Dear

Jacob Emmanuel - April 11, 2009 - I have to make the train so we walk out together and she leaves the weird amp equipment in the closet this time. The rain has stopped and we kiss goodbye by the train. My parents ask me how my rehearsal was later. I say it was excellent. I mean really. It was the best rehearsal I could have had. They stare oddly at each other and go back to talking with my brother, who is on April break. I walk upstairs to my room and lie on my bed, mulling everything over.

You’ve called me “dear” five times and each time it’s had a profound affect on me, which is why I remember the situation surrounding every time. The first time was when we were dating – shows you don’t use the term regularly. I was giving off my first signs of paranoia concerning your friendships with other girls. “Am I not allowed to have other friends who are girls?” you asked. “I was joking,” I lied. You replied honestly, “As am I, dear.”

The next time was rather uneventful-seeming. We were making plans to meet up in the city, but we needed to sneak, as usual, around your parents. The chat appeared on my previously blank screen. “Hi dear.” It may have meant nothing to you, but that one little word meant the world to me. Throughout the months following our break-up, I forgot its impact. But that one day in December reminded me.

It was nearly 12 in the morning and I’d invited you to the city to eat with a group of our mutual friends the next evening. I asked you why you were up so late past your usual bedtime and you said you’d been chilling. I tried to ignore the climbing feeling of unease in my stomach and relaxed when the crowd seemed to have been predominantly male. However, not the same guys I’d become acquainted with during our period of dating. “I didn’t know you switched friend groups so quickly.” “Wrong assumption dear.”

For the majority of January, I thought I’d never speak to you again. I thought you were making the world a worse place. When I snapped back, I was just as surprised as you were, even more so. One Saturday night I chatted you, wondering what you’d thought of the rehearsal I’d dropped into because I was “bored.” We ended up talking about your typical “stoned” behavior at Juilliard. Finally, you admitted that you felt restricted. “I wish you didn’t,” I replied but in all honesty I was just happy you’d opened up. I shivered at your reply. “I can’t help it dear.”

I turned to Aidan soon after that, performing my almost polished stunt of shutting you out. If you knew how easily you can bring me back, with one little word even, maybe you’d lose respect for me. Or maybe you’d realize the truth, which is that I’d never gone. But I’m keeping it hidden, even labeling you as my “gay friend” if necessary.

The fifth time transformed Sadie’s Facebook status into a ground for subconscious confession. I quoted a silly yet apt mantra of yours, but apparently mixed up some phrasing. “But alas dear, I’m afraid you have misquoted.” You corrected me with your subtle insertion of the magic word. I make it a habit of running from its heavy impact or extending it too far for either of us to reach. Maybe this time, with some luck, it’ll be just right.

Bits and Pieces Pt. 1

I go to music school every Saturday at Juilliard. I’m a composer in the Pre-College Division, which is in part, as many people call it, a moneymaker for the college. But I see it primarily as a venue for talented young musicians to hone their skills and have ample opportunity to express them. I am halfway through my fifth and final year and I can tell you it’s been quite the ride.

My involvement in the composition, cello and vocal departments adds up to a lot of welcome yet strenuous work. When placed side by side with the drama caused by my various romantic endeavors in the composition department and the presence of my dynamic and intense core group of friends, each Saturday demands a heavy load of physical and mental stamina. But for the three years preceding senior year, my weekly 12-hour, grueling, Juilliard days provided the light I needed to get through the monotonous tunnel of high school life, especially when guy were involved.

Before Aidan, I’d only ever been truly interested in composers. It started with Connor at camp. His mathematical approach to composing often made me wonder about the role of emotion in his music, but we all knew it was there. The sequences allowed him to maintain the order in his life which he values above all else. Emotion, by route, was second. But it was there.

Edward came next, also a student at our composition camp but a Juilliard composer as well. His music was tonal but effectively so. It unleashed the emotion that Edward could not express through simple conversations. I listened intently in the audience and that’s how I knew.

Jacob was atonal. And I knew that from the first day of Juilliard our junior year. He was the new kid in the room who found out quickly that he was an anomaly. We think of him as a craftsman whose goal in writing music is not to express but rather to create what sounds good. If I had realized how this philosophy applies to the bulk of his persona, I would have foreseen the outcome of our tumultuous relationship. Thankfully, for the sake of my growth, I did not.

Aidan is an anomaly. He told me recently that the extent of his compositional experience lies in the songs he formulates in the shower. “My siblings make fun of me,” he chuckled. The conversation was harmless at that point. The science notebooks were still open and he hadn’t yet begun his hour long dating-centered monologue, sprinkled with occasional, befuddled interventions by me. Unlike at Juilliard, the school hallway was quiet. We were a mere few feet from the school band room, but there were no sounds of musicians practicing in the background to add a supporting countermelody, like there had been for the starts of my other relationships. This time, I was faced with the silence and the challenge of filling it and for a natural filler of silence, this task proved less easy than it would seem.