Much like the band concert, I brought my journal to the Winter orchestra/choir concert 2007.
The date is December 20th.
The writers are Joel Arken, Brittany Emch, and Martin Rodriguez.
Brianna Nuñez-Webb has a word, as well.
Simply put, A gorgeous Hall of the Mountain King in time with the beating of my hands, rhythm, never lost
I feel like I've been raped into a Disney Christmas Special.
The birds chrip and stamp their talons into my head.
There's a squirrel liking the composer Dickson far too much.
Out of pitch, out of rhythm, yet I am content with the snow that isn't falling. We're all thinking, we're all oh so merry, we're all breathing. Aren't we?
And the Dalai Lama said, "Life's like a beanstalk?
"Isn't it?"
Only use orchestras to prove a point. Nothing else.
Punting infants = bad orchestras
She dances, childlike, and he responds with a flooded glare. Once again, she has lost the battle. Tremulous fear has flown out the kitchen window. You prick my heart. I don't have diabetes.
Each fluorescent sparkle on the adjacent tree is like one note in an arranged piece, and the sparkle so brilliantly together, sometimes. Why are there seniors in this orchestra?
I think you mean señors? Sometimes Mexicans are left out when the current of the great motivation highway sweeps past them.
Mr. Brooks' combover creates a ridge through which all other guesstimations are made euphonious. &heart;
But when the silicone souls collide, they create something as extravagant as that of a bohemian rhapsody. Sophistication, elongation, segregation. It's all the same.
BOOM!
I want there to be more to music than four instruments of variable size. Rich mahogany would taste all the better a la mode.
The platform she is standing on might as well be a baby's head. And the bows are poking the eys of various forest animals.
THX has a new theme writer: Travis Chapman.
Say goodbye to cows. We are from the future, where there are no cows, or the unethical treatment of cows.
Cows will always be eaten.
I imagine Jesus Christ as a weepy infant or a really angry, profane coworker. I don't know why.
My blood isn't flowing. The left cerebrum has shut down. The third ear hears nothing bu the vague vacuous air. We are at a hoe-down?
This (hoe-down) is how my inbreedin' grandaddies (aw heck, my whole family) celebrates the Christmas. Uncle Willy don't have to use no spitoon, I reckon, on account of his mouth cancer.
It is my civic duty to eat cows. Just as it is my job to kill replicants.
By the way, what would you do if you found a turtle upside-down in a desert?
Parahippocampal gyrus... malfunctioning...
Orchestrations seem so angry. It's probably all the rushing hormones.
I won't be home for Christmas.
It smells like butt....er.....finger.
I believe the finger come first, if I'm not mistaken. The backdrop color reminds me of a mild rash.
The most alienated, socially awkward sit next to the terribly inspired, repressed geeks, tonight. Just wait until the boisterous attention-whores flood the stage.
Stereotypes galore.
Foreign! Fuschia! Fiesta!
How sisyphean are the efforts of the 2nd bassoonist to keep in time. I wonder how bad Travis is pitting out. Maybe he'll keep some in a jar for me.
This musicfest is majestic, like an eagle. It is an eagle. A dancing, swaying eagle. The eagle is yellow from hepatitis, though.
This is life.
I feel like we should be eating some Hors d'--uvre.
The maître d' is using his scales.
"Just go up there and kill time. Make up some notes."
There better be a Voodoo Doughnuts in heaven.
I'm going to get married there...
Voodoo Doughnuts — not Heaven...
It could go either way with you, couldn't it?
(I really want a melodrama and bon-bons. Though I don't see how this is all related.)
Hey, I bet even Satan likes doughnuts...
Hmm does that make it evil? Or does the doughnut-eater have free will?
This conversation was predestined.
And my friend Peter is a trueblood Countertenor.
Oh. My. God. (It's not in vain, I hope.)
Joel is (fill in the blank)
fool
1 comment:
This is poetry.
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