Wednesday, October 31, 2007
The Geek Wants Out
This touches me. Chances are that if you're reading this at all, it will probably touch you too.What? Have you been living in a fucking cave?!"
XD
Happy Halloweenies
Friday, October 26, 2007
head bobbing at the coffee shop
worship
I've been going through papers I wrote in college, trying to find samples to send along with my applications to grad school. Here is a paper I wrote for an creative nonfiction piece for my Women and Writing (the focus of which was women and worship).Finding Heaven on Earth: Worshipping the Journey
You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
No doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. (Ehrmann)
These words have always hung on a wall in the house I grew up in. I would crane my neck back to look at the detailing—the impressive matting, looping calligraphy, all inside its big important frame—and read it over again. I always thought it was something very important. I took it as gospel. This poem, though surely not accepted as Holy Scripture, molded my mind and my views from its place so high on the wall; it’s impression deep within me, even once I came to eye level. Growing up in a world where it seems nothing is pure—everything infected with plastic and complication—what is left to worship? The world itself and those endeavors and people who can see what is there and open our eyes to what is missing. Simple things. Unaffected. Those things that can separate the silver among the steel and with it make something beautiful, new, and wonderful. We so often associate worship with a monotheistic, Christian practice, but worship is so much broader than that. Even the dictionary tells that worship is “a feeling of profound love…love unquestioningly and uncritically” (Dictionary.com).
To me it is much more important to worship the world as opposed to a single entity. The world is too vast, too beautiful, too full to focus attention on one being—especially one that is not here on Earth to reciprocate that love. I worship the things that make me feel love. Music, art, embraces of arms and conversation with loved ones—the parts of life that breathe love and energy into every fiber of my being. That is what I worship. That is to what I owe my allegiance. Don’t mistake my love for what is palpable in this world for a lack of faith—what takes more faith than to find beauty and trust in the world? What takes more faith than to reach out into the world and believe it will reach and touch you back? Is it better to be concerned with the man behind the curtain, or to see the love and growth you’ve gained with the strangers trekking through Oz? My journey isn’t about finding or believing in someone with all of the answers, an omnipotent entity belting through a megaphone. My journey is about the journey itself—realizing that the journey is enough to give me anything I’ve ever wanted, and to realize those things I’ve had all along.
I tried organized religion. It really was not for me. It wasn’t for my brother either. He fell asleep in the front pew of our small Catholic church when I was six years old—we never went back. Religion was never something so important in our lives. I never wondered why we didn’t go, and it didn’t bother me. I didn’t look for someone to worship or a set of rules to follow. My mom taught me to be a good person, and that by being a good person—kind, gentle, helpful, smart, loving—someone could live a good life. Blame it on the tight-fitting Bible-belt of a small
“Morgan died.” Just saying it made the tip of my nose tingle and my eyes burn.
“Aw…Sorry Nat. Will your mom buy you a new one?” My friend attempted to comfort me.
“I don’t want another cat. I want Morgan back.” Lifting, I said: “I’ll see him in heaven, though”
“Heaven? Cats don’t go to heaven.” Period.
I never could understand why cats couldn’t go to heaven. I loved my cat, and I thought everyone I loved would be in heaven. Why not my cat?
Mark Twain once said “Of all God’s creatures there is only one that cannot be made the slave of the lash. That one is the cat. If man could be crossed with a cat it would improve man, but it would deteriorate the cat” (Online). Cats are intuitive, loving, though sometimes tagged as aloof presences in my life. The Egyptians worshipped a cat-headed goddess called Bastet, originally a protecting goddess associated with the sun (Cass). The symbol of the cat as a revered symbol in the Ancient Egyptian world is evident from their representation in funerary article, myth, and hieroglyphs. The prophet Muhammad, founder of Islam, is said to have bestowed the common Tabby cat with the ‘M’ upon their forehead as a blessing for protecting his life (Cass). With representation of cats found in so many different eras, geography, and religions—is it any surprise that my domestic shorthair, Jacob, is a prophet? The dictionary defines a prophet as “a person gifted with profound moral insight and exceptional expression” (Dictionary.com). He came to me by chance at a time when I needed comfort and is there consistently when I doubt myself. He expresses his love wholly, unequivocally, and unconditionally. He doesn’t judge; he’ll climb on anyone’s lap who does not brush him away, and forgives me no matter how many times he happens under my feet at the wrong moment. I always thought his nickname of Buddha only stemmed from his knack for propping himself in a corner, revealing a protruding, pink belly—but it’s quite possible that Jacob is here teaching me how to reach nirvana under a desk lamp. Jacob appreciates the simple pleasures, interprets my moods and feelings, comforts and reciprocates unconditional love, and with a simple fuzz of his tail against my arm, enfolds me with comfort.
Sometimes it seems like every moment does nothing but make life a little more complicated. School, work, responsibilities with family and friends, keeping stray hairs out of the sink—it never stops. I spend any extra energy I have after the work of the day is done, or in avoidance of said work, plunging myself into music. There is a quality to music as communication that sends it beyond speech.
I listen to my words
They fall far below
I let my music take me where
My heart wants to go. (“The Wind”, Stevens)
The written word can be so expressive. It can paint a scene from dreams, detail satire of society, create and adventurous world to get lost in; but when set to music, words become songs and with the melody it becomes three-dimensional. Cat Stevens sends the message through his music that words couldn’t express. Without music his words are just words. Music surrounds you, engulfs you in ways that even the most masterful of word-artists fall short. It’s appropriate to say I worship music. I am devout. When the world becomes too much for me (or I get to be too much for myself) music can set my rhythm back to pace and my world reconnects. It only takes a moment; just one song and I’m whole again. A moment gripping the neck of my guitar after popping in the earbuds of my I-pod and I know that “everything is gonna be alright” (Marley). Music is a constant in my life. An obsession that’s hereditary—and I wouldn’t have it any other way. It highlights the most special moments when I can connect with my family on a level above talking, above conversation.
Playing together on folding chairs in an empty kitchen. I study Mom strumming on her guitar. I hear my brother running his fingers up and down the neck. We are in the song together—just us. The world can wait for three minutes while our hearts thump together in time, and there is nothing but the moment. Concentrated joy.
I’ve heard all the songs that the children sing
I listened to love’s melodies
And I felt my own music within me rise
Like a wind in the autumn trees. (“The River”,
There is something so natural, so right about music. It’s ancient and primal, sophisticated and mathematically complex. Music pulls together raw emotion and the intense creative power of the written word. It creates a separate moment from the world. I slow down, absorb, breathe rhythm and pulse.
When Aunt Arlene died, a special woman who was neither my mom’s nor my aunt, my mom sang at her funeral. The minister at the funeral told the congregation that no one is guaranteed a tomorrow and with that in mind to live wisely. Well, I am my mother’s daughter and so, I agree she was right when she corrected him silently: “No one is guaranteed tomorrow, so live wildly!” Enjoy the moment; live the journey. I worship the connections and the music I make. I look to the unassuming prophets in my life and realize that knowledge and wisdom can come in a four-legged package. I worship the gospel of the everyday moments, and strive to see the beauty in moments.
God preaches, a noted Clergyman—
And the sermon is never long,
So instead of getting to Heaven, at last—
I’m going, all along. (
I agree with
Works Cited:
Cass, Stephanie. “Bastet”. Encyclopedia Mythica. www.pantheon.org/articles/b/bastet.html. 26 May 1999.
Dickinson, Emily. Some keep the Sabbath going to church.
Ehrmann, Max. The Desiderata of Happiness.
"Prophet." The American Heritage: Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth Edition. Houghton Mifflin Company, 2004.
Mark Twain Quotations: Directory of Mark Twain’s Maxims, Quotations, and Various Opinions. Barbra Schmidt.
Marley, Bob. “Three Little Birds”. Legend: The Very Best of Bob Marley and The Wailers. Polygram Records, 1990.
Staines, Bill. “River”. The Whistle of the Jay. Folk Legacy, 1985.
Stevens, Cat. “The Wind”. The Very Best of Cat Stevens. A&M, 2000.
"Worship." WordNet 2.0.
Monday, October 22, 2007
and now for something completely different...
Friday, October 12, 2007
Wildflower Park III
October 6th has come and gone. If you missed the third open mic out at Wildflower Park, then you missed out! Once again Anita and her family collected some of the most talented musicians in the area--putting on another fantastic night full of great music and community. Lots of great talent, wonderful crisp weather--and a bonfire! Could we ask for anything more?
Keep your eyes peeled for more events happening out at this beautiful stage in the future!
websites and myspaces. Please, no editing.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
with bruises on my chin
For my 50th post...one of my favorite songs. Words and music that live.Trapeze Swinger-Iron & Wine
By the rosebush laughing
With bruises on my chin
The time when
We counted every black car passing
Your house beneath the hill
And up until
Someone caught us in the kitchen
With maps, a mountain range,
A piggy bank
A vision too removed to mention
And
Please, remember me
Fondly
I heard from someone you're still pretty
And then
They went on to say
That the pearly gates
Had such eloquent graffiti
Like 'We'll meet again'
And 'Fuck the man'
And 'Tell my mother not to worry'
And angels with their gray
Handshakes
Were always done in such a hurry
And
Please, remember me
At Halloween
Making fools of all the neighbors
Our faces painted white
By midnight
We'd forgotten one another
And when the morning came
I was ashamed
Only now it seems so silly
That season left the world
And then returned
And now you're lit up by the city
And
Please, remember me
Mistakenly
In the window of the tallest tower call
Then pass us by
But much too high
To see the empty road at happy hour
Leave and resonate
Just like the gates
Around the holy kingdom
With words like 'Lost and Found' and 'Don't Look Down'
And 'Someone Save Temptation'
And
Please, remember me
As in the dream
We had as rug-burned babies
Among the fallen trees
And fast asleep
Aside the lions and the ladies
That called you what you like
And even might
Give a gift for your behavior
A fleeting chance to see
A trapeze
Swing as high as any savior
And
Please, remember me
My misery
And how it lost me all I wanted
Those dogs that love the rain
And chasing trains
The colored birds above there running
In circles round the well
And where it spells
On the wall behind St. Peter's
So bright with cinder gray
And spray paint
'Who the hell can see forever?'
And
Please, remember me
Seldomly
In the car behind the carnival
My hand between your knees
You turn from me
And said 'The trapeze act was wonderful
But never meant to last'
The clown that passed
Saw me just come up with anger
When it filled with circus dogs
The parking lot
Had an element of danger
So
Please, remember me
Finally
And all my uphill clawing
My dear
But if i make
The pearly gates
Do my best to make a drawing
Of God and Lucifer
A boy and girl
An angel kissin on a sinner
A monkey and a man
A marching band
All around the frightened trapeze swingers
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
flaming hoops of evaluation
Recently my waking mind has been consumed with the Literature in English GRE--and the fact that it is coming up this Saturday (6 Oct). I'm not great at standardized tests. This one is particularly hard to study for because it has the honor of being possibly both: a) extraordinarily important to my future acceptance into a PhD program or b) useless. The test itself is a multiple-choice test of grabbag trivia which pulls its questions from anything that has ever been considered part of the canon of "big-L" Literature. Beowulf to Virginia Woolf...it's all fair game.The test is supposedly designed to test your general knowledge about literature. Whatever.
Some programs in top universities (*cough* Columbia *cough*) don't even take this test into consideration when evaluating potential PhD candidates because they deem it as not being a reliable indicator of an applicant's potential.
Some universities in the US don't care about it. Which is both comforting and frustrating. Some schools require it, some schools toss it out. So, I still have to take it--with the knowledge that even those schools who require it probably know, just as well as I do, that it is nothing but a flaming hoop for applicants to tumble through--nervous, and caffeinated.
The fact that I'm looking into MA programs abroad makes Saturday seem even less important. Universities in the UK, obviously, don't require the test. If I followed that path, I wouldn't even be trying to get into a PhD program for another year. PLUS the experience gained studying aboard could possibly off-set any kind of bombing that takes place in the literature jeopardy game.
So...In conclusion: I'm going to go to the bookstore. Tomorrow I'll study a little more--but probably just go look at kittens and drink coffee. This isn't just my year to write--it's my life to write. This test has no bearing on that.
*takes economy-sized "chill pill"tm*
Raymond Carver, "On Writing"