My own fucking voice.
Well, who knows? That one fret on that one string of that one guitar effects a certain note, but we wouldn’t say that fret has its own voice. That one key thingy on that one clarinet doesn’t have its own voice. The instrument is the voice. So what frickin instrument am I part of?
Maybe those individual frets and keys do have their own voices, in a way. Even if they sound the same note, there must necessarily be a difference in tone. Different materials, different sound envelopes, different assemblies (even among “identical” models of instruments from the same manufacturer)… tone is unique.
So what is my tone? Do I need to know it, or would that invite contrivances? Can I improve my tone, or is that subjective? Is subjectivity/preference the cause or consequence of tone?
The normal way to greet a teacher is to say “Hi” and then mister or misses or miss, and then whatever that teacher’s surname is. If a student should happen to greet the teacher by their first name, all bets are off. By divine imperative, the teacher is bound to scold, admonish, or otherwise instill a hearty measure of shame in that student for committing such a heinous act of impudency.
A coach can be addressed as “Coach,” “Coach [last name],” or “Coach [first name].”
“I don’t see the fucking point!”
Robin is visibly stewing. Her brains are quite figuratively boiling amid a turgid swarm of fury and incomprehension.
“Well, Robin…” begins Mr. Schurn,”it really doesn’t matter if you see the point or not. That’s the way it is.”
At this, something abruptly goes sour in Robin’s mind. She doesn’t snap or anything like that. Almost the opposite, really. It’s like the futility of arguing, combined with all-time levels of disgust and unspeakable rage, create a warping collapse into annihilation and birth a crackling emotional vacuum.
Her eyes go dull. Still staring at her father, the left side of her mouth twitches so very briefly into something not quite a feeble smirk and not quite a snarl.