Saxophone& Composing

#strugglebus

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Noise.

I'm always baffled by our fascination with sound. White noise, music, news, or even silence. Most people get dressed for work in the morning (or whenever you happen to work) and they instinctively turn on the TV or the radio and put on the morning news, weather, cartoon or what not. It's just on to be on. There is no focus on it - the focus is on preparing for the responsibilities ahead. But we turn it on anyway - myself included. It's become our daily need for white noise to fill that seemingly uncomfortable silence.

I always keep my box fan on inside my bedroom. The temperature gets high and low and the air sometimes doesn't circulate well, so the fan helps to regulate the room a bit. I pulled the plug by accident and suddenly the fan shuts down. I stopped my assignment to listen. I was puzzled by the lack of noise. Silence. Silence. Silence. At first I didn't realize it was the fan exactly - just that something wasn't right.

Sometimes I am irked by silence. Perhaps it is because I am a music major - I am constantly surrounded by sound and pitch and always I am listening. Music surrounds my life, and even in my brain I am uncomfortable thinking nothing. I always hum or sing a tune to keep my mind from dwelling on the silence.

== (Music Moment Below)

That's what I find so intriguing about John Cages, "4'33". He sits musicians down and they rest for 4:33. The audience is the one creating the music. Through their fidgets, coughing, adjusting their zippers, sighs, stiffled sneezes they create the piece.

Building 8 "The Dead Can't Leave"

On Wellington Street

“Please help me. I don't know what to do. Everyone in my house is dead and the thing that did it won't let me leave. Sometimes I think he is gone, but then I hear him in my head. Mocking me. He enjoys my anguish. It's why he left me alive.

He said a father's pain is unique. It is why he killed my wife and my child...Christine and Alex...every time I try to move them from the couch so they can be buried he takes a finger. I only have six left. I stopped trying to stop the bleeding, but I don't think he wants me to die yet. When he wants me dead, I think he will tell me.

A father's pain is unique. When he loses everything...now that I have lost everything...I feel broken. Empty and hollow. I want to feel angry, but I can't.

They are still here. They just aren't moving. They smell and their skin looks funny, but that's it. They are here.

I can't even grieve them because he won't let me put them away.

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