I was 13. It was spring, the barren time in March when you cannot be sure if it is really warmer, but you are so desperate for change that you tell yourself the mud at the edge of the sidewalk is different than winter mud and you are sure that the smell of wet soil has suddenly a bit of the scent of summer rains, of grass and drowned earthworms. And it has, because it is spring and inside the ground something is stirring. I was wearing a yellow linen dress which my mother had picked out and which I therefore disliked although I knew it flattered me. My shoes were white and I was concentrating on keeping them out of the mud. My father and I were going to mass--my mother did not go; she was Protestant. My father put his hand on top of my hair, his palm on my head, and I could feel the bone of my skull and my skin and his hot palm, so dry and strong. When I was a little girl, he did that often, and called me 'Muscles.' He had not called me Muscles or put his hand on my head for a long time. I could not help arching my back a little, I wanted to push against his hand like a cat but the instinct that comes with being 13, the half-understood caution that makes a girl timid, or wild, the shyness told me to just walk. I wanted to feel the rough edge of the pocket of his coat against my cheek, but I was too tall. I wanted to be seven again, and safe. But I still wanted to push against his hand and put my hand in his pocket and steal the leather palmed glove, that secret animal.
Instead I went into the church, took a Bulletin, dipped my finger in Holy Water and genuflected. The inside of the church smelled like damp wood and furniture polish, not alive at all. My father took off his coat and draped it over the edge of the...
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...estick thrown under the bleachers. Outside it was wet and smelled of spring. My father let go of me and adjusted his coat on his shoulders and I felt embarrassed.
I stepped outside, careful of my white patten shoes; the cars were all gone from the parking lot and the sign in front of the school said, "Easter Vacation; April 4 - 11, Drive Carefully." A wet sparrow sat in the bushes.
I looked back at my father, still in the darkness of the doorway. His face was strange, empty. His eyes were golden and where the pupils would be they reflected red, like a cat in the dark, but when he came outside he looked like himself.
I wanted to be home eating peach jam on toast, so I forgot. At home my mother was waiting. When she asked my father what had happened to his glove he didn't know.
And I did not say.
I walked into the room on New Year’s Day and felt a sudden twinge of fear. My eyes already hurt from the tears I had shed and those tears would not stop even then the last viewing before we had to leave. She lay quietly on the bed with her face as void of emotion as a sheet of paper without the writing. Slowly, I approached the cold lifeless form that was once my mother and gave her a goodbye kiss.
To begin with, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was born January 27, 1756, and died December 5, 1791 in Austria. Mozart was a piano and music writer, and he created operas and became famous when he was just the age of ten. Mozart wanted more equality and independence. Mozart was able to express his concerns in his music, operas, and writings during the age of enlightenment. Mozart was a self-employed artist during this period of confusion and thus he became emancipated, independent and revolutionary. Mozart's urge to be an independent and a self-employed artist is reflected in the intellectual history of this time period. In addition to fighting for independe...
The Baroque Period was a very unique time period when the arts flourished, especially music. New techniques and ideas began to become more prominent during this time and changed the rules of how music was being written. Also, new composers appeared and gave their own input and style to Baroque music. However, one of the most prolific and well known composer during this time was Johann Sebastian Bach. It is also no surprise that he was an excellent musician and composer. Bach was born into a life of music. Musicians had been in his family for generations and continued with him, his siblings, and his children. However, he was one of the more well-known musicians in his family. His music became very prominent and defined an era. People from all
Johannes Chrysostomus Wolfgangus Theophilus Mozart was the child of Leopold and Anna Maria Mozart, born on the 27th of January, 1756 and the brother of Maria Anna, one of the five siblings who have survived in his mother’s womb. Mozart is an Austrian composer who was familiar with various instruments since the age of four, played tremendously well at five by the teaching of his father, making his first public debut at eight. In fact, his father was the only person that helped guide him to where he wanted to be, musically, in his childhood. As a young boy, Mozart’s curiosity about the music world was already blossoming at a young age. Above all, he was more familiar with stringed instruments, such as the violin, or the cello. With access to the instruments, Mozart’s father was fascinated by the skill he has developed.
that Salieri did kill Mozart by dressing like his father to make the final opera. But this
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart has to be the greatest composer to ever live. He and his sister were both considered very gifted child prodigies. He started composing music when he was four and he started to write minuets by the age of five. When Mozart was around eight or nine, he started to write symphonies. Mozart also played quite a few instruments. When he was three years old he was already playing the harpsichord. He also was very talented on the keyboard and played the violin very well. Mozart was so naturally gifted when it came to music that when he was blindfolded, he was able to recognize the played notes. This was said that he had “perfect pitch.” Another reason why he has to be the greatest composer is that he had the ability to write all the notes of the Miserere score from memory. His first opera was performed when he was eleven years old. It would only take him about two weeks to write an entire symphony or concerto. How many composers can do an entire piece in such little amount of time? He wrote twenty seven piano concerti, which he also invented. Mozart was never a very healthy person, in fact, he was suffering some sort of illness. I believe that this makes him even more admirable because doing anything when your health isn’t good just makes things even more difficult. One time Mozart gave a series of twenty two piano concerts and conducted a few of them in a five week period. After his father died he became very depressed and his music turned dark and depressing as well. This makes him great because he would write from his heart and that showed in his music. He wouldn’t let a setback like his fathers death keep him from doing what he loves which is composing music. Mozart never stuck to one genre, he wrote many different types of music such as concertos, symphonies, and German style operas to name a few.
Mozart is really the one who should be jealous, as he has little in the way of
At last I arrived, unmolested except for the rain, at the hefty decaying doors of the church. I pushed the door and it obediently opened, then I slid inside closing it surreptitiously behind me. No point in alerting others to my presence. As I turned my shoulder, my gaze was held by the magnificence of the architecture. It never fails to move me. My eyes begin by looking at the ceiling, and then they roam from side to side and finally along the walls drinking in the beauty of the stained glass windows which glowed in the candle light, finally coming to rest on the altar. I slipped into the nearest pew with the intention of saying a few prayers when I noticed him. His eyes were fixated upon me. I stared at the floor, but it was too late, because I was already aware that he wasn’t one of the priests, his clothes were all wrong and his face! It seemed lifeless. I felt so heavy. My eyes didn’t want to obey me. Neither did my legs. Too late I realised the danger! Mesmerised, I fell asleep.
At the age of three Mozart was playing the harpsichord while standing on his tiptoes. The age of five Mozart was not able to sit still for anything except during music lessons with his sister Nannerl. When his father was having tea with a friend, Mozart was in intense concentration writing a song. When his father asked him what he was doing, he replied with “writing a song” (Solomon, 1995). Mozart’s father started reading what he wrote and was so proud he decided to show everyone Mozart’s intellect for music.
Looking back at my past, I recall my mother and father’s relationship as if it were yesterday. I am only four years old, small and curious; I tended to walk around my home aimlessly. I would climb book shelves like a mountain explorer venturing through the Himalayans, draw on walls to open windows to my own imagination, or run laps around the living room rug because to me I was an Olympic track star competing for her gold medal; however my parents did not enjoy my rambunctious imagination. My parents never punished me for it but would blame each other for horrible parenting skills; at the time I did not understand their fights, but instead was curious about why they would fight.
The afternoon my parents found out about my wrongdoing, they caught at the front door and made me kneel listening to them. I was sweating and tired from long hours of gaming and biking. I did not remember any of their words anything until fainting. The floor, wall, and celling mixed together, and my vision darkened. I heard my fast-paced breath and felt my heart throbbing like about to explode. Moreover, echoed in my head, my mom's and dad's panicking voices as they dragged me into bed and fetched me some milk.
As I walked in to their bedroom, I found my mother sitting on the bed, weeping quietly, while my father lay on the bed in a near unconscious state. This sight shocked me, I had seen my father sick before, but by the reaction of my mother and the deathly look on my father’s face I knew that something was seriously wrong.
I was thirteen and already searching for my way out. My life was starting looking like a soon to be replica of my mother’s. The family saying “She’ll be pregnant by 16, like her mother, only unwedded.” I was recognizing signs of abuse in my own relationships, everything they were saying sounded true, but there was a difference between my mother and I. I made sure to always get away before I was stuck. I got angry, I did not want to wind up an abused housewife, or be criticized by family anymore. I decided I was going to prove everyone
...e that my mother had suddenly gotten up and had grabbed a pan from the kitchen to protect herself. I do not really remember what happened after that, I just remember that this affected our family’s dynamics. Nothing was the same after that evening.
That I was a burden on everyone’s shoulders. I started to doubt if my parents really did care for me. Because of the conflict between my aunt and my mom, I started to have trust issues. Whenever my parents would show me affection, I would hesitate. Eventually, I lost trust in my parents. By the time I was nine years old, I slowly began to realize that my aunt was over-exaggerating during the argument, and my parents’ affections had been honest and truthful. I can’t recall why I trusted my aunt more than my parents, but five year old Kevin wasn’t exactly the brightest child on the planet to begin with. I suppose because I spent so much time at my grandma’s house, I developed a deeper connection with my aunt than I did with my parents. I could never tell if someone was being honest with me or if they were trying to manipulate me into doing something that could’ve resulted in trouble. I became very cautious about whom I would open up to. As a result, I became very shy and