...herro?

So.....its been a while.  Honestly, haven't had a moment to breathe.

Things are SO different now than last year at this time.  I've been so happy.  I started working at Grassroots Campaigns on behalf of the ASPCA in the end of May.  It's been incredible learning how to canvass, and really throw all those inhibitions of reject OUT the window and stand on the street all day long trying to get people involved in organizations that do amazing work, at a level that they're comfortable with....of course!

I campaigned and raised awareness for the ASPCA for about four months.  My time there me and my crews raised thousands upon thousands of dollars, all going directly to help animals in need.  Canvassing gives me a high that I don't get from performing.  It's activism at its rawest most beautiful self and suffice to say I LOVE IT.  I'm currently still at Grassroots campaigning for Planned Parenthood Federation of America.  It's really amazing to have about thirty conversations every single day that are filled with insight, passion, and real-world experiences.  Getting people to give, in honor of women and teens all over this country, and their reproductive health is so rewarding. 

On top of that, I'm still singing my heart out, taking some really interesting classes and excelling at them, and overall having a wonderful time.  I really love life.  And to make it better, I turn 21 in EXACTLY one week!  Woohoo!!


Till next time, all.


-Nichole

my new life...

Why hello there all,

It's been quite a while, and DAMN I was doing so well for a little bit there updating regularly and all.  Alas, we all knew it wouldn't last.  But, now it will.

My life has changed.  I'm not returning to MSM this year for personal reasons.  I'm taking a year off, taking some classes elsewhere AND having and AMAZING job at the same time.  I'm working for Grassroots Campaigns, INC, on behalf of the ASPCA and the animals that they serve.

Basically, I go out on the streets of NYC everyday, fundraising for our four-legged friends.  I've done pretty well for myself so far.  It's good :)  So yea,  I think I'll talk about that alot on here.

Anyway, gotta go for now.  But yea, I'm alive.
:)

i've escaped from neverland...

talking cat swirls into an oblivion of bubbles.
when the bubbles pop
i see the truth
the lies, the deceit
the mad hatters cane upon my chest.
too much
yet not enough
new chapter, no more neverland
onto my dreams.
oz.

an attempt at a critical look at shows on suburbia.

Desperate Housewives has been rightfully accused of hawking a lurid form of conservatism on Sunday nights, but you get a sense while watching it that series creator Marc Cherry and his cohorts intend to say something profound about suburbia with their outmoded view of females and the inexplicably coordinated Redbook couture that hugs their perky frames. What that message is I'm not exactly sure, and neither does Matt Feeny, whose amusing review of the show for Slate focuses almost entirely on the program's single most irritating facet: the narration by Mary Alice Young, a woman whose mysterious death is the program's one unbroken plotline. The woman's honeyed voice, rife with emphatic pauses, beats the audience over the head in such a way you'd think the show's creators believe we're as stupid as their characters. (Want to annoy the shit out of your roommate? Just answer any and all of their questions with a sexy, drawn-out yeeeeeeeeeesss.)

A mess of genre inflections, Desperate Housewives has nothing to say about the neighborhoods we live in that wasn't already essayed with greater complexity and a more intense, cohesive vision by David Lynch in Twin Peaks and its big-screen preamble Fire Walk With Me But we continue to watch anyway, and it's not because there isn't anything else playing on Sunday nights, but because the show does have its pleasures: The dramatic elements may be contrived, but Felicity Huffman is a revelation and the comedy is often very good, provocative even—like Marcia Cross's uptight Bree revealing her husband's private sex fantasies to a roomful of people or her character suggesting "Palestine" as a control word during a role-playing scenario.

It's easy to see Showtime's Weeds as a response to Desperate Wives, much in the same way that Cherry's dramedy has opened the door for films like “The Shat”- paint suburbia as secret covens of perversity. (For the sake of film culture, we should all pray that Desperate Housewives fizzles out sooner rather than later.) The Village Voice's Joy Press, who shares my opinion and inexplicably sick fascination with Desperate Housewives, sees Weeds as "a giant fuck-you to the retro conservatism of Wisteria Lane," but I'm not so sure this fuck-you is so giant or that Showtime's new show is hawking a vision of Americana that's any less retro.

Desperate Housewives isn't subversive because that would mean Cherry was actually trying to subvert something to begin with—instead he upholds a status quo that champions a weak, soulless form of womanhood. And though Weeds doesn't grapple with hot-button issues the same way Desperate Housewives does—via gossip, secrets and mock shows of horror and righteousness—its "keepin' it real" demeanor still feels like a hackneyed front. What's the difference anyway between the women of these shows besides the fact that Mary-Louise Parker and Elizabeth Perkins's characters probably don't subscribe to O Magazine and that they enjoy saying "fuck" a lot, which isn't even radical, just a luxury of having your show play on premium cable. One show panders to conservative fears, the other to liberal sensibilities. I mean, who else but a snobbish blue-stater would smile when Kevin Nealon on Weeds says, "I wouldn't take a dump in the Olive Garden"? 

In the span of four episodes, we have learned absolutely nothing about Nancy (Parker) except that she's recently widowed and that she supplies the town's adults with marijuana, which she gets from some African-American matriarch, Heylia (Tonye Patano), who lives in a part of town that is never really surveyed but is assumed to be a little more ghetto than the part of the neighborhood where the white people live. (Like Desperate Housewives, there isn't a profound sense of location, as if the camera refuses to really open up and study the topography of its fictional 'burb. It's Backlot, Hollywood as Americana.) Nancy can't be bothered to play the mother to her two boys because she's too busy trying to score hash from her sassy supplier, whose family's congregations around the kitchen table suggest the show's creators learned everything they know about black social customs from The Cookout.

But Weeds isn't racist because the whites seem to be cut from the same stereotypical cardboard as the blacks. Desperate Housewives played the race card during its season finale, readying season two with a villain by dragging Alfre Woodard into white-bread Wisteria Lane. (The way Nicollette Sheridan and Woodard interacted you'd think the town committee had just passed an anti-segregation housing measure.) On Weeds, the interactions between Nancy and her suppliers are no less troublesome. The camaraderie Parker and Patano's characters share is of the honky-you-so-crazy-nigga-please variety, and I'm not sure if these exchanges are genuine expressions of friendship or contempt. Are these characters simpatico because they like each other or because they need each other's business? It's not an elucidation the show's writers care to make.

The show begins with Nancy's husband already dead and the woman trying to eek out a living for her children. How she got involved selling marijuana isn't a point the program wants to belabor—it assumes, rightfully so, that hip audiences don't care about what she's doing ('cause, you know, we want some of that ganja too), at least as long as she isn't selling to minors. But how she came to choose this path is important, and since the matter-of-fact tone of the show doesn't suggest that secrets are being withheld from the audience, I'm not exactly sure we're ever going to find out why Nancy came to sell drugs or how her husband came to pass. This is lazy storytelling, and if the creators want us to sympathize with their main character, it isn't working. I mean, if money is such a problem for this woman, why isn't moving out of her oversized house and firing the Latina maid ever an option? Even if the memories of her husband and her liberal guilt preclude her from doing so, you wouldn't know it from watching the show.

Lucky for Weeds that some of its supporting players are knock-outs, especially Perkins, who plays Nancy's neighbor and best friend. Both Perkins's character Celia and Bree from Desperate Housewives are ghoulish control freaks trying to cope with cheating husbands and children whose problems are really their own: Bree's son likes to mess around with other boys and Celia's daughter is overweight. Usually a major fixture in any given episode, Celia is almost completely abandoned in episode four: she kicks off the episode by flicking her husband's morning wood and isn't seen again until the final scene, when she reveals to her husband that she has cancer at the precise moment fallen cargo from an airplane has ripped a hole in the roof of their bedroom. Having Perkins's only scenes bookend the episode was a dynamic expression of her character's profound sense of emptiness.

Allie Grant, as Celia's daughter Isabelle, is also good, stealing episode three after Celia puts laxatives in Isabelle's cookies and the girl describes the horror of having to throw her panties in the woods and the children at school dubbing her Shit Girl. Ditto Alexander Gould, the voice of Nemo from Finding Nemo, who plays Nancy's 10-year-old son Shane. The character's awkward pre-adolescence is perceptive and separates him from the rest of his team on the soccer field, and in spite of his chipper and eccentric demeanor (he cracks an impious smile when he hears on television about a dangerous mountain lion that is loose in their fictional town of Agrestic, California), there's a profound sense of loneliness that underscores his every action. He misses his father and he seems to understand that Mom is unable to fulfill or understand the paternal void the man's death has left behind.

Whenever Gould is on screen, the show feels miraculously centered. His solo scenes, whether it's staring at images of his dead father through a video camera's viewfinder or strapping himself to a chair and waiting to shoot a mountain lion with his BB gun, are quirky, funny and humane without feeling forced or ingratiating. His character is rich in a way that Parker's simply is not. (This isn't an insult to Parker—like Lisa Kudrow on the heinous The Comback Parker brings a great performance to a less than one-dimensional part.) There's a sense that the writers of Weeds are as lazy as their main character—that they understand her as little as she seems to understand herself—but maybe there is hope for both the show and its main character. Nancy doesn't believe Shane when he says he shot the mountain lion in the eye, but later she sees the lion in her backyard with a gooey mass of bloodied flesh on its face. In this single moment, she realizes she needs to learn trust. One hopes it's a message of growth the show itself will take to heart.

blessed.

I am so lucky to have such a talented best friend.  

Not only talented, but at times one of my only inspirations (besides my family).

He is really quite amazing, and I think the world should see that...

click me to see what I mean.

I love how even though I don't have many friends, the friends I do have are amazing, talented wonderful people.  

Improvisation is really hard, and Trevor does it with SUCH class and grace.  I'm proud to be his best friend :)  

I love talented people, and I feel so blessed to have SO many friends that are so artistic and talented in many different ways.  Eclectic is a good word to use to describe my friends as far as their differences are concerned.  

so please, click the link.  

AND if you've noticed I've been SOOOO much better about updating.  Yes thank you, hold your applause. 

raw.

steve reich

in my opinion, this name wields much power.  he has somewhat single-handidly transformed music last century.  music for 18 musicians was greatly influenced by balinese gamelan music.

a gamelan is a musical ensemble from Indonesia, typically from the islands of Bali or Java, featuring a variety of instruments such as metallophones, xylophones, drums and gongs; bamboo flutes, bowed and plucked strings. Vocalists may also be included.

Like African drumming, this is ensemble music, fully composed (although unwritten), yielding a rich blended sound of motion within stasis, constant activity within an unchanging ordered structure. Textures emerge and evolve as each instrument plays a regular subdivision of a broad, regular pulse, producing a haunting, timeless effect. 

In his piece, Reich didn't try to imitate the actual sound of the gamelan (and indeed scorned rock musicians using sitars for superficial exotic texture); rather, he sought to emulate its overall feel and attitude (very successful in my opinion). 

Lasting over an hour, 18 Musicians maintains a basic 12-note meter of marimbas, xylophones, vibraphones and pianos from which longer phrases of voices, strings and clarinets surface and then recede. To humanize the process, the voice and clarinet phrases last the length of a musician's breath.  

THIS IS SO REAL.  

Like I was talking about in my rave of Regina.  It's so...RAW.   HUMAN.  Making the voice and clarinet (the two instruments that used breath) actually be able to show their breaths just makes the aspect of music so raw. 

BREATHING IS ONE OF THE MOST NATUAL INNATE THINGS.  

Combining that with MUSIC is so wonderful.

 I love how Reich is totally channeling native Balinese people in this. 

Everyone coming together to create something or "onething".  You can just imagine people all sitting around, and just creating.....

not worrying about if they didn't sing the run fast enough, or if the rapper used enough swear words, or if Kesha looked hot enough in her latest video (sorry, had to, HATE HER).  This kind of music proves that music exists to express a story.   Across time, and space.....Steve Reich encompasses the spirit of the Balinese People in "music for 18 musicians".  

MUSIC IS UNIVERSAL.

break my ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha hheart.......

I love regina spektor. 

 as someone who recently had her heart broken, I love listening to her.  

I love how she uses her lyricism to express her creativity and story.

Her music makes me feel so melancholy in a good way.

Reflective...

Inspiring me to express my true feelings.

I think the music industry in general really in the last few decades progressively began to loose the success of "the story".

you are always telling a story when you are singing.  you're not just opening your mouth and hoping for the best.  

I believe it is vital to not forget

 think.

Think Queen, The Beatles, Bruce, Pink Floyd, 

all the great "oldies"

they told a story. they didn't just sing.

thats so...

important.

Freaking KE$HA?  What is she?  Where did she come from, and can she PLEASE go away and NEVER return?  

I'm not trying to be mean.  it's just true.

I need raw talent.  

It's the most sensual.

To see someone without the autotuning, the airbrushing, just THEM. 

RAW.

humans are by nature imperfect and when you airbrush and autotune it just takes away from the beauty that mankind innately is.

You need to truly try to express something to be a successful singer.

Regina Spekor is raw, natural, human.

and I love it.

she's organically boho even? 

does that even exist?

REGARDLESS...

I love expressing myself.

I love telling the truth.

there is someone I just expressed my feelings to and the verdict is not in yet on whether that was successful or not....we shall see.

We shall see.

shall.

see.

A voice from the past...my recital

I had my recital.  It went pretty well.  I am very happy with it... If you would like to hear some clips from it, please click here  and let me know what you think of them.  I had an awesome time performing for my friends and family.

Pictured right below is my wonderful, amazing bestest friend in the ENTIRE world, Trevor.  I don't think he really knows how much he means to me.  I really would be not half the person I am today with out him.  And I just HAD to say that. :)  Trevor, if you're reading this (which you probably aren't bc you don't blog), I LOVE YOU.

I really love performing.  And I love making people happy with my music.  After this recital, I truly know that this is my calling.  I'm not going to let ANYONE or ANYTHING stand in my way :)

Below are just more silly pics of my fam and friends after the reception.  I hope you enjoyed this update.  I will write another one tonight too <3

RECITAL THIS FRIDAY

So the reason I'm been a little incommunicato as far as my lovely blog goes is BECAUSEEEE I have my junior recital coming up.....I promise after this that I will update more frequently.  I miss blogging dearly.

Nichole Ashley Peyreigne’s

Manhattan School of Music, Junior Recital

Friday April 9th, 2010

8pm at Christ Chapel in

The Riverside Church

490 Riverside Drive

New York, New York

Presenting works by...

Ricky Ian Gordon, Franz Schubert, Handel, 

Kurt Weill, and selections from Jekyll and Hyde

call with any questions

203.856.7295

Cleo 1997-2010

Just this side of heaven is a place, called Rainbow Bridge.
When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge. 

There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. 

There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable. 

All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor; those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by. 

The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind. 

They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent; His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster. 

You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart. 

Then you cross Rainbow Bridge together.... 

desperation

mother will be home soon. 

after studying world music since 9am this morning

let the desperate housewives commence! 

despite the risque-ness of this picture..

i feel it is very roaring 20's...

a time where the Bree's of the world really did exist.

stained porcelain... (it felt like a poetic day)

tears of glitter fall

slowly, softly, swiftly

lines of black are laid, atop the porcelain 

door slams- broken hearts

stomping feet- broken dreams

lines of black run harder, atop the porcelain

silhouettes of grey not black

become but not a blur

only our kind god will know

that speech I chose to slur

missed connections 

fair skin smooth

ever changing-fast

only sleeping beauty sees

our future and our past

tears of desperation call

hard, cold, bitter

lines of black turn frozen, it’s the dead of winter.