{Rosas Rosadas}

Tuesday, March 27. A day that will go down in infamy-- in my book at least. And it all began, and found its root with: roses (all pun intended).

So this day was in direct succession with the crappy monday in which the post before this one was written. With Sarah and I being so down in the dumps that day, I decided to do something I had been planning and wishing and preparing for for several weeks. I was going to buy her flowers. And not just buy her flowers. I was going to give her flowers. I had an elaborate scheme all planned out, right down to a mental screenplay complete with a script, that had required practice in order that it come out just right. Little did I know the aftershocks of this little venture.

A little background: Sarah and I are music majors. This requires us to spend copious amounts of time in practice rooms, practicing our pieces with a diligence that can only come from the musically elite. So, basically, I knew she where and when she was going to be practicing-- and this made things extremely easy for me. The whole plan was going to work out perfectly.

I awoke at 7am, left the dorm at 7:45ish, and started walking to the nearest supermarket, where, as advertised, a huge assortment of fresh cut blossoms displayed their fineries to the world, in hopes of being selected and placed in the arms of a dazzling young lady. This was exactly what I intended to do. After a good 10 minutes of perusing the fare, I had my fancy on a lovely little number called "rosas rosadas". Pink roses. 12 of them. Hooah. Sold.

I really can't really remember the walk back to school, because of 1) my excitement, and 2) because I was busy rehearsing my lines and repeatedly replaying the entire coming scene in my head. Hey, I'm a dedicated man when it comes to these things. Everything has to be perfect.

I got back to Moody around 8:15, and scurried up to Doane 3 with a touch of franticness. This was the trickiest part of the whole business. My greatest fear was that Sarah would either be arriving just as I was, or was in the halls and would see me. Luckily, neither happened. In fact, she wasn't even there yet! This was perfect, I could take my time with everything. No rush.

Within 10 minutes or so, I heard that ever-so-delightful voice come a-lilting through the air. She was chatting it up with someone, and within a few more moments she had unlocked the door and was safely in the nest of room 301, her favorite practice room. I gave her a few minutes to get settled...

Apparently, I couldn't stand it for very long, because I heard the curtain rise, and...oh! There's my cue. Time for the show to begin.

(I find it better to share what happened next in a somewhat movie-script-like format)

Aidan walks to practice room, in which Sarah Liv Skaarland sits, unexpectadly, playing the piano. He holds the bouquet in his left hand, and leans forward, against the wall, looking through the doors tiny window.
[Knock knock knock]
[Door opens]


"Aidan! Hi! How are you?"
[Aidan hangs his head, rubs his eyes with his right hand, and pinches the bridge of his nose]
"I'm good. Yeah."
"Are you okay? [insert worried look] Is something wrong?"
"No, I'm fine. Something happened. Uh... did you see what was outside the door here?"
"No...?"
"I think there's something out here for you..."
[Aidan turns, grasps the bouquet in both hands, his back to Sarah. Slowly turning to her, he reveals what is in his hands]


And cut. Yeah, pretty short little dramatic denouement, but still. Everything went exactly as planned. She gasped, hugged me, gasped again, told me how sweet I was, gasped, told me I was wonderful.... etcetera  etcetera. Unfortunately, she also came out of the practice room, and locked the keys inside. Whoops. I offered to hold the flowers for her, so she could go and get public safety and get the room reopened. Oh no. "I will hold these." She brusquely told me, and then with a "I'll be back soon!" she traipsed away, with the bouquet nestled gently in her arms. I went and practiced piano, and a half an hour later, she returned. The flowers were in vases in her room, and she her practice room was reopened. Now that the scene had ended, the aftershock of her surprise had set in.

"Well now I don't feel like practicing at all! What do you want to do?" she said
"Coffee?" I said.
"Sure!"

The events following were generally scattered throughout the day. We went to Starbucks, got coffee, and sat in the window, and talked till chapel. While we talked, Sarah proceeded to write about what had happened on Twitter, and then change every background on her phone and ipod to a picture of the blossoms in the vases in her room. That was a proud moment for me. This whole plan was as great a joy to me as it was to her. Though I think she can argue at having the better time of it.

After chapel, we parted ways, and went to our classes. During that time till band, when we would next meet, I was told by one of her girlfriends how special what I had done was, and how I had "scored some serious points". Aahhh. I love it. I am flipping awesome. What also happened, which I was unaware of at the time, was that Sarah, so flustered and-- if I may be so bold as to put it this way-- twitterpated, at the whole event, didn't exactly pay ample attention in class, and as a result, wasn't quite in the exact knowledge of the information needed for a certain amount of questions on the forthcoming exam.

Hooah. I didn't think my charm could do that...Hm. I could get used to this.

There you have it, folks. A little tale of how I swooped in, swept the fair damsel off her feet, and made the day just a little bit brighter for the both of us. Is there pride? Oh yes. Is there more of a throb in our hearts? I sure hope so. Lady's and gents, watch out. Moody's cutest couple has now been engulfed in a new wave of infatuation.


Hooah.

Pissed Off at the World

There are times in our lives when the only thing we can do is be absolutely, one-hundred-percent, frankly, and furiously pissed off at the world. There may be a reason, and there may not be a reason. But whatever. I'm mad. You're mad. Lets be mad together.

Today was just a crappy day. Crappy crappy crappy. It wasn't a catastrophe, and it wasn't a disaster; it was simply the perfect combination of good and just enough bad to make it uncomfortably and irritably bad. Like my day was a trying to survive drowning and had just barely got its chin above water, only to find out that it was too late. Too much water in the lungs. Dead. 

It started out fine! It did! Really! I hopped out of bed at 6:45am and felt fresh. Alive. Invigorated. Theory went fine, I turned in my homework, I took notes in class. I learned the days lesson. 

Then I meandered up to Doane 3. Practiced piano for a little bit. Then Sarah came in. That was a sunshine on my face. A breath of spring air in my lungs. I was happy! 

But, she was not as optimistic as I, and with good reason. She didn't sleep well, and missed the tranquility of Alaska. I did too, but was more satisfied with my current location. So, I comforted her the best I could. When she is down I feel down, and want to try my best to lift her up and make her feel loved and appreciated, or just more at ease about what's going on in life.

Alas. My day was about to lose some altitude. Research Writing. Did not go so well. I hadn't done the homework, and felt terrified about her calling on me to answer a question about the assignment I didn't do. Whoops. Bad way to start the second half of the semester in that class. But, we move on.

Payroll time! My pay wasn't quite right, so after lunch I headed up to the financial department in Crowell, and asked who I needed to talk to in order to straighten my paycheck out. I was informed that the lady who usually works that department had decided to leave early today. Monday afternoon, 1:30pm, and she had conveniently decided to "leave early for the day".

In summary, a simple and I think poignant question was seared on my mind:

DOES ANYONE ELSE FREAKING WORK AROUND HERE OTHER THAN ME?!?!

But, patience my dear man. Patience. Easy. Come back tomorrow, and do it then. 

Aaaaaaaah. I'm better.

So I went and did some other basic housekeeping, did some homework, made some appointments, etc. I was assuring myself that I wouldn't let those two little blows crash my proverbial airplane of a day. But try as I might, I could solidly come to terms with myself. I was not doing great. So, I texted Sarah, in hopes that company would remedy my plight. It did, and at 3:30pm, we set out on a walk through the park and through the sunny streets of our fair city. Hand in hand, we quietly perused the huge churches and cathedrals that were near campus. We even went to Ghiradelli's and got free chocolate. But unfortunately, Sarah felt a tad ill, and was still not having the best day. No fault of hers, because these kinds of days just happen. Ironically, we were both having that kind of day. 

Please be assured that we both did our upmost to bring a light mood to the day. We both tried to ease whatever burdens the other had in some way or another. It didn't always work. But at least we tried. No fault of either of us.

But alas. After dinner, at which the second person of the day had told us that we were the cutest couple ever, (the first was a sweet little school girl who saw us sitting on a park bench, my arm around Sarah and her head on my shoulder) we had Oratorio. Choir from 7:30pm to 9pm. That was the final straw. Broke the camels back for both of us. 

So now, we sit, two "Eeyore"'s. Not amiss with eachother. Just a little pissed off at the world.

{Goodnight}

Well there she was, I can't express
The way she looked in that scarlet dress.
Her webs of lashes, framed exotic eyes,
That sparkled with a hint of minx-ish surprise.  


Such decadence cannot be known,
The way that gaze caressed my own.
Every moment, was a pure delight,
Everything right down to her final- 
Musical-
"Good night".


~ ATL

Rage

Rage. Intense, unbridled, rage. It could be described as the mass confusion of all emotion colliding into one thunderous, chaotic explosion. The want to scream and howl like an animal, then laugh the next second, and wonder why exactly you are laughing next, then come to the conclusion that you don't know why you are laughing, then finalize that you are only confused all the more. Rage is the want to unleash all the energy pent up inside yourself into hurling a chair across the room, and to then break down, sobbing, onto the filthy carpet that covers the floor. A convulsing, crumpled mass of disoriented flesh that needs to be gently picked up, held for a time, then put to right once more. 


Rage is a paradox. 


Rage is confusion. 


Rage is the unnamed emotion, boiling up and finally violently released into the chasm of time.


Forgive me Father, for I know not why I do what I do most of the time. 


~ ATL

Ode II

Silent, crystal tears
Fall
Shimmering 
Against my
Pillow.
As if to say:
"My love
Is bleeding
Diamonds."


~ ATL

Ode

evoke 
the tendrils of my passion.
the quiet exuberance 
of my soul.


i
have danced with desire.
and silently lost my
reason.


gaze
hopeful 
into the darkness of my heart.
see
if anything will
remain
after the release 
of fire
tests me.


you are my want.


the silence i drown in is steeped 
in thoughts of you.


am i wrong
in my hopes?
should i destroy them all
start afresh
and hope to heaven 
that no sly memory
of you remains in me?
lest,
in my depravity
i sink down
hopeless
into the dark 
of my desire.


again.




~ atl

Apples, Artichokes, and Poetry.

Simple thoughts, simple desires. I love apples. The crisp crack of a chunk of apple shearing off the body of the fruit and falling delicately into your mouth is quite delicious. Plus, I have now figured out how to break an apple cleanly in half using my finger. No, I do not exaggerate. Simple place your pointer finger across the top of the apple, then sharply rap your other hand against your finger. The apple with cleanly crack down the middle, and with a little prying apart, you will have two symmetrical halves of the fruit.

Speaking of apples, a friend of mine just recently introduced me to the great 20th century poet Pablo Neruda. I picked up a book of his, or rather a compilation of his works, called "Full Woman, Fleshly Apple, Hot Moon" (see now the apple reference). The poem this title comes from is sensational and-- take heed-- moderately sensual. His poetry, though written in Spanish-- when rendered into my mother tongue of English-- is some of the most delightful and lyrical free verse I've read. The translation I have is especially good. One such example of the loveliness of his work is one verse called "Ode to the Artichoke":

The artichoke
With a tender heart
Dressed up like a warrior,
Standing at attention, it built
A small helmet
Under its scales
It remained
Unshakeable,
By its side
The crazy vegetables
Uncurled
Their tendrills and leaf-crowns,
Throbbing bulbs,
In the sub-soil
The carrot
With its red mustaches
Was sleeping,
The grapevine
Hung out to dry its branches
Through which the wine will rise...

It continues on, telling of how the artichoke lives and guards the garden, until it is picked, taken to market, sold, taken home, and eaten. Marvelous. I may be fanciful and perhaps simple in my tastes in poetry, but I find it just so very wonderful that a poet can take such a simple subject, and project a whole story and scenario that is entertaining, gripping, and so engaging of the senses.

How beautiful are the little things in life.
How simple. How sweet.

"Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things." (Phil. 4:8)

I love poetry. And apples. Artichokes too.

~ ATL

Cafe Life

Here I am. Sitting in a picturesque little Starbucks. It's a far cry from the norm when it comes to the regular corporate, assemblyline built Starbuck-es. Though not completely lost to the world, it is a hideaway of sorts, snugly situated at a five way intersection, among the other boutiques and shops in the Lincoln park district. Its small, but not too small. The hardwood floor, complete with four little tables and chairs, a little coffee-condiment bar, and the bar area all squeezed in a little triangular room creates a cozy, quiet, comfortable atmosphere.

This is my kind of cafe. I sit at the furthest most point of the room, with a window to my right, and a low wall separating me from the door on my left. Such comfort. Such inspiration. I sit; I write; I absorb; and for now, revel in the company I happen to have here with me now. I have no doubt that I shall be coming here often, probably alone, lost in my thoughts (as always), with Bill Evans playing his slow, sad strains to my subconscious. An absentminded, dissonant man plunking away at his computer in the corner. This is where I live, breathe, and enjoy my existence. Songs are born here. Poetry breathes this air in its first lyrical breaths. Stories take their form in the haze of soft light and coffee aroma emanating from the heart of this quaint little boutique.

Ah. Such satisfaction.

~ ATL

Pushing Buttons

I love to play the piano. I love music. Music speaks to me in ways that not many other things can. But what frustrates me to no end is how many musicians don't show that they LOVE the music. They just show that they are good at it. And when someone else shows that they are good at it as well, its like the first guy has to prove to the new person how good he is, and vice versa. No mutual love for the subject. Just constant one-up-man-ship.

I believe that when you lose the passion you have for something to an insatiable need to show others your level of skill, you lose all the respect and quality you had for thing that you love.

This doesn't mean I advocate not practicing or striving to get better! Because I myself love getting better; practicing and always trying to rise to new heights. I love working hard, striving and pushing myself. But I also like PLAYING. Music isn't about ALL about technicalities to me. Its not about how many notes you can hit within a certain amount of time. I mean, lets face it. Playing piano is nothing more than pushing black and white buttons in different sequences in a certain amount of time AT a certain time. Great. So why do you push the buttons? To prove to others that you do it better, or just to push the buttons? Tom Waits cleverly said: "Music is nothing more than doing weird things with the air." How true that is.

My closing statement: humans are emotional. I am emotional. That is why I play the music. THAT is why I push the buttons. That is why I "do weird things with the air". To satisfy the emotion. To satisfy the joy, the peace, the hate, the anger, the sorrow, the hope, the love. We were all created with something to bring to fruition. Why not revel in it once and while?

~ ATL

Disposable Snow

Well, I'm back. On the blog and back at school. Chicago has just been graced with its first hopefully permanent inklings of snow. As prophesied by the all-knowing, all-powerful weather forecasters, we're supposed to get six inches. It's about flipping time.

This semester is just as fun as, if not more than, last semester.

However, its not without changes. People have definitely changed over the break. We're like dogs who have forgotten that familiar smell of acquaintanceship. What once was a smile has now turned into a brief glance and a nod. 

People are disposable. 

Or rather, people regard others as disposable. 

Okay.