Kokopelli, Part 3

Hello all, it's almost the weekend!

I attended the last of my flute-making classes with a measure of optimism and concern since, I seemed to have fallen at the back of the pack in trying to get my flute to slice air into music in the last class. But it was a beautiful evening to get the details right.

The other students hard at work on their flutes outside of Majestic View's Nature Center.

I set to work with a wood chisel carving out a longer neck piece so air exiting the sound hole didn't push up right against a mountain of flute body. The extra space dug out an extra three inches or so. It was starting to look more professional--or as professional a first-time novice can get their crooked reed to look.

Peter, our resident wood worker, sands down the foot end of his flute. He brought a beautiful carved bird to class!

Then I went right back to the same issue I had had last week, which was my bird resting over the uneven flue. I was at that a good half hour until our instructor, Grover, came over to check on my progress.

He borrowed my flute and bird from me, gave the piece an experimental blow, readjusted, tried again, and made a couple recommendations:

First, I file the fipple, or knife's edge, to a better angle of attack with the flue. I had originally filed the knife's edge to a 45 degree angle, or close to that, but I ended with a 60 degree angle or so to better cut the air forced out of the flue.

Grover filing the fipple of my flute to line up with the flue.

Second, I cut the length of my bird down so there was less uneven area to rest on. He marked a few lines on the bird so its block would be maybe two inches long instead of three. I agreed with this assessment since the bird was causing me a lot of grief. Or I was causing myself grief because I can't wood chisel/sand straight to save my life.

Third, and this came later, was to add a spacer to close the distance between the air exiting the flue and entering the sound hole. A centimeter is a huge space to cross for that tiny jet of air and it needed a little help getting closer to that knife's edge before dissipating.

I did everything I was told to do.

I filed the knife's edge to a stronger, sharper angle, sawed around my bird's "feet" to make it better fit over the Slow Air Chamber, flue and sound hole, and sanded, sanded, sanded the heck out of a little spacer--height, length and thick-wise. That bit of sandpaper never stood a chance.

Sanding that spacer to the correct proportions was time-consuming, but that little nub of wood rewarded me for my efforts!

Meanwhile, other students were warming up orchestra style all around me. Me too, me too, just wait! I did let my neighbor borrow my phone because she wanted a specific pentatonic scale and I have an app with a piano keyboard. She found her base note (the sound the flute played without holes drilled into it) was an F.

Physics takes over at this point. The length of the flute, the thickness of the walls, the spacing and size of the holes, all has an effect on how a flute will sound. Just like a bass, the longer the flute, the deeper the tone. If the sound chamber is narrow, say because of thick walls because the carver was getting a blister, the pitch is going to be high.

A flute-maker may start with a certain base note, but as soon as holes are drilled into the flute, it changes the shape and therefore nature of the sound wave traveling through the sound chamber. A flute that started flat can end up sharp once all is said and done.

There was a lot of science going on as folks tuned their flutes. Our wood-carving expert Peter was strides head of the rest of us, he managed to get his flute to tune and play up a veritable octave of music. I was still struggling with my bird.

Sawing the bird was particularly challenging because as you can see, it's not a very big block of wood--there's only so much to grip while saw teeth bear down on your hand. And the side I sawed down on seemed to go with the grain, it was very difficult to make headway. It felt good to watch those pieces go flying.

My lumpy bird cut down to size and the sanded spacer set into the sound hole of the flute.

Prepped, I popped in the spacer, lined up that bird, took a steadying breath and...

SHE SINGS! 

Having secured my phone once more, I got a D5 out of the flute. A super high D because my sound chamber was so narrow inside. But for the moment I didn't care, I had music! Sweet, ear-screeching music! 

I was nervous about drilling the holes because a couple other students had and their flutes no longer made sound--something had gone wrong with the resonance in the sound chamber. One student even went so far as to use a machete to split her flute open again and carve out the interior.

Having spent the majority of class time making modifications, and watching a storm cloud roll in with these lightning bolts that kept getting larger and larger, I thanked my instructor for the class and took off at a jog with my equipment.

Safely at home just before the sky ripped open, I set right back to work with a power drill to carve out a wider sound chamber, consulted the almighty Internet for tuning recommendations and drilled some holes. So far, I've gotten the flute to play the first and second holes closest to the foot end. I'll have to science the rest.

But still, what a fun class. I would go so far as to say the experience was not about the flute itself, though it did serve to tie the whole package together. I got to learn a few more skills, a bit more about air and its properties, problem-solving and the importance of patience and perseverance--all things that will ultimately reward you with a tune in your pocket. 

The completed project, a flute in the style of Native American musical instruments.

Kokopelli, Part 2

Hello all, it's Wednesday!

On to the second session of the three classes for our Native American-style flutes, this one was much more about finer details and less about blister-inducing carving. Though there was still carving involved. (Read about the first session here!)

This is where we left off from last week.

Picking up where we left off last time, we retrieved our flute bodies, which had been glued, clamped, and set to dry, and listened to a little lesson describing the flute chambers and pieces all working together to produce sound.

The player blows into the mouthpiece (the end with the slow air chamber which regulates wind pressure and pushes air up against the block), the air moves over the plug through a narrow section called a flue, where the air hits a "knife," or splitting edge, which divides the air over the sound hole and into the sound chamber.

The science of the flute from Flutopedia.

Flutopedia has a couple neat gifs that illustrate airstreams moving through a fipple flute.

Let's just say there's a lot of places that airflow can go wrong.

Our lesson on flute airstream dynamics.

The first step today was taking a chisel and flattening the head end of the flute where the "bird," or block, would sit. We had to carve a little past the internal wall, or plug, which was a good 7" or so. I found this woodworking a lot easier to do than the carving we did last week. I have, however, discovered some inconsistencies through the wood--the head end seemed to be much reedier, almost stringy. There was more sanding involved.

After carving the head end, we had to move up our block lines, which indicated where inside our flutes our plugs were, and mark the flattened piece.

The head end of my flute is carved flat and I've transferred the lines detailing where my plug is inside the flute.

Next we took a chisel that was roughly a centimeter wide, center it to the plug box, and draw lines along each side to mark where we would drill to create openings to the slow air chamber and sound chamber. We used a 3/16" bit. I didn't have to drill very deep, I guess I flattened my head end a little too much.

The holes I drilled around the plug of my flute, these will become the slow air chamber exit hole and sound hole.

Then we had to gouge out the flue with the chisel, which was why we measured with the chisel width (it fit perfectly by the way) to a depth of about 1/16". I would say mine's a tiny bit deeper than that. Then I took that same chisel and punched out the wood between the drill holes and began to refine their edges.

We had a number of filing instruments. I set to work cleaning the rough edges and shaping the slow air chamber to a 45 degree slope up into the flue and the sound hole to a 45 degree slope down into the sound chamber. The latter took particular finessing because that leading edge has to be sharp enough to cut the air forced into it.

One student holds the flute steady while the other drills holes around her plug.

I got the holes prepped and opted to cut out my "bird" from a block of wood while the table was free. I grabbed a saw and cut off a three inch piece that would serve as my block. One student planned to do a frog, another is planning to do a buffalo. I'm planning on sticking with a bird if I can carve out some decent wings.

Tonight was actually our first opportunity to have our flutes make sound. The holes were there, the block was there, but as I said earlier, there are a lot of places that airflow can go awry. A poor seal seems to be the repeat offender though.

Our instructor and the guy who does woodworking both got their flutes to produce sound.

I and the other student who attended today did not.

On my first attempt I was told my splitting edge was too thick and I went to work sharpening that sound hole edge. Further attempts I blame on the bird.

I spent the second half of the class trying to sand down the head piece to be flat so that block would be flush up against the flute body. But every time I held up my bird against my flute, I could see light peeking through some crack. Some minuscule hole for the air to escape. I think I got close, but we were already a half-hour past the end of class, so I'll have to try again next week.

I believe the last class will be refining that flat edge, drilling the sound chamber holes and carving my block into a pretty bird. Wish me luck.

Our flutes at the end of the second session. Mine is to the far left with the bird "block" on its end.

 Happy weekend!

Mud and Blood Obstacle Race

A golden painted nail was our trophy for completing the 5k Hard As Nails Obstacle Mud Race.

Hello all, it's the weekend!

I stumbled across another event in the newspaper pitching an obstacle mud race. The Hard As Nails Obstacle Mud Race is a 5k race loaded with at least 15 obstacles (we had 17) using the unique park terrain near the Westin hotel in Westminster. The event supports the Westminster Legacy Foundation and Growing Home nonprofits. This was their second annual race.

I mulled it over awhile. I used to run track in middle school, granted, those were the 400 meter relay and 100/300 meter hurdles. All sprints that let me go all out for short distances, to which I often outpaced the competition. I could walk into eternity, but I paled at any distances I had to run for more than a mile and a half.

With these thoughts in mind I also weighed my shoes (on their last threads) and the unpredictable weather against buying tickets to run this race. The polar bear shirt in my armoire reminded me of the frigid plunge I'd done on the first of the year and my new approach to these sorts of events.

DO IT!

The only taker I could secure, much like that Boulder Polar Plunge, was my sister. She had flown in on a redeye the morning prior and was amped to tackle this beast despite her exhaustion. And she was feeling it this morning.

We arrived at the Westin hotel in Westminster a little after 8:30 a.m., signed up for the 10:15 wave because the 10 was full, got our race-day swag and gear checked in, then we walked around the Promenade to kill time--examining some of the obstacles as we went.

I mentioned the Westin's fountain was part of the race and my sister gave me an ugly look. She didn't mind getting muddy but she had no intention of getting soaked. I didn't relish jumping into cold water as a first obstacle, but I would if I had to. Thank goodness it was getting warmer out.

The Westin hotel fountain was the second obstacle on the Hard As Nails Obstacle Mud Race.

We headed back and waited for our wave after watching a few previous heats take off. I was concerned as my sister slumped in my lap on the curb, jet-lagged and tired. We had a long run ahead of us.

The starting line of the race in the Westin parking lot.

Obstacle 1: Bane of my Existence (Westin stairs)

I was not excited to start with stairs. I hate stairs. We lined up when we were called, chanted the "Hard As Nails" vamp, and took off after the countdown. My sleepy sibling took the lead on the first obstacle, 14 flights of stairs up the hotel, but she did wait for me at the top. I give her that one. I'm pleased to report I'm not the only one who was wheezing by the sixth floor. We walked across the top floor on plastic wrap and headed right back down again to egress almost immediately to the second obstacle.

Obstacle 2: Westin Fountain

My sister and I skirted the large team dressed in yellow and jogged to the fountain edge where a volunteer handed us our inner tubes. Darcie flipped immediately on entry while I paddled as best I could on the awkward flotation device. The water was frigid and my shoes immediately swamped. Wiping my eyes as I rounded the drumming fountain, I worked my way back to the steps and returned the tube, waiting for my soaking sibling. We both felt drained after this one. The. Second. Obstacle.

Obstacle 3: Mud Mixer 

This two-foot-high mud pit with netting strung atop the walls forced us to our bellies. Two runner number signs were caught on the netting and I laughed at that. Until we got down in the muck. Darcie scuttled well ahead of me in the first half as I ground to a very slow crawl. The grit and clots dug into my knees and I struggled to make decent headway. We surfaced with our fronts completely covered. Which turned out to be fine because the next obstacle...

Obstacle 4: Dumpster Dive

I thought these dumpsters would be filled with cardboard boxes. They weren't. The rickety wooden steps lifted us to reveal dumpsters filled with, you guessed it, more frigid water. Plunging in, Darcie and I raced each other to the ladder at the end of the first dumpster, leapt into the second, and front-crawl frenzied to the end. Darcie beat me here. We surfaced from this one washed clean, sopping and freezing our buns. My shoes once again swamped so badly, each step bled water from the aerating holes.

Obstacle 5: Rock Garden

Next up was at least a quarter-mile stretch of river rock in a ditch, littered with weeds that cut up my legs. This is where the blood of the 'mud and blood' race came in. I picked my way as carefully as I could, loosing my footing a couple times but not twisting anything, but I did emerge with cut and bloodied shins.

Obstacle 6: Surprise!

This under-bridge crossing was supposed to be a rope shimmy, which turned into a hold-the-rope-while-walking-the-frigid-stream crossing for me. My sister went gusto and hauled herself across the rope Mission Impossible style. She had rope burns on her calves after that. We immediately went up to cross back over the bridge we had just sloshed under.

Obstacle 7: River Cutter

Back into the frigid deep (seriously, the water was cold! EVERY TIME!), we wound our way through two river crossings in water that rose up to our thighs. The current was pretty strong in some places and the water so dirty I couldn't see the rocks I kept kicking. We opted to hold hands to keep the other from going headfirst into the water. Up and down banks we went until we dipped into the eighth obstacle...

Obstacle 8: Breaker Mound

A vertical wall reared up on the far side of the stream with knotted, muddied climbing ropes bolted to the top to help us surmount this beast. I attempted the moderate slope and, because of my treadless shoes, I could not gain the purchase to haul myself upward. (Meanwhile, Darcie yanked herself up the hardest section to the cheers of the staff.) I meekly made my way to the easiest slope with the added humiliation of sinking into river mud up to my knee. Another runner was kind enough to help me out and I scrambled up the easy section with no hangups.

Obstacle 9: Rubber Ladder

That standard football training lineup of rubber tires waited here, with an extra level of difficulty in squeezing through a raised hoop before another stretch of tires. Darcie took the lead, then I did after the hoop, then Darcie went flying by as she skipped a tire every step. How that girl didn't break her ankles is beyond me. I felt pretty tired after this obstacle.

Obstacle 10: Sand bagging

This next obstacle was probably the most obstacle race of them all: We had to fill these nylon bags with sand, run to a designated point up a hill (maybe 50 feet away) then come back and dump the bag. There were shovels and trowels to do the work. Darcie took the shovel, I scooped away with the trowel. Once again, my sister left me in the dust, sand, and hauled her bag to the point, beating me back to the sand pile. This was the tired girl from earlier? We had another tiny creek crossing before the next one.

Obstacle 11: Scaffold Climb

We stopped at a water station and each threw back a cup of water before pressing on. I assumed we were roughly halfway through.

Finally, I got one back in my court. After dumping the silt out of our shoes, we lined up to race to the top. These stairs are part of the rec center park. I'm not sure how many steps there are, but I went charging up them two at a time and I nabbed this 'event' from my conquering sibling. Pretty straightforward here.

Obstacle 12: Demolition Pit

A skateboarding bowl, we were tasked to slide into the concrete depression and run back up out of it. There were different levels of difficulty. Darcie took off her shoes and ran up the double diamond while I took the intermediate wall. My first attempt, my arms failed me and I slid right back down to the base on my belly, leaving a wet mark. The second I succeeded, shocked to see Darcie already waiting for me. I demanded she run it again because I did not bear witness and therefore did not believe her. She ran it again and got it her first try. Showoff.

The Shivering Slide obstacle awaits us in the distance at the rec center of the Westminster park.

Obstacle 13: Shivering Slide

By far my favorite, this some 200-foot slide was touted as the longest water slide in Colorado. We both decided to scream down the slide together on our bellies. We took a running start and did indeed go screaming down the bumpy plastic ride. I recall trying to slow myself down, to no avail, slipping along a seam, and getting water in my eyes. I was airborne at one point. And at the bottom I ended up on my back somehow. Darcie was in worse shape having not lifted her head for some of the nastier bumps. I scolded her for doing the same thing when we jumped off the rock at Waimea Bay--a 30 foot drop you have got to land feet first. Did I have to coach her through everything? She laughed.
Walking around the park was bitterly cold after getting drenched again on the slide. The wind didn't help things either.

Obstacle 14: Power Drill

It was about this point I was asking if we were done yet when these six wooden hurdles reared up in our path. We had to climb over three wooden walls that were taller than I was, and duck under three in alternating order. I gave Darcie a leg up for the first one and managed to haul myself over like a beached whale. We both rolled under the second. Darcie gave me a leg up for the third and climbed over herself. Ducked the fourth. I helped Darcie up again on the fifth and then could not get over myself as my arms failed me. Again. Darcie climbed back over, helped me up, then laboriously scrambled up using the braces herself. We dragged ourselves under the sixth.

Obstacle 15: Clampdown

Probably my least favorite, this was similar to the Rubber Ladder, except we had to scurry through plastic barrels with rough edges, climb through another hoop, and scurry through another line of barrels. The going was tough. My scraped and bloodied shins forced me to my belly and I had to keep rolling my hips, my knees, my feet to get past the lips of the linked barrels. The hoop was also difficult because it was so high off the ground, but I managed to go in feet first, rotate from butt to belly and slide out the other side. Then I hauled myself groaning through the next six linked barrels. It was hard and I was tired. People raced through these?

Obstacle 16: Wrenching River Crawl

I love water. Water is my element. But this was a particularly grueling stretch--at least a quarter mile through the creek in freezing water that went up to my waist. We fought a mean current, tripped on rocks, stumbled over a dam, and were forced to duck another low-netted area for another belly crawl. Snowmelt rivers pack a punch. Darcie screamed when she stepped into deep water. It was cold. Our feet were numb. Are we done yet?

Obstacle 17: Hammer it Home

A second steep wall with climbing ropes reared before us. And the immediate mud churned up before the incline was suction city. I knew this. Yet I managed to almost lose my shoe to the quickmud. Both legs covered to the knee, I studied the section of wall I'd chosen to climb, presented again with the impossibility of securing sweet purchase with no sturdy foothold on my way. Darcie too was struggling. Even another runner who caught up with us lost his grip and made a tailbone-grinding fall directly into the quickmud. We were stuck. Stuck so close to the end!

I spotted another runner lady who had joined us at the wall from the river crawl and I watched her struggle a moment before I told Darcie to assist in helping her up. I used the ropes to meet them both, so I didn't plummet like that other guy, and we both got under this woman so she could use a thigh as a boost. She got up. She thanked us. Then she turned and offered a hand to Darcie. I took Darcie's spot and let her use my thigh to step up. Darcie scrambled out. Then I grabbed the lady's hand and my sister's and they both pulled me up and out of that mire. The teamwork felt great and really stuck a pin in the entire event itself, nevermind "Hammering it Home."

We wound up the path for the last stretch of the race where we crossed the finish line and were awarded gold-painted nails for completing the course. A nice guy at gear check took our picture while we were still filthy and we went to the hose line to rinse.

We were out there a solid hour and a half, if not more, but it was a lot of fun! Challenging, downright cruel in places, but overwhelmingly fun in others. It was a great way to spend a Sunday morning.

Would I do it again? Absolutely. With new(er) shoes and sun tan lotion.

To the victor...

  
Happy weekend!

Kokopelli, Part 1

Hello all, long time no write. But with summer around the corner, I finally have time to do more extra curricular activities again.

Now I have the distinct advantage of working for a newspaper, I trawled through a local section (before it went to print) and stumbled across a class for making wooden flutes. Having taken a class making candles from various materials like wax, animal fat, oil, from the same instructors, I knew I would come away with new knowledge, a couple more skills and a neat trinket I made myself. Sold.

I snapped a quick picture off of the then-unprinted information detailing the time and place of the wooden flute class.

The wooden flute making class, pattered in Native American style, is a three-part class hosted by the Sarqit Outdoor Living School. These folks do all sorts of neat survival classes, including tanning hides, blacksmithing, a ton of crafts and general wilderness survival skills. I can attest our instructors are an interesting pair.

For the first day of class, we learned our flutes would be made from sotol, a member of the yucca family, which was harvested in Arizona. I imagined we would have had something much smaller to work with--a flute body that was a foot long or so. These yucca "trunks" were cut into roughly 18"-24" pieces with roughly a 2" diameter.

Our instructor went on to tell us we would clean the pieces, split them down the middle, and hollow out two matching chambers on the interior.

We get lectured on the steps of making a flute for the first class.

We had four students appear today, myself included, and we each chose a piece of sotol to carve.

The raw stalks of sotol that are destined to become flutes.

 Clean and halve

We all watched as our instructor took a machete and raked away all the dried growth on the outside of the stalk. Then he lined up to blade at the top and used a sturdy, heavy stick to set the machete into the head of the wood and continued to pound the opposite end of the blade until the stalk cut cleanly into two. (Master note: It's a good idea to keep the handle lower than the tip of the blade for better control.)

Then it was our turn. I was sitting there thinking, 'We really get to wield a machete?' 

We did.

I'm pleased to report I didn't loose any fingers or suffer any bodily injury while hacking away at my stalk. It was actually a lot of fun. I asked where our instructors got their machetes, to which they responded the pieces were gifts. And most machetes sold in stores are a bit more of the showy variety rather than the functional sort. And a saw-machete was somewhat useless, though having a machete and a saw often go hand in hand so it's a good idea to have both, if separate. Good to know.

Drawing lines

Next we had to mark up what needed to be carved out. Native Americans used a lot of hand measurements like their hand widths and fingers for carving, which was exactly what we did. The compression chamber (the recess a player will blow directly into) was measured to the size of my fist. The block was about an inch in length or roughly my first knuckle. The sound chamber comprised the remaining length of the stalk.

We also had to mark a 1/4" line along the edges of both halves as guidelines for the hollow of the sound chamber, as well as mark the compression chamber and windway.

The beginnings of my wooden flute pictured beside an example piece brought in by our instructors. You can see the narrow windway, the compression chamber, block, and sound chamber outlined in purple.

My stalk was a bit of a challenge because as you can see, it curves. I was very careful tracing my lines, but I still messed up a bit in a few places. But I figured so long as I understood what needed to be cut and what needed to remain, I felt I'd be all right.

It needs a hook

The pictures cut out immediately here because I became so engrossed in what I was doing. Carving out wood turns out to be very labor-intensive work. Our tools were knives and hook knives.

A hook knife, carved knife, crooked knife, bent knife. It cuts wood.

Feeling very much the caveman, it took me a solid half hour before I figured out the trick was to pull the blade toward yourself. The opposite was exhausting and much less effective. But when I finally got it, I was soon sitting in a pile of wood shavings. Not to say it was easy, it wasn't, but I felt I was making a dent in the work. Literally.

We chatted while we carved. I had a few good rejoinders when I was paying attention, but I was chiefly set on widening that darn hollow. It took the majority of the class time and I was last to finish.

Sanding

Having cut the compression and sound chambers for both halves, I joined the other students in sanding down the rough edges of the chambers. We used a 100 grit. My hand was red from the carving and intense heat from friction didn't help it much. Another ten minutes to smooth out the interior and I asked if I was ready yet for gluing. Our teacher told me one of my halves was too thick on the foot end of the flute. I agreed. This was the second half I did and I was struggling to thin that foot-to-head end.

I sat back down and went back to carving with the hook knife (gave my pointer finger a new blister) and sanded it all down again. Because heat and friction really are good for--yeah.

I got approved for the second round. Thank goodness, class time was already over and I was holding my poor instructors from going home.

Gluing

The final step of the night was gluing that narrow 1/4" seam for both halves of the flute. Our instructor was pleased to get to this step because we would have more time to create our birds. (See next post.) I was last to glue, but I stuck the pieces neatly together, wiped off any beads on the outside and we put five clamps on the body to keep everything in place. 

It has a week to set.

To be continued next week.

Happy weekend.

Symphonic Metal: Nightwish

I first got into the Neon Genesis Evangelion manga when I was in the 6th grade, courtesy of a church friend. The art was beautiful to look at and the characters were fascinating. Broken, might be another term I would use, each somehow slighted in their own personal histories that made them imperfect. Each seemed to undergo some psychological reckoning and the most wonderful thing about the series was--some of the characters failed that test. And while I still feel the series stumbled at its finish, it still holds a place in my heart as a well told story.

All right, so what does NGE have to do with Nightwish?

I grew up chiefly on classical music. Mozart, Beethoven, Bach, Chopin, Rachmaninoff, Schubert, Vivaldi, Verdi, etc. These masters were my KISS. My mentors on the piano. My family went for a lot of road trips and I used to stare out the window, listen to an entire CD and imagine an overarching story played out while the scenery rushed past. I love overworlds, huge casts of characters, multiple languages and music served as a may pole for the multitudes to circle and weave. Music formed that spine, set the tone and away I went on those adventures with music as the guiding force.

Forming these worlds took a lot of mental gymnastics. Classical music, with its four or five simultaneous strains running up and down stanzas, offered depth and variability. Something I could not extend to the pop and rock music of the time.

Somewhere in my awkward teenage years and struggle to understand the general inequality associated with my religion, I made the violent swing to black/death metal. Cradle of Filth. Amon Amarth. Therion. (Note the origin of these bands are European.) Their lyrics were rich. Many songs told a story. Melodies were varied, tempos would change--it was the dark side of classical music.

With the advent of the Internet and being rudely opposed to radio and most of the "music" America produces these days, with its unimaginative riffs, forgettable melodies and nonsensical lyrics, I turned to YouTube for my music. Specifically niche markets featuring animes, such as Evangelion, with clips cut to music. Those delightful AMVs.

I stumbled across this one:


It was metal. It was classical. Orchestral and choral elements mingled beautifully with guitar riffs and metal drum lines. I listened in awe as I watched familiar images of Evangelion flash by. I was floored by it. It was as if classical and metal music had some sultry, secretive affair behind my back and produced a love child...in Nightwish.

Nightwish, my first exposure to symphonic metal, set the standard. I found Within Temptation, Epica, Xandria, Woodkid, Sabaton through similar means. Delain was shared with me through a roommate. But Nightwish was first to touch my ears and so they hold that cherished wreath above that pedestal.

Again. These metal bands are not American. I was prepared to never hear them play live on American soil, until tonight.

I bought my ticket in February for this April 21 show and I'm pleased I did because they sold out. And who fronted Nightwish but Delain and Sabaton.

Delain, a Dutch band, I've been listening to a solid six years. One of those years I wouldn't listen to anything else but the April Rain album on the drive to work. Delain performed first, all songs I did not know, but have since purchased. Wherein I will probably revert back to just listening to Delain on my way to work. They were wonderful. Charlotte has a pristine voice underscored by the choral accompaniment. Unfortunately, I can't hit her vocal range--too high for me.

Sabaton, a Swedish band, is relatively new in my arsenal of metal music. They cropped up in one of my YouTube video recommendation feeds and the first song of theirs I enjoyed was Primo Victoria, a powerful ballad of the storming of Normandy in WWII. Sabaton did oblige. They also played Carolus Rex, which happens to be my favorite among their repertoire. I filmed it.

They also performed a song in Swedish which I couldn't hear so well because the mixing favored the guitars over the vocals. Joakim sits at a much more gravelly pitch, which I suppose suits their war theme. He had fun bouncing around the stage, gesturing to the beats, getting the audience involved. He had a sense of humor--and a soft side. He commented about a young girl watching from the balcony, asked if it was her first metal concert and then he tossed her his glasses. The crowd went wild and I thought it was sweet. Symphonic metalheads are a polite bunch, if we're all secretly insane.

Then we stood around a solid 45 minutes waiting for Nightwish to appear. The second they were on stage, I forgot my aching feet and powerful thirst and got swept up in the music that had asked for my hand to the dance floor all those years ago.

Nightwish performs Yours is an Empty Hope at the Ogden Theater in Denver, April 21.

They played a smattering of their sprawling body of work, from the new to the old and back again. I enjoyed the ones I was not yet familiar with and I sang along to the pieces I did know.

Set List:

1. Shudder Before The Beautiful
2. Yours Is an Empty Hope
3. Nemo
4. She Is My Sin
5. Endless Forms Most Beautiful
6. My Walden
7. The Islander
8. Élan
9. Weak Fantasy
10. Storytime
11. Dark Chest of Wonders
12. I Want My Tears Back
13. Stargazers
14. Sleeping Sun
15. The Greatest Show on Earth
16. Ghost Love Score (Encore)
17. Last Ride Of The Day (Encore)

I yanked this set list from Tumblr, but it does seem to follow what Nightwish played--although for the life of me I don't recall Dark Chest of Wonders. I swear they skipped right to I Want My Tears Back. Marco even teased us at the end saying they would skip the whole audience-demanding-an-encore and just go straight to it. Which they did. Ghost Love Score is 10 minutes long. I give them props for playing that particular piece as an encore--though they did disappear briefly for the instrumental toward the last third, haha, I don't fault them for it.

Nightwish guitarist Marco serenades us with The Islander during their performance at the Ogden Theater. I apologize for the blur--headbanging too hard.

I think my only complaint (and it can't be helped) would be the absence of Tarja. Tarja has a vocal range to die for and what I loved most about her was she sang in my register. So in those rare moments I could snatch time alone, I would belt out to Dead Gardens, Romanticide, and yes, Ghost Love Score. Tarja gave Nightwish this epic, gothic feel with her full, sonorous voice. She was sorely missed. 

Floor, the group's third front singer, did a wonderful job. No, she isn't Tarja, but I think the Endless Forms Most Beautiful suits her. I have no squabble with Floor and I applaud her work here tonight. Tuomas, Marco, all of them. There's a reason Nightwish is one of the best damn metal bands out there.

I feel remarkably lucky and humble to be given the chance to hear Nightwish perform live. It was a hell of an experience that I would not trade for anything.

Thank you for coming to Denver, Nightwish. YOU ROCK! \m/   \m/

Happy weekend.

New Year's new adventures

2014 whiplash

So 2014 turned to a somewhat unmanageable place, if the lack of blog posts is any indication. It started off well enough. I had every intention of seizing the year, pursuing a few dreams, making a name for myself. I was ready to reap the efforts of 2013's push for writing projects and education. And I did. Sort of.

It was supposed to be my breakout year, carefully planned and meticulously designed to reach the top tiers of success. And I DID. Except the timing was off by weeks when I had already pulled up stakes from Plan A, Plan B, Plan C. I have no rational excuse. Maybe expenses at the time, but I would have been fine if I had just stood still long enough -- had the faith things would pull through -- had enough faith in myself that I would be accepted by my program of choice, by the Peace Corps, by my would-be mentors and colleagues if I had only expressed my anxieties instead of agonizing over everything internally. And acting too quickly.

There was a two month period where my world sort of turned on its head. All my best laid plans exploded in my face (of my own design, no less) and then several things I could never have dreamed of happening -- did. Alice yanked the rug out from under my feet and I tumbled down this rabbit hole.

Anyway, I hit a rough patch in September, ran myself into the ground, got sick, took several weeks to recover physically and mentally; my confidence had been rocked and I just wanted to hide away from everything. Everyone. Giving your all with zero return is painful and I had little interest in picking up the pieces. Again.

Naturally, the world had other plans. Despite my efforts at self-imposed exile as punishment for failing to attend any of the graduate schools I worked so hard to make forcibly work, the tides turned and I was getting smacked with opportunities left and right the following month. The jobs I applied to called back, multiple housing options cropped up, my mentors handed me a lantern and sword and pointed me down my path. Go. Achieve.

Hope has reservoirs.

The ad

Anyway, I stumbled across a polar plunge advertised in the local newspaper. There was a picture of this cute little polar bear wearing a scarf and swim fins. Above him the text read: 2015 Polar Plunge, 32nd year. Below him the banner read: January 1, 2015. He was cute. And he would serve the argument to conscientious assent of a reset.

Look at him, he's adorably convincing! (Photo is property to BCAP.)

I love water. I love swimming and water activities. I love crashing into the surface and being suspended in fluid space. It's my element. But I'm about as adverse to cold as an ice cube is to Las Vegas asphalt in July. I would scream leaping into the Hawaiian Pacific in winter. Those waters are in the 70 degree range. People who jump into frigid waters deserve everything they have coming to them.

But I caught myself with that ad open every day pouring over the details of the event. New Year's Day, get that cute polar bear on a shirt and certificate, take the plunge. Wouldn't it be wild? Wouldn't that be the craziest way to start off the year? You've never experienced something like this before, add and immediately cross it off your bucket list.

Digging below the novelty, I realized I wanted to dive into freezing waters less for the bragging rights than to wash away the funk of 2014. Go in with the memories, but come out with the knowledge you can overcome anything you put your mind to. Leave the rest and surface fresh.

That's why, on the third day of ad study, I decided to take the plunge.

The Polar Plunge

I invited several friends to join me, but I had no takers. I'll admit I'm not all that surprised, disappointed, but not surprised. And I don't hold it against them either. Sane people have nothing to prove, but more adventurous types will have fodder for stories.

My sister agreed to keep me company -- and keep an eye on my stuff when I stripped and sprinted in. I always get nervous doing something new, because I never know what to expect. Will I find the place? Will parking be insane? Will they run out of shirts? Will we be standing in line in the snow? Would I have time to dress down or was I expected to stand there skin bare to the cold? Las Vegas ice cube.

The welcoming sign. Of doom.

As usual, I worried for nothing. It was a beautiful, sunny day and a balmy 29 degrees. The water would be roughly 20 degrees. Plenty of signs, plenty of space in the lot, plenty of shirts left. No problems. I could have left the event right then with all my spoils, but where was the fun in that? I would not back out of this 'baptism.'

I think my sister and I roughly entered the line around the 250 person mark, the event was estimated to have 400-600 individuals participating. There was a square cutout from the surrounding ice where the waters beckoned and journalists lined the docks with their equipment at the ready. Divers would wait at the flag line to corral plungers and rescue anyone who went into shock. I hope I didn't join those numbers, but I would not be surprised if I did.

I enjoyed a surreal serenity. My toes were cold, but I wasn't nervous in the least. I was so calm that my sister decided to opt in at the last minute. Thankfully I had brought a spare set of clothes and towels just in case she pulled this stunt. I had no doubts of my choice.

Until we got to the tables and I took off everything but the swimsuit.

Standing there in the cold, the snow, staring at the opaque reservoir waters churning, it occurred to me this might not have been my brightest idea ever. But there was a goal. Swim out to the flags some 10 yards out and come back. Done. On the starting line, Santa psyched us up and counted down. We ran in screaming.

Ankles, fine. Knees, fine, it's cold. Hips. Ok, kind of burns. Neck. WHOA. I may have gone into a mild shock. There was a slim disjoint between mind and body enough that I noticed mental commands had a bit of a delay as I front-crawled to the flags. My arms didn't connect with the water when I expected them to. My leg strokes weren't as strong as usual. The water was so cold, my body perceived I was on fire. Thousands of needles stabbed my pores. I actually had trouble catching my breath. It felt like it took forever to get to the flags. I high-fived the safety diver and spun around, still wheezing. At about hip height, I returned to running and lumbered out of the water like a drunken horse. Dizzy. On fire. Completely accomplished. Where the hell was my towel?

The whole affair lasted maybe twenty seconds, thirty tops. Twenty seconds of "AHHHHHHH!" But loping out of the chop to cheers, dripping icicles, red-skinned, I grinned like an idiot through the intense discomfort of unforgiving winter air. It was done.

Aftermath

What a shock. What a rush. What an insane idea. But my sister and I survived, no extremities lost. And I feel, having conquered something I would never have considered doing in my lifetime ever, like I can greet this new year with some ferocity and steadfast determination. This ice cube won't melt away so fast it didn't get to see neon.

The plunge went by turns. Remarkable calm. Doubt. Peaking adrenaline. Shock. Bitter shock. Abating shock. Pathetic stagger. Accomplishment. Trembling numbness. More pathetic staggering. Final haven in the warming tent. And all of this in the span of roughly five minutes. Suffice it to say, after all was said and done I conked out for a bit at home.

During the plunge itself, it was pretty horrible in a physical sense. But it was mentally freeing. Nothing else existed in that moment except myself and the immediate goal. Forget the pain. Overcome the limb lock. Reach the diver. I went in dry and unsuspecting and returned a frigid conqueror. That terrified entering scream became a war cry. That sorry lope out of the lake became a victory lap. And those are feelings I wouldn't trade for anything.

Would I do it again? Probably, though I hope next time it will be just for the spirit of the event and not a physical reconciliation of mental trauma.

And next time I'll make friends take the plunge with me.

New year, new Rochelle.

Happy New Year!

New shenanigans in New York

Do you remember those Wile E Coyote cartoons where every best laid plan to capture that roadrunner just blew up in that unfortunate dog's face? That was my summer.

It just keeps going and going and going. Because torture is funny. I felt very much a caricature tumbling through a black tunnel of unspeakable evil and hilarious sound effects, only to end up on the other side with my clothing shorn, one shoe missing, two black eyes, several missing teeth and dancing squiggly lines over my head with a dazed expression of "What just happened?" on my face.

And yes, every explosive outcome was a ruination of my own design. Tomatoes plucked while they were still green. I learn from the best, Wile E.

But if there's one thing about this desert denizen, it's that he never gave up chasing his bird. So when it came to my string of Acme-level fails on the school front, I treated myself to a cactus dinner in the form of New York City.

Times Square. I was in sensory overload.

Disappointed with my Road Runner chase to New Jersey in hopes of setting up shop for work and school in the farthest run east I've ever done, I decided I'd finally get a taste of New York, New York. This place has been on my bucket list since I experienced Parasite Eve in all its gruesome glory.




Gruesome. Glory.

Fans of this cult classic may notice the particular lean of my New York City tour hits several places highlighted in the game.

William Paterson University did do one thing right, they had a bus that, for $9 one way, carts students straight to Port Authority, the major bus terminal of Manhattan. The full service NJ Transit line took my money and I sat for an hour as the city skyline appeared on the horizon and we ducked under the Hudson River via the Lincoln Tunnel. I usually try not to look like a tourist when I go to new places, but New York City had me twisting every which way in my seat to take in every angle, every street, every light and sound from the emergence into Midtown to my final departure.

Port Authority was like an airport. Buses zooming in and out of narrow lanes, pedestrian traffic going in all directions, floors and floors of gates. I followed the other bus patrons to the lower levels and then followed signs to the street. Research the night prior told me to head north on 7th, but once I hit the street level it was a whole new ballgame.

I was utterly assaulted. Billboards touting Chanel, running neon, sparkling LEDs, shoulder to shoulder buildings sweeping up dizzying heights, the perpetual motion of vehicles on the road and passersby on the sidewalk. Taxis honked a never-ending street serenade, jackhammers droned a tireless tune, there echoed the ubiquitous march of a thousand thousand footsteps. The acrid smell of smoking sewer gas and sharp coffee wafted on the air amid tang of asphalt and greasy street vendor fare mixing hot dogs and salty fries. Businessmen walked with tourists by homeless alongside NYPD officers.

Everyone was here. All of mankind was present.

I was overcome. But I somehow managed to keep walking.

I got turned around easily, was swindled out of a couple bucks from a persistent Buddhist, and ended up at a scenic Bryant Park.

A happy accident, stumbling into beautiful Bryant Park. The free Wi-Fi also helped me find my way back to 7th.

Suffice it to say, I hardened quickly even if I was positively bubbling on the inside. I no longer made eye contact with others, stone-faced, I walked like I owned the place. And it worked. I went unhindered for the remainder of my walking tour of the city.

I continued up along 7th watching for the treeline of Central Park. I also kept at eye out for Carnegie Hall which I thought would be on the left side of the street but it was on the right. I missed it. I would have wandered into the subfloors if I had had my way, so maybe that's for the best.

I did stop into what I imagine is the world's largest M&M store; three floors of chocolate goodness and every M&M imaginable. I headed up to the second floor and snapped off a photo of a view of the city from height.

This is 7th Avenue from the second story of the M&M building. Bustling place.

I was tempted to purchase some candies if not for the snack, then to sample some of the wild color and creatively coated centers. I didn't have $13 to spare for a pound of chocolate. I did, however, take their M&M personality test and came up with Light Blue. Agreed. The store was fun and a pretty diversion.

I had to settle for the green M&M Statue of Liberty, the closest I'll get this time.

   Finally, I came up to 59th Street where Central Park began. Then I became a little bee and buzzed dizzily all over the park in every loop and cutback available to see sights. I purchased a $2 map of Central Park which came in very handy, Central Park is huge, and helped structure my walk.

I went everywhere in lower Central Park. I swung past The Carousel, jotted down the Literary Walk toward The Mall and ended on Bethesda Terrace and Fountain where a chorus fulled the courtyard with resonant song.

For whom forsaketh me not? Shakespeare stands along the Literary Walk in Central Park. 

The Literary Walk was lovely as I looked on mentors and teachers of the craft. A lot of photographers and artists lined the avenue which I found amusing.

I swung right from the terrace, passed the Loeb Boathouse to the north and swung right toward the Conservatory Water pond where I found a statue of Hans Christian Anderson and Alice in Wonderland.

Alice and I tend to chase each other through life it seems. I actually climbed the structure and sat on Alice's left side where I might have had a right decent conversation if Alice had obliged.

I was especially pleased to find Alice. I wish I was half as creative as she is in world creation--or do I give that credit to Carroll?

After Alice, I headed south to find Balto and with my thoughts still turned to Parasite Eve, to the Central Park Zoo. I didn't actually enter the zoo portion of the zoo, but I did walk through the gift shop and stop for a lunch of chicken tenders and fries. Finding no place to dine within the zoo, it was quite busy, I parked myself in Sheep Meadow and enjoyed the view.

Central Park and the city juxtaposed from Sheep Meadow.

It was about this time I was getting tired, but it was only 2 p.m. I started to head back south toward Port Authority when I got a second wind. When would I be here again? I had no idea. I had to at least take in ONE museum. Armed with this reasoning, I began my long trek up nearly 20 streets to attend the American Museum of Natural History. [Because Parasite Eve T-Rex. Just sayin'.]

My original plan was to just sit on the steps of the museum and absorb the serenity of this bastion of knowledge.

Really, I was just going to sit here.

But then I went inside and saw the dinosaur skeletons. And then I made the mistake of talking to the nice lady at information what I should see. The Star of India. Which happened to be the largest sapphire in the world. SOLD!

I dropped $17 on a ticket and toured the Milstein Hall of Ocean Life, Hall of Biodiversity, North American Forests, Warburg Hall of New York State Environment, Grand Gallery, Spitzer Hall of Human Origins, Ross Hall of Meteorites, Guggenheim Hall of Minerals, Bernard Family Hall of North American Animals, Birds of the World, Primates, and the Sanford Hall of North American Birds. I took dozens of pictures and read a multitude of information. I was in seventh heaven.

This impressive specimen of redwood displayed a linear history of man through tree rings. Beautiful tree in the North American Forests exhibit.

This stately raven beckoned to have his picture taken in the Birds of the World exhibit. It was an interesting setup--every country had its native birds in one window and a picture highlighted and labeled the birds. I had a lot of fun picking out terns and finches in the displays. The raven is my favorite though.

The writing is on the wall. What can I say, history takes form in the earliest writing practices, hieroglyphic or cuneiform.

I stayed in the museum until they closed at 4:45 p.m., not nearly enough time to explore and learn but by the same turn, my body was on its way out. I whipped through the gift shop again on the hunt for some item to take with me, but ultimately convinced myself to keep the museum map and ticket stub for souvenirs.

I plodded back onto the street and hung close to Central Park as I walked along Central Park Avenue south back to Port Authority. I would miss the 6 p.m. bus, but I would have to make the 7 or wait until 9. My rule of thumb is to not stray out after dark in places I'm unfamiliar with. New York was no exception.

I had to stop twice along Central Park to rest my pounding heels and the city was kind enough to provide benches all along the sidewalk. People were still out and about walking their dogs or biking as sirens wailed street side.

The last item on my agenda was to dine on a New York pizza. Coming down 8th Avenue, I spied a decent looking eatery and ducked in.

Mariella's pizza was great!

 I ordered a single slice of pepperoni pizza, the cook heated it up for me in the oven drawers you see there and tucked my slice away for me so I could run to Port Authority.

I only encountered one rude woman shoving her way through the sidewalk hoards, she nearly struck the dinner out of my hands. Had I dropped my food on my empty stomach, it would have been war, but I held on, agreed with my neighbors that that was rude, and carried on to the bus-airport.

I purchased my return ticket, as requested by the terminal for efficiency, and scarfed down my pizza slice hidden behind a pole. I didn't want to eat so quickly, I wanted to enjoy a real NYC pizza, but it couldn't be helped. There was a surging tide of people going home trying to sweep me away, so I ate fast and dove into the river.

I'm amazed I not only located my gate and bus but that I made it back to the school and dorm in one piece. No hitches, no problems.

When all was said and done, I think I dropped nearly $100 for New York, spent a solid 8 hours in the city, walked at least 8 or 9 miles, and took in a good deal of sights on foot. I thoroughly enjoyed my time in NYC. So much so, I tried to find affordable housing to just stick it out in the city making friends with agents and publishers and the like. If my money had not been tied up in two academic institutions, I would have found a way to stay. No luck this time, but I had an awesome time in New York--and I hardly saw the skirts of this iceberg. I'd go again. Preferably sooner than later and THIS time to see the ball drop for New Year's.

What a city. What a place! It made my adventure senses tingle and I felt happier than I had in weeks. Thank you New York for reminding me there's always more to see and do and always something to aspire to. This cactus was delicious.

Happy Weekend.