The Paparazzi in the Hedge at the B-Lister's House and Orchestra

       


*****No Links this time because of the video******

   In tech class, this one kid of whom I wasn't very fond curved his neck around my computer, put his face into mine, and told me, "Your IMP gave me nightmares."
            In the Eighth grade, everyone in the magnet program was to create his or her own project to address whatever he or she cared. I chose orchestra (naturally), and puppets (naturally) and I made Zazapalooza, a Sesame Street program which inadvertently resulted what looked like the trips of each of the Yo Gabba Gabba Monsters. My teacher gave me a 75/100, but I didn't care. It was much too long, and it was sensible only in its intentions (which weren't that evident), and the puppets lived in the lower fifth of the screen. I didn't care, it was me.
            I wasn't sure which response would make it so the inches between his face and mine would increase until his neck was no longer grotesque, and I was looking at the computer. I wasn't sure whether this was of his nature (he gave me somewhat of a hell in the eighth grade; however, I was innocent then and many of his jokes didn't faze me due to lack of mature knowledge), or if he was trying to go to heaven by making hell of his hell.
"Thank you," I said.
            Thank you because I made you have nightmares. Fire with fire in a way, but instead I branded him with my brand. I realized then that, the videos and the projects I make are very much me, and any attention is any attention. I felt like a celebrity through his nightmares. My friends translated his comment. The perils and guilt of fame were screening through me, and I wanted to change my IMP so there weren't any bad dreams; instead people could see the talking puppets and the good one that was mine. My friends told me the videos I produced (and any project for that matter) were "trippy."
              I am a sqaure and I don't endorse narcotics. I don't agree drugs are an outlet for creativity, rather I view them as a bit of a cheat to creativity; but when I felt my teeth come together at "tri," and my lips release as I said "ppy," I was Salvador Dali. I don't do drugs, I am drugs. That is why you had your bad dream, kid from Tech class. I felt woozy. I wasn't trippy, I was cocky. I decided it might've been best to edit my IMP so as to reduce nightmares, but I was proud. I didn't need enhancements, I needed myself.
                I've realized I should invest in making sense of my projects. Although I am proud of their nonsense, and the axiomatic ramblings, I do wish to be comprehensive. This is what I attempted in my video project. I wasn't trying to redeem myself of the Tech Class Boy's nightmares, I was trying to make sense. It took me a while to do so. I wanted to open with me eating humus and watching netflix while reciting "I. I HATED HER SO MUCH. THE FLA-FLA-FLAMES. ON THE SIDE OF MY FACE. BREA-BREA-BREA-HEATH-HEATHING BREATHS," as Netflix has established many of the days obscured with icy snow and sock drenching sludge. I thought a bit, and I thought about trying to make sense, and my IMP, and the impetus of every project I have ever done. Orchestra.
                 So, I filmed orchestra. The day before, my father took away my phone for reasons which do not follow chronologically in this story, and I was alleviated of my means to film. I have a fancy camera, but I am the forgetful type and such a piece of equipment is not the best adopted technology for me. I had to film, therefore, with my mother's 4s, after class, after lunch, after  Mr. Chen had told us everyone was horrible and we'll all have to fend for ourselves (Mr. Chen is our crazy sectionals teacher. He's the epitome of a culture shock, as he's Taiwanese, brash, demanding, and extremely hardworking. Each of his students are not. It's much the situation with the white school teacher who fosters the poor inner city students, except in this case the inner city students have fostered the teacher. Mr. Chen expects so little of us; while before he claimed to stick his head out of a window because a student's playing was so bad(which were conveniently sealed to the uppermost window), he now greets us with a mere "you all are horrible" and continues to discuss fruit. His class, nonetheless, is the most photogenic and dramatic stage in the entire building.)
                  I filmed orchestra, kind of. I went to my cousins class, and I was the worst student teacher my aunt or anyone could dream of, and I filmed my cousin, his father, and my aunt in the class while I was supposed to be tuning or correcting a bow-hold  It was slow, and I felt extremely sketchy, like a paparazzi man seeking a B-list actor from the hedge of his suburban home. I got what I needed done, and (after getting caught discussing important relationship matters with my best friend,) I corrected Rebekka's bending pinky and tuned each students tiny, metallic violin.
                   I then disappeared to the halls with my best friend. We finished our discussion of his important relationship matters, and I was able to film the orchestra packing up down the hall. I was the paparazzi man in the hedge, but the B-list actor wasn't outside cooking a barbeque, instead he was relaxing on the porch, expectant of my presence. That is to say, I felt much less stalker like. I felt most like a filmmaker when people passed by. I felt like a fly on the wall instead of a man in a hedge. I felt like I was documenting an event I would acknowledged once I edited it.
                   Then we went downstairs to visit the subject of the Important Relationship Matter, and the members of her quartet. The lighting was beautiful. It made everything seem yellow, yet established and defined, like memories of a late summer or a photograph faded from pressure of thousands of others. I wanted to document that, so I left my fly on the wall position, and asked to film. These were my friends (I would've filmed anyway). They tightened their bows and straightened their backs, and they played especially for me. It didn't feel like a trip, it felt real. This video was going to be put together.
                   The rest of the film was my trip home, which is usually me venting to my mother and Lynn Rosetta Caspar daintily advising recipes on fancy macaroni and cheese or what have you. I didn't want to record much any of that because:
1. I don't believe the Brittish Kids want to know about my venting issues with orchestra, as much of it is:
         a. why doesn't anyone practice?
         b. why don't I?
         c. it's so hard being a priviliged concert master and the best but not "outstanding"
         d. why am I a jerk?
2. I don't like Lynn Rosetta Caspar's show very much because it reminds me I spend all of my Saturday playing violin, and not doing other Saturday things I wouldn't know about because my Saturday is DCYO.
                   I was nervous with my film. Was it enough for a trip? It couldn't be trippy at all! Sure, it was comprehensive, but was it me? It seemed too much to define myself in adjectives and the nouns from which they derive. I was going to edit, but I needed to know more of where I was from. Such deducing arrived me with the conclusion that I could film my grandparents house.
                     I am not a heartless wench. I don't go to my grandparents house often, tragically, because they're the coolest people who live the most serene lives in the DC Metro Area, more so than anyone with an incense home in Takoma Park. When my dad said he was going, I knew I had homework, but what better way to be productive than pay a much needed call to one's grandparents while also employing the trip as video material? It was a lovely visit. I love my grandparents very much, and we spent much of our time together watching America's Funniest Home Videos and laughing out our hearts. I didn't use the video, however, because I found I had too much already, and I couldn't.
                     Editing, therefore, was hard, but only because there were so many technical difficulties with my computer. My story was well synthesized  I had the videos I wanted, and I let the voiceover script come naturally. I was able to tell orchestra. Even though I couldn't show Chen, or the mess of orchestra lunch, or even Vales and his speech about cutting off our fingers with his rusty scissors, I found orchestra is truly orchestra all day, and the development of its baby classes, to the baby orchestra, to the quartet, is truly where I'm from. There's not much more me than that.