much." She was supportive and patient with my many insecurities. Without her around, I feel a little lost putting my music out there. Who is going to be my biggest advocate? Who is going to listen to me banter my crazy-anxiety talk? Who is going to temper my worries with her good-natured humor? Who is going to ask me to write a piece for her children's choir? Who is going to make fun of my dreadlocks and piercings? Who is going to love me, no matter what, no matter how unstable or insecure I am? Who is going to love me through music theory tests, through endless choir rehearsals, through Germany and deep, deep depression, through drinking, through coming out, through bulimia, through detox, through a long absence, through her own struggles, through her house burning down, through her brother's car accident, through cancer, through hospitals, through chemo, through hospice, through morphine, through bed-stricken months? Who is going to love me like that again?

I miss her a lot. I didn't have enough time with her. I didn't thank her enough for being there for me. I suppose, as the fall approaches, along with the anniversary of her death, I will think of her more often. I have seen some leaves turning already, and it reminds me of the daily drives I made to her house last year, the beautiful leaves, the warm autumn, long Sunday afternoons at her family's house with her family, and Catherine sick inside, unable to see the changing leaves or sunshine, unable to hear the birds, unable to leave her hospice bed. And I also remember autumn in college, when I made a habit of picking up the brightest leaf I could find as I crossed the Quad, and I brought it to choir rehearsal and gave it to Catherine. "It was too beautiful to pass by," I said. She would sort of roll her eyes, clearly thinking I had some strange quirks, but she would take it anyway, and put it in her folder, where it would stay.

And she would smile at me, with her dark, pleasant eyes and jet black curly hair and tell me, "Thank you," before getting ready for rehearsal to begin. She was beautiful, with her carefree laughter and soaring soprano voice, and her compassionate, love-filled heart.

At a getting-to-know-you choir retreat one year, we had the task of alliterating our names, so that we would choose a word that began with the same letter as our first name and introduce ourselves that way. As we sat in a circle outside of our retreat center, amid the falling, colorful autumn leaves, Catherine chose the name "Catherine Catastrophe." We all laughed, because she was nothing like a catastrophe, not even remotely close. We adopted that name for her because it was ironic. Today I miss Catherine Catastrophe, the big, pleased, delighted grin that accompanied her when she announced her alliterated name, and her enormous capacity for unconditional love.

Gastown, Part II

So. There I was, in my dingy hostel room, with the flaking wallpaper and a barrage of interesting odors wafting through the open window. It was hot inside the small, dark room, so I didn't want to close the window, but I had some concern for the decibel level outside and the implication that might have on my ability to sleep. There was a heavy drape, and I left the window open but the drape partially covering it so that I could get some cool air but drown out some of the noise.

I ate the dal soup I had bought earlier, and I journaled for a bit. I was trying to wind down. I had gotten very little sleep in the days leading up to Vancouver, and I could feel my body growing lethargic. I was growing less and less concerned about the man downstairs, and anyway, I figured his shift would end soon. I decided to go in search of a washroom. I took my toothbrush and toothpaste and found a washroom/laundry room on my floor. I also had some wet clothing from in impromptu swimming excursion in rural Washington the day before (stay tuned for a later post on skivvy-dipping in the rain outside of Olympia), so I rinsed them in water and was wringing them out when a young man appeared in the doorway.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi," I said.

"I'm just checking out the laundry room. I haven't seen it yet," he said. He was small-ish, or maybe young-ish, I couldn't quite decide, and he had short, fat dreadies growing outward and he smelled of sweet, musky marijuana. "I'm Ben," he said, and he extended his hand for me to shake.

Thank God, I thought, someone halfway normal. Eye contact and a handshake. I smiled and shook his hand. "I'm Liz."

He told me that he was from Manhattan and in Vancouver on an internship, staying at the Grand Trunk because it is cheap and not too bad. I told him I was here on vacation, that I had just gotten in tonight. We chatted for a few minutes, he told me he had to get going because he was going to a concert, he had scored free tix from someone at his internship and he hoped to get smashed. I laughed and said, "Have fun."

He nodded and gave me wave as he turned to go. I started to feel more at ease. It was nice meeting someone friendly in a non-paranoid kind of way. As I was gathering my rinsed clothing, Ben appeared in the doorway again.

"Hey," he said, "Do you smoke?"

Dammit! I thought. Being somewhat herb-savvy in a former life, I knew he wasn't asking me for a light for a cigarette. What a lovely, enticing, thoughtful invitation, but...I have been on this sobriety kick for over three years, excluding even the most benign of drugs from my repertoire. You have to understand, I am writing these posts backwards, and I had already been subjected to gratuitous invitations for partaking in a number of drug and alcohol related events. In all my years of sobriety, I had received more offers in the past week than in the previous three years. It was getting a little difficult. Plus, I still have that conversation with myself about pot being not so bad. You know, it's natural and so forth. So...here I was, all alone in Vancouver, with a new friend offering to share, and I won't deny that I felt both flattered and tempted. What could I do? What would you do?

Begrudgingly, I shook my head, "No," I said, somewhat apologetically. "Not anymore, but thanks, man. Have a great time at your concert."

"That's cool," he said. "Alright, see ya later," and for the second time, my new friend took off.

Still feeling flattered and a little disappointed, I headed back to my room. I got myself ready for bed and took out Eva Luna and began to read. I read for an hour, and finally began to feel drowsy. I was aware of noises in the hallway, outside the window, above me, and on all sides of my room, but I tried to imagine that they were very, very soft, and that I was in a quiet, dark, comfortable room.

I hoped to get a good night's sleep because I would be getting up early to meet Stacia at the port. I turned off the light and lay down on the creaky bed to try to sleep.

I did fall asleep. I was exhausted. And then I was rudely awakened about an hour or two later, to the sound of loud voices. I recognized Spanish language filtering through my door, through the cracks in the wall, getting louder and louder until I was certain there were people in my bedroom. I got up and turned the light on to see that I was alone in the small room, but there were certainly people standing directly outside of my door. I put on my shoes and padded out to the toilet, both because I had to pee and also to see what the ruckus was.

It was like a frat party in the hallway. People were milling around the entire length of the hall, drinking beers and shooting liquor and laughing and talking loudly. Somewhat annoyed, I made my way to the toilet. On the way, I slipped on spilled beer. All around me, people were laughing and having a great time. "Cheers," I heard someone say, and I looked up to see someone offering me a Stella Artois. "No thanks," I said, escaping to the bathroom. I, you know, peed, and then headed back to my room, where I quickly closed the door and sat down on the bed to think. How could I drown out the noise?

And then something in my head said, "Forget it, Liz, just go out there and be sociable. Why not join the party? Why not....have a beer?"

Oooh! Insidious, mischievous voice!

No. Not an option. I supposed that I could go and be sociable without drinking, but I was sooooooo exhausted. I began to feel more and more alone, as I realized that I must be the only one in the entire building who was trying to sleep at 1:00am. This is a culture I do not belong to anymore, this late-night, party crowd. It felt very isolating.

I lay back down and put a pillow over my head. I was sleep-deprived, fatigued, alone, and anxious about experiencing a night without sleep. I was also feeling sad about being sober, feeling a little prudish, you might say. It didn't even occur to me that I might not be the only one around who was annoyed with the noise, which by the way, was coming both from the hallway and outside the window, as I was only a short distance from a series of bars.

My frustration growing, I tried to wait it out. This can't go on all night, I thought. Another hour went by, and I listened to Spanish mix with English, then Japanese, then all Spanish again.

Then out of nowhere I heard someone saying, "You are SO LOUD! People are trying to sleep here!" and I thought, "Oh thank goodness, I'm not the only one!"

And the party disappeared outside. Just like that, it was gone. Slowly, I drifted back to sleep...and was awakened again, probably less than an hour later, maybe 3:30am, the same people, back on my floor. Louder, louder, louder, and more rowdy. This was too much. Teeming with exhaustion, I began to cry. Poor me. Poor, lonely, sleepy, me.

As I was indulging in my sorrow, I heard a vaguely familiar voice. "You're fuckin' assholes, eh? You think it's good to be so drunk? You're a bunch of drunk assholes. Eh? You're a fuckin' asshole. I'm gonna call the police on you." I tried to place the voice...it was very distinctly Canadian. "You cause cancer. You are cancer assholes, eh?"

Oh my. It was the paranoid guy! He was upset about the noise. I lay very still and listened to him rant:

"You're a fuckin' asshole, eh? Do you think I want cancer? My mum and dad died of cancer. I was just a kid. I was all abandoned. You are drunk, eh? I'm calling the police. Get out of here, eh? People are trying to sleep."

And I could hear the other voices saying in broken English, "We not drunk, man. Ok, you call the poh-lice. You call them!" And I heard laughter and taunts and a chorus of, "Wee-oooo, wee-oo, weee-ooo!" They were imitating a police siren.

"You are cancer, eh? I have people here trying to sleep. Get out, or I'll call the police. I will! Get out. I don't care where you go, go out on the street, eh? Get drunk out there. I don't want cancer, eh?"

This was ridiculous. The paranoid guy was not making any sense, and the drunk people were pretty much ignoring him. I heard the Canadian guy go back down the stairs, probably defiantly, probably thinking he had intimidated the cancer-causing party-ers. Then...a few minutes of silence.

Then I heard someone say, "Vamos afuera," or, let's go outside. And someone else said, "Hey man, there's a balcony, let's go out there."

And then the loud crowd made its way to the fire escape, where I could still hear them, but with a pillow over my head it was very faint, and I finally, finally, drifted off into a light sleep for a few more hours before awaking to a very quiet morning.

Gastown, Part 1

The famous Gastown Steam Clock on Water Street

Last week I took my big, lavish, credit card-charged week-long summer vacation. More to come on other cities, but for now I want to tell the story of my first night in Vancouver.

I took a train from Olympia, WA, where I had been staying with a friend from college, and I had to switch onto a bus in Seattle for the duration of the trip. It was supposed to be a three/three-and-a-half hour bus ride, but it wound up being much, much longer. Have you ever gone through customs at the Canadian border on a bus? Not fun. Be prepared to buddy up with your neighbors and expect delays. In the first place, my train was running late, so I had to dash onto the bus in Seattle. You know that hurry-up-and-wait feeling? That was it. I rushed to find the correct bus, as it turns out there is a Vancouver, WA as well as a Vancouver, BC, so one has to be a little careful when boarding a bus in Seattle. Once on the bus, I settled in for a comfortable ride, expecting to be off the bus in three hours or so.

Travel Lesson #1: Check your expectations of prompt transport at the door.

Nearly six hours later, after being drilled by Canadian border patrol and sitting in construction on I-5, we arrived in Vancouver. Lucky for me, I didn't have any precise plans for the evening, so arriving late wasn't a big deal. I managed to find my way across town to the hostel where I was planning to stay. Walking along the bustling streets of Gastown, I was aware of a truly international character. Just in my short walk from the bus hub to the hostel, I heard probably four different languages. The storefronts varied from Canadian tourism shops to Mediterranean and Asian cuisine. It felt like a great place to be visiting. I was alone, and it was getting close to dark, so I decided not to dawdle, but to find my hostel right away.

Grand Trunk Hostel, the white door center right.

I nearly missed it. In the middle of a Moroccan restaurant and a lingerie store was a small white door with an austere wooden sign hanging from above that read, "Grand Trunk," and that's all. There was a handwritten note on the door that said, "If no one lets you in, call this number."

Travel Lesson #2: Don't expect glamorous accommodations for $27.

Classy, I thought. I rang the doorbell, and very quickly someone opened the door. It was a short, fat, bald man, sweating profusely and seemingly anxious. He did not make eye contact with me and said, "Do you have a reservation?"

"Yes," I said.

He stepped aside and let me through the door. Inside was a narrow staircase directly in front of the door and a small office just to the left. He led me into the dimly lit, musty office. On the desk were piles of scattered papers with handwritten notes, strewn about pens and pencils, and a half-eaten, browning apple. It was in quite a state of disarray. I did not see a computer or any other sign of technology. He asked me for my name.

"Liz Rognes. R-O-G-N-E-S," I said. I have grown accustomed to spelling out my last name, since no one ever knows what I am saying.

"Rogers?" He said, "Like the phone company?" He looked suspicious.

"Uh, no. Rognes. R-O-G-N-E-S."

He fished around the pile of papers and seemed to find the right one. "Oh, Elizabeth," he said. "I have you right here."

I wondered what kind of organizational skills this place had, if any. My information was hand printed on a piece of lined notebook paper, but I had booked the room online. It seemed strange to me. In any case, the hostel had gotten fair reviews online, and it was cheap, so I wasn't incredibly concerned with the way they operated. If there was a room reserved for me, I would be satisfied.

The man asked for payment and then gave me a set of keys. "Room 17," he said, "Second floor."

"Thanks," I said. I picked up my things and was preparing to go in search of my room when the sweaty bald man abruptly said, "I'm gonne be rich, eh?" His voice was low and urgent as though he had suddenly remembered to tell me a very important secret.

I paused and politely turned to acknowledge the strange comment with, "Oh yeah?"

Travel Lesson #3: Don't engage in sidebar conversations with strangers.

"You know them Bots, don't tell no one, eh?" he said.

Baffled, I stared at him, trying to comprehend what he was telling me. He quickly continued in a low voice, sweat dripping down his face, "I got a friend who told me about the trading. I'm gonna get rich, make $700 a day and buy some land in Pennsylvania. Don't tell anyone. I'm going to buy the whole state of Pennsylvania. Some people hate the Americans, but I'm going to buy part of it."

I was stunned. I had no idea what he was talking about. Before I could say a thing, he continued in a secretive, grave voice:

"Don't tell anyone. My last name, I changed it so many times, used to be Smith, then Duff-Smith, now just Duffy, I know all those Duffy actors, like you know Patrick Duffy? And Hilary Duff, eh? I got a call, someone said I'm gonna be famous. I got Hilary Duff's mum in my head, but I don't want to be famous. They'll get me then, eh? That's why I'm scared of getting rich, eh? When you're rich, you get famous, and they follow you. But Hilary Duff's mum, she's in my head, you know, and she says I'll get rich."

I was becoming more and more alarmed. I noted the sweat dripping off his forehead and the dark circles under his eyes. Drugs? A little touched, perhaps? I was starting to feel uncomfortable. So far, this place had been a little shady, to be expected for the cheap price, but this guy was beginning to unnerve me.

"Uh...I'm gonna go on up, nice talking with you," I said, deciding to just leave the strange talk where it was. I turned toward the door.

My guitar was on my back, and when I turned, he spotted it. "Oh, you're a musician, eh? I went to acting school out here, and my friend had a premonition, he said I was going to make it big you know, be famous. Like I walk out in the street and everyone knows me, eh? I don't know, though, I think it's only because they heard about Russ-X, my computer program. I'm gonna be rich, eh? Don't tell anyone. I already told too many people. I think they know. I saw a truck out there, it said 'Russ,' so I know they're watching out for me. My friend, he told me about the trading, and he said I'm in charge of Lindsay."

Now my discomfort was beginning to turn to fear. I was all alone in a strange city, in a shady hostel, with a freaky guy telling me nonsensical, paranoia-filled stories. I started to become concerned for my safety. I mean, this guy seemed harmless, but what if he wasn't? I continued to back away from the small, dank office, but he kept talking, and he followed me into the hallway.

"You know Lindsay Lo-gan?" He said 'Lo-gan' instead of Lohan, a point I clearly remember, even in my heightened state of alarm. "She just got out of detox, eh? One time I got a text message that said, 'Hey it's Lindsay,' and I knew I was supposed to take care of her. She'll be coming soon. You can meet her if you want. Hilary too, she's pretty nice. Her mum is in my head. But they're famous, and I don't want to be famous. My parents are dead, you know, they died of cancer when I was a kid, and I was all abandoned, eh. I don't want to be famous."

My stomach was churning. If I hadn't been alone, this wouldn't have seemed so scary, but because I was completely alone, I was extra vigilant about my surroundings and the eccentricities of the characters with whom I would be spending the night locked in a hostel. Even in my state of alarm, I reasoned with myself that this guy must be harmless because clearly he has worked here for some time. People stay here, he must be completely safe, just tripping or paranoid.

Travel #4: When in doubt, get out.

I kept interjecting, "Ah, good luck, I'm heading up," and slowly backing my way up the stairs, even as he continued ranting about the famous Duffys and his scheme to buy Pennsylvania. Finally, he seemed to get that I was leaving, and he gave me a big grin and a wave. "See ya later," he said, and I turned and climbed the stairs, my heart racing, my mind spinning.

Once free of the strange man, I breathed a sigh of relief. But as I continued to climb the stairs of the dark, narrow hallway, my anxiety did not dissipate, and in fact a sense of foreboding began to swell as I heard clamors and shouts coming from invisible spaces on the floors above. I was a bit shaky, both from my encounter with the bald man and also from having hardly eaten in my day of delayed transport. Lizzy, I told myself, you will be fine here. Find your room, lock your stuff up, and find something to eat and drink some tea, you will feel better."

I came to the second floor, and found the door marked #17. I turned the key and opened the door to a small room and flipped a light switch. A single bulb flickered above, illuminating a small room with dirt-streaked peeling wallpaper, a bed crammed into the corner, a desk, a knob-turn television and a full-sized roaring green refrigerator. The refrigerator and the tv were plugged into a flimsy extension chord that was draped over the doorway with scotch tape, a system that looked like it would fall at any time. There was an open window, with a view to the back of the neighboring building, the roof of an adjoining building, and a sea of cigarette butts, beer cans, underwear, and garbage.

I took a deep breath and entered the room, set down my suitcase and my guitar, and sat on the bed. I could hear loud shouts coming from outside, but I couldn't see anyone because of the adjoining buildings. I could hear people milling around in the hallways and above and next door, I could hear sirens blaring outside and music from the nearby clubs. I felt lonely, but the presence of other people was at the very least a sign of normalcy. The room was dingy, dowdy, and smelled of must and sweat, but it was a room, and I couldn't complain.

I decided to go in search of dinner. My stomach was begging for attention, and my nerves were frayed from running on pure adrenaline. I locked my things in my indecorous room and, still shaking, made my way back down the stairs. I had to pass the office and the bald man to get back to the street, so I just moved as quickly as possible, so that he couldn't catch me in his trap of secretive craziness.

I made it past and stepped into a bustling street, full of people, full of life, not completely dark yet. I didn't want to be out by myself after dark, so I decided to find somewhere nearby. I wandered the streets for a bit, weighing my options and just generally trying to assuage the zip-zap of my nerves. It felt safer there, in the sun-dwindling streets, with the riff-raff and the bar crowd, than it did in that small hostel office with the bizarre banter of that man.

I couldn't find a market anywhere nearby, but I was in the land of ethnic cuisine, and I decided to treat myself to Indian food. The restaurant was on the same block as the hostel, so I could still get back before nightfall. I ordered vegetarian samosas and dal soup and took it with me. On the walk back, I found a small grocer, where I bought water, yogurt, an apple, and some crackers, and a Vancouver newspaper. My arms full of groceries, I made my way back to the hostel.

When I approached the door, the bald man was standing outside. "Hello," he said,

Dammit, I thought. "Hello."

He opened the door for me and went right into it, "You're the musician. Don't get famous, eh? They'll find out all about you, about all the bad things. I have some songs, from Hilary Duff's mum. You can have them if you want, I don't want to be famous anyway. Here you go:" and right there in the narrow hallway, he began to sing some dreadfully sappy and vaguely familiar song about lost love. "So you can have it," he said, "It's from Hilary Duff's mum. You know Duff? Like on the Simpsons? He knows about the Bots. Like robots, eh? It's all gonna be run by Bots, you know. I mean like, we all know about global warming, but Al Gore should have known about the Bots. Why didn't he talk about the Bots in his movie, eh? He was a preacher first, and must have been a good preacher, like a really good preacher, because you don't get famous unless you're good. But I don't want to be famous, they keep saying I'm going to be, but I don't want it, eh? I am gonna get rich, though, eh?"

I finally started to understand that this guy had some kind of mental health issue. He really believed all that crazy stuff he was saying about Hilary Duff's mum in his head, the Bots, fear of fame, etc. I managed to excuse myself from him much more quickly this time, and headed upstairs to my humble room, arms full of groceries.

...And thus began a very long night. More to come later.

Mrs. Jack Black

• One student, who is exceptionally small for her age, really wanted to sing a song she had written for the class. She begged and begged, and finally I said, "Ok, let's hear it." She settled into performance mode, holding her tiny guitar on her tiny lap. All the other kids patiently set down their guitars and listened. The junior singer/songwriter took a deep breath into her tiny lungs, starting making some tiny strums, and then opened her tiny mouth and screamed, "RECESS! Ohhhhhh, RE-CESSSSSSSS! I love you RE-CESSSSS!"

• Shortly before the gentle folksinger's debut, I had handed out books for the kids to use. One student, stunned, said, "I feel like I'm in college."

• Another kid raised his hand, and, when I called on him, he said, "Can we have a talent show? Because. Look what I can do." And his piercing blue eyes took on this sort of creepy quality as he began to move his scalp back and forth so that his poufy hair flopped into his eyes and then back beyond his forehead. Naturally, I responded with, "No. But. Look what I can do," and proceeded to show off my ability to wiggle one ear at a time, shake my eyes, and alternate raised eyebrows.

• Sometimes I split the class into groups so that they can learn songs appropriate to their ages and abilities. The group that chose to learn, "Born to Be Wild," decided that they didn't want to use Steppenwolf's lyrics. Instead, they decided to write a parody song entitled, "Born to Be Mild."

Get your fridges runnin'....Lay down on the fuuuuton!.....Lookin' for a channel....Whatever show is on....Born....to be....Mi-i-i-i-i-ild, Born.....to be M-i-i-i-i-i-i-ild......!"

• One kid said, "It's like...we're in the School of Rock, except you're not Jack Black." Then he grinned mischievously. "But I bet you're married to him!" And all the kids made kissy-kissy noises, saying, "Ooooh! Mrs. Jack Black! Ooooh, I bet you loooooove him!"

So...tell me why you want to learn to play the guitar.

It's week six hundred-thousand-million of guitar class, and on the first day of each week (since I start fresh with a new group of beginners each week), I always ask, "So...tell me why you want to learn to play the guitar?" and we go around the room and everyone says something like, "Because it's cool," or, "Because my uncle is in a rock band." It's a chance for me to get a little background information on any exposure these kids have had to playing the guitar, and also a chance for me to practice saying their names in my head while I look at each of their faces.

I was getting all the standard responses today: "Well, I took piano lessons, but I want to really rock out," and, "I'm already in a band, but we don't know how to play any instruments," and that sort of thing.

Then the question came to a 3rd grader little girl with a flippant attitude. "So, Sam," I said, (and, no, of course that's not her real name), "Why do you want to learn to play the guitar?"

She gave me the old hair toss and head tilt. "Well," she said, clearly irritated with the question, "I don't."

I raised my eyebrows and waited for her to continue.

Sighing, she said, "I had other plans for the morning, but they fell through."

Drums

Last week I taught beginning drums and percussion for 3-5th graders. I do not play the drums, and the only percussive instrument I have is my rugged Spanish, save for the occasional tapping on the pick guard of my guitar or inadvertently practicing rudiments on the coffee table while waiting for my bank's automated phone system to grace me with my balance.

Inevitably, my experience as a drum teacher has gifted my pedagogical lexicon with a few new phrases. For example:
"Actually, bongos aren't for sitting on."
"No, no! Don't drum on your neighbor."
"Please hold your drumsticks with your hands."

And, my personal favorite:
"Please take your drumsticks out of your eyeballs."

Not to be confused with:
"Please remove the drumsticks from your nostrils/mouth/ears/etc."

There was a kid who apparently thought it felt nice to listen with his drumsticks lightly resting upon his lower eyelids. Every time he blinked, his sticks would rattle. I had terrible visions of him slipping or sneezing. I can't tell you how many times I actually used the phrase, "Please take your drumsticks out of your eyeballs." It got to the point where I made him hand them over while he wasn't drumming.

Don't even ask me how I liked trying to speak over nine kids with drums. My voice has taken quite the beating. I started using body language to instruct them, rather than screaming for three hours, and I used the games that work really well in pre-school when kids are noisy. In the midst of the cacophony, I would whisper, "If you can hear me, set down your sticks," and the one kid who reads lips anyway would stop playing and nudge his buddy, and slowly, one by one, they would all stop playing and look at me with quizzical eyes. "Why are you whispering?" one would ask. "To save my voice," I'd respond. They didn't get it.

I'm still feeling it in my throat this week, and I'm back to the grind of kids with guitars. After screaming over a room full of nine-year-old drummers, acoustic guitars seem like the most serene instrument there is. Except of course for the part about tuning. But. You know what I mean.

Beverly Sills and Danny Kaye opera parody