Compositon - that's a good notebook

When composing a symphony, how is the creative process? I would say much like the creative processes for anything else that has to do with an art form. I have read a reading though, that describes some ways some composers compose their symphonies. I must say, the first response pissed me off a great deal that when reading the next two, I was ineffective at reading them clearly. The reason is simple, I’m an artist – but more specifically I identify as a poet.

The first person had said that the composer, like a poet, pours himself into the lyrics – the lyrics for a symphony being the sounds. He was my dude up until the next line, “the difference consists in the fact that music possess far richer means of expression—” what? Who is he to say that music is more expressive than poetry? I’ve made both and in my opinion – which is not saying I’m right but, also makes his statement erroneous – neither is more expressive. Sure in music there can be both words and instruments but, in poetry there can be performance readings, or readings that someone does on their own – which adds to the expression since their own is injected.

He opposed the second when he said that his music comes unexpectedly, while the second response was that he makes music through time and effort. Both of these processes I’ve seen before in other readings that birthed their own blogged posts. I agree with bo

Clarification

As to not cause any confusion. The post below this titled, "A Name" is actually a short story composed myself about my name. When I become a famous author, remember this to be one of my early works.

That's all.

A Name?

Not many people knew this, especially if they just met me, but, I didn’t start off with a name. Well to clarify, I was born and wasn’t given a first name. It was a shock to my parents to have a baby that was so light that, they actually forgot what to call me. I remember Grandma saying, “If I wasn’t in that room with your parents, I don’t know what would have happened.” Although she never told me what that was supposed to mean.

When I came out, after the silence, my mother suggested Kapri… with a K, to distinguish me from the popular Capri Sun Coolers drink. My father basically said “Hell no.” Only because he wanted this to be his chance to name me after him, a mission that he failed with my elder brother. He said, “Piney Jr.,” but the biggest problem with that was, his name wasn’t even Piney. My overly-religious aunt had a plethora of suggestions: Adam, Evan, Abraham, Joseph, Moses, Eli, David, Michael… the list went on and on and a few, if you couldn’t catch, we female names made masculine. My mom dismissed this list.

Poor grandma though. When she attempted to give suggestions, my mother cut her off, something that rarely happens, simply said the middle name was going to be Hopper. My parents weren’t married yet, and apparently mother was still unsure. Father then said my middle name would follow his and my older brother’s and be Anthony.

AH… kinda relaxing.

It was somewhere, it was a start. And so my birth certificate was left with no first name. I can’t tell you how that made me feel because, obviously I didn’t even know I was alive.

                         

    

I don’t know how long someone can go without a name. But, I having been living for four years, I was living without a first name still. My parents could not come to any conclusions.

“Eddie”

“No, how about Mark?”

“Ron”

“Kevin”

“Christopher”

“No… how about Tony?”

“Really? Tony? His middle name is already Anthony.”

As you can see, picking a name came with much frustration. Not just for my parents, but for me as well. I just find it strange that, two other kids came into the family by then time, and, they had names no problem. It was no longer relaxing. Most times, it was, “get your brother,” because they couldn’t decide if I’d go by Anthony or Hopper that day. To go by the middle or, to go by the last.

It was the last year in high school when we realized it. I was looking at my friend’s paper, at his heading. AHA! Hahahaha, it made me laugh, and the pun is intended. His initials spelled AHA, A H A. We’ve been friends for four years, and, it wasn’t until we were ready to go our separate ways that we realized our little connection.

Some of our other friends had no choice but to notice our realization as well.

“Wow, that’s so cool,” or, “What the hell? That’s weird,” were basically what they said. It wasn’t something you saw every day, but then at the same time, it wasn’t Ripley’s material either.

For the next few weeks, it was a recurring joke. Every time we laughed, we had no choice but to think about it because we were only saying our combined initials over and over again.

         

Now, you know a little of what I went through, with my name. Not everything was included, like, how many times people would ask me how to spell my name.

“What’s your name again? Oh, ok. With an ‘I’ right? No? Oh… I’m sorry, how do you spell it?”

Or, the most important part. The day my name was figured out. Father was watching an old basketball game and it came to him.

“And Olajuwon scores again. He’s unstoppable,” the announcer’s voice yelled despite having a mic.

I was named after Father’s favorite player. So maybe, maybe you’ll have a story similar to mines little sister. We had similar births, but I hope there’s less frustration and indecisiveness.

                                                                                                Good luck she-who-must-named,

                                                                                                            Hakeem

 

ICM

Like how teachers tell the students who don’t do well in class, anyone can be creative. I went over this in an earlier post, but, the idea has struck again whilst I read “Creators: Multiple Intelligences” by Howard Gardner, a man who seems to love citing himself. But, besides his name being inked everywhere, he brings up multiple points using seven different people and their several different professions. Any profession, can have creativity applied; the McDonald’s drive thru employee, the firefighter, the librarian, the cyclist, the people who collect the garbage on Springfield’s State St. The reason is, that would be their “domain” as Gardner put it. They work within a certain set of confines, or with a certain set. Take the drive thru employee. They have the ability to identify themselves to the customer (this example would be through the headset, taking the customer’s order) in almost any way they want. It can be fast, slow, include a wonder about that person’s day, a joke. And what happens is, the “field” is the person’s judge. The “field” decides the creativity, seemingly based on pathos and the juxtaposition of whatever is most similar. The judge, in the example, can be the customer, another employee at McDonald’s, or even one of the managers. Really, creativity is defined by the audience.

One thing that impacted me, like I paused Mr. West for it, was that creativity can be determined by an IQ test, even though creativity tests exist. Creativity tests, in the perspective of Gardner, only seem to identify a list of different things that can be done with a brick (in a quick interlude… I believe that’s only one form of creativity. It’s more than what a brick can be used for, but also, how you could use the brick. When would decide to use the brick? In its early creation, or when it’s been aged to crumbles?). I actually, have never done an IQ test and it inspired me to do one. However, I’m not doing one right now. If someone wants to comment a link to an IQ test, I’ll get to eventually and readdress my position on whether or not IQ tests can measure, or seems to measure, one’ creativity. 

But, the last thing I want to touch up on were the several comments that explained that many people weren’t viewed as creative until they died or stopped putting out their work. It instilled some fear into me, me being an upcoming writer. I don’t know how I’d feel if my dreams were only remembered, after I could no longer dream. If I’m going to be acknowledged, I’d like to be around when it happens, and then build off the hype or criticism I receive. Part of creativity is revising one’s work. It seems like a nightmare. To not be around for it… I have nothing else to say

Baby Names & Divorce

I recently read a short story that initially spelled itself out to be about the epidemic of babies and divorce. It was “Covered Bridges” by Barbara Kingsolver. What it really was though, was an easy-going way of describing a way married couples discuss making a family. For those that haven’t read it, I promise to try and not spoil anything.

family, for example, everyone has a skin tone of a caramel frappe from McDonalds, or darker. Except me. I, alone, happened to be presented with genes from a great-great Irish woman. Born with skin bright as a half-moon, hair that mirrors a Cavaliers jersey, and many freckles, I was a spectacle that wasn’t expected. But, I did say “up until recently” because, there’s this new hot topic in the science world, “Designer Babies.” The name might be more colloquial than I remember, but the idea is what you expect. Babies that can be designed by doctors, for a high price of course. You can make your baby have green eyes, even if no such gene existed in the family (I will try to find my old notes on this topic to provide the academic references). But, there is a movie, Gattaca, which shares a similar experience to designing babies. The whole idea of designing a baby was really to reduce its risk of health concerns. Like, for health risks that are passed down vertically, doctors could make sure that the baby born did not have that gene, or, it would simply be a carrier. Creatively recreating procreation.

But, in that story, two abilities of married couples – create a baby, destroy the marriage. Up until recently, creating a baby was chance. There wasn’t a sure shot of what you’d get. My

At the same time, divorce could act as the opposite of creation: destruction. A traditional family is made up of parents and children. A divorce will destroy the traditional family, but, potentially actualy create, the single-parent family. I guess, from destruction a new creation will come about; a phoenix and recycling are two examples.

But, there was also this other story, “The Woman Who Lost Her Names” by Nessa Rapoport. Names were created to identify. They have to do with identity. Back in the day, ok, back in high school, I remember we read The Great Gatsby, a novel that spawned several film adaptations where each one did not live up to the themes presented in the book, where the idea of identity is ubiquitous. The title character changes his name, his persona, becoming almost a completely different person. In the short story, opposed to Gatsby changing his name, Sarah’s name was consistently changed for her. It’s almost like she was not in control of who she was supposed to be. The people who called her different names, always had a good excuse to do so, except when her parents called her “Sarele.” Either it was easier, or she couldn’t have the same name as someone else, or she needed to be a living memoir. She would lose them as the title suggests – but the title really comes from her cousin’s quick anecdote about losing his name to fame. In some cases, a name given to her was recreated; Sarele, Josephine. It’s like they were playing around with her life and different names, with really not much care or consideration to how she would feel about it.

Me being an upcoming writer, I already have a few personas I’ve written under, and they have different names. If you follow me on Twitter, you already know two of those names. But, to make sense of all this. What I should have weaved in more explicitly, is that, we create who we are. We, as humans, have that ability to draw our appearances, determine our insides, and write our labels that we wish to be called. Figuratively, and literally.