and eardrums make our hearts beat the way they do,
and spoken with our music.
I have a Twitter now!
I feel almost complete with my repertoire of social media accounts. Let’s see, all I’m missing is LinkedIn, Google Plus, Tumblr…erm, I suppose I’m still a little behind.
Now, I’m not necessary on Twitter to “tweet”, but I’m there to follow. From Amy Chua to Darren Criss, it’s kind of fun just to see what these people are like. Darren’s tweets are…cryptic, to say the least, but I suppose it’s an insight into a celebrity’s life? Or maybe I’m just too obsessed.
Speaking of obsessed, anyone who’s spent time with me in the last few weeks has most likely noticed my very recent admiration with Ingrid Michaelson. I’ve been listening to her music for a few weeks, and already know all of her songs. That is devotion right there. Her tweets are by far my favorite. Just a taste of some of them:
Elgar’s Cello Concerto in E Minor
Majestic golden doors open and hold a beauty,
stunning features, hair like sandy grains,
eyes like the ocean itself.
He is greeted in almost the same manner,
opposite doors, and completely oblivious to the delight
his eyes will discern.
In synchronized steps, each glide in,
bonded by heartbeats and separated by ball gowns and dress shoes.
Slowly, their barrier becomes more and more air,
and men and women dance like violins,
like cellos, oboes, clarinets,
and it isn’t until eyes lock that it is only the two of them,
surrounded by winds and strings and brass
who are mere guides for a blooming rose.
Arms link and sparks light the room in lieu of blissful candles.
The two are on unspoken terms,
eyes speaking rather than insignificant syllables.
They are still in rhythm to the cello,
to the violin, trumpet, and timpani,
as they glide away from the orchestra
into their own garden of fountains and flowers and singing lights.
They are connected by heartbeats,
closer and closer to each other
until the puzzle-piece curves
of their lips mend together to create one,
and fingers interlock to complete the puzzle.
In the ballroom,
become dancing couples
trickling into the center one by one by one until the air
isn’t clear anymore.
And when majestic doors open the second time of the evening,
eyes turn and there are two.
they step-by-step to he center,
where the candles turn to them
and they dance intimately,
until the moon trembles into the distance,
and the candles are outshone with sunlight.
Pre-LCCMF writing, mostly written by the oceanfront.
We are in infinite waters, baby,
submerged in sunbeam-glitters
and dancing waves that make music with the moon & earth.
We are in blue skies,
woven between Monet-stars and kindergarten-suns,
and sitting birds who have lost their flocks.
We are in cacophonies of A’s and E’s, baby,
G-chords and C-chords,
and as our lives meld into one,
we’re at the most significant fermata music has seen.
Baby, we are in hallows of this thing called love,
roped amongst fast-blooming rose petals
and synchronized heart beats,
and I hope the conductor never moves the baton.
The things orchestra camp inspires….
You don’t know what real beauty is until you hear music.
Across heartstrings, fingers dance with horsehair,
and it is the utterances of the heart,
of the mind.
it’s the music the soul makes,
the sound waves twisting and turning,
the smiles & cries,
a swarm of uncontrolled emotions.
Compelling, melodious, awe-inspiring,
nonexistent words to describe imperceptible feelings,
and the rest is beyond my lips.