i expect you to save the planet.

This is worth your time to read.

A Contemplation on Music

Welcome address to freshmen at Boston Conservatory, given by Karl Paulnack,
pianist and director of music division at Boston Conservatory.

One of my parents' deepest fears, I suspect, is that society would not
properly value me as a musician, that I wouldn't be appreciated. I had very
good grades in high school, I was good in science and math, and they
imagined that as a doctor or a research chemist or an engineer, I might be
more appreciated than I would be as a musician. I still remember my mother's
remark when I announced my decision to apply to music school-she said,
"you're WASTING your SAT scores." On some level, I think, my parents were
not sure themselves what the value of music was, what its purpose was. And
they LOVED music, they listened to classical music all the time. They just
weren't really clear about its function. So let me talk about that a little
bit, because we live in a society that puts music in the "arts and
entertainment" section of the newspaper, and serious music, the kind your
kids are about to engage in, has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with
entertainment, in fact it's the opposite of entertainment. Let me talk a
little bit about music, and how it works.

The first people to understand how music really works were the ancient
Greeks. And this is going to fascinate you; the Greeks said that music and
astronomy were two sides of the same coin. Astronomy was seen as the study
of relationships between observable, permanent, external objects, and music
was seen as the study of relationships between invisible, internal, hidden
objects. Music has a way of finding the big, invisible moving pieces inside
our hearts and souls and helping us figure out the position of things inside
us. Let me give you some examples of how this works.

One of the most profound musical compositions of all time is the Quartet for
the End of Time written by French composer Olivier Messiaen in 1940.
Messiaen was 31 years old when France entered the war against Nazi Germany.
He was captured by the Germans in June of 1940, sent across Germany in a
cattle car and imprisoned in a concentration camp.

He was fortunate to find a sympathetic prison guard who gave him paper and a
place to compose. There were three other musicians in the camp, a cellist, a
violinist, and a clarinetist, and Messiaen wrote his quartet with these
specific players in mind. It was performed in January 1941 for four thousand
prisoners and guards in the prison camp. Today it is one of the most famous
masterworks in the repertoire.

Given what we have since learned about life in the concentration camps, why
would anyone in his right mind waste time and energy writing or playing
music? There was barely enough energy on a good day to find food and water,
to avoid a beating, to stay warm, to escape torture-why would anyone bother
with music? And yet-from the camps, we have poetry, we have music, we have
visual art; it wasn't just this one fanatic Messiaen; many, many people
created art. Why? Well, in a place where people are only focused on
survival, on the bare necessities, the obvious conclusion is that art must
be, somehow, essential for life. The camps were without money, without hope,
without commerce, without recreation, without basic respect, but they were
not without art. Art is part of survival; art is part of the human spirit,
an unquenchable expression of who we are. Art is one of the ways in which we
say, "I am alive, and my life has meaning."

On September 12, 2001 I was a resident of Manhattan. That morning I reached
a new understanding of my art and its relationship to the world.
I sat down at the piano that morning at 10 AM to practice as was my daily
routine; I did it by force of habit, without thinking about it. I lifted the
cover on the keyboard, and opened my music, and put my hands on the keys and
took my hands off the keys. And I sat there and thought, does this even
matter? Isn't this completely irrelevant? Playing the piano right now, given
what happened in this city yesterday, seems silly, absurd, irreverent,
pointless. Why am I here? What place has a musician in this moment in time?
Who needs a piano player right now? I was completely lost.

And then I, along with the rest of New York, went through the journey of
getting through that week. I did not play the piano that day, and in fact I
contemplated briefly whether I would ever want to play the piano again. And
then I observed how we got through the day.

At least in my neighborhood, we didn't shoot hoops or play Scrabble. We
didn't play cards to pass the time, we didn't watch TV, we didn't shop, we
most certainly did not go to the mall. The first organized activity that I
saw in New York, that same day, was singing. People sang. People sang around
fire houses, people sang "We Shall Overcome." Lots of people sang America
the Beautiful. The first organized public event that I remember was the
Brahms Requiem, later that week, at Lincoln Center, with the New York
Philharmonic. The first organized public expression of grief, our first
communal response to that historic event, was a concert. That was the
beginning of a sense that life might go on. The US Military secured the
airspace, but recovery was led by the arts, and by music in particular, that
very night.

From these two experiences, I have come to understand that music is not
part of "arts and entertainment" as the newspaper section would have us
believe. It's not a luxury, a lavish thing that we fund from leftovers of
our budgets, not a plaything or an amusement or a pass time. Music is a
basic need of human survival. Music is one of the ways we make sense of our
lives, one of the ways in which we express feelings when we have no words, a
way for us to understand things with our hearts when we can't with our
minds.

Some of you may know Samuel Barber's heart-wrenchingly beautiful piece
Adagio for Strings. If you don't know it by that name, then some of you may
know it as the background music which accompanied the Oliver Stone movie
Platoon, a film about the Vietnam War. If you know that piece of music
either way, you know it has the ability to crack your heart open like a
walnut; it can make you cry over sadness you didn't know you had.
Music can slip beneath our conscious reality to get at what's really going
on inside us the way a good therapist does.

I bet that you have never been to a wedding where there was absolutely no
music. There might have been only a little music, there might have been some
really bad music, but I bet you there was some music. And something very
predictable happens at weddings-people get all pent up with all kinds of
emotions, and then there's some musical moment where the action of the
wedding stops and someone sings or plays the flute or something. And even if
the music is lame, even if the quality isn't good, predictably 30 or 40
percent of the people who are going to cry at a wedding cry a couple of
moments after the music starts. Why? The Greeks. Music allows us to move
around those big invisible pieces of ourselves and rearrange our insides so
that we can express what we feel even when we can't talk about it. Can you
imagine watching Indiana Jones or Superman or Star Wars with the dialogue
but no music? What is it about the music swelling up at just the right
moment in ET so that all the softies in the audience start crying at exactly
the same moment? I guarantee you if you showed the movie with the music
stripped out, it wouldn't happen that way. The Greeks: Music is the
understanding of the relationship between invisible internal objects.

I'll give you one more example, the story of the most important concert of
my life. I must tell you I have played a little less than a thousand
concerts in my life so far. I have played in places that I thought were
important. I like playing in Carnegie Hall; I enjoyed playing in Paris; it
made me very happy to please the critics in St. Petersburg. I have played
for people I thought were important; music critics of major newspapers,
foreign heads of state. The most important concert of my entire life took
place in a nursing home in Fargo, ND, about 4 years ago.

I was playing with a very dear friend of mine who is a violinist. We began,
as we often do, with Aaron Copland's Sonata, which was written during World
War II and dedicated to a young friend of Copland's, a young pilot who was
shot down during the war. Now we often talk to our audiences about the
pieces we are going to play rather than providing them with written program
notes. But in this case, because we began the concert with this piece, we
decided to talk about the piece later in the program and to just come out
and play the music without explanation.

Midway through the piece, an elderly man seated in a wheelchair near the
front of the concert hall began to weep. This man, whom I later met, was
clearly a soldier-even in his 70's, it was clear from his buzz-cut hair,
square jaw and general demeanor that he had spent a good deal of his life in
the military. I thought it a little bit odd that someone would be moved to
tears by that particular movement of that particular piece, but it wasn't
the first time I've heard crying in a concert and we went on with the
concert and finished the piece.

When we came out to play the next piece on the program, we decided to talk
about both the first and second pieces, and we described the circumstances
in which the Copland was written and mentioned its dedication to a downed
pilot. The man in the front of the audience became so disturbed that he had
to leave the auditorium. I honestly figured that we would not see him again,
but he did come backstage afterwards, tears and all, to explain himself.
What he told us was
this: "During World War II, I was a pilot, and I was in an aerial combat
situation where one of my team's planes was hit. I watched my friend bail
out, and watched his parachute open, but the Japanese planes which had
engaged us returned and machine gunned across the parachute chords so as to
separate the parachute from the pilot, and I watched my friend drop away
into the ocean, realizing that he was lost. I have not thought about this
for many years, but during that first piece of music you played, this memory
returned to me so vividly that it was as though I was reliving it. I didn't
understand why this was happening, why now, but then when you came out to
explain that this piece of music was written to commemorate a lost pilot, it
was a little more than I could handle. How does the music do that? How did
it find those feelings and those memories in me?" Remember the Greeks: music
is the study of invisible relationships between internal objects. This
concert in Fargo was the most important work I have ever done. For me to
play for this old soldier and help him connect, somehow with Aaron Copland,
and to connect their memories of their lost friends, to help him remember
and mourn his friend, this is my work. This is why music matters.

What follows is part of the talk I will give to this year's freshman class
when I welcome them a few days from now. The responsibility I will charge
your sons and daughters with is this:

If we were a medical school, and you were here as a med student practicing
appendectomies, you'd take your work very seriously because you would
imagine that some night at two AM someone is going to waltz into your
emergency room and you're going to have to save their life.
Well, my friends, someday at 8 PM someone is going to walk into your concert
hall and bring you a mind that is confused, a heart that is overwhelmed, a
soul that is weary. Whether they go out whole again will depend partly on
how well you do your craft.

You're not here to become an entertainer, and you don't have to sell
yourself. The truth is you don't have anything to sell; being a musician
isn't about dispensing a product, like selling used Chevies. I'm not an
entertainer; I'm a lot closer to a paramedic, a firefighter, a rescue
worker. You're here to become a sort of therapist for the human soul, a
spiritual version of a chiropractor, physical therapist, someone who works
with our insides to see if they get things to line up, to see if we can come
into harmony with ourselves and be healthy and happy and well.

Frankly, ladies and gentlemen, I expect you not only to master music; I
expect you to save the planet. If there is a future wave of wellness on this
planet, of harmony, of peace, of an end to war, of mutual understanding, of
equality, of fairness, I don't expect it will come from a government, a
military force or a corporation. I no longer even expect it to come from the
religions of the world, which together seem to have brought us as much war
as they have peace. If there is a future of peace for humankind, if there is
to be an understanding of how these invisible, internal things should fit
together, I expect it will come from the artists, because that's what we do.
As in the concentration camp and the evening of 9/11, the artists are the
ones who might be able to help us with our internal, invisible lives.

I'm fine with you not taking showers, as long as you're ok with me telling you that you smell bad if you do.

Ok. I have to share this...because I've been laughing out loud in my office for about 5 minutes.

Last week, one of my friends called me to tell me a story about a conversation she had just had with a guy she recently started dating. They had plans to go get ice cream one night, so she called him on her way home from the gym to talk about what time worked. While talking to him, she mentioned that she had just worked out at the gym, but that she wasn't planning on taking a shower--she just needed a little time to freshen up--so she could meet up with him relatively soon. And the guy was like, "You're not going to take a shower?", and she said, "No, it's a lot of time and effort. I'm not all sweaty and gross. I can wash my face and freshen up and be fine...and it'll be way faster." The guy was NOT PLEASED. He couldn't believe she wasn't going to take a shower. And stated this like 5 times. Which obviously annoyed her...and she met up with him, still upset that he was so rude about. They talked about it briefly at the beginning of the date and he again stated that he couldn't believe she didn't take the time to shower and she was like, "WHY DOES IT MATTER? YOU CAN'T EVEN TELL!!"

So, this morning, they had an exchange on gchat, and the showering problem was again brought up. This is my fave part of their conversation:

him: i thought we had reached a point where we would do things for each other

not necessarily because it needed to be done or not but just to make the other person happy

I mean even friends do that for each other

her: hahahaha. taking a shower though?!

would that really have made you exceptionally happier?

him: this could be anything though

her: if i had not said anything, you wouldn't have even known the difference

him: thursday it was a shower but what about something else?

her: what about my happiness? that i didn't want to be bothered with it?

that it would have taken more time and energy than i felt like putting into it, with no cost or harm to anyone else

him: that's the thing tho -- you put it in terms of not wanting to take the time to do something that i wasn't commanding you to do but asking

i think if you had said "i would take a shower for you if i needed to, but i don't"

that would have been better

basically i was hurt by the whole thing

then later in the day he emailed her because he felt the need to say more....

I don't want to bore you with any more discussions of taking showers. It's obviously not something that you thought much of and were very offended when asked. I don't look at this however as one issue but as something that could present itself as a problem in the future. I'm fine with you not taking showers, as long as you're ok with me telling you that you smell bad if you do. Its more of a matter of your heart and how both of our hearts are at different places. I believe mine, weather to my detriment or not, is always ready to give and serve, and I can be taken advantage of in that way. Thus I think the condition of my heart was such that if asked to do something simple before meeting, I would want to do that and more! I wouldn't question how much time it would take, or what inconvenience it would be. Because doing it is an act of friendship and because whomever I am with, their comfort and joy is mine, if my friend(s) are having a good time, so am I, and anything I can do to contribute to that, I consider a benefit to me as well. That's why it took so long to decide on an activity for my birthday. I'm not thinking of myself. As it stands right now, I'm not sure our hearts are in the same place to the point where we would go out of our way to serve one another.

This whole thing is the most RIDICULOUS thing I have ever read. And it's making me laugh so hard. It almost feels like a joke. Or a senario about a crazy person from "Sex and the City."

The End.

The world is so complicated, tangled, and overloaded that to see into it with any clarity you must prune and prune. - Italo Calvino

I like this photo. And I like this quote by Calvino. The photo reminded me of the quote, actually. Life gets complicated, the days go by quickly. We need to remind ourselves to slow down. Throw on some fun shoes, go for a walk, take some time for youself. Prune away the frivolities to find some clarity.

25 things.

this is the thing to do right now, i guess.

25 random things about me:

1. i'd rather it be 20 degrees outside than 90. i hate sweating more than anything.
2. i spend an embarrassingly large amount of time watching things you youtube. i am not proud of this.
3. i was born in l.a.
4. the end of "mr. holland's opus" always makes me cry. every.single.time.
5. my first car was a white '93 honda accord. sometimes i wish i still had it.
6. i love sending packages to people. you might say it's my love language.
7. right now, my hair is the longest it's ever been. this probably means i'll chop it all off soon.
8. i'm addicted to diet coke.
9. my 2nd grade teacher only had half a fingernail on her pointer finger and it scared the crap out of me.
10. i miss eating breakfast at wolfgangs with my friends every week.
11. forever and always george clooney will be my celebrity crush.
12. i hate running. every second of it. but i do it anyway.
13. i have gone to 3 backstreet boys concerts.
14. when we were little, my best friend and i made a time capsule-threw a bunch of stuff in a shoebox so that future generations could learn about us. i'm not sure we ever buried it.
15. i love choir.
16. i just bought a bag for $300. and it's beautiful and i feel fine about it.
17. i could live on bread and cheese. but then would be obese.
18. i like white wine better than red wine. this probably means i am not as classy as some people i know.
19. i love 'the west wing'.
20. the stone wall in a field behind a manor house in london is my happy place.
21. i am not a pleasant person before 9am. Don't talk to me.
22. sometimes i talk to myself outloud in my car. i have a long commute. stop laughing.
23. i miss sitting in college classes and learning things. i had no idea how good i had it.
24. i am most comfortable in a t-shirt and jeans.
25. daily make-up essential: mascara

thread, not wax.

i got my eyebrows shaped yesterday.
wax and my skin do not get along, so i get them threaded instead.
i go to this little indian lady named dipty. she is amazing.

this is what it looks like:

i just really like billy collins.

Marginalia

Sometimes the notes are ferocious,
skirmishes against the author
raging along the borders of every page
in tiny black script.
If I could just get my hands on you,
Kierkegaard, or Conor Cruise O'Brien,
they seem to say,
I would bolt the door and beat some logic into your head.

Other comments are more offhand, dismissive -
"Nonsense." "Please!" "HA!!" -
that kind of thing.
I remember once looking up from my reading,
my thumb as a bookmark,
trying to imagine what the person must look like
why wrote "Don't be a ninny"
alongside a paragraph in The Life of Emily Dickinson.

Students are more modest
needing to leave only their splayed footprints
along the shore of the page.
One scrawls "Metaphor" next to a stanza of Eliot's.
Another notes the presence of "Irony"
fifty times outside the paragraphs of A Modest Proposal.

Or they are fans who cheer from the empty bleachers,
Hands cupped around their mouths.
"Absolutely," they shout
to Duns Scotus and James Baldwin.
"Yes." "Bull's-eye." "My man!"
Check marks, asterisks, and exclamation points
rain down along the sidelines.

And if you have managed to graduate from college
without ever having written "Man vs. Nature"
in a margin, perhaps now
is the time to take one step forward.

We have all seized the white perimeter as our own
and reached for a pen if only to show
we did not just laze in an armchair turning pages;
we pressed a thought into the wayside,
planted an impression along the verge.

Even Irish monks in their cold scriptoria
jotted along the borders of the Gospels
brief asides about the pains of copying,
a bird signing near their window,
or the sunlight that illuminated their page-
anonymous men catching a ride into the future
on a vessel more lasting than themselves.

And you have not read Joshua Reynolds,
they say, until you have read him
enwreathed with Blake's furious scribbling.

Yet the one I think of most often,
the one that dangles from me like a locket,
was written in the copy of Catcher in the Rye
I borrowed from the local library
one slow, hot summer.
I was just beginning high school then,
reading books on a davenport in my parents' living room,
and I cannot tell you
how vastly my loneliness was deepened,
how poignant and amplified the world before me seemed,
when I found on one page

A few greasy looking smears
and next to them, written in soft pencil-
by a beautiful girl, I could tell,
whom I would never meet-
"Pardon the egg salad stains, but I'm in love."

Singing: The Key to a Long Life

This week's essay from "this i believe' on NPR:

I believe in singing. I believe in singing together.

A few years ago a friend and I realized that we both loved singing but didn't do much of it. So we started a weekly a capella group with just four members. After a year we started inviting other people to join. We didn't insist on musical experience — in fact some of our members had never sung before. Now the group has ballooned to around 15 or 20 people.

I believe that singing is the key to long life, a good figure, a stable temperament, increased intelligence, new friends, super self-confidence, heightened sexual attractiveness and a better sense of humor. A recent long-term study conducted in Scandinavia sought to discover which activities related to a healthy and happy later life. Three stood out: camping, dancing and singing.

Well, there are physiological benefits, obviously: You use your lungs in a way that you probably don't for the rest of your day, breathing deeply and openly. And there are psychological benefits, too: Singing aloud leaves you with a sense of levity and contentedness. And then there are what I would call "civilizational benefits." When you sing with a group of people, you learn how to subsume yourself into a group consciousness because a capella singing is all about the immersion of the self into the community. That's one of the great feelings — to stop being me for a little while and to become us. That way lies empathy, the great social virtue.

Well here's what we do in an evening: We get some drinks, some snacks, some sheets of lyrics and a strict starting time. We warm up a bit first.

The critical thing turns out to be the choice of songs. The songs that seem to work best are those based around the basic chords of blues and rock and country music. You want songs that are word-rich, but also vowel-rich because it's on the long vowels sounds of a song such as "Bring It On Home To Me" ("You know I'll alwaaaaays be your slaaaaave"), that's where your harmonies really express themselves. And when you get a lot of people singing harmony on a long note like that, it's beautiful.

But singing isn't only about harmonizing pitch like that. It has two other dimensions. The first one is rhythm. It's thrilling when you get the rhythm of something right and you all do a complicated rhythm together: "Oh, when them cotton balls get a-rotten, you can't pick very much cotton." So when 16 or 20 people get that dead right together at a fast tempo that's very impressive. But the other thing that you have to harmonize besides pitch and rhythm is tone. To be able to hit exactly the same vowel sound at a number of different pitches seems unsurprising in concept, but is beautiful when it happens.

So I believe in singing to such an extent that if I were asked to redesign the British educational system, I would start by insisting that group singing become a central part of the daily routine. I believe it builds character and, more than anything else, encourages a taste for co-operation with others. This seems to be about the most important thing a school could do for you.

-Brian Eno, British composer, artist, and activist