Hurrah, spring is finally here!
Spring break, however, is over and our symphony rehearsed again today. Of course, the items we had polished before break had descended into shambles, and everything we sight-read was gorgeous. I filled in for the principle second violinist - an exhausting experience, indeed, especially considering I haven't practiced more than two hours this week. But everything went fairly smoothly, and there were some downright ethereal moments mixed in among the questionable ones. And what else can you ask for?
Before rehearsal began, the cellist who sits next to me approached me and said, "I like you, but I'm going to hit you."
"Pardon me?" I said.
"I'm a wild bower," she explained, pushing my chair away a few inches from hers. "I'll hit you!"
I sure hope he's right.
I'm guessing, though, that Mr. Thomson probably felt some extravagant liberty while writing his commencement speech. He was, after all, addressing the talented students of a well-known conservatory, all of whom had excellent chances of becoming successful performers and proving his optimistic words true.
I'm also guessing he realized that nobody remembers what is said during commencement speeches, anyway. He was undoubtedly aware that because of this, he was free to express whatever he wanted. He probably could have said, "Chocolate candy is good for cavities and people can breathe without oxygen!" and nobody would have remembered or cared about it after the ceremony was over.
But despite all this evidence against the notion that music will be satisfying... I still hope he's right.
I'm a teenager and I'm in love with the violin, just like everybody else here. I've been playing for roughly four years, although you wouldn't know it from listening to me - i.e., my timing is awful, my position-work is laughable, I'm only halfway through the Wohlfahrt "Foundation Studies" Book One, and the Vivaldi a-minor is staring me straight in the face. Nevertheless, love is blind - or maybe in this case, deaf - and I'm still hoping on being a professional violinist someday. If this proves ludicrous, I'm planning on going to a technical school just across the Mississippi and learn how to rehair and repair bows and violins. Maybe both - or neither - professions will materialize; I'll have to wait and see. * Sigh! * The art of waiting and seeing is an arduous one, and I'm admittedly not very good at it!
Other than that, the only things you probably ought to know about me is that I'm currently home-schooled, a devoted devotee of F. Scott Fitzgerald, awfully stuck-up at times, an aspiring grade-two cellist, and a great fan of most things Canadian (the Montreal Symphony, the Quebec Symphony, Jasper Wood, James Ehnes, the Gryphon Trio, maple leaves - there are lots of things). All of these personality traits will probably color future entries...if there are going to be any future entries, that is; I'm also infamous for starting journals and then never continuing them. :)
Before I end my first entry, I have a quick confession to make concerning prunes.
I once drank a swig of prune juice along with my best friend (also a violinist, well-aware of the redemptive powers of the plum family) and alas! I'm ashamed to concede, I nearly vomited it up in repulsion. It tasted like watered-down grape juice with a touch of motor oil. Ugh! However, no matter what foolish animosity I may hold toward the taste of the prune, I still greatly admire and respect all those who have been able to decipher the way of this omnipotent fruit, and I wish you all the best in your ongoing meditations.
There. Confession made! :)
I hope everyone reading this gets in some good practice today, and keeps the hope that Virgil Thomson is right and prunes are good, and all that kind of thing. Good-bye for now!
More entries: April 2004
Emily Hogstad is from Eau Claire, Wisconsin. Biography
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