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Adam Farouk's Official Blog

Explorations into art, humanity, and personal development, by musician, ideasmith, creative adventurer, and social entrepreneur, Adam Farouk.

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Anyone Who Had a Heart...

2/24/2021

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I had an interesting conversation with with one of my producer friends, where he sort of summed up the state of music right now, saying that musicians appear to have two options—one, they can work and come up with new songs and sounds, or, two, they can “sit around trying to come up with a hundred ways to basically sound like Despacito.” Now Despacito as a song doesn’t necessarily bother me per se, but I definitely agreed with him that what constitutes art right now is more akin to world of sports and competition than it is to what has constituted art since forever ago.

An example of what this looks like is 1) you get "Person A" who’s an insane e.g. bass player, then 2) he/she does a “sexy” cover of a super well-known song, showing off their chops, until 3) they acquire the holy grail (subs, lah) because a) the song is well known and b) they’re racing up and down the fretboard like Usain Bolt. Many artists are doing little more than shooting at targets, because, by doing so they believe they become “influencers,” whatever on earth that means.
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This is 90% of music today, I would wager.

So there’s a small 10% who are spending their time coming up with actual new ideas, which is ironic, because that is exactly how that song by The Who or Led Zeppelin or Michael Jackson came to be in the first place. Not by the efforts of the “musical bodybuilders” showing off their guitar-playing glutes, but by people who were so plugged in to the actual source of art (which, in actuality, at least in my experience, is a rather quiet and solitary place) and worked hard at cultivating that connection, that they came up with gems that we love and that are lasting, the likes of Penny Lane, Dear Prudence, and Here Comes the Sun.

There’s nothing we can really do, because it’s just easier, frankly, to learn how to show-off running up and down scales than it is to put together new musical ideas, or to write a truly authentic song that’s actually really good as well. That’s why, again, frankly, youtube musical bodybuilders, regardless of their number of subs and followers, are more of less a dime a dozen (type in a famous song and the word “cover” and you’ll see what I mean), while there’s only one Paul McCartney, there’s only one Burt Bacharach, there’s only one Beethoven.

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I make this point strenuously, not in order to dissuade others from participating in the musical arts. I’m not talking about a six-year old (or a seventy six-year old, for that matter) who’s recorded themselves playing “Let It Be”—their first attempt at live performance. These moments are authentic and magical, and why not celebrate them as such? Rather, my goal is that we might be conscious of the landscape that we are populating as so-called artists. Who am I as a composer, in this world that values instantaneousness and fetishy familiarity more than it does values and the perspiration involved in birthing new ideas? I’d be lying if I said my encouragement was a blanket affair; as for the musical bodybuilders—godspeed and good luck—there is a LOT of space for you in today’s lip-service-paying, self-image-obsessed, instant gratification-based world, and some of you will go far. 

But to those of you in that small, terrifying 10%: I know what it’s like to be you, and I’ll tell you, it’s fucking hard. It really is much easier to sell yourself down the line and focus on self-image and self-aggrandizement than it is to hone what it means to hold yourself true to the realm of new, real ideas. How do I know? I know because I’ve done both. In my twenties, I was all about puffing up my self-image. Heck, if I’d been populating a youtube channel then as opposed to a myspace page (thank you, the early 00s), I might have been able to show you now some streaming material of me doing a “cover” of a number by Train, Gavin Degraw, or Jason Mraz (to further cement me in linear time).
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But that was then; it was a bit of a prison, and I’m glad I got out of it. I’m lucky, I guess, that the world culture of the early 00s hadn’t moved so far into the direction of instant gratification that I could navigate my way out of it and not become stuck simply by default. Now, in my forties, I am focused completely on the realm of new ideas. There are certain mitigating circumstances that help facilitate this, but I’ve still made the decision to walk this path—that was my choice, no one else’s. Honestly, it’s not super comfortable. I feel like a constantly-pregnant giraffe, except my young take rather longer to learn how to walk. But I’d rather it to the alternative. 

I am told by pop culture that I am supposed to feel old, because I am no longer a marketable sixteen-year old hormone-ridden singing haircut. That’s fine. While we’re on the subject, I’m told by other people, that because I was born a muslim, I’m supposed to feel “wrong,” “bad,” “scared,” or, I suppose, “foreign.” And then, ironically, I’m told by yet other people that, because I do not practice religion, including the one of my birth, that I should feel “guilty” or “ashamed." I care little for and heed even less the proclamations of those who do not walk in my shoes. I feel like Will Hunting in that scene in the bar: All that they say "may be, but at least I won’t be unoriginal."

And, I guess, that would be my humble recommendation to you “terrified 10%ers.”Dare to be original.” Har har, right? How many people say that to you every day? Ad execs, the world over. Insurance companies, credit unions, people who promise they’ll fuck you like a champion if you just give them your money? (Not talking about prostitution here, at least they’re honest about what they do--think about it.) How would any of these people know the first thing about originality? Your youtube bodybuilder wunderkind, here name one, I can name twelve off the top. Be original, they say, while they rattle off Giant Steps at a hundred miles an hour for the fiftieth time this month. The fuck do they know? 
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Not this guy. This guy knows plenty.
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Take it from me that those people haven’t the slightest idea what they’re talking about. How do you know if you’re being original? If you’re truly living in the world of new ideas? I don’t bloody know, I’m not you. But I know what happens with me. Firstly, I’m terrified. Every day I wake up and, as much as I know I’m on my path, I’m terrified. Blank, empty, white pieces of paper stare at me, and say, make me shine. How the heck do I do that? You tell me, how? I don’t know. That terror is the first step of this process. 


Secondly, am I doing everything well? If so, get the fuck out. Nothing proves the leading edge than that feeling that you suck at something. Not the “why am I doing this thing soul-draining thing that I hate” kind of suck, but rather, the “oh my god I really want to conquer this but I don’t know how or even if I ever will”-type suck. It’s like when you first learn to do anything that you adore doing, riding a bike, doing a cartwheel, writing fiction. There was a time when you sucked at those things, and the motivation to move past that stage of not knowing was pure art. 
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The last one is perhaps controversial: do you love yourself? Now. Here, I do not mean do you love the beauty within yourself and your connection with the heavenly force and the solemn, sad, splendid satisfaction that you feel from your own company and the inner knowledge of fullness and peace that you possess inherently. No, that’s awesome. Keep holding on to that. What I mean is: are you a self-loving twit? You know, like that guy on the charts, whose name is--OH damn, I almost slipped up and mentioned some celebrity by name—no, I’m not going to do that, it’s low-hanging fruit and it’s none of my business to judge people in particular, just, you know, the ugly qualities that some of them might inhabit en masse. 

So, you know, that would be the last tip I would humbly submit. Stanislavski, in my opinion, put it better than I could ever hack up, so I’ll quote him directly: "Love the art in yourself, and not yourself in the art." Put the art first. Always. That’s all I’m going to say; that’s all the needs saying, really.

I’m off to go write a song. Maybe one day I might record it. Maybe release it. Maybe I’ll do everything in line with what some of those influencers do. Create a social media campaign around it. Who knows? I feel a sense of freedom, a sense of openness, that I do what I do for the love of doing it. Thank you for being on this journey alongside me. 

Travel safe. Talk soon.

-AF

Title Inspiration: Anyone Who Had a Heart (Bacharach, David), Cilla Black
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Watershed 2020

12/31/2020

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I’m going to keep this brief as, to many of us, this year has indeed been a bear, and I would be the first to cheer on and endorse time away from devices, social media, and even the internet—if possible, as 2020 draws to a close and its successor winds up to bat.

I think my primary takeaway from this year has been the annoyingly not-obvious observation that the future and the past, despite looking as though they are on a linear spectrum with one another, are very much not, and that the present moment can be used as a tool, at any point, to alter the trajectory of what comes next by making changes, even infinitessimal ones, to what is happening now. And I say this as someone who is by no means an optimist. But there were many realities at the beginning of this year that defined my life. A borderline episode landed me briefly hospitalized, and my intrusive thoughts (OCD) were putting me on a constant state of high-alert (I was registering them at 4-5 out of 5 every day), meaning I was spending most of my days with my eyes closed, at least when I didn’t have to have them opened. I had no idea how I was going to live through these symptoms for another year. 

We get to the end of this year, and my life couldn’t be more different. In many ways I don’t understand how it happened. How, somewhere along the way, did I start being able to keep my eyes open during the days. How is it that now I see life with a sense of calm, that when I read journal entries written by me from years passed, trying to make sense of all the pain and suffering that was going on inside every minute of every day, I don’t recognize that person, let alone identify with him. Yet I know I was him, that I am him. And that moment of recognition is always a little tricky, because if I am that person, then those feelings, the ones that overrun and sweep me away, the ones that make cooperative dialogue difficult and relationships impossible, the ones that think, every afternoon quite casually, that I would be better off dead than alive, are still inside me.

I try not to dance down this road too much. The prettier (or, in this case, more dramatic) the flower, the farther from the path. I have a good set of therapists now (as opposed to the one from Mclean who refused services to me because she was convinced having just met me that I wasn’t being serious enough about my recovery. Someone out there might call her a b****, but I know three female dogs personally, and, they are some of the nicest people I've met. So, she’s a dickhead. There you go.) In any case, I have a good set of therapists now, one of whom often reminds me not to look for silver bullets. And, despite my predilections towards doing so, I agree with him. We’ve discussed how progress is often a thousand tiny steps, or nudges, or anything, small and seemingly fleeting, the culmination of which can steer that steamship out of the way of that iceberg. Tiny, tiny steps. And thousands of them. I suppose, for me, the key was to develop a practice. To keep going, no matter how stupid I felt the work was, how little it helped me at the beginning, even days when I didn’t have faith, to bear down and do what little I could to forge a different reality, a different life.
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The other thing I take from this year is a sense of gratitude. I use that word a lot (thankfully, I think it does mean what I think it means).This is the counterweight to the above idea. The ability to look at everyday and just feel a sense of fulfilled contentment about the work done for the day. And the ability to lose that sense of goal-orientedness, to be able to laugh and smile and be in love with the journey you’ve taken, today, thinking nothing of how far away you still might be from your ultimate goal, letting go of grasping to things that will inevitably be swallowed by the forces of time: dark-colored hair, optical and aural acuity, effortless joint strength, a vociferous appetite, relationships, people, places, and things; these are all what I mean by gratitude. It doesn’t involve incantations or prayers or any kind of gobbledegook that ritualizes a process that is so deep and inscrutable that the experience of it really goes beyond expression. When I look into my darling dog Mia’s eyes and she looks right back into mine, I have no words for that moment, but I know it’s special.

So. Have an excellent start to 2021. I generally don’t like telling people what to do, but I might go so far as to share something I’m doing for myself this new year’s, which is: stop saying how 2021 will be “better” than 2020. I mean, seriously, folks. Why would you do it? WHY would you DO IT?! :) But seriously, for anyone who’s read this, thanks for sharing in some random musings of a random muso. I look forward to seeing you at some point next year, which I now graciously accept, free of expectation. 

Salut!

-AF

Wishing you all a HAPPY NEW YEAR 2021 :) 

Title Inspiration: Watershed (Saliers), Indigo Girls
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Please Release Me

12/24/2020

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Greetings. It is I.

Here is the year-end summary of 2020 #BlueDorian publications and releases. If you didn't get to check them out the first time, here's a list of all of them, in one place:

Commercial Releases

The following products are now available for sale at the bluedorian online store.
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  • Faerworld Daughters of Time, Season One, Episode One
  • Faerworld Daughters of Time, Season One, Episode Two
  • Faerworld Daughters of Time, Season One, Episode Three
  • Faerworld Daughters of Time, Season One, Episode Four
  • Faerworld Daughters of Time, Season One, Episode Five

Demos

The following music tracks are available to stream, either on their respective BlueDorian project page, or (coming soon) on Soundcloud.com.
  • ​Breathe My Air Today (feat. Renée Dupuis) - Continuity
  • We Can Have It All (feat. Renée Dupuis) - Ray of Sunshine
  • Make My Day (a cappella) - Vox Globale
  • Gwen's Theme - Daughters of Time
  • Vagabond (a cappella) - Vox Globale
  • Four Seasons Theme - Daughters of Time

Visual Art

The following illustrations and designs are available, to view, as follows:
Gwen (Daughters of Time, character design) - Daughters of Time
Cameron (Daughters of Time, character design) - Daughters of Time
Roya (Daughters of Time, character design) - Daughters of Time
Anneka - (Daughters of Time, character design) - Daughters of Time

Wishing you all a happy holiday season :) from all of us at BlueDorian.
All material is © BYIP Creative Media 2020. All Rights Reserved.

Title Inspiration: Please Release Me (Eddie Miller, Bobby Dean Yount, and Dub Williams), Engelbert Humperdinck
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In Other Words...

12/21/2020

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A busy year has been had by all at BlueDorian Media Entertainment:
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Though the COVID threat has kept us all bound to our homes for the better part of our days, mastering the art of remote communication has proven very much within the organization’s grasp, allowing an effective collaborative environment to be assembled from the ashes of our previous, in-person-dependent superstructure. As a result, with a little bit of front-end effort, this has been our most productive year to date.

New faces

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We have the privilege of once again being able to list Andrew Goldin among the volunteer members of our general creative team. Andrew brings with him decades of experience in the fields of operations and human resources, in addition to an unflinching love for and dedication to the creative arts. A talented artist in his own right, Andrew has already made his mark earlier this year at BlueDorian, as a member of the creative team for Faerworld: Daughters of Time.
Valerie Larsen, a seasoned vocalist and longtime BlueDorian creative partner, has taken on the additional role of associate musical director for this year's In-Concert performance of States of Matter (she is also performing in it, playing the role of "Music"). Valerie is an adept and natural leader, and brings intelligence as well as poise and confidence, not to mention proficiency with music, to her role as AMD. Over the summer months, she took SOM cast through its paces, all to great effect.
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Vocalists Anthony Rodriguez and Michael Spaziani brought both passion and competence at their craft to the task of bringing to life the parts of “Heart” and “Rhythm” respectively in States of Matter. We look forward to future opportunities to work with them and the aptitude and wherewithal they bring to the roles they play.
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And finally, last but by no means least, the project Ray of Sunshine brought with it two new vocalists to the BlueDorian roster. Michael Kassatly, a longtime collaborator with Adam Farouk, playing the role of “Dredd,” and Derek Dupuis, a fierce multi-instrumentalist in his own right, playing the role of “Ray.”
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The AFO - 2020

The AFO continues to be the main driving engine for BlueDorian’s live music curriculum, though this year we've traded in our typical late-year event for a series of "at-home"-style filmed performances. It has been once again a privilege and a pleasure to have on board such honorable and talented individuals as:

  • Tim Reppert (bass guitar, sound engineering)
  • Elizabeth Lorrey (guitars, keyboards, vocals, sound engineering)
  • Renée Dupuis (keyboards, vocals)
  • Dave Lieb (guitars, vocals)
  • Andrew Jones (drums, percussion)
  • Jenga (mascot)
Do check out their stuff—I’ve linked their names to their various respective web presences, and if you are involved in music or putting together a team for some creative project or other, I could not recommend them more (or, for that matter, any of the newer names on this list). They’re all awesome musicians and fantastic folks, doing great work at a time when the life of the creative artist is rife with more than its fair share of curveballs.

In addition to all these wonderful people, working on these projects brought us back in touch with a couple of familiar behind-the-scenes faces: i) Tim Bongiovanni, the wunderkind behind Northgate Studio, and ii) Ray Tarantola, music copyist to the stars and for good reason. It's always sheer creative goodness to work with people such as these who embody true professionalism, and we look forward to more opportunities to work together.

Recording Projects

We were back in the studio again after an eight-year hiatus. It's been a thrill to work with Anthony J. Resta and Karyadi Sutedja at Studio Bopnique again. I'm super excited to announce right here and now, in my trademark low-key way, that we'll be releasing, in the new year, five new tracks, a collaboration between our two studios: a studio release of "Seasons Come and Go," a new #AdamFaroukMusic single; and four live tracks from the AFO Performance "AFO 2016: Undivided - Live at the Lilypad": i) These Games We Play, ii) Light Up These Eyes, iii) Never Look Down, and iv) Passing Moments. Look out for more info on these releases in early 2021.
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As part of the process of putting these releases together, we've been lucky to work with some fantastic designers to put together collateral and cover and release artwork: Jay Nungesser, Daniel O'Rourke (Blue Fox Studios), Mark Field. Please check out their work, and give them a ring with your design needs!

Story Projects

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The Faerworld Universe continues to grow; Daughters of Time in particular has been cantering along, with five "episodes" available at the BlueDorian Store, and more soon to come in the early new year. We've also started a companion series to Daughters of Time and all other Faerworld titles, called the Apochrypha Enigmatis. I've been told to be sparing with what information I share(!), but suffice it to say, a compendium of articles, stories, and other miscellany, the Apocrypha is intended to enhance the reader's experience by providing backstory, context, and other vantage points from which to view the principal story.

In sum, despite (or perhaps due to) what the universe handed us in the form of a singularly absurd year, including a relentless pandemic medical crisis (I, like you I'm sure, still remember where I was when news broke that my state would be going into lockdown), global and multiple humanitarian crises, collective crises of faith, in leadership, in our own ability to see through prolonged periods of emotional darkness, 2020 ended up, somehow, as a year for the books.

Go figure. I suppose 2019 was a nasty year for me with a capital N, so maybe I'm just out of sync by a year. In any case, what I take home from this most of all is a real sense of gratitude. Being able to to stick to the itinerary that we set up for ourselves, in this year's early January, when no one could have possibly predicted how this year was going to turn out, took guts, and grit, and gumption, daresay it - a little greatness? - from everyone who showed up and made things happen, even when, any day, they could have quit or stopped walking or done anything other than participate, and no one would have blamed them.

I am humbled by their efforts, and filled with pride that I might call them colleagues.

Travel safe, and talk soon.

​-AF

Title Inspiration: Fly Me to the Moon (Bart Howard), Astrud Gilberto
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Is There a Cure Among Us?

6/22/2020

 
Tragedy struck, and I found myself quiet. There were a lot of words being spoken, some of them incalculably important, some of them probably less so. I had a sense, as I still do now, that deciding which was which was likely well above my paygrade. I’ve made it neither a care of mine nor my business to tell people how or what to think, not because I don’t have a stance, but rather, because, sadly, I’m not sure I think highly enough of people to believe they will do the right thing when called upon to.

There. I said it. Beneath all the pep talks and inspirational speechifying lies a person who has major issues with believing in and trusting others. I tend to hide this well, which is one of the reasons I went silent this time. I couldn’t find a positive thing to say, an inspirational way to spin what was going on. I submit to the court of public opinion, such as it is in today’s hyper-driven, attention-span-less world, that, upon finding out what had happened to George Floyd, I, incensed beyond rational thought, googled the phrase: “people are evil.”

I googled a few other phrases, of similar, if more specific, sentiment, but it’s not making too much sense to share them right now. The bottom line was the realization, that I found myself so close to a point of view wherein humanity is believed to be nothing more than “bad code” that my immediate knee-jerk reaction in response to these horrendous acts of brutality was to look for material validating that view. But, I suppose, after all, isn’t that a big part of the internet’s function, intentional or not? I understand the perverse logic behind the concept of conflict, and I, like all of us in some way, have witnessed where it ultimately can lead. I understand the vile workings of prejudice, and I have seen personally where they can lead. I am no stranger to the abuse of power. So what is it about what’s going on right now that has me stumped?

I “met up” with a dear friend the other day, who is a cultural muslim with a muslim-sounding name and a distinctly arab-indian bearing. There’s always been a high degree of shared common experience between us, and, unfortunately, the experience of prejudice is one of them. I’ve always appreciated and respected his counsel, in part because he’s a few years my junior and as a GenX-er I value the raw opinion of an actual, in-the-flesh millenial, and in part because he’s one of the smartest and most observant people I know. He works for a big company, and had this to say:

I just think it’s not really the time for bandwagoning. If you have something you want to say personally, as an individual, for example, I’m donating to… [BLM]… or, this is my personal experience with racism… [or] what are the tangible actions you can take [such as] checking your hiring policies? But the idea of just: “We have to be part of the conversation!” I don’t know. When it comes down to it, I’m just not sure how interested I am in some brand telling me how to think right now.

It was affirming to hear this, because I realized that precisely what I was looking to do was share—share my story, for what it was, without the burden of it needing to match the experiences of others in order to be valid. Could there be a way for me to speak to my specific experiences of racial prejudice, discrimination, and abuse, different as they are from, say, the plight of black America, and still be contributing productively and effectively to the greater discourse? Or is the issue, at this point, no longer personal?

I think I am in agreement with  funnyman, pundit, and commentator Trevor Noah. In a segment of his I recently watched, he distinguishes the conversation of reparations from the more general subject of disenfranchisement of other races, and, for that matter, of other people struck by misfortune, essentially saying that they are two separate topics, though each one is valid. I see and appreciate what he is saying here; I do not claim that my experiences have anything in common with, say, the atrocities suffered by black South Africans under apartheid, nor, for that matter, do they bear any resemblance to the systemic patterns of discrimination, violence, and abuse suffered collectively by black Americans from day one.

But I am feeling motivated to talk about some experiences I’ve had with racism, even if briefly, because I believe that what all of us are all striving for, in this struggle which has come to a head this year, is a better way for humanity to move forward, a way where the murdering of itself, the warring with itself, the pitting itself against itself for petty gain has finally ended, and humanity can at last come into the light and work together, respecting and honoring itself, so that it may rise and be the best that it can be. So while I recognize the systemic societal issues that, ludicrously and sadly, so many people still experience every day in this and other countries (including the one of my birth), I wish to add my experiences, my song, to this dialogue, in the belief that, through the remembrance of the events, and by looking the ignorance and fear that prompted them squarely in the eye and seeing them for the illusions they are, I, and, therefore, we, might take a step or two closer to creating the world we seek inside.

At a young age, I experienced racial prejudice, discrimination, and racialist sentiment, as well as violent actions directly stemming from each of them. I’ve also experienced, as someone with a mental health record, the abuse of power by, as well as abusive behavior towards innocent individuals and patients, by police officers, as well as more than one of those who call themselves mental health practicioners within “the system.”

Prejudice, bigotry, ignorance and fear, have accompanied me, in a number of forms, throughout my life. And I’ve been on both sides of the coin. The first thing to note is that I am a Malaysian, and moreover a “Malay” Malaysian. Those of you who are themselves Malaysian understand exactly what this means and likely can predict what I am about to say. For those of you who are not Malaysian: the status of being a Malay Malaysian, or bumiputra (“son of the earth” #faerworld) is a privileged one. There are subsidy programs available, types of credit that can be established, types of high-yield bank accounts that can be applied for, that are simply not an option for non-bumiputras (I’m simplifying a little bit; if I’ve deviated too far, you can let me know in the comments). 

Essentially, however, the bumiputra program is an affirmative action program for an already-privileged majority of the population—the Malays. It’s really just a way to institutionalize racism and racial entitlements in the country, by disenfranchising the ethnic minorities more than they already are. I found out some years ago that I had one of these bank accounts opened in my name. I got rid of it as quickly as I responsibly could, giving the money to a combination of charities and to help get certain aspects of BlueDorian up and running, which felt like a double win, helping grow the company, where the company’s operations are intended to help and bolster philanthropy and charitable causes. In any case, it just didn’t feel right to be involved in this system despite the “good returns,” so that’s what I chose to do.

Bigotry was something I sadly didn’t have to travel too far to experience. I had a close family elder who believed quite firmly that “the Malays” were lazy and unable to amount to anything worthwhile, ironically bestowing upon one of these Malays (my father) countless positions on various directorial boards, so that the company could take advantage of various bumiputra programs and advantages. In any case, he was happy to remind me of this “universal truth" (that the Malays are inherently lazy) each time we met. About twenty years ago I stopped visiting him altogether. The fact that he didn’t understand why was not cause for me to think, as I might have, per his logic, that all Chinese people were stupid. I’m sure I’ve shared other stories, such as his whole beef about me and my cousins being genetically impure (a weird dig at my Eurasian grandmother, and, of course, once again, my Malay father) and that we should all find Chinese spouses in order to “swing the genes” in the right direction. I thank him, actually, for being the bigoted billionaire that he is. It’s primed me well for the past four years, and made them immeasurably easier to weather.

When I was sent to boarding school in the 90’s, I found myself in a Great Britain that was facing a wave of renewed nationalism. I was given “the treatment,” that every “brown-boy” was expected to endure. I was told that I was not welcome, that I should go back to where I came from. But that wasn’t enough. I was referred to as “cow-pat” (cow dung); I and my fellow brown-skinned Malaysians were generally aggregated along with the Indian members of the community, and were referred to, along with the Pakistani members of the population, as “packy” (a racial epithet: the fact that we were all different ethnicities didn’t matter much—it didn’t matter much for us either, we all just didn’t want to be attacked).

I had clothes ripped to pieces, belongings of mine smashed and broken, I was physically assaulted, and I had things stolen from my room, because, I was told, I was a brownie, so those things that were taken belonged not to me but to the white boy three doors down. When I protested and tried to take back what was mine, he came into my room with a metal chair, and threw it at my head. Thankfully, I raised my arms in time to protect myself. I was left with cuts, a broken cassette-tape player, and some heavy bruising (from the beating he gave after he realized that the chair hadn’t hurt me nearly enough), but, again, thankfully, not a serious head injury. When I was asked to explain what had happened, to the teachers and monitors, and I did, accurately but probably favoring my assailant for fear of retribution, I was told not to be such a softie, and that I should simply ignore what the white boy was saying. I remember thinking to myself, “Oh, should I also ignore the flying furniture?”

Many years later I found myself in a mental hospital, because my bipolar disorder was turning my brain into mush, and I was feeling extremely manic and extremely suicidal at the same time. I was asked to describe my experiences growing up. So I did, honestly, being quite open about what had happened in school, which was what I just shared with you. This doctor, who, incidentally, was Jewish, and who I guess I thought would have a certain degree of empathy regarding racism, looked coldly at me, and said, “So it seemed you experienced some bullying.” Right, I remember thinking (and fuming), the way your kindred had a minor inconvenience somewhere in the mid 20th century. (I suppose it wouldn’t be the internet if I didn’t invoke Hitler at some point.)

Other experiences were more sporadic, especially after 9/11. Odd looks here and there, furtive glances. Lots of third-degree-type behavior from immigration and customs officers. I remember learning to “act innocent” when traveling—to make sure that I had shaved, and ideally had a haircut as well. Wear something that connects me to something about where I am travelling to, such as a baseball cap etc. It didn’t matter a lick, apparently. One immigration officer stopped me and said I wasn’t allowed to carry a social security card if I only had a visitor’s visa. And that, kids, is how I lost my social security card forever. I later found out that, guess what, it was illegal for that officer to take my social security card. I don’t know about you, but in my opinion: you shouldn’t need a lawyer to accompany you through customs and immigration in order to be treated fairly.

I’ve been doing some practice embracing the world’s paradoxes lately, thrusting this subject back onto my radar. Part of me, perhaps too big a part of me, is able to look at these instances and rationalize them away with spiritual jargon, such as convincing myself that people act cruelly because they don’t know better, and, in the fullness of time, once they learn to act differently, they will. And I believe this, fairly strongly, in the same way that I tend to believe that souls go through many lifetimes, and thus it is possible for us to have lived lives as both victim and perpetrator. But to refocus on the way this subject is manifesting itself more globally today, this kind of passive compassion may be what has led us to where we are now. I’m not judging what’s happening, rather I’m merely acknowledging the inescapable inevitability of it, given the decisions that have led up to it.

My experiences with racial prejudice are nothing compared to what others have gone through. I’ve come out relatively unscathed and despite them I’ve had the freedom to create for myself the life I desire. The same cannot be said for so many who have pinned their hopes and dreams on social systems that, by all accounts and appearances, have not only failed them, but are actively rigged against them. My support is wholehearted to any who face the indignity of being forced to self-demonstrate every step they take, still only to have basic rights rationed, hidden, or flat out denied from them (the same goes for any organization I represent).

On a very small, very personal level, I remember being required to climb the unscalable range that is the esteem of the intolerant, and of the fearful. I remember needing to do it both in this country, and, in a different way, in the country of my birth as well. There’s a phrase in my native language, Bahasa Malaysia, “sama tapi bukan”—similar, but not the same. To this end, I might know how to bake every cake in the world, and, yes, that makes me a baker, but that doesn’t automatically mean that I know how to make great scones. Empathy and compassion aside, I cannot speak to anyone’s experiences other than my own. However, we are all still bakers in this scenario, and collectively, our rolls and loaves and sweetcakes and buns and bagels and scones all have value and meaning. In that vein, hopefully my stories and recollections have some value and meaning to the dialogue that is going on right now.

I hold to the fact that people can, must, and will contribute to the world song in the way that is best suited to who they are, be it speaking up on youtube, posting passionately on facebook, or else baking a cake (or a scone), writing a poem, painting a picture, or composing a song, and, furthermore, that the sooner it is understood the extent to which our fates are intertwined, the sooner we start self-identifying as a tolerant, pluralistic global society, the sooner, in this blogger’s humble opinion, will we get down to actually creating solutions to the world’s ills.

May this dialogue persist. May the people of conscience continue to be outspoken, to express themselves, and may they continue sharing their stories, their experiences, and the wisdom they’ve gained by going through what they’ve gone through. Your lives matter. Your stories are the cure among us that we seek. Share them.

Travel safe and talk soon.

-AF


RELATED LINKS:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=llci8MVh8J4
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v4amCfVbA_c&feature=emb_logo



Title Inspiration: Run (Ed Roland), Collective Soul

A Memory in Three Parts, Chapter Three

1/23/2020

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Continued from Chapter Two...
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source: get.pxhere.com

3) One Hundred Percent

We start rehearsals.

Okay. This seems like a good place to go back to the point about there not being a show, because we do keep landing on there, thus far with very little sign of finding any resolution. As mentioned, it wasn’t as though the show lacked content. We had songs. We had characters. We had scenes. We even had set pieces. What was it lacking?

There are two aspects to this question. The first one is fairly straight-forward, and, being so, was relatively straightforward to solve: the show lacked cohesion. The numbers it was missing were those that, somehow, turn rag-tag lists of songs into a show, or at the very least a song cycle or revue. As we began rehearsals, it soon became apparent that some sort of main through-line, and the basis of a main character, were being called for to help this happen. This led to the development of some of the more dramatically involved numbers in the show, including the You Can Make Me Smile/Departures sequence, the romantic duet What Would You Do, and the psychological nightmare Nocturne. It also became clear that, while not, strictly speaking, the story’s protagonist (this is one spoiler I’m not giving away today), Soul was indeed the main character of the show—the one through whose eyes we and the audience were to traverse the proceedings—and needed to be treated accordingly. It is at this point when I cannot help but recall, somewhere between rehearsal and rehearsal, in a half-hour flash of white fury, that the epiphany song When Tomorrow Comes came into being, and solidified the character’s role as group conscience, albeit at times a reluctant one.
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source: ae01.alicdn.com
The second aspect of this question, or rather, how it was solved, has remained something of a marvel to me, since SOM went into its final week of rehearsals, even though I lived through it, second by hyper-aware second. Now, as mentioned, I had written the show as a revue, meaning it would be a collection of thematically-linked songs, scenes, and sequences, in the musical theater style. It was balanced in terms of where the peaks and troughs were, and the resolution at its conclusion was clearly delineated. We had added elements of theatrical flair, such as an airplane, built out of four stools, for the number With Wings to Fly, as well as moments to showcase the vocal virtuosity of the cast members, not to mention their dancing chops (Find the Sun, and Swing!) But on the night before performance, something about the show just wasn’t working. Fiona, our tireless director, called an emergency meeting at her house. The show’s ending, she was convinced, needed an overhaul. I was exhausted—we all were. We bundled up into enough vehicles as were needed to fit us, and headed downtown, ostensibly to save the show. 

​For my part, I had no idea what was wrong, nor what the solution was for it. I would imagine the same could be said for the cast. However, we’d come to trust Fiona implicitly over the course of rehearsals—she had never led us astray before, why would she now?
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source: www.huffpost.com
We began to plunk out different combinations and permutations of how the ending three numbers would play out together, until at some point probably close to midnight, the idea appeared out of nowhere. Fiona instructed me to find a segue directly linking the fourth last (preantipenultimate, I suppose?) song to the closer, effectively erasing two songs from the show’s ending. I’ll admit, I was a little skeptical—it was a lot of music to leave out of a show that was already struggling to find its length quota. But, and this was the most significant moment that I would come to experience over the course of putting on this production—this wonderful, shoestring production—possibly one of the more remarkable collaborative moments I have experienced in my life: I simply trusted her judgment, knowing that this cut was going to make the show work, and, in turn, at least so I imagine, she trusted me, that I would be able to make that vision happen in a way that was authentic and satisfying. By then, folks had started to conk out in front of a silent TV screen with half-eaten packets of Doritos strewn across the coffee table. I put the finishing touches on the new arrangement, woke up the cast, and we ran it, once more, with feeling.

​It was magical.
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source: i.ytimg.com
As for the first—and only—performance, it went well, with hardly any hitch, which was a nice way for things to befall, given how much effort we had put into putting together a show, almost from scratch, with hardly a soul noticing, in under five weeks. The airplane flew, the tap number came together, the “blind” waltz elicited tears, the reworked ending even more so. What’s interesting to me, to this day, is what that “cut” (i.e. the omission of the 2nd and 3rd last numbers from the show) ended up doing. Rather than serve the audience a perfectly balanced meal on a silver platter, it made them jump a little bit, with a jarring switch of gears that, by rights, shouldn’t work, but, I’m finding out as I continue to grow as a creator, almost always does. The song Rain (the show’s closer) in light of this becomes less of a conclusion and more of a catharsis, as the audience struggles to catch up with the emotional roller coaster created by the sudden acceleration of the characters’ collective journey.

4) Live to Tell

Flashforward twenty years. I had plans for States of Matter. In the early aughts, I remember that I was hoping to workshop it, apprentice with preeminent theatricians in various places, exotic (well, places like Singapore and Kuala Lumpur, which, to me, would be considered less “exotic” and more “home”), and turn it into a “real show,” something that might be relevant beyond its years, a piece of immortality in a fleeting world. As the years passed, I was faced with disappointing reactions to the work. The Malaysians didn’t think it was Malay enough. The Singaporeans weren’t convinced it had relevance in Singapore. I started to wonder when it became acceptable for the identity of art to become so provincial—it would have been one thing, and possibly easier to accept, if consensus had simply been that my music was terrible. Eventually, I shut the project down, in favor of more commercially viable ventures. 

Yet, every so often, I would take it out of mothballs, and look it over, maybe do some rewrites, sketch out a new song. In those times, I find myself having this ongoing conversation with myself, wherein I’d pose the question: isn’t it about time to say goodbye to States of Matter? To let go of this ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen-year-old show once and for all?


I think of Fiona’s revisions. I consider them deeply. I’ve become very clear on the fact that they were not only necessary, not only ingenious, but likely integral to the success of what I like to refer to now as “SOM 2000.” Without them, I imagine, that, while audience members would likely have still been supportive, I don’t think we would have seen the droves of moistened-eyed pundits urging their way into the green room to say hello to the cast and crew, who had worked so hard to create something so out of the ordinary that night. It was an incredibly emotional set of moments, put together by an incredibly rare combination of energies. I certainly was blind-sided, and I don’t imagine we’d be able to create this catharsis again.
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source: www.shutterstock.com
​But maybe that’s just the point. We cannot recreate the magic that was SOM 2000, and perhaps nor should we. It will always have had its place in history. We have the memories, but the energy is long passed. We have all since been influenced by the ebbs and flows of time and the world song. We are different beings than we were then. What remains, if anything, of that SOM, are that which was written down, audio and video recordings of the performance, yes, but moreso, notated scores of songs, that can be read and learned by musicians, actors, and produced, and mounted on a stage. But to try and find our way back to that which was, in my opinion, would be folly. And maybe that’s all well and good.

Think of the experience of living history. I have friends who participate in this, and I have a passing interest in it myself. The idea of cooking a meal from scratch upon an open hearth to me holds in it an incredible sense of romance and adventure. So, one day I hope to create circumstances that will allow me to do such a feat, and, once done, have myself and my loved ones enjoy the fruits of our labors. But that doesn’t mean I have a wish to live in, say, the 18th century. I’m happy, in this case, to let the past be the past, while allowing, even chasing, for certain experiential aspects of this past to exist in the present. This is what’s called a dialectic, two contradictory poses that exist as one; life is full of them, and, I’m learning, the more of these apparent paradoxes I can come to understand, the more of them I can accept in life. And the more I can accept in life, the more opportunities there are, and the more options open up. At least, that’s what seems to make logical sense to me.

What is States of Matter, and what is its relevance in my life? On one hand, it’s a twenty-year-old piece of music theater that doesn’t particularly represent who I am now as a writer. Yet, and on the other hand, I have a great deal of love for it. And I do believe that, in all its sentimentality and generic inspirationalism, it still has things to offer in the marketplace of ideas, especially to young people or anyone who might be undergoing a process of loss of innocence, and a re-deciding of who they are, and, more importantly, who they would like to be. We are all the fearless explorer. We are all the shrewd pragmatist. We are all the turbulent psyche. And we are all the wise sage. We all wander through the rain, and we all long for home. This year we mark the 20th Anniversary of States of Matter’s first, and only, performance. In honor of it, we will be presenting, “States of Matter: In Concert”—an abridged version of the original show, in concert form, with select new material, and brand new orchestrations. Details to follow at bluedorian.com. We look forward to joining with you, in heart, music, rhythm, and soul.
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States of Matter, The Company, from left to right: Jennifer McDonald (Music), Steven J. Engelbrecht (Rhythm), Elizabeth Geuss (Soul), Adam Farouk, and Bill Meakem (Heart); image courtesy JM.

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A Memory in Three Parts, Chapter Two

1/22/2020

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Continued from Chapter One...
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source: www.glassdoor.co.in

1) Sail Away

Flashback to the fall of 1999. I’m a newly reinstated junior at Cornell University, Ithaca, New York, having spent the previous semester on academic leave of absence, in order to, ostensibly, decide whether or not tertiary education was indeed the thing for me. In truth, a lot of me was still unsure, but for the most part it seemed like the thing to do, to keep me out of trouble, so to speak, and, in retrospect, given the influence my being-there has had upon so many factors of my current existence, it’s hard to imagine what my life would have been without my having returned as I did. By then, I had had several bouts of musical theater fever, and was firmly ensconced in its grasp. I found myself spending time with its practitioners, including dating, on, then off, then on again, then off again, a woman of rare talent in the field. Through osmosis and exposure alone, I found myself lucky enough to glean no small amount of education in what for me continues to be a noble and fascinating subject.
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source: nystagereview.com
“States of Matter” had come a long way. Over the summer of 1999, I found myself in something of a writing glut, scratch-crafting songs that would go on to become some of the cornerstones of SOM, songs such as: Walking Away; With Wings to Fly; and Call of My Life—these titles may not be familiar to many of you, which, I’m realizing, is one of the reasons why I am writing this blog. But more on that to come. Over the fall, I took on my first major writing challenge, which was a mini-musical story that would eventually serve as the basis for SOM’s Memory and Visitations, Part One. I had long been a fan of R.C. Sherrif’s “Journey’s End,” and with more than a passing interest in World War One history, it felt natural, for me at least, to draw from both to create the backdrop for the Sail Away segment of the show. Unaccustomed, at the time, to writing music that served either characters or a story, writing the plucky young soldier, around whom the plot was centered, was fiercely uncharted territory, and brought with it no small complement of fears and concerns.
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source: www.irishnews.com
Fortunately, I had not arrived at the gates of this endeavor empty handed. Over the years, I had been fortunate enough to work with some incredibly talented individuals in the arenas of choral singing and a cappella. Even more a blessing, however, was that, among this community, there were individuals who were as rapt by musical theater as I was. In this way, three of the four cast members of States of Matter were found: Bill Meakem, who brought a stunning, lilting tenor, and an irrepressible energy to the role of the idealistic conscript; Steven J. Engelbrecht, whose commanding and charismatic baritone, not to mention his dance prowess, perfectly suited the roles he was to inhabit, and Elizabeth Geuss, whose sassy and sagacious coloratura infused her part with all the wit and wisdom it was calling for. Fortuitous, and fortunate, it would turn out. To this day, I remember nervously bringing sketches of Sail Away to Bill’s apartment, and playing them in so tentative a fashion as to border on contriteness. Thankfully not only were the eyes and ears supportive, but yearning, as I was, for involvement in an original work.

Sail Away was originally intended to be part of First Edition’s introductory showcase, to be held in December 1999, but for whatever reason, it never happened, which was probably all well and good, as it allowed the mini musical to be workshopped without the pressure of a looming deadline. In the meantime, songs continued to be written and workshopped, such that by the time winter break rolled around, myself, our producers Edmund Quirin and Rice Majors, and the three-quarter cast we had assembled had just about half a show under its belt. Of course, it was around this time when I also learned a very important lesson when it comes to production: better to have one thing done one hundred percent, than to have ten things done ten percent.


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source: sg.news.yahoo.com
Why, you ask? Fast-forward to 2000. It’s five weeks to curtain up, and, yup, you guessed it: we have no show.

2) Music

Now, by this point it should be clear, that when I say we “had no show,” rather than the total, complete absence of anything resembling a work of theater, what I actually mean is something a little bit different, linked—perhaps unsurprisingly—to the “very important lesson” mentioned above. Indeed, we had added to the inventory of working songs, including both the opener and closer, respectively: Just One Look, and Rain, the latter of which was based on the very original chord structure I had come up with, all those years ago, at Interlochen Arts Camp. We had found ourselves, in Fiona Santos and Jason Brantman, a director and stage manager with unquestionable bona fides, who were both, for some reason, willing to step onboard for the cause and take the helm of a novice production of a half-written show by a first-time composer. (When put that way, it seems almost foolhardy, like some sort of theatrician’s fear-factor challenge, the kind of thing that isn’t considered complete until someone’s devoured a whole raw fish.)

The most glaring omission at this point was the role of “Music,” one of the show’s four principal characters. We had already gone through two performers for the role, one of whom was a one-time stand-in for the ill-fated First Edition showcase, and the other of whom passed on the role in favor of a part in a concurrent student organization’s production of “The Lion in Winter”: understandable, even if I was a little incensed at the time. Backing up—over winter break I had put significant effort into the show’s opener: Just One Look, and it was then when one key component of the show was solidified: there were to be four cast members, two men, two women, and each character was represent one of four “states,” namely: Heart, Music, Rhythm, and Soul. Don’t worry too much about what this all means—it’s a bit like the characters from the movie “Inside Out,” except derived from metaphysics rather than from emotions. This becomes one of the key precepts of States of Matter, in addition to which is the idea that all of these characters are created equal. Among them there is no top billing, and the casting of the show must reflect that, which, at present, it did.

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source: www.pinterest.com
Flash forward to the spring. We’re starting to panic. We’re going through a comprehensive list of candidates the likes of which would make an election year blush. Fiona, our fearless director, has stepped in at times to play the role, and while she’s convincing, we all know it’s no long-term deal. The idea is even floated to me that my girlfriend at the time might step in and play the part. Now, she’s a professional actress, with years of training under her belt, while the current members of the cast, talented and dedicated as they are, are ultimately student amateurs. Such a disparity in experience and practical knowledge of the craft would only serve to highlight any inequality that may exist between them, in addition to going against one of SOM’s core precepts (see above). It’s a glaringly obvious fact, one for which I gain no points whatsoever in pointing out to her. No big deal, I’m told, by everyone; the fact that I find myself newly single by midsummer is surely just coincidence.

We finish going through the list, and no one is particularly suitable. The actors won’t handle the intricate musical numbers. The singers are lacking in character. I’m about to lose hope, when who do I run into in the university chapel’s basement (a common hangout for choral singers—trust me, it’s not as weird as it sounds) other than one of my oldest of college friends, who quite literally walked up the slope with me on the first day of class: 
Jennifer McDonald, who, I’d often thought, would have been a shoe-in for the part of “Music,” with her clean belt and natural sense of introspection, but for the fact that this was, ultimately, a student production, meaning cast members would have to balance academics, social lives, and other competing extracurriculars. Aware of her full schedule, I simply didn’t think to ask, until the date of the production started to loom, ever closer, and politeness was swiftly trumped by practicality. We needed a full cast; the worst that could happen was that she said no. Once again, whatever the driving force behind her taking on well more than a student ought to in a single semester, the production was blessed by her decision to participate, as it was too with now SOM veterans Bill, Steve, and Elizabeth, who were playing Heart, Rhythm, and Soul, respectively.

Continued in Chapter Three...
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A Memory in Three Parts, Chapter One

1/21/2020

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source: https://cornellsun.com
It was late January, the year 2000, and who could have ever predicted that such a rag-tag crew of haphazardly-organized, multi-passionate but painfully-inexperienced wannabe producers would have grown into a steadfast company of creative entrepreneurs, bound and determined to bring to life a theatrical production, whose success, be it artistic, financial, or otherwise, was far from assured. The presentation in question was an experimental musical revue I’d been writing on and off for the past three, or six, years, depending on to whom you spoke. By winter’s end, still 2000, the fledgling student organization “First Edition Productions”—who was mounting the production—had found itself a director, a stage manager, a good three quarters of the cast, the band (such as it was—one single pianist), a producer, and a venue. The other components, it seemed, could still be picked up along the way, with ample time for rehearsal before curtain up. There was, however, one small problem.

​There was no show.

Flashforward twelve years. The Mayan apocalypse approaches, and I’m inventorying my body of work as part of a comprehensive website redevelopment effort. The lead designer, going through the list of current BlueDorian projects, arrives at a collection of documents grouped together under the three-lettered acronym: SOM. I’m asked about it, and I clarify that SOM stands for “States of Matter,” which is a show I wrote, back in college. A follow-up question is posed—nothing pointed, just to gather more info on the subject; I’m asked: That’s a twelve-year-old project. Does it still have relevance in your life?
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www.mynorth.com
Flashback to the summer of 1995. I’m attending Interlochen Arts Camp, a jumbled mess of emotions (me, not the camp—I take that back: also, at times, the camp), playing piano for one of the institution’s jazz bands, alongside a charming, kind, self-possessed young lady named Norah, who, unbeknownst to all of us at the time, was slowly preparing herself for when she would eventually go on to become a worldwide superstar and leading expert in the field of a mellow, mellow, oh so mellow, jazz. Meanwhile, I’m spending most of my time trying to figure out life, without ever pausing to think about whether life ever took the time to try and figure out me. My closest friend at the time is a consummate New Yorker, with an ascerbic tongue and offbeat sense of humor. We bond over the original score of the musical “City of Angels;” he introduces me to the William Finn masterpiece “Falsettos,” and a firm friendship is forged.

We decide per breakfast one day that he and I should collaborate together and write a musical. Naturally, we decide on coming up with the title for this magnum opus first (priorities, priorities). Unable to conceive of any better means for such a vital task, the method we settle on ends up being a game of word association. Somehow, from goodness knows where, we stumble our way to the phrase “States of Matter” and decide that it is fitting, which is saying very little given that we’d yet to decide on subject matter. But with the grand excitement of a new project to sink one’s teeth into, by the end of the next week, I had put down the basic chord structure to a song. My thinking was that my collaborator would finish it, by writing its lyrics. This was not to be. By then, he had made plans to withdraw from the wooded cabins of northwestern Michigan, and return to the pulse and fervor of the Big Apple. I shelved my new creation, not thinking it likely I would ever see it again.
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http://www.asergeev.com
I remember the question as though I were being asked it today: Does States of Matter have relevance in my life? It—the question—tingles up, in, and around my brain, like a hyperactive triangle player, filling me with dread and incertitude. Earlier that year I’d brushed it off as a possible put-forth for some theater festival or other. A colleague of mine, whom I was speaking to on the phone at the time, validated this decision, responding with something along the lines of: Yeah, you don’t want to submit something you wrote in college. I was quick to agree back then. Now, as I find myself on the precipice of what will be States of Matter’s 20th Anniversary year, I discover that I am less assured of my convictions, wondering instead if there is a place, not merely in memory, but perennial, for this piece of barely pre-twenty-first-century art, in all its heartfelt theatrical naiveté, a place in the world dialogue, as we all stumble along together through the beginnings of a new millennium, a place in our hearts as we each take one step closer to finding the sun.

Continued in Chapter Two...
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Watershed 2019

12/31/2019

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source: youtube.com/user/KilligrewMusic/featured
The year draws to a close, and I’ll be honest with you, I’m not sure I have the energy to go twelve rounds with another one. Between the mental health diagnoses and their ongoing, and in many cases worsening, symptoms, and several emerging physiological issues as well, next year I would hardly be surprised if I were to find myself on the receiving end of something fatal, and, I have to say, some days I’m not sure I wouldn’t welcome it.

I’ve always been honest with these watershed posts. I’ve never sugar-coated my feelings. I’m really thankful for all the support I received upon reentry to the world after my hospital stabilizations this year. I can say for certain that I would not have made it through with quite as much of what little remains of my sanity intact without the calm, kind, and caring strength shown to me by friends and family, who in the face of these circumstances rallied to become the support network I never knew I had. I am deeply touched by this collective gesture, and will hold it near and dear to my heart for always.

​The weeks and months following reentry were a difficult period, and continue to be so, with symptoms showing no sign of abating—in fact, they seem only to strengthen with time. No one seems to know exactly what’s going on with me, exactly what is the matter with me, let alone how to present any coherent plan to try and heal me. I am told that the work takes time; what I experience is that with each day the symptoms become further entrenched, and increasingly more difficult to face. I spend most of my time—I may have mentioned this before—with my eyes closed, to try and escape the symptoms and the turmoil they convey.

I’ll keep this short, meaning to say that I’m winding up. I’m often loathe to make life-suggestions, believing a person’s right to choose the content of their experience to be paramount. But in going through what has been beyond the hardest year of my humble existense, I feel, for once, a sense of responsibility: that to hold my tongue in this instance might be to miss out on an opportunity to do some good, or at the very least to share some perspective that, who knows, might be worthwhile to someone out there.

So, to any and all who might find this relevant: a recommendation. Look around you, and admire all the beauty that you see, including, perhaps especially, the beauty that is yourself. Devour all there is that brings you joy to see. Watch the world. Observe it, mindfully, with curiosity, and wonder. Speaking as a person who may never be able to take the simple act of looking at the world for granted ever again, I cannot emphasize this more. The world is a beautiful place, absolutely stunning, and I miss it so much. Take in the best of the world, and leave the rest. Allow its beauty to bring you satisfaction, happiness, and joy.

​You deserve it.
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source: https://resize-parismatch.lanmedia.fr
Travel safe, and talk soon. -AF

Title Inspiration:
Song: WATERSHED (Saliers)
Artist: INDIGO GIRLS
                ​Enjoy! -AF
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Where Troubles Melt Like Lemon Drops

11/19/2019

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source: https://c1.staticflickr.com
My Dearest Mack and Tosh,

I hope this finds you well. I’m writing to catch you up in more detail on some of what has been going on here with me over the past few months. I’m going to dive right in. There’s some candid content here, be forewarned.

As you know, this past April I had a major mental health emergency, and was hospitalized in a voluntary inpatient unit for several days. I was discharged quickly, with a new meds regimen, which everyone, including me, thought would solve the issues recurrent prior to my admission. Unfortunately it did the opposite, amplifying my symptoms to the point where I was basically existing in what I might describe as high-crazy mode most of the time. Long story short, the situation culminated with my readmitting myself into hospital, and spending another stint in a mental health inpatient unit.

I was, eventually, discharged again, with a different meds regimen, a different therapeutic model, and a different, more fitting, diagnosis. I am, clinically speaking, more or less stable, but the combination of symptoms make it difficult to take anything for granted. Along with the bipolar disorder, which I still have, I meet sufficient criteria to be diagnosed with borderline personality disorder, which, as we know, is simply delightful—in addition to which, I have a combination of anxiety symptoms, which express themselves most frequently in the form of panic attacks, which are severe and can strike at any time, as well as something residing in a ballpark very nearby to obsessive compulsive disorder. Together, it’s a tricky situation to manage, to say the least.

Even as I’ve recovered considerably over the past two and a half months, I still experience my symptoms considerably, especially those related to OCD. I’ll be going about my business, when suddenly I start noticing something, for example, a spot on the wall. Then, I cannot stop noticing it. I t takes up all my attention. If I try to fight—in order to stop noticing it—the symptom (i.e. the obsession about the spot) only gets worse. The only way to stop noticing it is to somehow “accept” that my mind is obsession about the spot, but this is not always easy, or possible, to do.

In these moments it’s very easy to be overwhelmed be feelings of hopelessness and darkness. The other day I had some intense dark thoughts, as a bi-product of unprocessed symptomatology. Before long I found myself questioning why I was alive, and wondering if the alternative might not be a more preferable state of affairs: a chilling place, indeed. Thankfully, with even my meager practice of coping skills, plus some help from the new meds regimen, I was able to get through these thoughts, and make it safely to the other side.

I’m realizing how important it is for me to find a way to stay connect to people, and avoid isolatory situations as far as is possible (barring writing, which, for better or worse, is typically done alone). Feelings of hopelessness can metastasize in isolation (for me, anyway). I’m looking to stay on the side of light and lightness.

If you’ve read this far, thank you, and I appreciate it. Will look forward to when our paths next cross.
​
​Travel safe. Talk soon.

-AF
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source: http://www.thewizardofozmovie.com

Title Inspiration:
Song: OVER THE RAINBOW
Artist: ISRAEL "IZ" KAMAKAWIWO'OLE
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    Adam Farouk (born April 6, 1978) is a Malaysian musician, producer, writer, and entrepreneur, currently based in the United States. He is known for his integrative approach to the creative arts, and frequently infuses his works with unlikely combinations of style, influence, and genre.

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