Spark
the night continues on, although something is different
silently, projectiles make their way across the dark stage
suddenly the spectrum erupts with a satisfying crack
the dull canvas of the world now is enveloped by vibrant cascades of color
suddenly, the neon performance turns to a silence, soon devoured by applause
fire and spirit consume the hour
A boy sat in his small room, his back to the door. The curtains were shut but the bright summer sun leaked through the striped curtains onto the boy, currently occupied with his toy cars. He mocked races, his mouth perpetually vibrating, perpetually emitting the sounds of engines roaring, crashes, commentators and explosions. The vivid races paused every few minutes for the boy to catch his breath and allow his tingling lips to rest. To a careful observer one would find that every race, through every intense drift and huge pileup, a red truck always won. He sped each car individually across the carpet but always had his red truck’s speed the fastest. Even if the truck was in last at one moment, it was just a “plan” by the driver to save up his “boosters” for the end to win the race. Like many children had their special toys- stuffed animals, beloved lego pieces, super hero figurines, this was his special toy. He had loved it since the day his father had bought it with glistening red paint on its hood and its spotless windshield, till now with its scratched up windshield, its slightly crooked wheel, little bits of paint scratched of the hood and battered bumper. Everyday of the summer he would wake up, get ready for the breakfast (which he wolfed down) and get out his box of cars. After he was finished choosing the right cars for the track whether it was off road or NASCAR, he took out his special red truck, always close at hand, and pushed all the unneeded things from the “track”. From then on the race followed his rules and imagination, but always had two winners… The boy and his little red truck…
Keys- The Pianist
The pianist walks towards his instrument, his mind abuzz; notes tumbling alongside his thoughts. Then, finally, he settles upon his perch. The pianist begins after one, subtle cough. His hands run on the smooth black and white staircase of the piano. Marvelously, a tune erupts. It caresses the audience’s ears with the unmatchable beauty of sound. The hands of the pianist continue their movement, sometimes jumping angrily and sometimes making small graceful hops on the glistening staircase of keys. The pianist’s feet come down on the golden pedals as if to add emphasis to the unspoken words of the music.
Then, as the beat slows and the music is almost finished, notes gloriously pronounce the end. The pianist stands and bows.
D-day - The Hands of War
The boat stopped, our stomachs churned, just like the waves in front of us
We ran, our legs beneath the tide, our guns clutched. We ran, our prayers hung in mid sentence. We ran.
They shot, their guns rattled, spewing empty cartridges like an active volcano. They shot, their shells thumping flinging dirt and blood from the ground. They shot.
We prayed knowing deep in our hearts that God was now out of the question- “Will we live?” We prayed even though we knew God could not hear us in this bloody racket. We prayed.
They tore our army as if we were worthless papers. They tore our flesh and will from our bodies with their never-ending cascade of metal. They tore.
We ran and prayed, knowing that we had been torn from the hands of hope and had been put into new hands.
We had run into the ruthless, unforgiving hands of war.
Click on the image below to see a slideshow of “Essence of India”
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Memories
Germany, Post World War II
Alfred Müller sat on his porch motionless. Motionless, but not dead. He was an old man, staring lifelessly into the night sky. He seemed at peace. Alfred had a problem. It was not a common dilemma, but was something else. He constantly remembered. Again and again painful memories erupted from his brain. Memories of the war, memories of his family. The memories were invincible forces, triggered by random events that could occur at any time. Maybe it was the fact that he had survived the war and his son hadn’t that haunted him. His son had been recruited at age fourteen by Nazis with Iron Crosses gleaming on their lapels, grasping equally gleaming weapons almost as big as themselves. For a reason unknown, a mist always covered parts of his memories. As crickets rang the alarm to announce it was night, a cool breeze blew over the small town.
Alfred rose to the sound of laughter and footsteps. He silently peered out of his window. His son stood outside. Not an adolescent as Alfred had last seen him but a young man! Tears fell like rain from Müller’s eyes. He quickly descended from the stairs and looked outside. His son, his dear son…was gone. A snowflake in the sun. A few minutes passed and Alfred returned to his home. “Why?” he asked quietly to himself in his mother tongue of German. He poured himself a cold cup of tea and slammed his fist on the table. “Why?!” he repeated, this time more loudly. “My son was there!” he said, tears now flowing freely down his wrinkled cheeks. Müller again went through his door and outside. He sat on his chair and held his cup to his lips with frail, trembling hands. As a man walked by Alfred asked him, “My son,” he stopped to clear his throat, “Rudolfo. Have you seen…him?”
“Rudolfo? I…Uh… Shouldn’t you know? Rudolfo…has been gone for years.” the man responded slowly. Alfred looked at the man with blood hound eyes and responded meekly, “No. I do not know. Not any more.” Looking slightly sad for Alfred, the man walked away slowly, humming a quiet tune.
Thunder shook the ground and rain tested the roof’s strength. Alfred was haunted by another memory. He couldn’t hold them back, the memories of the planes. The memories of bombs cascading from the sky erupted into Müller’s brain. Alfred shut the blinds and blew out the candle on the table. “Rudolfo! Come!” he yelled. “Come! The bombs!” Confused, Alfred fell to his knees on the scratched wooden floor. He couldn’t stop the memories; they came flooding in. He couldn’t stop the sound of planes overhead and the sound of bombs destroying innocent lives. “Rudolfo!” he screamed.
Alfred woke to the sound of light rain tapping on his roof. He unclenched his hand and staggered outside. For no reason, his heart rate doubled, then stopped. He stumbled into his chair. Alfred Müller sat on his porch motionless. Motionless. He stared lifelessly into the morning clouds. He seemed at peace. Birds rang the alarm to announce it was morning.
Alfred Müller had found his solution.
What yesterday was fiction today manifests truly.
A rather poetic way of putting it, but I believe that the momentous occasion this article pertains to deserves it. This is a moment that future historians and students will look back on. Whether their rearward glances will contain regret or admiration, only time will tell. But for now, we’ve got this to chew on:
Man has become God.
Yes. No question about it.
This was President Obama’s take on the crisis which has dominated news billboards for the past week and may be dominating the coast in a couple of days.
It all started on April 20, when a massive explosion in the Gulf of Mexico destroyed an oil rig owned by British Petroleum, killing eleven workers and starting one of the worst oil slicks in history. The pipe, ruptured in three places, began to pour out huge amounts of crude oil into the Gulf, and, here we are. The slick is now 30 miles long, and up to 210,000 gallons are pouring out each day.
Oil Slick!!
Oil is slowly accumulating, and will soon reach the coasts of Louisiana, Mississippi, and possibly even Florida. It is estimated that these huge amounts of crude oil will completely devastate wildlife and sealife, hurting the economy in a deadly barrage of ways:
-Waste of huge amounts of oil
-Need for huge amounts of money spent to fix up the hole
-Death of sea life and wildlife raising prices of food
-Lack of tourism along the coast
-Possible need of evacuation or further water filtration
-Complete screwage of the American People
Not only this, but the ecology of the area is in no fine shape either; scientists estimate that local fish and birds will be devastated more than during the ’89 Valdez spill, and some of the hundreds of species on the Gulf Coast may even go extinct.
If that weren’t bad enough, scientists are also considering the possibility of a total wellhead failure, in which case the amount of oil spilled per day could hit 100,000 barrels, or 4.2 Million Gallons. They’re also saying that it might take up to 90 days to fix this problem
So, if someone up there is really ticked off, we could be looking at 378,000,000 gallons of oil spilled before this is fixed. That’s 1,512,000,000 quarts. That’s 6,048,000,000 cups. That’s a LOT.
I’m thinking the man at the White House has hit the nail right on the head.
It’s been nice.
Thought I’d jazz up the blog … here are my performances with my teachers Mr. Ashot Mnjoyan (bass guitar) and Mr. Alex Goldman (piano) at the 2010 Spring Recital at the Almaden School of Music last week. I hope you enjoy them.
Watermelon Man (Herbie Hancock)
Caravan (Duke Ellington)
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