My Arms

-My Arms-

Today is August 19th, 2017. Six years ago today I had surgery on my right arm for Cubital Tunnel Syndrome. The doctors said that I had about 25% nerve damage in that arm. Ten months before that, I had the same surgery for the same problem on my left arm. 35% nerve damage on that one. Since the operations, my ability to play like I use to has become all but a memory. Hours behind a piano to practice so I can play for hours in front of people. Now… I am lucky if I can get an hour in of practice before my hands completely give out. Not to mention playing in front of people and how much of a challenge that became. 

Something like this would be devastating to any pianist who put in as much time as I have. But, the piano is more than an instrument to me. It is more than wood and metal. It saved my life. 

Growing up proved hard for me.  Being labeled as, “the stupid one” all throughout my elementary schooling. I had to repeat kindergarten because I couldn’t spell my own name. When I hit the 2nd grade, there were talks in holding me back again. It wasn’t until my Mother took me in and a doctor diagnosed me with Dyslexia and ADHD. So there was a name, or a reason why I did not learn like the other kids my age. But that didn’t help the teasing, or make me feel any smarter. 

A few years later I saw the movie, “Great Balls of Fire.” I watched the hands glide over the keys and I thought to myself, “That is what I want to do.” So that Christmas, I got a little keyboard. And I started Lessons a few months after that.

Almost instantaneously my grades started to improve. My self esteem started to improve. I didn’t hide away from the other kids in hopes that they wouldn’t tease me if they couldn’t find me. I realized that I wasn’t any good at sports, not because I was stupid, but because I just didn’t like sports. But I could play the piano. I liked playing the piano. No one else in my class could do that. No one else my age could play like I was learning how to play. And so I no longer accepted being “The stupid one,” in my class. Or ever again.

After that I went  to a performing arts high school to play the piano, and then off to college to play the piano, and even in Europe to play the piano. Graduated with a Bachelors in Music in Music Studies with one of my emphasis as Piano Performance. The piano took me from a small scared little boy to an upright, self-confidant man. 

And six years ago, it left me.

First my left arm, closely fallowed by the right. My hands grew numb. I would drop things all the time. My scale passages got sloppier and sloppier. My chord passages couldn’t hold. My hands and arms grew tired after opening a can of dog food, let alone a Bach Prelude and Fugue.  So the surgeries happened to try and keep any more damage from happening. 

But so much damage had already happened. 

I know that I shouldn’t let it bring me down as much as I do. But the Piano is what I have always felt defined me. And to lose what I had is excruciating. 

I can still compose. And I do. I compose almost every day. From Folk songs to String Quartets, I have so much to say through music. But sometimes it even feels that people would rather hear me play the piano than the music I write. 

Today, six years after my right arm surgery, my right arm seems to be having new troubles. I am terrified to go to the doctor and hear what they say. I may not be able to play a full Beethoven sonata anymore, but I can still play for myself at home. I can still play enough to record tracks for some of my compositions. But I fear that I am going to lose that too. 

And what is left of me? Could I still call myself a pianist if I have to have another surgery on my arms and I lose the ability to play all together? The Piano has done so much for me, and I took it all for granted back in my youth. I wish I hadn’t. 

Look upon me, my children. Let this be a lesson to you. Find what you love. Find what makes you lash out in joy and wonderment. Hone those abilities. Study and learn all that you can of what makes you happy. And cherish every moment. And take care of yourself so that you never lose it. Whatever it might be. Cherish it, as your Mother and I cherish you. 

And my wife, Meine Alles. Thank you for not giving up on me. Even in my darkest times. And thank you in advance for when I fall back there. You truly are a light in my darkness, and a voice of reason in my depression. An angel to my inner deamons. I am forever grateful and in debt to you.

And I should look upon an old mantra I use to live by in my Taoistic days. 

There are no mistakes. Everything happens for a reason. The pain and growing I get from all of this I could use for my compositions. 

As my mother once taught me about a pice Beethoven wrote, “This is the sound of his sadness.” 

To give a voice to an emotion, such a power Beethoven had. Such a power any composer has. Such a power… I must harness. To compose something like that, all I have to do is bleed.

And bleed I shall.

In This House (Prologue)

-In This House-

(Prologue)

The real-estate agent sighed as he looked upon the degraded victorian house. Once, back in it’s prime, it must have been a wonder to behold. But now after years of neglect, it looked like the stereo typical haunted houses that were in all the movies. He reached into his briefcase to pull out the paperwork to read up on the history of the house when he heard another car approach his. He quickly put the papers back into his case and fixed his hair. Turning around, he put on his smile and waved enthusiastically at his clients. 

Two people got out of the car, a young couple who, by the looks of her tummy, were expecting. “Hello hello!” the real-estate agent shouted as he stepped from behind his car to great his clients. The couple greater him as well as the man used over to help his pregnant partner out of the car. “I’m glad you found it. I almost got lost.”

“Yea,” the man said, “we almost missed the turn off, but Jessy here has sharper eyes than I do.” After they all laughed at the little joke, Jessy looked at the house. 

“My, that is pretty big.” She said as the smile started to wash out of her face.

“Yes,” Said the realtor, “Big and ready to house a big family. It’s an old house too, and needs a little bit of work…”

“A little bit?”

“Well, more than a little bit, truth be told. But that is one of the reasons why it is such a steal. What you save on purchasing this house, you could use that money to really fix it up and give it more of a modern feel to it.”

“What do you think, Travis?” Jessy asked

“Well,” Travis said as he held Jessy close to him, “Let’s take a look inside.”

The realtor let out a little laugh of relief and patted his brow. “Yes! You’ll see that even though it is a little run down, the actual structure of the house is very solid.” 

As they walked towards the front door, something behind the house catches Jessy’s eyes. “Who is that?”

A small hooded figure steps from behind the house. Hunched and fragile, she turns to the strangers.

“Hello, Ma’ma?” Said the relator. “Can I help you?”

There is no response.

“My name is Jeff, and these are the Jeffersons. They are interested in buying this old house. Do you live around here?”

The hooded figure raised one hand and pointed at Jessy.  The hand was old and skeletal with lose skin clothing the bones. “Your baby.” an old breathless female voice echoed from the dark hood.

Taken a bit back, Jessy moved closer to Travis and hugged her belly. “Yes, we are expecting.”

“Yes…” The hooded woman hissed. “A boy.”

“Oh, we don’t know yet”

“Yeeeeeesssssss… You have a little boy in there.”

Jessy smiled down at her belly as Travis wrapped her in his arms. “You think so?” Jessy asked as she beamed with joy.

“Yes. A little baby boy.”

The couple started to sway with joy thinking about their baby. “How can you tell?” Asked Travis.

The hooded woman’s hand moved to where her mouth would be if it wasn’t shaded by her hood, and stood there silent.

“Well,” The realtor said trying to break the silence as politely as he could. “Do you live around here?”

“Yes.” The hooded woman whispered.

“See, look at that.” The realtor said to the couple, you have already met one of the neighbors.

“A little baby boy.” She said still in a whisper as she turned her head towards the windows of the upstairs of the house. 

The three other people slowly looked up to see what the hooded woman was looking at, but they saw nothing. “Ok, then.” The realtor said trying to keep the unsettling feeling that the hooded woman was giving him, and he assumed his clients, “I am going to take the Jeffersons inside to take a look at the house. It was nice meeting you, Mrs…? I’m sorry, but I didn’t get your name.”

They stood there for a second watching the hooded woman, but she was unmoving. Still looking up at the house. 

“Right, well, we will see you later then.” They all turned to walk towards the house.

“She loves babies.”

They all stopped in their tracks. Jessy turned and asked, “What did you say?

The hooded woman starts slowly walking towards them. “She loves the little babies.”

“Who loves babies?” Asked Jessy.

“She loves all the babies.” The whisper in her voice was growing into a full volume as she continued to talk and approach Jessy. “She loves all the babies.”

Travis steps from behind Jessy to get in front of her as their realtor starts to step back in fear. “Who are you talking about” Travis demands. “Who loves the babies?”

“Travis, she is getting close.” Jessy whispers in his ear to show her fear.

As the hooded woman gets closer she repeats, “She loves all the babies” getting louder and louder. Until she finally backs the three to the foot of the stairs of the porch. The hooded woman quickly shoots out her bony finger in Jessica’s face and slowly moves it to point at her pregnant belly. Through the rest of her face was still covered by the shade of her hood, Jessy could make out a smile as the hooded woman said in a cold gravely tone, “She is going to love your little baby too.”

Why Music? Pt2

Theology/Mythology

Being born to liberal parents, I was always encouraged to ask questions. So I did.

One of the biggest questions I wanted to know was why do my Catholic neighbors believe differently from my Dutch Reformed Grandparents when they both of their religion sprouts from the same book. Even though I asked this early in my life, it wasn't until high school when I started looking into different religions.

From dating a Mormon girl and going to service with her, to watching my Wiccan perform prayers to their pantheon. I asked what and why they believed. For the most part the reason was because it was what they have always known, the religion of their parents. Some believed because they would fear the alternative, which they were told was an eternity of torture. Others believed, or didn't believe, because it just "suited them."

As I grew through college I took a few religion classes, and they fascinated me. For a month or two, unbenounced to my parents, I minored in Theology. But I stopped for two reasons; 1- the class work took time away from practicing and rehearsals and concerts. 2- I found the teaching and lessons to be very one-sided. By that I mean my lessons were more of how the teachers religion was correct when Islam or Catholic was wrong or a misinterpretation of "The Book." But when I talked to a Muslim, he was right and the Christian theology was wrong. It was at this point that I adoptied a new outlook, "if one is to understand the great mystery one must study all its aspects." -To quote a geek movie phrase-

So I looked into Taoism, Zoroastrianism, Hinduism, (Buddhism is more of a philosophy than a religion) and even did some reading on the history of the Bible. And though my journey I have learned a great deal of different ideologies and beliefs, I seem to cannot get enough information. What causes people to believe something so patiently that they would disown their own children, or even kill a stranger because they have a difference in belief?

So I study on. I read cases for and against a God so I can form my own opinion. I cannot help it. It is like a drug that I need. A thirst for knowledge that cannot be quenched, like Tantilis. Or a self inflicted council of Nicaea ruffling through pages of what some people believe to be true. As I continue, I do not expect to ever learn some great truth or revelation, but as one of my greatest teachers have taught me, "It isn't the destination that is important. It is your journey."

Why Music? pt1

In my life, I have found three things that completely fascinate me: Astronomy, Theology/Mythology, and Music.

Astronomy-
When I was a young pup, I had a big National Geographic book called, "The Universe." Each chapter was about something in our solar system, starting with the Sun, than to Mercury, Venus, and even Pluto had its own chapter (You see, Pluto was still a planet back then). The last chapter was about what was past the solar system, what other life might live out there, and how long it would even take to get from our planet to the nearest star (about 4.5 years if traveling at the speed of light). There was a page that had all the planets next to the sun to show just how big everything was. That page started me down the path to learn more. Even with how big the Earth was, we were so tiny compared to Jupiter, not to mention our Sun itself. And the idea that our Sun is just one of hundreds of billions of other stars in our galaxy, not to mention the Milky Way is one of hundreds of billions of galaxies in the universe, made me feel so incredibly small, so insignificant, and so humble. I wanted to learn as much as I could, but at the time when I was a child, math was not one of my strong cards and the equations I saw the astronomers work with seemed laughably impossible for me to try and conceive. But since then I have read my share of Hawking, Einstein, and Sagan to learn about how super-masive stars have the ability to make smaller stars that can support life. I read news articles about the latest breakthroughs and currant missions that are being planed by NASA. And even now, some 30 years later, I can look up at the stars (of the ones I can see in the Vegas night sky) and still feel so incredibly small, so insignificant, and so humble.

A New Work...

Hello to all who are reading this. Sometime has passed since last I wrote about what I was working on. To tell the truth, a lot has happened in that time. A new spark has kindled an old fire for a project that I had an idea for years ago. I have many ideas of compositions that I want to do. A sonata in G major for Violin and Cello. A Piano Scherzo in E flat minor. A Passacaglia and Fugue in D minor. Just to name a few. But those are now put on the back burner for right now. For right now I have a new composition that will be capitalizing my composing.

It is an Opera. An acoustic rock Opera to be more precise. Two acoustic guitarists, one acoustic basest, and percussionist, and a pianists for the "orchestra." The cast consists of two males, a Tenor and a Baritone, and four females, two Alto and two Soprano. I am keeping it small so it could be performed in a black-box if needed.

The story is a story that I have been playing around with for years, but I could never put the right words together the way that I wanted. But recently I have gotten in contact with a librettist from Vancouver, Canada, and we have been busting out the Opera on a pretty good pace. We are hopeful that it will be done by the end of the year so we can start shopping it early 2014.

As of right now, the working Title is, "Julia."

Nocturne No.1 in C Minor

Nocturne No.1 in C minor

With this composition I have made it more of a priority to hold back. Taking a, "less is more" mentality when composing it, this piece is not focused on technique so much as it focuses on story telling in the music. Mozart is known for his operas. He loved Opera. Even his solo works have a story element in them. I have always had a story playing in my head when I played. When it was a manic depression of a lover in a Beethoven sonata, or exploding balls of mirrored glass against a blood-red sky of a Chopin etude, the images in my head helped me learn a piece and play it. 

The hardest part of composing this, besides having my youngest hanging on my back as I did it, was to hold back. Not for fear of not being able to play it, or trying to sound showy, but to show myself that I can hold back, and in doing so, really being able to let loose a dark part of my music. 

About the technical parts:

This piece of mine, this Nocturne, is set in a very basic rondo form: (ABABCAB) with slight variations with every passing AB. I go from common time to 3/4 every other measure to build an almost uncertainty for strong and weak beats for the listener. The time is not all completely vague, the transition from A to B is noticeable almost mockingly. The trio section, C, brings the play between common and 3/4 together with the treble playing triplets over the bass playing duplets. Melody in a slow waltz as the accompany plays an adagio 2/4 omm-pa. I would be interested to see how a dancer would chose to choreograph to this. After the dancing of the C, we move back into the familiar AB section until the end.

Tonically specking,this isn't very in-depth. It stays fairly diatonic through out the C minor A and B as well as the dominate minor tonic in the trio. 

The story, or the emotion that invoked it, is my own,  and telling you what it was would rob you of what it would mean to you, the listener. When you do hear it, I would love to hear what you thought of it. What you felt, if there was a story for you, or colors it reminded you of. Thanks for your feed back.

The Importance of Red

the Red of lips, the Red rose
the Red of days gone to those
the Red of truth, the Red to me
the Red of passion inside thee
the Red of you, the Red of song
the Red of places I belong
the Red of socks, the Red of sound
the Red of love to which I'm bound
the Red of hope, the Red of light
the Red of faces in delight
the Red of lust, the Red of death
the Red of life in your breath
the Red of sex, the Red inside
the Red of everything that I hide
the Red of black, the Red of gold
the Red of Red new and old
the Red of wind, the Red of water
the Red of earths lonely daughter
the Red of war, the Red of tears
the Red of chocolate woven fears
the Red of music, the Red of mud
the Red of everything in my blood
all of this Red and more
all of this that I adore
all of this that I've said
all that is the importance of Red