Sam, Katie and I were eating pizza the other night, discussing plans for our next concert (coming up on the 18th of February) and musing, however tentatively, and with a tender, sad foreboding, on the future dissolution of Tria Fata. I freely admit, I've cried over it. We have each commented at various times on how we've each felt stretched and expanded by playing with each other. Of the many things we do together as colleagues and friends in a trio, one of my favorites is doing "trio-listening" when we get together and just listen to new music we may want to learn.
Sam found a piece he wanted Katie and I to hear. Especially excited about this new piece, he called three times this morning while I was at work. I got to school, went to class and then met Sam for a pre-grad audition performance and critique. He didn't play for me, but ended up leading me to the DPA lab, where he sat me down at one of the computers, inserted a CD and bade me listen to Arvo Pärt's Mozart-Adagio. It's incredible. It's been the only piece of music I have wanted to listen to all day. We've ordered the music. We're playing it on the 18th. It will be one of our last performances. A perfectly appropriate musical setting for such an emotional close for us.
Pittsburgh Piano Trio, St. Petersburg Conservatory, March 2006
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Thursday, January 14, 2010
A Kind of Thank You, or, If I Could Facebook Tag This, "Tag! You're 'It' Corey!"
I try not to envy Corey too often. Sometimes, though, I do find my little self envying him. He is, after all, hands-down brilliant. His CV is stunning. He'll have no problem getting into any graduate program he wants. He is a caring and honest and blunt and sensitive best friend. He laughs at my stupid jokes and he answers his phone when I call at 1:47 AM after watching heart-rending films about life and love and loss. His is the iron (and irony) that keeps mine sharpened. I love sharing our friendship together. It hurts me deeply when I sense jealousy for his success, when I defend myself against the naysaying voices in my head: I am accomplished, too!!!
I remind myself, sometimes, that I'm a winning individual. I keep good company because I am good company. I'm a talented musician. People like me. I can bake as well as anybody. I'm quick and witty. I don't often have to use spell-check. I am a winning individual, dammit! So why, when my dearest friend shares some of his successes with me, or when I see that his writing evokes a wide and varied response, or when I (don't) compare his successful romantic endeavors (I'm the first person with whom he shares his date stories, for Pete's sake!) with my inexperienced attempts (he's the first to hear my "Did I do the right things to keep him interested?"), do I still sometimes feel that little, green, jealous, weedy seedling souring in my belly? why do I feel the need to keep up? the self-inflicted pressure to compare and compete? I want rip it out before it begins to thrive, keep the licked-wound wedge from souring my admiration for him; however, I've decided that when I stop pitying myself long enough to really look at why those jealous, competitive feelings rise up, I will shift my thinking. I will remind myself to turn whatever those particles of envy are into opportunities to refine myself and my work as an artist and a creative human being. Corey, without knowing it (or maybe he does) gives me a quiet measuring stick against which I can place myself.
We are such a part of each others' lives people have dubbed us "The 'Uncouple' Couple." For all intents and purposes -- excluding attraction and sex -- we have pretty much earned that nickname. We call each other every day, just to visit and keep tabs on each other. We see each other at least once a week, for dinner parties, friend shin-digs, movies, outings to the theater or the opera or whatever. I call him for advice, and he has this way of knowing what not to say when I need him to say what it is I want him to say, and he remains silent and allows me to feel out my own choices on my own. It aggravates the hell out of me. I probably tease him too much. That, my dears, probably aggravates the hell out of him.
A couple of weeks ago, over ice cream, he was telling me about a new guy he's interested in. I was honestly happy for him, but, of course, I had to open my mouth and invite my unique brand of awkward-moment-making. Teasing, I asked, "What are we going to do when I'm not the most important man in your life?" Neither of us had the answer. He just glanced down at the table, wrote something in his ever-present, lovingly scribbled-in notepad, and smiled. I let it go and finished my peach frappé while we continued talking about boys, music and literature, and our plans for the weekend. In the days since, I have thought about my question--quite a bit, actually. Affirming that I believe Corey and I will always entangle ourselves romantically with men other than each other, the question still remains: What will I do when I'm not the most important man in his life? What will I do when he can't be the most important man in my life any more? We've had friends who have gotten married, and we've all learned how to deal with that kind of shift in friendship and its accompanying loyalties, but I'm not sure how to make that change with Corey when it happens.
It's somewhat sobering to think I'll miss that little bit of envy mixed in with such a great deal of love when my best friend's chosen to make Somebody Else his most important, even-more-best friend. I'd feel a little lost, I think, without him and his steady, silent way of encouraging me to stretch myself.
I remind myself, sometimes, that I'm a winning individual. I keep good company because I am good company. I'm a talented musician. People like me. I can bake as well as anybody. I'm quick and witty. I don't often have to use spell-check. I am a winning individual, dammit! So why, when my dearest friend shares some of his successes with me, or when I see that his writing evokes a wide and varied response, or when I (don't) compare his successful romantic endeavors (I'm the first person with whom he shares his date stories, for Pete's sake!) with my inexperienced attempts (he's the first to hear my "Did I do the right things to keep him interested?"), do I still sometimes feel that little, green, jealous, weedy seedling souring in my belly? why do I feel the need to keep up? the self-inflicted pressure to compare and compete? I want rip it out before it begins to thrive, keep the licked-wound wedge from souring my admiration for him; however, I've decided that when I stop pitying myself long enough to really look at why those jealous, competitive feelings rise up, I will shift my thinking. I will remind myself to turn whatever those particles of envy are into opportunities to refine myself and my work as an artist and a creative human being. Corey, without knowing it (or maybe he does) gives me a quiet measuring stick against which I can place myself.
We are such a part of each others' lives people have dubbed us "The 'Uncouple' Couple." For all intents and purposes -- excluding attraction and sex -- we have pretty much earned that nickname. We call each other every day, just to visit and keep tabs on each other. We see each other at least once a week, for dinner parties, friend shin-digs, movies, outings to the theater or the opera or whatever. I call him for advice, and he has this way of knowing what not to say when I need him to say what it is I want him to say, and he remains silent and allows me to feel out my own choices on my own. It aggravates the hell out of me. I probably tease him too much. That, my dears, probably aggravates the hell out of him.
A couple of weeks ago, over ice cream, he was telling me about a new guy he's interested in. I was honestly happy for him, but, of course, I had to open my mouth and invite my unique brand of awkward-moment-making. Teasing, I asked, "What are we going to do when I'm not the most important man in your life?" Neither of us had the answer. He just glanced down at the table, wrote something in his ever-present, lovingly scribbled-in notepad, and smiled. I let it go and finished my peach frappé while we continued talking about boys, music and literature, and our plans for the weekend. In the days since, I have thought about my question--quite a bit, actually. Affirming that I believe Corey and I will always entangle ourselves romantically with men other than each other, the question still remains: What will I do when I'm not the most important man in his life? What will I do when he can't be the most important man in my life any more? We've had friends who have gotten married, and we've all learned how to deal with that kind of shift in friendship and its accompanying loyalties, but I'm not sure how to make that change with Corey when it happens.
It's somewhat sobering to think I'll miss that little bit of envy mixed in with such a great deal of love when my best friend's chosen to make Somebody Else his most important, even-more-best friend. I'd feel a little lost, I think, without him and his steady, silent way of encouraging me to stretch myself.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
The Brilliant New Phrase Coined by Nic and Corey (Because They're Brilliant)
"I wouldn't touch him like classical music won't touch Sarah Brightman since The Phantom!"
Ha!
Ha!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)