A draft of the introduction to the play that I am writing

Dim lights. A clarinet plays a light melody with a pure tone.

A large wooden chest is on the stage, just off the centre and to the right. It is deep brown and is perhaps made of mahogany. It gives the appearance of being altogether mundane, antique, and oppressively heavy. A lock keeps it tightly closed.

With slow and deliberate movements, a girl enters the scene. She appears about twenty-seven, although she could be older. Still, there is something in her movements that make her seem sixteen or seventeen years old. Perhaps it is her light step.

Eventually, she notices the wooden chest. She steps towards it, but hesitates. She takes one long, visible breath, and then approaches the chest, bends down, and touches the lock.

GIRL: It's funny how we forget some things and how we remember others.

Silence. There is no one around to answer her. She jiggles the lock lightly.

GIRL: I don't remember them giving me a key.

University Applications

Ask me to write a paper on Tess of the d'Urbervilles, and I'll write one, right away. It wouldn't necessarily be a good essay, but it would have some structure, and I would know how to take a theme from Tess and develop it into a thesis, which I'd then flesh out in my body paragraph before wrapping the whole work up with some sort of thought-provoking summation.

Ask me to write a paper on myself, and I'm lost.

Unfortunately, this situation is faced by countless number of youth across Canada and the world as post-secondary application deadlines approach. We haven't practised writing 400 word 'essays' on our deepest desires, so how can we possibly be expected to write effectively, eloquently, and efficiently?

On voluntary writing and blogs

It's a curious thing to find the blog of one of your teachers. I suppose I'm just not used to reading my teachers' writing outside of the context of handouts, assignment feedback, report cards, and the occasional e-mail.

Perhaps it is even odder when you find yourself thoroughly enjoying your teacher's blog, and reading pages and pages into the blog's archive.

Regardless, blogs themselves are a curious sort of medium. They aren't quite journal entries in the sense of a diary, but they are more or less a published journal. Anyone can read them, but few do. I doubt that there are many people who read this blog, and of the people who do read this blog, I doubt that any are 'regular followers.'

Still, people blog all the time, without a huge concern for who might or might not be reading their words. It is somewhat of a consolation to be able to write and then to go back and see that what you have written exists somewhere, even if the Internet is a somewhat abstract and elusive canvas.

I wonder if there is an art to blogging. If there is such an art, I am sure I have yet to master it. There are surely lots of blogs that are poorly done; blogs with ridiculously informal language, laden with grammatical errors, rude content, etc. Many blogs are pointless -- this one is perhaps one such pointless blog. However, the pointlessness of such a blog is maybe what attracts the writer to create it. We write so often because we must write; we write assignments, we write business e-mails, we write messages to people because we find it is socially acceptable to keep in touch by talking about the weather (and often also because we do actually want to keep in touch with them, but we just don't know how to go about it, especially when they live halfway across the country or halfway across the world). With a blog, though, you write because you want to write; there is nothing 'forcing' you to write.

I wonder when this blog will fall under and fade away. When will I forget about it? When will I stop going back to it and posting the occasional song lyric, ramble, or poem?

I think I will always write for pleasure, be it in this blog or elsewhere.

A Charlie Brown Christmas

A classic Christmas song for jazz piano (and often voice), Vince Guaraldi's "Christmas Time is Here" is one of my favourite relaxing pieces to improvise around on the piano. A gorgeous instrumental version of the piece can be found at the following link.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2gmiSPMHrWQ

Homo sapiens to Homo narrans, the storytelling person

"I heard... two men talking about a third old man who had recently died. One of them said, 'I was visiting him at his home. He started to tell me an amazing story about something that had happened to him when he was young. But it was a long story. Night came, and we decided that I should come back the next day to hear the rest. But when I arrived, he was dead.'

The man fell silent. I decided not to leave that bench until I heard how the other man would respond to what he’d heard. I had an instinctive feeling that it would prove to be important.

Finally he, too, spoke.

'That’s not a good way to die — before you’ve told the end of your story.' "

Source: http://www.nytimes.com/2011/12/11/opinion/sunday/in-africa-the-art-of-listening.html?_r=1&src=tp&smid=fb-share
By HENNING MANKELL
Published: December 10, 2011

When the Leaves

A few of my friends performed some Ingrid Michaelson at school little while ago. With the winter season coming, I thought that their choice of "When the Leaves" was particularly fitting. The lyrics are gorgeous.

When the leaves turn brown
And they cover this lonely town
And I miss your kiss
When the leaves turn brown.

When the snow comes down
And it covers this lonely town
Then I miss your kiss
When the snow comes down.

On Christmas evenings like this
I wonder if it’s me you’ll miss
When Christmas carols fill every space
And I think of your hands upon my face

When the trees come down
I’m sweeping needles up from the ground
And I miss your kiss
On a Christmas night like this
On a Christmas night like this
On a Christmas night like this.

The YouTube link is http://www.metrolyrics.com/when-the-leaves-lyrics-ingrid-michaelson.html#
Enjoy!

On school and motivations

Are you living for the weekend, or are you living for the week?