Post by GRAHAM ALBRECHT GOODWIN on May 24, 2009 22:26:40 GMT -5
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GRAHAM ALBRECHT GOODWIN
"if i could make you stop and take a look at me instead of just walking by..."
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GRAHAM ALBRECHT GOODWIN
"if i could make you stop and take a look at me instead of just walking by..."
------------------------------------------------------------------------OKAY, SO GIVE US THE BASICS !
"ER, HELLO THERE. I AM GRAHAM ALBRECHT GOODWIN BUT YOU CAN JUST CALL ME GRAHAM. I HAVE BEEN WREAKING HAVOC FOR 16 YEARS AND I DON'T REALLY PLAN ON STOPPING SOON. I GRACED THIS WORLD WITH MY PRESENCE ON BIRTHDAY. I BRANDISH A ROSEWOOD, 11 INCH, DEMIGUISE HAIR WAND, I KNOW YOU ARE JEALOUS. I AM IN THE HOUSE OF RAVENCLAW, 5TH YEAR, AND DAMN PROUD. I WAS BORN WITH MIXED BLOOD, NOT THAT IT REALLY MATTERS. SO YEAH, ARE WE DONE?"[/size]
SORRY, NOT QUITE. SO WHAT ARE AND AREN'T YOU INTO ?
"Well, I like to read a bit. Give me any kind of book and I will read it, even the really cheesy paperbacks. I once read for eighteen hours straight during a flight. I also like studying up on all different sorts of things, just knowing a little bit about everything, but I guess that comes with the reading habit. I like to sketch too, but just portraits and people, observational stuff. I've been playing violin for about seven years now, and even though I'm not that good at it yet, I really enjoy learning it and practicing."[/size]
HOW ER... INTERESTING. EVER LOOKED INTO THE MIRROR OF ERISED ?
"Well, I want to achieve as many O.W.Ls as possible, and pass my N.E.W.Ts, so that's my main goal right now, finishing school. After that, I'm not sure. I want to put my schooling to good use, but I'm not sure how to in a career. I've been thinking about transfiguration... but I might just get my a-levels and go to muggle university. It's really something I've been working for but really know the least about yet."[/size]
WHAT MAKES YOU SHAKE IN YOUR BOOTS ?
"I'm a bit afraid of the water, mostly because of an accident I had as a kid, but even the idea of being in the ocean, unable to touch the bottom, just swimming until your arms give out... it's frightening to think about. The same for outer space too - it's the enormity of the universe, being so small and insignificant compared to, well, everything. The feeling that my life here on earth doesn't matter is realistic, I suppose, but it's still scary, to think I won't change anything by existing. That people die every day and the world keeps turning. I guess it's a bit selfish, but I guess I want my life to change something, someday. To have an impact, any kind at all."[/size]
EVEN YOU HAVE TO HAVE SOME GOOD QUALITIES, RIGHT ?
"Well, I'm not particularly great at anything - I do well with schoolwork, but that's mostly from effort. I've become a pretty fast reader because of it, but that doesn't really equate to a good quality. I'm not a bad person - I mean, I'm tolerant and I'm not exactly quick to judge, so I suppose that counts as good. Overall, I guess I would say I have more bad qualities than good ones."[/size]
AND IT'S QUITE OBVIOUS YOU HAVE YOUR BAD, HUH ?
"Bad qualities. I'm not athletic in the slightest, since I don't really have the build for it and I'm pretty clumsy. I do admire athletes though; it's amazing how much they endure for their sports. And I'm not terribly social. I just... I just don't know what people need, or if I am looking too much into what people say or if something's going over my head. I get lonely, but I figure I'm better just not treading on dangerous ground. I feel like I overanalyze too much and can't stop thinking about every little thing. I get flustered easily, and I'm not really... well, I mean, I'm just not really fit, I guess."[/size]
LET'S GET DIRTY. WHAT TURNS YOU ON ?
"Well, that's not something I - erm. I mean, I don't really - you know. Um."[/size]
DO YOU LOVE YOUR FAMILY ?
"Yes, of course. My mom's an actress and my dad's a diplomat, and besides not being around all the time, they're really lovely people. Genuine, y'know? I feel like I could tell them everything and anything. And my brother Wes is my best friend... he understands me, and doesn't expect anything from me other than what I offer as a person. I really love them all."[/size]
WHERE YA FROM, BY THE WAY ?
"My family lived in Germany for a while, in Baden-Wuerttemberg, but we moved to England when I was about eight years old. Now we live in Exeter, at least during the summers when my parents are home and we are done with school. We still visit Germany over holiday."[/size]
THE DEMENTORS ARE HERE. WHAT DO YOU THINK OF ?
"There was a pond half a mile from my house in Germany, so my brother and I would go skating when it froze over in winter. My mom had always been against it, so we didn't always tell her where we were going. We only went on the coldest days, when it seemed thick enough, but we got anxious one day in December and decided to go. It was just the two of us skating around the outside, but I got too close to the middle, where it wasn't thick enough to hold my weight... I can still hear the crack, about a second before I fell through the ice. Just remembering that sound and feeling the world underneath me disappear... I was lucky my brother was there, or I wouldn't be here. Scariest moment of my life."[/size]
BETTER GET UP A PATRONUS. WHAT ARE YOU REMEMBERING ?
"My best memory... honestly, I don't think I could pick. I feel like there hasn't been a best one yet. They all run together, frankly. I wish that wasn't the case."[/size]
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HI, I AM DANI AND I AM 17 YEARS OLD.
I HAVE BEEN DOING THIS FOR SIX YEARS AND I'M NOT
QUITTING ANYTIME SOON. WELL, I GUESS I NEED TO SHOW YOU I'M THE SHIT,
SO HERE IT GOES.
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HI, I AM DANI AND I AM 17 YEARS OLD.
I HAVE BEEN DOING THIS FOR SIX YEARS AND I'M NOT
QUITTING ANYTIME SOON. WELL, I GUESS I NEED TO SHOW YOU I'M THE SHIT,
SO HERE IT GOES.
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Graham padded quietly down the hallway of the music wing, the silence nearly too golden to disturb with his usual scuffs and shuffling. His messenger bag hung limp at his side, barely swishing with each step he made, the contents but a few sheets of music. If he had known it was going to be so hot, he would have abandoned the bag at his dorm, as it only seemed to add to the layers of clothing - and consequently added to the heat - currently pressing against him. Oh, the heat. It hung, thick and moist in the air; he could nearly taste the brick and stone that comprised the building, the metallic tang of brass, and the paper of new compositions being picked over, painstakingly composed, thrown away. The humidity almost tricked Graham’s senses into thinking the music was actually tangible, that the sweat that clung to his neck was really an instrument’s part during a rest, heavy and anxious, just waiting to be reintroduced into the piece.
As a matter of fact, everything about his surroundings screamed music; posters advertising conferences and colleges for students cluttered the wall, stands sat lifeless and unused along the walls. One of the reasons Graham had been so taken with the academy was the atmosphere itself, so genuinely artistic and practically leaking inspiration across everyone who walked its halls. The talent here was incredible, and he didn’t find it hard to imagine that the school itself had a profound impact on that talent, giving it life and purpose.
He soon heard the faint, but bright ring of a trumpet; the volume increased as he walked forward and passed by an open door. Pausing a bit, his natural, observant curiosity spurring him to do so, he watched the boy inside play a few more bars before looking in his direction with a puzzled look on his face. Graham flushed slightly in spite of himself and nodded slightly, awkwardly backing away and continuing on his way to the violin room. He was never good at interacting with others; just a moment ago he wanted to comment on the playing, remark at how good his tone quality was, but as soon as those eyes were upon him, every planned compliment left him speechless and, frankly, embarrassed. It was something he couldn’t explain, but he certainly knew what it was: a curse.
A breath of cold air greeted Graham as he finally entered the violin room, and he sighed pleasantly, eyes closed to the suddenly quaint atmosphere. He thanked the delicacy of the instruments’ wood, their need for proper humidity and ventilation an escape from the trying heat outside. Wiping the sweat from his neck, he looked about the room for any other students who may have decided to practice at that particular moment and found none. Confident in his solitude, he removed his knit, brown sweater vest and draped it delicately on the back of a chair, adjusting the collar of his shirt and even unbuttoning the top button, as means to release the excess sweat and heat trapped against his skin. Much more comfortable.
Mind returning to his actual intentions, being practice, Graham pulled his bag open, removing a manila folder of music as he did so. Inside were copies of his exam pieces, which he then sat on a stand and raised to proper height. They were complicated, not impossible, but heeded much attention to the details. He would learn the songs well enough, but he would never play as well as he really could when the songs had such little impact on him. If he couldn’t feel the song, it made all the motions forced and heavy, each push and pull of the bow labored and feeling entirely too much like work. Of course, he enjoyed the music and playing it, the only time he actually received attention or praise from anyone, but found it difficult to put his heart and soul into something so dull to his ears.
He began mechanically playing scales, procrastinating a bit as he idly glanced around the room, looking for an excuse to put off his practice a tad longer. However, it wasn’t in the wood and the music of the room that he found that excuse - it was really in his heart. Looking around once again, as if to ensure his professor wouldn’t witness him dawdling, he recognized the real reason he endured the heat, assumed his violin into its rightful position, and smiled to himself. Graham knew he wasn’t going to be practicing his exam pieces when he’d left his room earlier, knew that there was another song on his mind that couldn’t be shaken
A callused fingertip to a string, one after another, and a bow at the ready. The short prelude, a slight, inoffensive piano and cello melody, echoed in his mind quietly as he stood, poised and breathless. Never could he simply jump into a piece - at least, not one he’d heard before. Graham felt as if he was always performing, even if it was just for himself, and needed the proper introduction, the time to take his final, deliberate breaths, and to hear the very last note, always seeming to last for eternity, before it was his turn to woo the audience.
His cue came, and in that moment, all the tension in him was gone.
The bow slid gently across the strings, but with a dedicated firmness that came from years upon years upon bleeding fingers upon frustrations that tore at him endlessly. Hours had been devoted to the art, but every tear he’d ever cried, every band-aid he’d wrapped around a finger, every concert he’d finished completely unsatisfied with his performance was forgotten as he begun to play. His fingers quivered in time with short trills, seemed to dance of their own accord while his eyes lost focus, glazed over as he indulged in the soft fantasy that was the music. The irony of the song he was playing had struck him when he first researched the piece, made him smirk slightly and reconsider choosing it as his , but as soon as he sat down with a CD of it and actually listened, he was struck by love and the need to imitate the dulcet tones with his violin.
And he did so at that moment, eyes drooping shut as his body began to sway subconsciously, knees bending at the beginning of a crescendo, shoulders peaking and falling at the climax, a low bow during the softer, muted notes. It was a waltz of some sort, not traditional and stately, affixed with a certain amount of steps, but it had a rhythmic quality that, without the violin in hand, could pass as a dance of its own. His body was a vehicle for the music, his fingers merely the driver of the beautiful, sophisticated song, and the rest of him - arms, legs, mind, soul - merely kept along for the ride.
As a matter of fact, everything about his surroundings screamed music; posters advertising conferences and colleges for students cluttered the wall, stands sat lifeless and unused along the walls. One of the reasons Graham had been so taken with the academy was the atmosphere itself, so genuinely artistic and practically leaking inspiration across everyone who walked its halls. The talent here was incredible, and he didn’t find it hard to imagine that the school itself had a profound impact on that talent, giving it life and purpose.
He soon heard the faint, but bright ring of a trumpet; the volume increased as he walked forward and passed by an open door. Pausing a bit, his natural, observant curiosity spurring him to do so, he watched the boy inside play a few more bars before looking in his direction with a puzzled look on his face. Graham flushed slightly in spite of himself and nodded slightly, awkwardly backing away and continuing on his way to the violin room. He was never good at interacting with others; just a moment ago he wanted to comment on the playing, remark at how good his tone quality was, but as soon as those eyes were upon him, every planned compliment left him speechless and, frankly, embarrassed. It was something he couldn’t explain, but he certainly knew what it was: a curse.
A breath of cold air greeted Graham as he finally entered the violin room, and he sighed pleasantly, eyes closed to the suddenly quaint atmosphere. He thanked the delicacy of the instruments’ wood, their need for proper humidity and ventilation an escape from the trying heat outside. Wiping the sweat from his neck, he looked about the room for any other students who may have decided to practice at that particular moment and found none. Confident in his solitude, he removed his knit, brown sweater vest and draped it delicately on the back of a chair, adjusting the collar of his shirt and even unbuttoning the top button, as means to release the excess sweat and heat trapped against his skin. Much more comfortable.
Mind returning to his actual intentions, being practice, Graham pulled his bag open, removing a manila folder of music as he did so. Inside were copies of his exam pieces, which he then sat on a stand and raised to proper height. They were complicated, not impossible, but heeded much attention to the details. He would learn the songs well enough, but he would never play as well as he really could when the songs had such little impact on him. If he couldn’t feel the song, it made all the motions forced and heavy, each push and pull of the bow labored and feeling entirely too much like work. Of course, he enjoyed the music and playing it, the only time he actually received attention or praise from anyone, but found it difficult to put his heart and soul into something so dull to his ears.
He began mechanically playing scales, procrastinating a bit as he idly glanced around the room, looking for an excuse to put off his practice a tad longer. However, it wasn’t in the wood and the music of the room that he found that excuse - it was really in his heart. Looking around once again, as if to ensure his professor wouldn’t witness him dawdling, he recognized the real reason he endured the heat, assumed his violin into its rightful position, and smiled to himself. Graham knew he wasn’t going to be practicing his exam pieces when he’d left his room earlier, knew that there was another song on his mind that couldn’t be shaken
A callused fingertip to a string, one after another, and a bow at the ready. The short prelude, a slight, inoffensive piano and cello melody, echoed in his mind quietly as he stood, poised and breathless. Never could he simply jump into a piece - at least, not one he’d heard before. Graham felt as if he was always performing, even if it was just for himself, and needed the proper introduction, the time to take his final, deliberate breaths, and to hear the very last note, always seeming to last for eternity, before it was his turn to woo the audience.
His cue came, and in that moment, all the tension in him was gone.
The bow slid gently across the strings, but with a dedicated firmness that came from years upon years upon bleeding fingers upon frustrations that tore at him endlessly. Hours had been devoted to the art, but every tear he’d ever cried, every band-aid he’d wrapped around a finger, every concert he’d finished completely unsatisfied with his performance was forgotten as he begun to play. His fingers quivered in time with short trills, seemed to dance of their own accord while his eyes lost focus, glazed over as he indulged in the soft fantasy that was the music. The irony of the song he was playing had struck him when he first researched the piece, made him smirk slightly and reconsider choosing it as his , but as soon as he sat down with a CD of it and actually listened, he was struck by love and the need to imitate the dulcet tones with his violin.
And he did so at that moment, eyes drooping shut as his body began to sway subconsciously, knees bending at the beginning of a crescendo, shoulders peaking and falling at the climax, a low bow during the softer, muted notes. It was a waltz of some sort, not traditional and stately, affixed with a certain amount of steps, but it had a rhythmic quality that, without the violin in hand, could pass as a dance of its own. His body was a vehicle for the music, his fingers merely the driver of the beautiful, sophisticated song, and the rest of him - arms, legs, mind, soul - merely kept along for the ride.
made by VERA SAY WHA ?! of caution 2.0!
