a tribute

Finally. The new month has arrived. I can update again.
I would like to pay tribute to my fish. He would be almost three now. What a fine specimen he was, a quality betta splendens. I am forever indebted to him, for he inspired me to great literary heights, which brought me money beyond my wildest dreams.
Alas, Timor.
Though you were, now you are not.
Why did you have to go before I learned Latin?
Oh, cursed spite.
It's a hard-knock life.
Though you may never be replaced, every fish triggers a memory of you in my heart.
Thank you.

The story of my toe

As shown in the last post, my toenail is not quite normal. It really is quite a nappy thing. Just so, back before my recent retiring of my cross country winged shoes of Hermes, I had a lovely condition called "ingrowntoenail." Awesome. I underwent multiple "toenail-ectomies" in the ensuing months. On the third procedure, the doctor proceeded to jam the scissors in such a way that the toenail would not grow back. It seemed to grow for a few weeks, and then, as you see, it stagnated. It's not fungal, as far as I know, nor is it infected. It's just old. And dead. I anxiously await the time that I will have all ten toenails back in their perfect form, but in the meanwhile, I'll join the freakshow. And thanks to Alex for...fine. Alex did not take that picture. I took it. So, a word of warning to you all: Ingrown toenails are bad. They hurt. Buy wide shoes. And be careful how you clip your toenails--don't clip off the corners too deep. If you do, you'll end up like me. I've always wanted to join a circus.

My epic journey through the works of a master Russian author

I signed up for Honors 203R (cross-listed as Russian 342) the night before class started. I had realized that one of my classes was going to be really lame, so I dropped it and signed up for Tolstoy in Translation. I was a bit worried about having so much reading to do, but I would rather read than research how to build an airplane from scratch and present it to a class of Honors students. I also found myself just committing to something I thought might be good for me. Anyway, it turned out to be my favorite class, blah, blah, and I literally was inspired by the literature. War and Peace is a real book. I learned about truth and Zeno's Paradoxes (look them up on Wikipedia) and lust and all sorts of good stuff, all in the context of aristocratic families through times of a real war, Napoleon's invasion of Russia, and peace--hence the title. Yup. War and Peace is about war and peace. Anyway, the next tome I perused was Anna Karenina. Talk about uplifting and depressing at the same time. I don't think the lessons were especially new or earth-shattering, but they were definitely true. Basically, adultery is trash and benefits no one. But again, truth. What is truth? The last Tolstoy novel we read was Resurrection. What is truth? A recurring Tolstoy theme. But also, forgiveness is the only way to joy. But don't take my word for it. Read these books. All 2609 pages of them. Learn about joy and truth and forgiveness. I was regularly dumbfounded at the nuances of characterization Tolstoy captured, little feelings his characters experienced that I, too, have experienced and never thought possible to be put to words (I'm not talking the adultery here). I guess I'm not as special as I thought. Or I guess I'm more literary than I thought. Or maybe I'm a Russian seeker of truth at heart. I believe that more people are seekers of truth than realize. It's just some take a bit too Faustian of an approach. Anyway, I am definitely a convert to Russian literature. Thanks go to Alex for his expertise in capturing those moments of triumph for which words simply are inadequate.


 

Update on Brahms' Sym. No. 3

Just in case you read the posting of my lame report on Brahms' Symphony No. 3, that tale about the hero and whatnot, just for your information, I've been asked to redo it. I failed it. It's "not scholarly." In my defense, writing about music is a tough thing. I'm pretty sure it's meant to be heard, to be listened to, to be made, even maybe to be talked about, at least the cool or crayz parts. Writing about music seems unnatural to me.

Update on the Andrew thing

A week ago, at the Saturday evening Stake Conference session, I saw Andrew again. I could hear his bass voice in the quartet that did a special number. Monday, after Men's Chorus, I found myself walking right next to him.
"Hey, Andrew."
"Hey."
Um.
"You did a good job in that quartet Saturday."
"Oh, thanks. Do you think I was too loud?"
"I could hear you, but it wasn't too loud."
"Good. Thanks."
And our paths diverged.
"See ya."
"Yup."
Me and Andrew, we're buddies now. Maybe not bus buddies or let's-room-together-after-the-mission buddies, but anyway. Right. Yes. Quite so. Thas righ.

Last week, I went to Salt Lake City with the Men's Chorus for a performance at the big ACDA (American Choral Directors Association) convention, held on Temple Square. Sister Hall, our director, had been preparing us for this performance since before the completion of the audition process, so she felt it pretty important. We sang well, and the audience of choral conductors from around the country was impressed, at least according to those who bothered to to mention it. And I think we honestly did share with the audience a Feeling they perhaps hadn't felt in that way. I questioned how my performance had personally been, but I couldn't doubt our performance as a group.
The bus and hotel aspects of the trip brought me back to high school choir trips a bit, though, needless to say, a trip with nigh unto two hundred adult men is not the same as a trip with sixty high school teenagers. Thankfully, the Men in Men's Chorus don't flirt amongst themselves (with one possible exception, hopefully nothing every blogworthy), but I felt a bit out of place. The men are nice, and a lot of them are my age; I even talked myself into accepting an invitation to play a card game with some guys on the way up to SLC. But I really don't have any 'buddies' in there, like I did in high school choir, and since there was no one to flirt with, I mostly just wandered, trying not to look pathetic or pitiful. I tried this by actually trying to make friends with the other guys. I walked around the mall and the Conference Center during free time with the guy I share my folder with, and that was good, but it wasn't anything like having one of my high school buddies. On the bus trip back, immediately following our concert, I couldn't find even him, so I found an empty seat and sat, preparing myself to spend the hour-and-fifteen-minute trip reading Anna Karenina. However, I had chosen the bus in front, meaning the first bus to leave, meaning the bus had to be filled before it could leave, meaning some random guy in Men's Chorus sat next to me because there weren't any open rows left. It's taken me awhile to get to the point of this whole thing, but stick with it: I'm finally there. This guy who sits next to me seemed to be an average, ordinary member of the Church with assumably a passable singing voice.
"Can I sit here?"
"Sure," I responded. I had no reason to say otherwise.
This was followed by several minutes of silence, listening to the guys next to us reading Laffy-Taffy jokes, and staring at the headrests of the seats in front of us.
The bus I had chosen happened to be the bus that had to go back to our performing place to load some things. It took a couple minutes to get there, then the bus stopped, some guys left to go get the stuff, and everyone else just waited on the bus.
Another couple of minutes passed.
As I had spent the trip, feebly maybe, trying to not be a loner and trying to get to know the other guys (Sister Hall encourages feelings of brotherhood), I decided to initiate conversation.
Give me advice. Maybe here's where I went wrong.
"What's your name?"
"Andrew." A pause. "What's yours?"
"Dallin."
A conscious attempt on my part not to ask anything cliche or trite.
Attempt.
I can't remember exactly, but I made some comment about Salt Lake City or asked him where he was from or something.
"I'm from Holladay," Andrew muttered, Holladay being a suburb of SLC.
"Oh," and I got this connection-finding conversationary mechanism from my Mom, "my aunt and uncle live in Taylorsville. Is that anywhere near Holladay?" Taylorsville is also a suburb of SLC.
"I think so. I've only been there once, on accident."
I tried to humor him, but I really didn't find it especially amusing.
Another couple minutes passed, and we were still waiting along the side of the road at Temple Square for the rest of the guys to load the stuff and re-board the bus.
This time it was Andrew who spoke first.
"Well, it was nice meeting you."
Like a wall, with a moat in front of it, filled with venomous pirahnas, misted o'er by flaming fog, he shut me out with that simple comment. We hadn't even left SLC yet; we still had over an hour to sit next to each other. Usually that comment is reserved for when the destination is reached, for that comment effectively kills any further conversation save an agreement and return of the 'compliment.' So, we both took naps. And neither of us had anything to say when we got back to Provo.
At least I learned his name?

An allegory on the meaning of life.

So I had a concert Tuesday evening, and it was very nice. It was preparatory for our big ACDA Convention performance this Saturday. Sister Hall has been telling us how important it is since the audition process, not just the first day of class. We will be singing in the Assembly Hall for a few hundred choral directors from around the country. It will be very rewarding. Anyway, last week she was telling us that we really need to get our uniforms washed if we haven't yet, and I was pretty guilty, since I hadn't washed my uniform YET (it's dry clean only; I do wash my regular clothes). And so, it takes two business days at the cleaners, and leave it up to me to leave it until the last day possible. I got it in Friday afternoon. I brought my suit on a hanger, and they told me they use their own, so I got to take my hanger to the rest of my classes that day. Anyway, Tuesday evening rolls along (did I mention the BYU laundry closes at 5:30?), and I'm typing my outline for a paper about Baroque influence in Brahms' Fourth Symphony, and all of a sudden, I think about the concert in a couple hours, and I realize that my uniform is at the cleaners, and I subsequently realize that it is 5:50! Not good. So, I don a sweater and race up ninth, cruise by Heritage, DT, and DT field, and arrive at the laundry at 5:57 (I'm not in shape). There's a guy at the door, and he opens it for me, so I walk in, and he says, "Wait, we're closed!" I was pretty desperate. 194 guys dressed alike, and one wearing a black suit instead of grey pants and a blue jacket? Not feasible. So, I say, "I need my suit! I have a concert tonight!", and there's still a girl at the cash register. Another girl behind the counter says, "We closed half an hour ago." The girl at the register says, "Your in Men's Chorus? (Actually, she said, "You're in Men's Chorus?"), and I replied hastily in the affirmative. Things were going my way. "Okay. We'll get it." "Thank you very much," I reply, very politely. As the other girl gets my suit, the cashier says, "We had about twenty of the Men's Chorus in here ten minutes ago." I nod and grin, still very politely, get my suit, and leave, very grateful for my suit, grateful for its cleanliness, grateful for the amazingly comfortable temperature outside with signs of a coming thunderstorm, and grateful that I'm not the only one who cut it close. I just did it my way.

Johannes Brahms' Symphony No. 3 in F Major, Opus 90

my initial response

Johannes Brahms’ Symphony No. 3 in F Major, Op. 90
cd recording of Sir Charles Mackerras conducting the Scottish Chamber Orchestra
The entire symphony is emotional and full of interesting contrasts and beautiful melodies, but as before, the second movement, andante, is the part that I noticed. As I felt it, it is the epilogue of a tale involving a hero having accomplished a great and magnanimous deed. It seems our hero is humble as he tells his tale through a clarinet and bassoon duet. He gives some details, but nothing outrageous or proud. The audience is grateful for his modesty. Then the flutes start to chide him for a minor discrepancy in his tale. The brass instruments resonate that he should feel bad and should reconcile his lack of consistency. The hero quickly realizes his error and repents. The rest of the orchestra continues to lecture him, but they appreciate the dispatch of his response. But all is not well. The hero, having been lifted by overcoming his fault, sees life in a more serious light, and he is pained to a crisis by the harsh realities he now observes. Yet the added understanding makes him more powerful and more mature. Our hero nobly accepts his new responsibilities, notwithstanding their weight, for he knows that along with the performance of duty comes immense satisfaction. How noble, how selfless! As the last six measures of the movement embrace the gentle and peaceful ritardando, our hero’s newly increased virtues are extolled through brilliant ascending lines of eighth notes passed between instruments: He has become more honest in telling stories, so tell the clarinets; more wise in accepting reprimands from elders, according to the oboes; and more enabled to perform future deeds of valor and charity, sung by the flutes. Brahms may not have imagined it so, but so I felt it.

Classical music definitely is inspiring. The Romantic symphony as a genre is full of emotion and feeling, even passion. But it's all in the listening. Try listening with a score in hand. I dare you.

So pretty much my roommate, Alex, says that all my blog has is pictures. My first post was actually picture-less, but he's basically right. Maybe sometime I'll start writing like he does. Not yet.

This semester's readings.

Score. 

Jaydog Bassoon

 

Evan and Elise

 

The Bakers.

 

The Houston Temple

 

Me and Nathan

Before he deserted us.