This Means War

Every morning I wake up, suit up in armor, hop on my horse, and gallop to the HFAC to fight an epic battle to the death.

20 minutes scaling the walls of technical passages

10 minutes bombarding cane with my tongue

20 minutes of blasting Ferling etudes through my brain

25 contesting the concertino

and another 10 vaulting walls of partials and overtones.

I am driven back by the enemy time and time again, although each day I inch closer to the enemy line. 9/12 keys of scales mastered. Quarter note at 128 all-time high for tonguing. I'm on Ferling # 11 and 12, and polishing the Ibert with help from Rousseau. I destroyed the indestructible tower of overtones and now I soar gracefully over them each time I try. One victory down, more on its way.

Classically I make my rounds, then move into a new front: jazz.

I assault my chords, my sight-reading, my improvisation, and my dictation. Though the battle is uphill, I glory in moments my professor knocks at the practice room door and tells me to keep "playing strong." I fight for my life, my sanity, and my musical success. I glory in my triumphs and am set back only slightly by my failures. As the trench in my bottom lip would attest, I'm playing my chops off on a regular basis, and the war has never gone so well.

I make use of only the finest weaponry:

and only the best of comrades: Jory, Jeremy, Ben, Zach, Eric, Emily, Rachel, John, David.... the list goes on.

The enemy still lurks.

And perfection is still out of reach.

But the war has only begun.

Music Major, here I come.