I think the first Partita that I heard was adapted for viola. It was beautiful. I tried to find a channel for this on Pandora, but they only had Bach's Partitas (and Sonatas) for violin. Still beautiful, but not the same.
I was so moved by this music that I was inspired to buy the sheet music (again adapted for viola). However, it turned out that years without practice had created too much of a disparity between the beauty I had heard and what I was capable of playing.
The idea is to practice practice and practice again until I am not ashamed of the sound I make, but I pick up my viola once every year or couple of years, only to forget that I have such a luxury.
I think that I need to cut down on my hobbies. Keep the one or two and jettison the rest. Keep things simple so that I can breathe and enjoy the simplicity that life without clutter can be.
Sunday, August 12, 2018
Saturday, August 11, 2018
Publishing and privacy
I was reading a facebook friend's blog, and I realized that I'm a pretty private person. I think about publishing, or at least becoming known (somehow) through my writing, and it's daunting. I don't like people prying into my life, into who I am, into my inner thoughts.
And yet, here I am.
There's something alluring and cathartic about writing. I like sharing my thoughts, usually to a future me, because I can look back and remember or even pick up the strand of thought that I was having, or look back and think to myself "huh, that's a pretty interesting thought that the past-me had."
But I think the core of writing is as a form of communication. It is meant to be read, meant to be shared. Even this very act that I am undertaking, I am writing, knowing that it will be out there in the Interwebs, for others to read (though I do know how buried this blog is and how limited my audience is).
Conflicting with my desire to remain private and perhaps even anonymous is my desire to publish and become known. I think somewhere deep inside, I believe that the things I write that come out of the things I think about are worth reading. I think that I believe I have something valuable to contribute to the body of writing out there that we call literature, that more broadly, we call writing.
Perhaps somewhere, I believe that because my thoughts and words have value, I want to be published and be known.
But I have yet to reconcile that with my very deep desire for boundaries that I call privacy or perhaps the freedom that comes with anonymity.
And yet, here I am.
There's something alluring and cathartic about writing. I like sharing my thoughts, usually to a future me, because I can look back and remember or even pick up the strand of thought that I was having, or look back and think to myself "huh, that's a pretty interesting thought that the past-me had."
But I think the core of writing is as a form of communication. It is meant to be read, meant to be shared. Even this very act that I am undertaking, I am writing, knowing that it will be out there in the Interwebs, for others to read (though I do know how buried this blog is and how limited my audience is).
Conflicting with my desire to remain private and perhaps even anonymous is my desire to publish and become known. I think somewhere deep inside, I believe that the things I write that come out of the things I think about are worth reading. I think that I believe I have something valuable to contribute to the body of writing out there that we call literature, that more broadly, we call writing.
Perhaps somewhere, I believe that because my thoughts and words have value, I want to be published and be known.
But I have yet to reconcile that with my very deep desire for boundaries that I call privacy or perhaps the freedom that comes with anonymity.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)