My first year of college gone like those half-asleep dreams we try in vain to grasp, vanquished like the Umayyad army at the Battle of Tours, evanescent like the droplet of water the child watches race down a rain-soaked window. And now, sitting here in my pajamas in the comfort of my own home, eating and sleeping too well to be living any semblance of a self-actualizing life, I wonder what I've learned from it all.
Well there's the obvious. I've learned a lot about music, but I will not subject you all to hair-raising accounts of my close encounters with contiguous dominants, or my death-defying victory over Karnatik Solkattu, or my harrowing escape from odd-meter conducting. Perhaps someday I will document these on a recording to help insomniacs fall asleep, but for now, dear reader, I would rather you stay awake.
I guess I've learned a bit about living independently. That's pretty cool, I guess. I can go wherever I want, stay up late, abuse this crown jewel of consumer culture known as the credit card, not go to the hospital when I get sick, etc. In short, I've learned how to live in order to not live (for very long, anyhow).
I've learned how to meet people, or at least I've gotten better at it. I can introduce myself without stuttering and actually think of things to talk about with someone who I've just encountered for the first time. I no longer have qualms about going out of my way to meet someone. In fact, I have come to love meeting new people, and try to do so everyday. Again, a major accomplishment: I've learned to do what some people have been able to do since the day they could talk.
One legitimate thing I have learned, however, is that I am in the right place. This was not always an easy concept to grasp. I am a jazz musician attending the Berklee College of Music. "Jazz musician" is often synonymous with "dirt poor" and "drug rehabilitation" and "living in a cardboard box." "Berklee College of Music" is often synonymous with "dropping out," "the alma mater of all the homeless people in the Back Bay" (not really, though), and "John Mayer." (Just kidding, I'm down with John Mayer). Of course, these are exaggerations, but the pathway to success in music is certainly steep and bear-infested.
However, being at Berklee this year has made me realize that music is the one and only thing I would ever want to pursue. With all the the constant interaction with fellow musicians, the nonstop discussion and learning of music, and the constant playing of music I never grew tired. Instead, I realized how essential music was to my very existence and how I couldn't even picture myself doing anything else. I'm no expert, but I'm guessing if two people can spend hours a day together and focus their lives around each other and, rather than grow bored, fall more deeply in love, then they should probably get married. Well, I am proud to announce my engagement to the music profession. Every profession chucks its own derisive mockeries at those struggling to win them over. Why let obstacles deter me from pursuing my Elizabeth Bennett?
There is an old Hoagy Carmichael tune in which a lonely narrator asks a skylark if, in its travels, it has seen where his heart should reside. The narrator expresses his desire for the bird to lead him there, to wherever or whomever it may be. Thank you, freshman year at Berklee College of Music, for being my skylark.
