Symphony No. 9

It was the first classical music I ever heard that moved me. It was in the song bank on my Casio. I thought it was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard. I felt like I was coming home, settling into a part of my heart that had been waiting for me. I listened to it over and over with my headphones plugged in to the audio jack of my keyboard. I fingered the keys without pressing them, knowing that I could never recreate the melody. I tuned out voices and TVs, barking and raindrops. I imagined the kind of person who could create such a thing, what kind of life I had to live to tell such an amazing story. I closed my eyes. I turned up the volume. I let myself be moved. I didn’t want anyone to listen with me. I wanted to be alone in a moment that was made for me. I wanted to cry out of sheer amazement. Why had no one told me music could be like this?

I couldn’t explain what was happening to me. I had always liked music, had daydreamed of being a rock star. But this was love. This was learning to read music. Learning to predict chord progressions. Learning to identify instruments in the crashing waves. This was the beginning of a feeling that would stay with me. I would hear this song in the background of every important moment of my life.

Yet this was a feeling I would downplay. I liked music. I liked to play an instrument. I liked to be in choir. But inside, I embraced music. I needed an instrument to be a part of music. I needed a voice to carry my dream further. I could feel it later when I played in a symphony: the moment in every piece striking someone as that first song struck me. Reaching out to someone until their lips parted in an inhaled epiphany--this was someone’s life, someone’s dream, someone’s melody finding a home in a new heart. This is what it is to compose--to write.

I could give you many excuses for why I left music. How I could feel mediocrity weighing on my work. How I froze in every solo. How I could never be the medium to change someone. The fact is that I could not handle the pressure of not being the best. I could not sit in second chair. My ego was stronger than my melody. I forgot the feeling of the first song, the first time I could not breathe because I did not want to miss a note that someone had written just for me. I forgot how the world swirled and softened while I played until I had no thoughts at all--my body and the music were in control.

That is why I was overwhelmed by a piece I thought I chose at random from a list. It was barely a beat. Barely a note and the whisper of a horn before I knew. My heart seized. I thought it was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard. I left music, but music didn’t leave me. It waited until I was lost and then found a way to lead me home. This is what people should feel when they say they love something. They should feel constricted by its hold. They should anticipate every moment as if they cannot continue without it. They should hear their heartbeat pounding in their ears. And it should never go away.

Moving Up is Hard to Do

Moving should be easy. You should burn everything you owned before, buy a plane ticket, and get brand new, shiny things for the new place. This would be ideal. It would be simple and concise. But moving isn't mechanical. Moving is stressful and emotional. It's not a process with a clear beginning and end.

Moving makes its first real impact on your junk. This is stuff you keep on the counter, on the dining table, or maybe in a drawer. I don't want to give up that crap. What if I need fifty twist-ties? What if I finally learn to use chopsticks? It would be a personal failure on my part not to keep these things. Logistically, however, there is no room for crap. Boxes fill with dishes and photos, and you try to pack the junk where there's room, but it quickly becomes clear that you must part. The crap cannot come along on your big move.

Moving also demands that you clean your house once it's empty. This is awful. There are places in my house that I haven't seen since I moved in. I'm not sure we always had a linen closet. It's possible that it grew like an entrance to Narnia, but since I found a vacuum in there, I might as well use it. Cleaning is a gradual process--I thought if I cleaned lightly and repeatedly, it might be the same as deep cleaning. It was not.

You leave behind your clean house for some new tenant after realizing that you have been misusing the space the whole time. You feel better thinking that you will move someplace significantly more awesome and spacious. You scour the internet for new houses and they look fantastic. Every one of them is big, new, and cheap. What a lucky world. Upon visiting these magnificent finds, you realize each of them to be a sadder, aged version of their internet selves. You sift through the options until one is less terrible than the rest and sign the papers immediately, ensuring you are the resident of this not-so-terrible home. Congratulations.

There are still exciting parts about moving. There are still adventures. There are mundane questions like, "Where do I buy groceries?" "What is the fastest route to work?" "Do alligators live in the lake outside my balcony?" There are also bigger questions. If I am in a new place, am I a new me? Should I recreate the same identity for myself? Should I get the same kind of job? Should I go to school? Who will I be in this new house? The opportunities are endless and thrilling.

Yet I miss the comfort of the familiar. I still wonder what alternate-universe-me is doing at the same old house with the mystery closet as yet undiscovered. Is she happy? More importantly, is she happier than me? Am I a better version of myself in this new place? Why didn't I bring my twist-ties?

Open Source Hypocrite

If you asked me if I support open source, I would say yes. I would say that community involvement keeps projects alive and helps them reach amazing potential. Sites like GitHub make information from around the world accessible while maintaining integrity. I would tell you that free alternatives willingly shared by their creators is how I was able to afford software all through my undergraduate years.

So when I read Wired Magazine's recent articles about the undiscovered potential for tools like GitHub, why didn't I jump out of my chair with a fist pump? They suggested it could be used for articles exactly like this one. I was hesitant about open source for the first time because Wired was suggesting that I could contribute. They put their article about GitHub up on that site to be edited, translated, or otherwise altered, and that was terrifying for me. Of course, I support open source in regard to other people's hard work, but mine?

I had to question my motives in writing. If GitHub is about sharing knowledge, I should be willing to do that. I should aim to teach and share my perspective in the same way programmers who write free software do. I should be willing to let the community help my work reach its potential, even if it turns out to have none.

But it's hard to trust people you don't know. I fear for the integrity of my work. I fear that I will be judged. I fear I won't be translated correctly. I fear someone will just alter it in ways I don't like. Yet, these are the very benefits of open source--for every troll, there are five normal people who honestly want to improve my work.

I thought open source was just for software. It's easier to track who gets credit for certain lines of code and to see the exact changes made. In writing, there are more shades of gray, more subjectivity. I wonder, do programmers worry about the style, the cleanliness of their code in the community? Do they worry about every hack who could mangle their work?

I've used many open-source products and have often been grateful for the programmers behind things like OpenOffice, Android, and Ubuntu. I never considered that it is also a small act of bravery to release your work purely for the benefit of others. GitHub isn't quite outfitted to host articles yet, but when it is, will I be brave enough to support open source in the most meaningful way--by becoming a contributor?

No good, very bad blogger

I'm a terrible blogger. No one can believe that while I consider myself a writer, I don't blog. Why don't I blog? I have a lot to say. Maybe there's less appeal when I can't hear my own voice. Maybe I feel it will just be lost in a sea of opinions on the internet. Honestly, I'm not one to reason it out that well. I don't blog because I'm lazy. Because for so long, it didn't feel like serious writing. I was reserving my writing skills for academics and the imaginary novel I pretend to write sometimes. So I'm not a blogger.

I'm a writer who doesn't write. I'm a poet, but no one reads poetry. I'm a musician who doesn't play an instrument anymore. I'm waiting for special things to happen to me because I am, obviously, special. So I read other people's blogs while I think that it might be a good use of their time, but my writing should be reserved. For what? Am I afraid to run out of words? I'm positive that I have never been accused of having too little to say.

Blogging may not have the inherent classiness of an anthology of poetry and it may not have the prestige of academic journals, but I can't go on being a writer who doesn't write--it turns out, that means you're not a writer at all.