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caroloftheshells · 2 years

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long post re theory pedagogy again

the other thing about that vid (and another thing! lol) being that hierarchically a lot of the people doing the more interesting or out-there research and diversifying the field from a content perspective (and, tbh, demographically) are like grad students or early-career people who don’t even necessarily have any pedagogical flexibility & tend to be slotted in to teach lower-level theory courses-- whose outcomes are predetermined not only by general screwy nasm strictures but by whatever the professor down the line in the curriculum is teaching / expects people to know when they get there. and we get paid (much) less also than tenured professors. which is really a generic “thing about all academia” that doesn’t necessarily become a nefarious personal flaw on the part of said scholars and instead ought to be addressed at a structural level bc the scale of the issue exceeds individual instructors’ spheres of influence.

BUT music occupies such a fucked “totally separate from society” space in many ppl’s imaginations that it’s like oh man how dare it have the same issues as every other field of scholarship bc it shouldn’t “really” be a matter of scholarship in the first place. ie music is culturally rendered a “nothing matters just feel it” / “everything is ephemeral and there is only Innate Talent and nothing can be taught” sort of field such that any intellectualizing thereof &/or suggestion of learnabilty / non-innateness is deemed, like, boring & regressive by some people & i’d say especially people raised with a certain awareness of the “composer-genius” culture of wam education. like i’m completely on the “fuck partwriting parallel fifths are awesome” train as a matter of taste (for example) but that does not mean that learning what parallel fifths are-- and why some old european guys didn’t like them *bc they preferred it to sound like there was more than one voice and it’s easier to create that perceptually w/o an overtone effect* (eg)-- is going to like destroy your artistic Essence and make you a worse musician bc now you’re no longer an empty vessel put on this earth to channel brahms or whoever. & plus i think perpetuating the synonymizing of theory-as-field with wam harmonic rules not only is like factually misrepresentative of current research but also is sort of a self fulfilling prophesy such that ppl who would otherwise have completely fascinating things to say & questions to ask are discouraged from non-platitudinous & open-ended (theoretical) inquiry re the content and aims of their own rep & listening, and tacitly learn that composers’ ~~genius~~ descended from the heavens & you either get it or you don’t, you either “have talent” as a composer or you don’t, et cetera

#Which I Maintain is dangerous not bc i think there is a set method of learning all music(s) obviously but bc that's how you get like #weird essentialism & i'm thinking especially abt anecdotes i've heard re: vocal pedagogy where ppl have been subjected to (...)#racial discrimination; gender discrimination; fatphobia / discrimination based on having or not having a certain 'look' to go w your voice #& told they are 'naturally' inclined to sing or study certain genres of music & shouldn't try anything else (not even ranges! whole genres)#which is maybe sort of tangential but i think stems from this same deal of 'you just have to Feel it' & such #the idea of music as ephemeral and quasi-spiritually channeled such that you lose something if you approach it w scrutiny #or if you have to break it down in a way that; in its detail & precision; reads as divorced from immediate aesthetic judgment #the idea that there's some magic there not to be explained; that composition thus is a special ineffable pursuit for special people. bleh #& the... in depth research and nuance and hesitancy to have a snappy take that like ime culturally describes many theorists. is good #& is; again ime; something valued by several music scholars who sought it out as a Way Out Of a certain brand of meritocratic bullshit #toward a different brand of weird pedantry of course but i think it has its place despite being hooked academically 2 a toxic music culture #in the sense that; for sure; there are egregious issues; but the repertoire bias is unilaterally present in wam circles #& it's like well. your problem is 'with' the textbooks but since when has a so called 'voice degree'#at your average som / public institution without enormous fucking tons of money #unlike idk berklee lol #actually regarded choral singing; musical theatre; art song; rock vocals; et cetera with the same seriousness as a wagnerian opera career #and made a variety of music available from a performance perspective as well. i mean my undergrad was vaguely ok here but On The Whole...#bigger fish re funding in notated-music industry and degrees as job prep for shrinking market etc #anyway though...... i value myself too much to be a youtuber lol #imagine me appending that 'just saying things recreationally' post to this post #carol overreacts to life #theorycomp tag

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pikslasrce · 1 year

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oh kill me. i know whats up. im regressing to my literal 10yo self just gay and not conservative this time

#MY UNRESOLVED MENTAL ISSUES!! THEYRE RESURFACING!!!!#i suspect they resurfaced back in january but hooooo boyyyy theyre here now in full bloom #this is sick i feel sickkkkk time is a flat circle..... the self isolation. the hostility to my peers. the terrible weight of loneliness #i need to see a shrink and i need to see them SOON (i am going to see them soon but im feeling not soon enough)#piksla.txt

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syntherunner · 2 years

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me looking at my shit rn like "it looks like...it's all coming full circle"

#rose.txt #this is abt attraction tho not gender #ive always loved girls and nonbinary ppl way more than ive loved guys #n i thought i DID like guys n would date one but like my attraction pool is slowly shrinking back down . n excluding guys #im realizing now that like. most of the guys i like are fictional men and even if they were real i most likely wouldnt date em #n im t4t so i already am like not even attracted to cis guys. but i dont think i could date a trans guy and feel Romance.#so im thinking i may just be an nb lesbian (again) sgwjbdkdbskb #my lgbt path was like. cis lesbian -> nb lesbian -> nb aroace -> nb bi -> nb pan -> nb bi (where i am now)#so it is almost coming back full circle VDNSBDKSHSKDH #ill never be cis. Ever.#anyway thats my rant thank u and gn

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29121996 · 14 days

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#the way my wednesday nights go are so insane truly.#hoq the fuck am i dealing wall of this . abd like #anyway . i hate wverything but its fine all of rhis is fine #sayinh shit to piss him off bc all hes done the last 3wks is do shit to annoy me #but not actually . talkcto me im so over this #km so over running in the same circle as him #it kwwps gsrting worsw nnit kewps Shrinking #likw atp . all od this is juat a tv show plot #none od this is real anymore #surrendered bc what wkse do i do !#anyway . all ym confidence leaving when i sit down infront of him is SOOOO #like . i was tired n sober at this point but likw . pulling my jacket over my chest n yanking my skirt to cover my legs #likw m girl. now is not tje time to b modest #but i hatw the idea of him Looking at me while . im not entirely modest #as if i havent felt his eyes on my ass when ive bent over a pool table Recently #like . atp i wish i was making this shit up. i wouls LOVE for all of this to just be fucking insanity. and like delusion #but . i know Too mych from the wind and . i have Eyes and a HyperAwareness of people looking / paying sttnetion to me #like ur not slick but i dont yjink im as slick as i think #im SURE hes felt tje same #ive 100% watxhed him play pool . my god . i nedd to puncb him or kiss him atp im going Crazy #said that oitloud tn watch that bite me in tbe ass soon !

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st4rshiptr00per · 2 months

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#im so fucking tired of having shit taken away from me #like my social circle just keeps shrinking. and its not anybody's fault for the most part its just the group of people i actually can See #keeps getting zmaller and smaller #and im sick and not getting better #and some of my best friends in the world haven't replied to me in months and i don't know why #and im either too busy or tired to just sit and enjoy things #every day im still so fucking mad about the shit sam did to me. and i dont know how to get past it without doing some Crazy Ex shit #its so hard to communicate with people and its so hard not to feel like a piece of shit about it. and for existing the way i do right now.#i can see the other side of all of this and its so bright and beautiful but even once im thru #the house i built is still going to be falling down around me

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selamat-linting · 4 months

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your resident tomboy just posted a poetry about a supportive guy with the twist that said boy exists on the other side of the mirror, which probably meant nothing.

#someone i know just did this #are you... coming out as a man???#i hope so #pls my transfem friend left with her boyfriend to bali and i dont talk with my nb friend anymore #like my circle of queer friends have been dramatically shrinking these past few months #PLEASE #textposts

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ashtonbuttwizardesquiremd · 11 months

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I legitimately see zero value in myself right now.

#all my social circles feel like they’re shrinking or leaving me behind #I can’t do anything about it because I don’t actually see myself as contributing to anyones lives anymore #I feel like I just bring misery or take from other people

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lovebugism · 4 months

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Okay soooooooo

How bout something like King Steve picking on shy!reader, then later finding out she has a shitty home life plz

ty for requesting!! this can be read as a prequel to this fic — steve comforts you when he accidentally makes you flinch (enemies to lovers, hurt/comfort, cw for brief mentions of abuse, 1.8k)

Sitting alone at the Hellfire table, you feel a little like fishbait.

Your spot in the very back of the cafeteria is normally full and loud — with Dustin’s bickering, and Eddie’s laughing, and Gareth’s stupid jokes — but they’re not here now. They’re off getting their trays while you sit in wait for them (and the cold fries you’ll ultimately steal from Eddie’s plate). It leaves you perfect prey for circling sharks.

You hear laughter from behind you, over the sounds of the bustling lunch room. You’re certain they’re laughing at you — ‘cause you always think someone’s laughing at you — but you try hard to ignore it. You disregard the subtle pang of anxiety in your chest and stick your nose in your book, eyes flitting across the words without reading any of them.

Someone flumps down at your side then, where Mike usually sits. The overwhelming scent of spiced cologne stings your nostrils. With watering eyes, you look beside you. At Tommy fucking Hagan.

“Hey, Wallflower,” he greets like it’s normal — like he hasn’t spent the past four years pretending you don’t exist. You think he only calls you Wallflower now because his friends have been doing it for so long they don’t remember your real name.

The boy props his elbow on the table and puts his chin in his fist, trying hard to hide his boyish beam and accompanying laughter. He fails.

You cower at his presence, all but shrinking into yourself. “…Hi?” you reply in a tiny voice.

“How’s it hangin’?”

“...Fine?”

“That’s great!” he answers instantly, like he hadn’t heard you at all. “You see, my friend Steve, over there— you know him, right?”

You don’t bother to look where he’s pointing. Of course, you know Steve The Hair Harrington. You don’t think there’s a single person in Hawkins who doesn’t.

You nod in response.

Tommy’s smile widens. “Well, he’s got this massive crush on you,” he confesses, choking back a laugh halfway through. “I mean, he talks about you all the time.”

You know he’s lying. And not just because he’s grinning so hard that his eyes are crinkled and his freckled cheeks are turning pink. You’re almost certain Steve Harrington doesn’t even know who you are. He never had a reason to. Why would the King of Hawkins High ever stoop so low to know someone like you?

You glance at him over your shoulder, a couple tables down from you. He’s almost magnetically pretty. You couldn’t ignore him if you tried — with his pretty hair and his pretty eyes and his pretty smile. His golden cheeks flush as all his friends start poking fun at him.

He rolls his eyes and scoffs a laugh you can tell is forced from here. He doesn’t think any of this is funny. You can see it on his face. But he isn’t trying to stop it all from happening. You’re just collateral damage, really.

You turn back to Tommy with a disbelieving look in your eye.

He continues to ramble despite it. “He was just a little nervous coming up to you, that’s all. So I thought I’d do him a favor and slip you his number. You know, as his wingman and all.” He tosses a folded-up index card onto the pages of your opened book. “You should call him tonight— It’ll make his day, I swear.”

He pats you a little too hard on the back before he goes. His laugh echoes over all the rest when he sits back down at his table. You watch them over your shoulder as they fall over themselves to crack jokes about you.

Steve’s the only one not smiling. “Not cool, Tommy,” he mouths.

—————

Locker 148. The one right across from yours. Property of Steve The Hair Harrington.

You shove the thick card with his number written on it between the slits in the metal. You’d carried it around all day, utterly unsure of what to do with it. You decided ultimately to return it, figuring he might feel a little better if a total stranger didn’t have his phone number.

You struggle to slide it through the thin gap, though. The paper gets caught halfway through, and you try to yank it back out again. The old locker moves with you, like it’s not completely shut but still somehow latched.

You’re so in your own head you don’t hear the gymnasium door down the hall squeal open and shut again. Steve pants heavily and tries to recover from a ruthless basketball practice. He hunts for a water fountain and finds you instead.

“What are you doing?” he calls as he nears you, not malicious or unkind but genuinely curious.

Your heart lurches into your throat as you all but jump out of your skin.

Steve laughs, a pretty sound in the silent hallway. “Shit. Sorry. I didn’t— I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t,” you assure with an averted gaze, though your frightened demeanor says otherwise. “I was just— I was trying to give you this.”

You hold the paper out towards him. He takes it with hesitant hands. “What is it?”

“Your number. Tommy gave it to me earlier, and I know it was just a stupid joke, so I… I thought you’d feel more comfortable if I gave it back to you.”

Something in Steve’s chest aches. He doesn’t understand why you would care about what might make him comfortable. It’s not like he ever gave you the time of day — or ever tried to stop his friends from being total assholes. As far as he’s concerned, you’re the last person who should give a shit about him.

“Oh. Right— Yeah… Thanks,” he stammers and shoves the thing into his pocket. “And I’m— I’m sorry about Tommy and everything. He can be a real douchebag sometimes. I didn’t… I didn’t tell him to bother you or anything—”

“I know,” you assure in a mousy voice. “Tommy gave me your number hoping I’d be dumb enough to call while your friends were over so you could all… laugh at me? I guess. He could’ve been a little more original, honestly.”

Steve cracks a smile. He almost laughs, but he can’t tell if you’re joking or not.

“I’ll talk to him later. Tell him to leave you alone—” He rambles and walks closer to you. You watch him with tentative eyes as he approaches. “—He’s a total dumbass sometimes, but he usually means well. Most of the time, anyway—”

Steve raises his hand suddenly. And, because you’re frightened by everything little thing, you flinch and stumble over yourself in the process. The lockers catch your fall, and you hit the back of your head. Hard.

“Shit— Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you squeak, holding the crown of your hair and squinting as your skull pounds.

Steve rushes to your side, then idles just ahead of you because he doesn’t know if you want him touching you. His brows pinch, chiseled features swimming with concern. His cinnamon eyes glitter with it, too. “I wasn’t trying to scare you—”

“It’s okay.”

“—My locker was just jammed. I was going to shut it.”

The metal door is open now, from where it wasn’t shut all the way and where you just smacked your head on it.

“I just wasn’t expecting it,” you assure in a tight voice, trying hard to ignore the sharp throbbing. “It’s fine. I’m fine—”

“You’re hurt.”

“It’ll go away—”

“Let me get you an icepack.”

“—I’ll be fine once I get home.”

Steve, feeling purely at fault and aching at how effortlessly you shrug him off, decides to approach you fully. He curls a warm hand around the outside of your elbow. A touch surprisingly gentle. “No. C’mon. Let me help.”

You don’t feel much like you’re in any position to fight him about it. Not with the world still swaying under your feet.

Steve guides you the short distance to the empty cafeteria. Slow and kind and dreadfully patient. He sits you down, makes sure you’re still okay, and then rushes to fix you a makeshift icepack — a ziplock bag filled to the brim with chipped ice.

He sits at the chair beside yours, slightly askew so his knees bump your thighs. He holds the pack to the crown of your head and gazes at you attentively. You’re not looking back at him to see it.

“Does it still hurt?”

You shrug, eyes flitted to the wringing hands in your lap. “It’s fine. It just feels a little like I have a migraine.”

Steve winces. “I’m sorry.”

Your doe eyes peek at him from beneath your lashes. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I scared you.”

“Everything scares me.”

It’s a dumb joke. You mean it, but you still expect him to laugh about it. He doesn’t even crack a smile, though. He just keeps looking at you with that puppy-like twist to his features. The worry is evident in his face.

“Do you wanna, like, talk about it or something?”

“About what?”

“Why you flinched.”

You freeze, breath hitching in your throat. No one’s ever noticed your incessant panic — outside of making jokes about it anyway. No one’s cared enough to ask about it, either. Steve Harrington is the last person you expected any kind of concern from.

You shake your head after a few long moments. “No.”

“You could,” Steve assures, suddenly shy. You didn’t know he could be anything other than totally full of himself. “You know, if you wanted to. I wouldn’t— I wouldn’t tell anyone—”

You scoff a disbelieving laugh.

Steve’s features swirl with hurt. You hate that it makes your chest ache. You hate most that he hasn’t stopped being soft with you. The hand holding the pack to your head hasn’t yet wavered, even though you know his arm must be tired now.

“I wouldn’t. ‘Cause I— I know what it’s like to… to have a bad home life or whatever,” he confesses, stammering hopelessly. He forces a laugh at himself. “Probably more than most people do, honestly.”

His admission takes you by surprise. It comforts you in a way you didn’t think someone like him could.

Even still, you shake your head. “I— I can’t—” you murmur, clearing your throat when the words get stuck there. “I can’t talk about it…”

Steve nods, firm and reassuring. “That’s okay. You don’t have to, I was just… I was just saying, you know? I get it.”

You swallow through a tight throat, nodding wordlessly in response.

“Plus, you know, you have my number and everything… If you ever wanted to talk…”

You flash him a timid look and crack a quiet smile. “I gave it back to you, remember?”

“I’ll write it down for you again,” he promises with a shrug and a lopsided grin. It’s easier to ignore his aching arm and the ice stinging his palm when he’s looking at you. “For real this time.”

#published by bug #steve harrington x reader #stranger things x reader #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x you #steve harrington #stranger things #stranger things imagine #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things fic #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fanfic #st drabbles #stevie drabble

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lovelovex · 1 year

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#i don’t have words tbh but i’ll try #i’ll try not to sound as dramatic as i actually want to but the thing you probably already understand ab our circle is that our core values #are loyalty and trust #so last night was just a huge thank you to everyone who have not once in all these years betrayed those values #nothing ‘just’ ab it ik ik but i want to be serious for a moment bc a lot of things have monumentally shifted inside the group #the changes we’d been forced to adjust to have been cruel and to me personally the heartbreak seemed unbearable #the betrayal and the doubts almost cost me everything and everyone i care ab the most and i never talked ab the confrontations inside #the circle but just trust me on this one it almost broke us all up #i wanna say it was a miracle but there’s nothing miraculous ab friendships that have been tested by fire surviving another test of fate #it’s a collective conscious effort to still stay and trust each other and rmbr everyone who never made us doubt them #hence the personal invitations and the intimate location that holds too many memories for all of us #D said smth ab the circle slowly shrinking but idk if eventually there would be like seven ppl showing up #those ppl would be the chosen family we find comfort in and thank you all so much for never leaving #you all are the reason things are Better now even tho no one thought we’d come to this a year ago #idk how to express my gratitude in words bc as always they all seem to fall flat #so i hope the songs we performed last night and the fact that i just silently (and creepily) stared at you and cried might have given you #the idea of how much i love love love every second we share together #it’s the biggest privilege in the world to me to have so many ppl i can say i love you to and to hear it back always Always it just means #everything to me #it’s annoying the hell out of me that i still can’t break the habit of disappearing sometimes but knowing i have you patiently waiting #for me to come back to myself is enough to stay sane and grounded #this is all over the place and i keep switching back and forth from ‘we’ to ‘me’ to ‘us’ and i’m sorry ab that it’s still hard to get down #from yesterday’s high and form coherent sentences #you’re everything we could’ve wished for and more and i hope we made you see it #to everyone on our side – we love you beyond words 🤍#thank you for loving and accepting a bunch of dramatic emotionally unstable theatre kids who just love to be idiots onstage and make the ppl #who make them happy – happier #love love x

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heich0e · 3 months

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the itadori house always smells faintly of clean laundry.

it's not because the two boys who live there are particularly diligent about staying on top of their housework—the towering pile of recyclables in the corner of the kitchen is proof enough of that—but it's because the first time yuuji had tried to do his own laundry, he used way too much detergent. the ensuing tsunami of soap suds had flooded nearly half-way across the tiny apartment—coating the floors, the baseboards, and anything else in its path, in a slippery (though pleasantly fragranced) froth that took DAYS for the two brothers to clean up. it must have sunk in to the floorboards, or there must still be traces of it lingering in nooks and crannies that they couldn't reach, because even now, years after the catastrophe, the scent still lingers.

even though the mere mention of the incident still makes a vein of irritation throb in sukuna's forehead, and makes yuuji hang his head in shame, you don't mind the smell. it's familiar after all these years. it reminds you of this place.

you burrow your face down into the cushion of the living room sofa. it's raining today, and a bit humid, so the scent of detergent is particularly strong.

you're nearly asleep when a voice interrupts your quiet moment of relaxation.

"i should start charging you rent, y'know."

you don't open your eyes, even once you hear the words that come from above you. even without looking, you can picture the scene: sukuna leaning over the back of the sofa that you're sprawled across, his weight resting on his elbows as he peers down at you with his usual scowl. it's not the same scowl he shows to everyone else—the one that makes people shrink back under his gaze—this is a softer version of the same expression, dulled by familiarity. if you were more optimistic you might even say it was blunted by affection.

"stop pretending to sleep, kid." you feel his hand grasp your hip, shaking you lightly. "i know you're faking."

you feel a smile threatening to pull at your lips so you turn your face towards the pillow—the one you bought for the sofa, since the itadori brothers' idea of home decor is limited to creased posters for old mafia movies nobody's ever heard of and women with their tits out taped to the wall—and you burrow down to hide your expression from view.

"you're such a nuisance," sukuna groans, and then you feel the sofa dip. you figure he's pulled himself over the back of it now, based on how you feel him kneeling overtop of you with your legs straddled between his own. you're on your belly, but you can feel him rest back on his haunches, trapping your feet underneath him as he sits. "can't you nap at your own house?"

"too tired," you finally rasp out, daring to peek at him over your shoulder.

"and i'm not?" he scoffs, lifting his hand and pushing his hair back from his face. he's still half-dressed in his work uniform—a pair of slacks from the security company he's been working at part-time for the past few weeks, and a white t-shirt that he usually wears underneath the short sleeved button down that matches the trousers. "i just worked a double—been up since 4."

he does look tired, now that you have the chance to look at him. his hair is a bit dishevelled and he's got dark circles under his eyes. sukuna always looks a bit exhausted—and has since grandpa passed away and he took on the responsibility of raising yuuji. but it's particularly noticeable right now.

"and i can't even come home and take a nap on my own couch because there's a freeloader here."

you bite the inside of your cheek, wiggling around a bit underneath him so you can lay on your back.

"charge me rent then," you parry back to his complaint, and he cocks an eyebrow at your challenge. "i want a bed though. s'only fair."

"we'll get bunkbeds for yuuji's room, then," sukuna quips.

"don't wanna bunk with yuuji," you counter again, "he snores."

sukuna pauses, staring down at you. he leans forward slowly, his hands pressing into the couch cushion on either side of your waist as he dips towards you. "only one other bedroom in this place, y'know—"

you do know. it's why you said it.

"—and i have no plans to give up my bed."

sukuna is close to you now. too close, in any other circumstance, but this is one entirely of your own creation. a circumstance that feels more like an inevitability than anything, given the tension that's been crackling between the two of you lately, ever since he rescued you that night at the bar.

"didn't ask you to give it up," you say quietly, your eyes flickering across his features until they eventually settle on his lips.

sukuna makes a little noise in the back of his throat, close to annoyance, but not quite. distinctly tortured in nature.

"you really, really are a nuisance, y'know that?"

his hands are on your hips now. not like when he'd shaken you awake—this touch is greedier, needier than that passing graze. his fingertips slip up underneath the hem of your shirt until they brush against your bare skin, and the contact makes your body flush with heat.

"yuuji's gonna be back from class soon," you murmur softly, your gaze flickering back up to sukuna's heavy-lidded eyes. his nose twitches a little in annoyance, knowing you're right.

sukuna backs away a little, his hands slipping back out from underneath your shirt.

you sit up and catch his wrist in your hand, and his eyes widen in surprise. your faces are close together now—so close you can smell the cinnamon gum on his breath. he stole a pack from you a few days ago, and clearly he's still chewing it.

you can't smell the laundry detergent anymore.

"i didn't tell you to stop," you remark lightly, leaning back so you're splayed out against the sofa once more. you stare up at him, waiting for him to process what you've said—watching the thoughts play out across his uncharacteristically shocked face. "i just meant that you should hurry up and do it already."

#sukuna x reader #big brother!sukuna #i did not proofread/edit/or reread this before i posted i typed it with my heart and hit post w my pussy #jjk drabble #jjk writing #writing

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