Our journey was reaching it’s conclusion; while myself and my fellow companions enjoyed the fruits and splendor of the island, there were few that which made a substantial impact. While the grinding of raw sugar cane deposited in an icy cup was a highlight, alongside once again being scared by our head chief while once again experiencing teppanyaki delicacy, the intimacy of both our cloudy brunch and ramen VIP experience did not come together until the day before our departure. Our youngest companion was tasked with finding a place to eat for our last dinner. While we gave them the responsibility before, the research was sadly lacking due to sun related distractions, and only on our last evening did they approach us and share with us a hot-pot restaurant.
It was evening as we clip-clopped our way in sandals to our destination. Hidden away on a side street, this hot-pot was brimming with people and we waited for a extended period of time before making our way inside. Compared to the cooler interiors we experienced for most of the trip, the interior was bustling and steaming, as each table was furnished with a large personal grill. The experience was incredibly novel for all us, and the idea of utilizing that grill for our own cuisine was an enticing affair.
Our server waited as we marveled in what was perhaps our only true moment of tourist-inflicted wonder at the display and the grill in front of us as it lit and sparked with heat and fire. What brought us out of this stupor was surprisingly not the ordering of food. Instead, as we settled on an all you can eat menu, the server stated plainly “Good luck, you will have ninety minutes, but people don’t ever go the full time limit so don’t worry about stopping an hour in.”
The poor man knew not what he wrought. The moment the sentence left his lips the air around us ever so briefly chilled. Both myself and my two male compatriots looked across the tables at each-other and grinned with evil intent; a challenge had been proposed and our jolly nature was only secondary to our stubborn competitiveness. It could be perhaps defined as simply the masculine desire for victory, but I would perhaps define this moment as our own personal tests of strength. The kitchen would be emptied, and we would be satisfied.
Five orders of skirt steak, four orders of miso marinated steak, five orders of filet mignon, five orders of soy marinated steak, two orders of buttered mushrooms, four orders of cows tongue, four orders of spicy and non-spicy pork belly, two orders of shrimp, four orders of ice cream, four orders of fried rice, one order of fried chicken, one order of salad, ten orders of water and one delicate red bean paste filled fish shaped dumping later, and we were finished. Each piece (while small separately) left us with distended bellies and the satisfaction of blissful gluttonous victory. The laughing and discovery of each piece, the realization that our favorite dish would be the paper thin cows tongue, that each succulent piece of beef would melt away once fully cooked and the accidental smoky mess we made on our first attempts left us chattering and smiling as we waddled back to our hotel. It was the kind of dinner one wishes to strive for before a journey back home.
Salivation: VIP
The next place I would like to discuss what would become the trip favorite place to eat, and the second place that was visited more then once; in this case the first day after we arrived, once as takeout in the middle, and the last place we went before our journey came to an end. Always excited to try new delicacies, I immediately gravitated towards Ramen Nakamura. It would be after a day of exploration, of cracked open coconuts shared along the boardwalk and exploring the depths of storefronts and attractions. Returning to our hotel the restaurant was literally bustling, as a line was forming outside the door, snaking through the street and stretching out in size. It was a sign that we would be required to join in the assembly; a restaurant with a crowd is a restaurant worth exploring. As we waited, we were able to look through the windows to see two long tables forming an elongated oval with space in the middle, and a sparse collection of seats to border around it. The establishment was small, tucked in and crowded, with everyone focused intently on the bowls in front of them. I was immediately prepared for an experience.
After being called we were quickly seated, and the wait made the exploration of the menu all the more satisfying. It was what I presumed to be very traditional; each bowl of ramen was described in sparse details, with the key differences being the broth and perhaps one change to the ramen’s toppings but nothing else. The possibilities being so endless, I nevertheless went for a pork ramen, as it matched the same kind of ramen I had on an earlier adventure. What struck me as I ordered as well was the brisque service; it was a no nonsense restaraunt as the servers wanted our orders quickly, and to serve us immediately and with no hesitation. The wait of course felt longer then the reality, in the same way we bide our time waiting for a package to arrive or a text to be sent by someone we care about.
Our patience was rewarded immediately; I cannot recall many of details of my pork ramen because upon my first taste time accelerated, as I was thrust unwillingly into a time machine set for the future. The slurping up of noodles assailed my ears but was ignored, for in the moment I did not care that anyone around me could hear my heart made manifest. Flashes of roasted garlic would hit me in the teeth with bursts of ecstasy, threatening to bring me back into a stable timeline and yet I persevered. The cuts of pork fell apart against my dancing bladed chopsticks, and each topping of ginger, onion and menma was quickly heaped into each bite for perfect efficiency..
Then as suddenly as I started, my chopsticks and spoon clinked against the bottom of an empty bowl. Next to me my compatriot stared at myself, then back to their bowl having barely finished one portion of their ox-tail ramen. By any objective measure, this was the pièce de résistance for my taste-buds. It was not, however, the best culinary experience on our adventure. That comes next.
Salivation: Clouds on a Plate
Fitting that Salivation continues on, for I have once again strode into a new adventure; another excursion away from home. In this case, it was trading practical attire and comfort food with summer attire and…comfort food of a different sort. This piece is an attempt to capture this and many other culinary experiences once again. I must preface this journey, however, through the abysmal culinary beginning that I experienced so that we can end on the first pleasant and delectable surprise that was found afterwards. Patience will be rewarded, for there were more experiences to come after the first.
Landing in summer weather during the heart of winter is a discombobulating experience. That is the excuse I will stick with, for my food questing began with my traveling companions picking out the first place that could shovel food into our faces after a long and uncomfortable flight, and myself agreeing almost immediately. As such we made our way to a nearby Cheeseburger Prime, which was decided upon over my original choice. This would be a grave error in hindsight. Luck was on my side this day, however; though the Cheeseburger was nothing to (no pun intended) write about, it was satisfactory for the moment at hand. Sadly for the rest of my companions, it was not. Originally the mindset we shared was a blasé attitude towards the quality of our food, as we came in with low expectations. Time passed with blue concoctions to hopefully bring out the levity in ourselves after arduous travel, but upon receiving our burgers my companions were met instead with three live and shaking cows in place of meat. One could look at our plates and recognize almost immediately that a grave misfortune had fallen onto us.
Hard, shockingly bland pineapple graced my youngest companion between two buns and a writhing cow that refused to bend to the rule of the kitchen. It mooed as he took bites to find perhaps a less lively portion, but sadly each and every bite resulted in further mooing and a disgruntled grimace. My other companions fared no better, and only realized later as I explained my side of fresh greens and dressing that they were given naked greens. The poor family of kale and spinach clasped their hands over themselves embarrassed at the state of affairs they found themselves in. While I came away unscathed, my companions dreams were haunted with the experience as we made our way to slumber.
This, of course, had to be explained properly for one to understand that what came afterward saved this adventure almost entirely. Upon waking my youngest companion was beset by what one would best describe as “Oh God It Was So Raw, I Feel Like My Insides Are Outside, Have Mercy, Why Must I Suffer” (To be more precise, OGIWSRIFLMIAOHMWMIS for short.) In order to begin the day fresh and with a far grander experience, we searched high and low until we found our phones before browsing on the web for anything worthwhile. That is when I came across a place known as the Cream Pot. With equal measures of trepidation and determination, we made our way out into the grace of a pure blue sky and scorching winter sun to set out towards our objective. After a bit of searching, we eventually made it to our destination but found ourselves worried. It was as if what was in front of us came from another land, the earth being transported and shaped into the side of the streets amidst the tall buildings and traffic. White picket fences and hanging flowers surrounded the entire restaurant, and each sign was hand-crafted. I felt briefly as if we had discovered the home of an eccentric English grandmother whose home had remained in her ownership for decades, and has allowed us a small chance to feel a sense of comfort. It took some time to adjust ourselves to our findings before making our way up the steps and to a giant sliding glass door, which allowed us to gaze into the inside of the restaurant.
The restaurant was filled with patrons, many conversing happily over cups of coffee and brunch. The tables were large, with chairs covered in embroidered cloth and the shelves stacked with displays and statues of various origins, all of which seemed to be hand crafted. Taking our seats, we were given a small booklet that displayed all of our menu items through pictures, and one dish in particular stood out in the the crowd of pleasing eye candy as a wholly new experience. As we waited, we ordered coffee and I was taken aback by the drinks that came to us. The iced coffee topped with honest homemade whipped cream, mixed with the drinks bitterness was a soothing and cool experience to stave off the heat. The best was yet to come, however.
Before me jiggled my cloud, my precious delicacy. Topped with a sprinkling of powdered sugar, it wobbled as I moved to cut into it, red strawberries accentuating the wholesomeness of the moment. My fork passed through the cloud as one would expect, resistance completely absent and the smooth tender inside made manifest. It was time to taste this souffle pancake.
Touching my lips, and the moment I could taste it, my mind traveled. I felt as if I was small again, waiting in excitement for something new and precious that I’ve never tried before. I thought back to the feelings of comfort I once had when around my godparents, how I would delight in desserts and treats. My mind only came back to present for brief moments as I ate, as each bite passed through like vapors, tantalizingly quaint moments that were exactly that: Moments. I was beyond satisfaction when nothing was left but the remains of powder and the return to the present.
I was content.
Salivation: Smooth Criminal
Were it not for the shining sky and bright colors, I could imagine my next destination as a getaway from the hustle and bustle and into the unexplored. The place I would go to next was clearly on the GPS, but to get there one would need to duck into the alleys of the large buildings that made up the downtown area onto a flight of stairs, giving way to a descent towards incredible experiences. Tucked away in this place, I was able to answer my own question; would eating someplace with truly authentic Japanese cuisine change my perspective of home? The answer was a resounding yes.
I was the sole customer at this time, and due to this luck I was able to discuss the finer points of dining with my waiter, who was keen to listen. In a surprising turn, I even helped to rectify a culinary faux pas; the rather savory and salted miso soup was not an invention of the restaurant I would come to find, and upon my second visit it was clear the miso I experience was the result of an overeager salting process. Nevertheless, I was ready for my travels into the culinary world of Japanese dining. I was refreshed with the clear purity of water, offset by the sickly sweet apple sake I had decided to order. Passing through my lips and with my eyes closed, I could pretend that Dionysus was squeezing apples personally into my drink, his intoxicating presence the lone scent and flavor of alcohol.
After a time, appetizers were frequently passed along to myself as I continued to enjoy the quiet and tranquil atmosphere of solitary dining. There were two dishes I ordered, both sizziling and crackling between my lips. One consisted of the sea; lightly battered shrimp and spicy peppers, the sea pounding my tongue with waves of flavor while the shisho leaves acted as rocks against the waves and cooled my palate. The other was the feeling of home; chomping onto dark fried succulence, the chicken thigh karaage a perfect complimentary dish to my main course. Each bite would send me to thoughts of my own attempts at Japanese fried chicken, and of all the restaurants I went to, this had the best.
It was now time, however. Passing from his hands to my table, the bowl of mist was waiting for me. The cloudy broth obscured the entirety of the soup, but I knew what I had desired, and also knew what was to greet me. I parted the broth with my spoon; akin to exploring the depths of the ocean, suddenly the ship-wreck and the prize were made clear. I savored the moment, however, and brought the clouds to my lips instead of the treasure. Treasure it was indeed, for as soon as I experienced the flavor I underwent a metamorphosis. No longer was I myself, but a prospector taken by greed. I demanded my treasure, and now that I had found it, my gold fever had taken hold. I consumed the ramen that would be the pinnacle of my food experiences, greedily slurping noodles perfectly cooked to my tastes alongside pieces of slow cooked pork and bean sprouts. Bamboo shoots shot into my mouth, and the scallions that accompanied it were also victims in the massacre. In what felt like moments, the soup before me had vanished and I awoke from my stupor. I grinned and laughed, for today I had once again experienced exactly what I was seeking.
I experienced food that must be recalled and remembered. It is one of the greater gifts in our lives, and I was humbled once again to bear witness to these gifts once again.
Salivation: Black and White
It was morning, my journey away from home officially beginning. An entire day was ahead of me, with the prospect of new experiences and moments awaiting.
It was not meant to be, not yet at least.
For you see, coffee was the lifeblood of this trip and of home. It allowed me to walk ever farther distances to experience even greater culinary delights. It was my duty to experience not just the finer choices in dining, but the affordable fuel to achieve it. As such, my next stop would take me to a coffee place that I would hope provide a solid pitstop for my escapades. Steel stools and black wood surrounded the place, with halogen bulbs strung next to the menu and an immediate understanding that this place was meant for the college student. It was only moments from when I entered (coming across from the adjacent museum) that I heard the crowd of young men and women conversing about the subjects of their studies: the sociological impacts of current events, financing in the city, and literary analysis. Snippets of conversation attempted to slip to my ears, but were fought to a standstill by my gaze at the coffee I had just ordered.
The Black and White Mocha; A great Mocha achieves balance with coffee, offering a sweeter sampling then the Latte or Frappuccino while at the same time more difficult to get right. Too sweet, and your met with a slightly bitter imitation of Hot Chocolate, but with the sad realization that no miniature marshmallow’s will slide onto your palate. Too little, however, and the bitter mess can only be described as melted down chocolate instead of a complete drink. This drink was a test not just for the place as a whole, but on a new form of mochas yet to be experienced. Chances were high for a delectable drink, the top adorned with a creamy maple leaf pattern, but I was determined to remain impartial. I brought the slightly foaming drink to my lips and sipped.
The effect was instantaneous. A flash of flavors swam through me; the white chocolate as if I had partaken in a few Lindor Truffles, but joined with a school of dark chocolates, notes of seventy percent attempting to attach to the fins of the truffle titans. Meanwhile, the coffee quietly stirred at the bottom of the mochas oceanic profile, its bitterness slightly hinted, but inescapable as the tectonic plates beneath our feet. I gasped, the vapors of the chocolate sea parting as a hot mist from my lips.
I ordered the same thing, every morning, every afternoon and once or twice in the evenings each day.
The taste haunts me to this very day. I must, however, persevere! More must be uncovered, more must be written of the cavalcade of cuisines that I bore witness to and experienced. The next journey will come in due time.
Salivation: Towers
It was the tofu tower that started my culinary journey over the course of my vacation. Arriving on foot to my hotel was a taxing and arduous journey with only a near dead phone to guide my GPS (and to that end myself) to a place I could rest my feet. My body, however, had other plans for me. I could already visualize all the different possible experiences in my head, and so charging my fairy godmother I set out. It was clear within the span of a few short minutes, though, that I underestimated the distances to many of the higher end restaurants in town. I could not conjure a car, and with my feet heavy, I decided to detour into an Asian Fusion restaurant. The inside was dark, with lacquered wood as the primary decorations. My booth sat adjacent to a roaring glass fire as I was given the menu. Of course, talking to the waiter, my eyes slowly wandered to a specific dish; The Flaming Tower of Buddha.
Minutes later (and with the guidance of my waiter to pick out the rest of my meal) there it was. Red chili-oil and sesame drizzled down the tower, its structure sound and hard to topple. Each beam of fried tofu was hot and the perfect kind of crisp; A slight crackle of crust before the soft exposure of firm tofu overtakes it. Yet it was the heat that was the main star. Try as I might, I could not quell the flames as it lapped upon the beams , the oils running slowly down onto my fingers. Sesame and basil fought on my tongue, warring between the all but brief nuttiness and the shocking heat of the leafy spice. These combined with the fuel of the chili to bring the heat that forces the consumer to keep going, eyes wide but the smile even wider. To placate that experience with the mango chutney chicken pastry was simply icing upon my fusion experience.
The fact that this was simply one of many delectable delights already forces me to maintain composure, for fear of leaving to inhale my fridge in a desperate attempt to appease the memory of delicacy. I hope instead to placate it by revisiting, for if I can spread this hunger to others, perhaps mine will lessen. Please be sure to prepare for the journey.
Exhilaration Meets Reality
I have traveled the past few weeks in order to experience the things I love, things that I cannot do in my current position normally. My travels are already over, but the experiences I had came back in full force today. I realized that I participated in an alternate reality, and with video evidence to back it up.
To explain myself, I have been a fan of professional wrestling for some time now. It’s awe inspiring to watch the merging of storytelling with live action human participation, and the reality of the story being created in real time. These moments can fluctuate and change based upon the wrestlers and their efforts to tell the story, and determines if one is captivated or if the experience breaks. A novel remains grounded and absolute, but wrestling is not. It changes and flows based on location, the competitors, the atmosphere of the crowd and the style of match that will be taking place. When done well, these live moments surpass everything else. Such is the case with my experiences at a recent wrestling tournament.
I was fortunate that my seat was placed directly by the announcement table. A man resplendent in a shining silver suit would punctuate the matches with reminders of the matches length, and the competitors themselves. I had heard him many times before when watching the televised events I could never go to, and recognized his voice immediately. More impressive still, he didn’t speak English whatsoever. My fortune was not this specific moment, however, but near the end of the event. From the entrance ramp, an image flashed upon a set-up screen, showing two pro’s in the main event. Their faces and names immediately drew the crowd in, and already people were on their feet. It was between a man who had put his body through so much coming back at the request of the other, a young man whose abilities in the ring could make you forget that the reality of these matches are like any story; created before the match even begins. Yet it was this man who would prove that reality sometimes doesn’t match perception.
After the first competitor came out to the crowd, another came out to his entrance. The crowd erupted in cheers, his face hidden by a hood and a championship belt around his waist. He wasn’t just amazing in the ring, he was the champion of the ring. He began his pass through the crowds, small high fives to each one, and I reached out my hand to hope that it could happen to me as well. Travelling so far from home in the hopes to experience what I knew to be a once in a lifetime event and opportunity. It was too costly to go to another show anytime soon. I reached out, and he did something for me that he did not do with the other fans. His hand grasped unto mine, and the moment felt as an eternity. Acutely aware of the fact that with the heat of the building and the moment of exhilaration that his hand was room temperature, almost cold. That he seemed to be building himself up, taking in the crowd, and in some part taking in the energy of this hold. I was so shocked that I had almost no pressure in his hand. After five seconds passed, he quietly released before exploding forward, jumping onto the ring apron and making his presence known to the rest of the building. So profound of an experience that I couldn’t even remember what my reaction was, what my expression was. But that was the moment I knew the night would be special.
Weeks later, I was able to track down the video recording of the event. I wanted to see what was going on through my head, what the experience looked like from the outside. I fast-forwarded my way through the matches until I stopped at the very moment I remembered so vividly. Rather then an electrifying moment, however, I experienced surprise. It was clear that the moment was simply a moment. My back to the camera, he grasped my hand for the briefest of moments before moving on. I had truly experienced in person time standing still, reality crawling forward at a snails pace, when truly I was the one crawling through time. Reality kept going along its merry way, the moment fleeting. I did not get to see my expression. I did, however, see myself pumping my fist in excitement, completely forgotten in time within my own memories, but the physical manifestation of my thoughts I was now able to see.
That night truly was special.
Cascade
The police are here, and I have not removed the malodorous corpse of Father Dickinson. Through blurred vision, however harsh my circumstances, I must release the burdens crawling ever harsher onto my shoulders. May I seek repentance for the horrors I have witnessed and committed.
It was my journey to discover purpose that led me to Father Dickinson. My travels had consumed me, for within my soul lay a hunger for the exploration of humanity. At each passing state, each passing country, I endeared myself with the locals. Their stories passed from their lips to my churning belly, where I consumed the whole of their experiences and culture. Thus, I continued to enlighten my own sensibilities in pursuit of even greater possibilities. Scandinavia was simply my latest stop, a place of rest recommended warmly by my academic peers. Their thoughts shifted of course to the simple pleasures, but in expressing their desires I continued to hear the same town roll off their tongue; Lofoton. I must confess, my only reason for falling to curiosity was the manner in which they spoke of this place. Off their lips their words reeked of inebriation, yet I knew for certain that they were of sound mind. This was enough for me.
Fortune looked down on me that day, for mere moments after setting my boots onto the docks of Britain did I spy a congregation heading towards a sea worn ship, sails marked with the unmistakable crest of Norway. They lurched upon the boat as I inquired regarding the vessels destination. Though uncouth and covered in sweat, the sailor I spoke to confirmed the vessel’s final destination, and with that confirmation I made the necessary arrangements to board the vessel.
This journey was long, but through good graces one that could only be described as peaceful. As the days waned into weeks of travel, it was inevitable that I would communicate frequently with the other passengers. This was where I met Father Dickinson. He spoke to me through pale words, only punctuated with the splashing of his sickness into the melodic sea, a man of weak constitution who nevertheless fast became an engaging conversationalist. His eyes, dark as the ships deck, would light up when we found ourselves conversing more frequently as he explained his purpose. He was in fact a visitor from France, his congregation a body seeking to enlighten wherever they tread. Yet those within his congregation were quite aloof, and though I attempted conversation many times through our journey, they continued to preserve with pursed lips and sour dispositions. Dickinson would wave their behavior away as being journey weary, but upon the sighting of the birds and the confirmation of lands fall, he confessed to another purpose.
“You see,” he spoke “we are storytellers and guides to greater purpose. Our words flock together those who suffer in silence so that they may partake in the salvation of the Lords knowledge. Through these stories, we heard of another which may bring forth new enlightenment and the great expansion of the Lords teachings. We have found new purpose, a place to gain exponential knowledge.” He looked to me, a new acquaintance on the high seas. “You are hungry, anyone with the drive to greater possibilities can sense a kindred spirit. Accompany us, so that our destinies can travel the same path of ever increasing enlightenment. I believe no knowledge has ever been more coveted then what myself and my fellow worshipers are about to uncover.”
Of course, I accepted. Of course, I landed upon the shores of Norway with Father Dickinson and his followers as we made our way further into the country towards Lofoton.
How I remarked upon the feature of all the men and women I would kill with my bare hands, our doom fast—
The Echoes
Grundi’s face took on a foul complexion as he stood over the corpse of the beardling . The blood had already run cold upon the cavern floor, but the terror in the young dwarf’s eyes were still fresh.
“How long.” he grumbled to the dwarf beside him.
“We found him shortly before you arrived,” they replied tersely, “The scent is still upon him.”
Grundi knelt before the lad. Flaring his nostrils, he inhaled through the bristles of his beard the scent upon his slain kin. With a scowl, he rose, his eyes rough as coal.
“Greenskins.” He spat upon the cavern floor before turning to the other dwarfs. They clung to pickaxes, their helms holding small candles. Illuminated in the small flickering lights their anger shone on their face as a red-hot sword upon the anvil. Grundi still looked to them with a tinge of disappointment. They were not afraid, but he could see behind the anger in their eyes the twinge of apprehension. The caution of the unknown that could easily lead to fear should it grow. Grundi knew to cut those feelings off before they take hold.
“Dawi, you know our ways. The foul creatures have hidden away, and this proves they are weak,” he growled. “By me own hands, I have strangled and crushed more goblins then bristles in your beards. In my day, they would stand before us to test our metal. But those days are gone, and good riddance! You beardling’s would cower at the sight of Orc’s past, yet its clear that our ancestral foes have grown weak, forced to cower in the dark in the hopes of killing a single Dawi.”
Grundi looked upon his kin with growing pride. The beardlings were steeling themselves for a fight, their apprehension fading away. Grundi turned and looked into the dark caverns ahead. The darkness could not diminish the fire in his eyes.
“Dawi, we march to right this Grudge. May we slay them all.”
With those words, Grundi and the other dwarfs marched, and into the darkness, they disappeared.
Emphasis on the Now
I almost sat paralyzed today before typing. Political discourse is no longer discourse. Yet, I wanted to focus on an aspect of my life, and the period of time I get to experience, by talking about something dear to my heart.
Growing up I wanted to always speak. To learn and then to talk about it. I think it was 3rd grade when I realized that one thing that I wanted to keep close to me and precious was singing. Singing is cathartic, but its more important then that. Sometimes you have conversations where a brief mention of music comes up before fading away. That or someone will state at some point that they don’t see the purpose of singing.
I sometimes have trouble communicating. As verbose as my writing can be at times, in person it changes. I have to think carefully, I usually cannot ever interject appropriately in conversation. Yet when singing that changes. I think, emotionally, it changes. I can just let a swelling of emotion build far greater then any conversation. I can change my relative meekness in life into a crescendo of powerful vocals. That’s not to say I can’t give expression in conversation, or that I cannot talk in depth about a subject, but rather that I communicate better through song.
Usually in performance auditions you’re not expected to complete the song your choosing to audition with. I didn’t expect to either when I auditioned for a local play. I was given lines first, and some time to give some improvisation. When it was time to sing, I didn’t really think about length or a stopping point. I simply assumed that the director and playwright would stop me. So I sang a Disney song, Evermore. Looking back, I think what happened was my own emotions telling me what I needed to do. Just let go; Sing and don’t worry about how it sounds or how you move. Fidget, blink, close your eyes, let your voice crack. Just sing.
They didn’t stop me. I completed the entire song, belting out lines and almost shaking from the fear and emotional release. When I was done, there was a pause. It’s a cliché, but it did truly feel as if time was stuck in that perpetual pause. The response to what I had done was simply “Wow.”
I was given a part. I sang. I performed. It was excitement, it was nerves, it was an outlet, it was a comforting normalcy. I enjoyed myself, and knew that I was going to hold onto singing for the rest of my life. In front of others, or simply to myself in the car on long rainy days when a day has led to tears and frustration.
I just exist, and let go.
Writing in C Major 
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