I go from one warm-up exercise to another. My lips aren't particularly happy that I'm stressing them out on a Sunday evening. I wonder why I'm here sitting on the steps with my back towards the empty classrooms, instrument in hand. Three clear holders, a tuner and a stained yellow polish cloth are my only company. The sounds I make echoes through the deserted corridors as if searching for another's sound, yearning to blend with someone else's music instead of slowly dissipating into the lifeless atmosphere that surrounds me.
Crimson petals are scattered all over the ground, adding colour to the dull soil and twisted roots that juts out from the ground. Patches of grass make that stretch of dirt road seem more lively. The Erythrina are staying still today; not a breeze is blowing, not a petal is dancing. Even so, beneath those coral trees lies the bold petals of those who have fallen long ago. Bright red even though they're slowly withering away, it's no wonder the Balinese regard the plant as a symbol of life-energy.
Ants are making their way across the drain.
I look at the sight before me, the Erythrina petals that lie still on the ground reminds me of the crime of passion. I sigh. A knife that stabs the middle of her beating heart, a fading smile on her artificially painted lips and a teardrop in the corner of her eye, with her last breath, she mouths the words "I love you" to the liar who takes her life. The fallen petals, shades of a foolish woman who loved with all her heart.
Sitting here for almost an hour now, my natural cushions are already numb. I look up at the clear sky through the narrow space between the blocks of buildings, thinking about tomorrow. On a Monday morning, sleepy students that yawn and shuffle across the hallways wouldn't even begin to notice the beauty of the flowers, let alone admire them or imagine a story-- it's a sad reality. Imagination takes us everywhere. It's a pity that not many people choose to acknowledge the rainbow resting above their heads.
Folk Song Suite no.1, Seventeen Come Sunday.
A year and a half ago, I couldn't play the third trombone's bass solo because I found the range to be too low and my air capacity was very limited. A year and a half from then-- which is now-- I find myself blasting it without my head spinning and my vision blurring. I've improved, even though I don't acknowledge it on a daily basis... Improvement? Hah! I still think I'm a horrible trombonist.
...
...
...
Mum's car drove through the gates of Lot 16, KDSK. Our silver metallic Vios comes to a stop on our front porch, the engine is put to rest. After the fifteen minute drive home, I finally realized... I left my Yamaha resting magnificently on the trombone stand at school... WELL, FUCK!
At the end of the day, I'm still a horrible section leader.
As for my bass trombone, I phoned trumpet's section leader to help me keep it back into the trombone cupboard that seems to be falling apart. I can't wait to clean my mouthpiece tomorrow! Si Kai probably didn't bother washing it for meh =|
The senior trombonists of 2013 are so forgetful! Band leader takes the win for forgetfulness though. Can't find his wallet when he leaves it in a place he always leaves it, doesn't remember giving people the keys of his motorcycle, reminds me to tell him what to say to the band after practice but we both end up forgetting it anyway...
Roses are red,
There's no dinner.
A horror movie is loading,
Chips and yogurt for dinner!
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