Lacrimosa

I long for my own musical history. There was a time when I only had a handful of silvery discs to document my musical conquests. I used to lay on my bed in combat boots, staring at the ceiling light, absorbing pure sound through every pore of my body. I used to assimilate the music into my veins until it was as crucial as the blood flowing to my fingertips. I used to know music.

I fear that I have become stagnant. In the notes of a hundred etudes, a dozen concerti, I learned to follow symbols like a map to a musical destination-a key, a melody, a harmonic structure. Bjork said "I really believe in the 12 notes on the piano. It's so magical. You kind of hit note two and you do note nine and note seven three times, and that's a map to a certain emotional location." I have been struggling for control of my technique for so long that I left my passion somewhere behind the curtain of sheet music.

I was a poor tourist to these musical sights; hiding behind a camera to capture the forms without stopping to let it stir my spirit. I lost myself in rhythms and tritones. I sold my soul to the inner demons of accuracy. You would think that after such intense study-after becoming "classically trained" I should understand music better than most.

But this is not a story of defeat, of becoming jaded, disillusioned. I am going to find myself where I have lost myself-in music.

There are holes in my knowledge of repertoire. I plan to fill them. But I need to spread across my interests, explore in any genre of sound. I think the sheer newness and momentum might inject me with new instincts. I think it will make connections between disparate mediums. I think this is my path to my musical salvation.