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drummerbabe1698
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Name: Emily
Location: Chicago, Illinois, United States
Birthday: 10/12/1987
Gender: Female
Interests: i lead a somewhat slow life....i love fashion, simply because it offers a modicum of excitement...i heart drums, and music keeps me alive most days..i play volleyball, but that's not exactly a happy thought...so i guess that's it.
Occupation: Student
Industry: Art
Message: message meEmail: email me
AIM:  drummerbabe1698
Member Since:
9/25/2005
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| Want she wants, more than anything, is to capture a picture like a singer captures melody in a song. If she could just tune in to what she sees, dance within the essence of the sight, and somehow draw all that is in through her lens, she knows that she would create magic. She's seen it done. Leibovitz, Mapplethorpe, Demachelier. All artists, true artists, who have created music in their work. It's in the grace of a silhouette; it's in the subtle beauty of a flowing line. It's color and texture and form. All this and more, this is the rhythm of her world. It's more than an object, more than a face, and more than a snapshot in time. A true photograph captures everything a person or thing has ever been or wanted to be, and allows this to shine through the entire work. It's not a body, it's a soul. And what is a soul without a soundtrack. She believes with all of her heart that a person who fails to set their life to music is missing the truth of the experience. So she closes her eyes and tries to let the music weave around her. She lets the notes take hold of her hands, lets the melody guide her movements. She is a dancer, singer, composer. She is the artist. And her song is every bit as bold and true as more conventional instruments might create. She will not rest until the world hears. She has something to share. She has something to say. She will make them listen. | | |
| I’d forgotten the way that music, real music, could wash over me and fill in all my missing pieces. It’s as if, over the course of time, I’d lost consciousness to the fact that music was as essential to me as breathing, and that I’d somehow been slowly suffocating while barely surviving. I’d forgotten the way that the notes could grow and swell until I could wedge myself into the spaces between them, becoming a part of the magic that they created. And there, in that place of suspended reality, I could weave myself among the melodies and harmonies until the music was no longer a separate entity to be observed and heard, but a tangible thing that I could take into myself and never let go. Last night reminded me of all that and more. Suddenly, I could remember how the vibrancy of a bow against strings could reawaken parts of me I’d long thought dead. How instruments could rise up in all their majesty and envelop everything around them, offering such an intriguing mix of tranquility and passion. I remembered how the subtle support of woodwinds and bass conjured up all the natural beauty that I intrinsically feel beating in my breast, and release that wild rhythm into the air. The music becomes a friend, a lover, a family, and it takes my hand and guides me into everything I’d ever wanted to be. I become the best version of myself when music takes my heart. Sitting there, under the stars, becoming a part of the magic created by one of the best orchestras on Earth, it’s as if I remembered everything I’d always wanted to be. I could close my eyes and envision a future that my past had planned. I could see how very far silence had drawn me from that course, and I could feel, in such a heartrending, searing way, how very badly I wanted to find my way back. There, with the notes supporting me, comforting me, I believed I could do so. I lost my music once. I saw what I became without it. I refuse to do so again.
I will be what I once knew I could be.
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| "The man," he says, "is holding me down. The man is controlling my life, and there's nothing I can do." She looks at him in disbelief, silently shaking her head as if to say "Is that the excuse you're using now?" He seems so complacent in his belief that the perceived machinations of a malevolent force are unequivocably deciding his future. She wants nothing more than to shake him out of such a stupor, shouting the truth until he begins to accept that such cowardice is not acceptable to her. Because she knows what he'll never seem to: destiny is our to control. He points to governmental action, to the inequalities of gender or economic status, and tells her that life is not all choices. She'll bite her tongue, but she knows that's not true. Life is nothing BUT choices. Every action, every response, every minute, every breath. Choices, all. So someone acts against you? Doesn't matter. What counts is how you react. He says he can't get ahead with everyone holding him back.. The unconscious raise of an eyebrow says, "Really? When did you ever try?" He clings to his sheltering beliefs because they'll protect him from responsibility. He doesn't want to admit that failures are his own when it's so much easier to blame his constructed enemies. "Politicians," he cries, "they're all corrupt! I could never fight that!" But he's got two legs to march a picket line, two hands to hold a sign. One voice to lead a million chants, one vote if he makes it count. He says, "It won't change anything." She replies "And how do you know til you've tried?"
Because change is OUR hands.
From....forever ago. | | |
| I miss the music, more than anything. They city once sang to me. I used to have a melody in my very surroundings, and it carried me through each day. There were sweet, dulcet tones that comforted me, curling around me and fitting me to the space between the notes. And I was among it, surrounded by song and movement, carried safely through that dark veil of silence. It was more than a sense, more than a simple gift of the ear. I WAS the music, and the music was me. We were permanently welded together, and I could not imagine a life in which sound did not govern my days. But then it softened, then it faded. Slowly the void chipped away at the tune.
And now there is silence.
What am I to do with that? | | |
| The arch of an arrogant brow captures her attention more certainly than a shout. Captivated by those lips, those full, mischievous lips, she looks. Looks away. Looks again. With fluttering lashes she names herself his, and he knows it. His certainty proclaimed by the sardonic tilt of those same lips. She reaches out, hesitantly, smoothing the brow that caused her fall. In all reality, she may have well handed him her heart. She is bound, he is not. Same old story, same old ready-made heartbreak. She'll never learn, "never ever ever" taunts that voice in her head. The countdown has begun. How many days til he leaves her? (How many will cause the most pain?) "Leave me now, go, don't make me do this." That's what her eyes are saying. But she's too busy with beauty to see the message in his. "I'm going to use you, sweetheart. I'm going to say 'baby' and 'darling' and slowly break you down." If only, if only...so many, so few. She just wants someone to hold her. She wants someone to cherish. And most importantly, she wants someone to leave. She wants to know how it feels to walk away and never look back. She's felt the other end of that deal often enough. So she says "this time...this time." Contained in silly happily-ever-afters is the fervent wish to break a heart, crush a hope, shatter a dream. So she tries again, forgetting that she always get stoo into the game. Forgetting that she's still flesh and blood, bleeding heart and all. Disregarding the fact that she thinks he's handsome. (Beautiful, let me call you beautiful.) That her childish heart has different ideas than her mind. (It still believes in forever, silly thing) And she falls, hard and fast. Words he'll say in a whole different content. She'll be broken, she'll be lost. But for now...she still thinks she's in control. She'll learn.
(Ages old, certainly not a new piece. Found in notebooks from days better left forgotten.) | | |
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