Movement And Power

Earlier this year, as I've mentioned, I choreographed a trio that two of my sisters and I performed several times over the summer. One of those performances was at our church, a Baptist church. For those who aren't aware of denominational stereotypes, one of the Baptist stereotypes is the eleventh commandment against dancing (and drinking and smoking). Our particular church gathering is pretty relaxed as far as Baptists go (we have drums in the song service, and that's a big deal for Baptists), but even so, we had to run the mere idea of a dance the by worship committee, pastor, and the deacon board before being given the go-ahead.

I've been dancing since age six. While public speaking and solo singing still causes serious nerves, I almost never get nervous before dancing. Dancing is just a thing that I do; it's part of my regular life. But that Sunday, as we took our places to perform what we had been working on for a month and a half, what had been in my head for nearly a year, I was nervous. I expected at least a few people in that congregation to fully hate this, on principle. I was also having trouble sticking one of the relevés in rehearsal and under the self-inflicted pressure to be perfect I could not allow that.

My entrance was a brush-step-step into a pas de valse, then a hold while my sister entered from the opposite side. As we launched into our choreography for the chorus, something I've pondered offstage rather often popped into my head and I pictured myself -- only for a moment -- in the throne room of God. I consciously told myself, "I am dancing for God," and there was a moment where I finally let the performance go. I surrendered myself to the choreography my body knew.

I have never done that before in a performance. I'm always considering what comes next, thinking about fixing the things I tend to mess up on -- plié deeper, hold the core on any kind of demi-pointe, turn out for Pete's sake... Dancers talk all the time about 'getting lost in the dance' and despite having been performing since age six, I've never actually experienced this. I'm almost scared to. As soon as I let myself get lost in the dance -- so the reasoning goes -- the technique will fall to pieces and by the time I notice it will be unsalvageable. And if there is one thing about the stage that terrifies me, it is improvising anything, but especially a dance. In dance you have to improvise with perfect technique and end up rejoining the set choreography on the proper foot... oh, and dynamics and timing and stuff.

Back to the point: the moment where I think I really finally put my dancing -- at least for one performance -- in God's hands. I don't actually remember anything specific about the rest of the performance, but I do remember thinking it went quite well. The video bears that out. After the service, I wasn't sure what to expect. I had just trampled the number one rule of being a Baptist at the front of the very sanctuary. I knew there were some people in that congregation who are just as fed up with Baptist fundamentalism as I am, but I also knew there were some diehard Baptist traditionalists. I was bracing myself for some strong negativity mixed with the compliments. To my great surprise, the angry comments never came, but one consistent thread seemed to join the positive responses. The fullest verbalisation of it came from the pastor: "It moved me to tears, especially the part near the end where [youngest sister] knelt down. It just reminded me of the importance of kneeling in worship before the Lord."

That comment surprised me. And consistently the comments were about the ending, that kneel, how it made folks misty-eyed. I was not expecting a response like that.

Personally, I find it hard to know what effect a dance has on people. I've been performing them so long and from such a young age that even I rarely actually get to watch a dance outside of rehearsals, and when I do, I'm usually watching the technique and the musicality and the use of pliés or the line of the arm or something -- I'm so engrossed in the details that make up the whole that I have a hard time seeing the whole. As a result, I often suspect the average dance audience only shows up because either a) their kid is in it, or b) it's perceived as really high-society and upper-crusty and therefore it's something you should do if you want to look high-society and upper-crusty. I always sort of assumed someone without a dance background could not be really inspired or moved by watching somebody else perform a dance, even if it was good choreography and well executed. After all, the dancers are up on the stage doing wonderful things with decades of training and the audience is sitting in upholstered theatre seats, likely digesting a rich meal and trying to look impressive to the folks around them. Can dance even awake any feeling at all in a non-dancer? I didn't know, but I assumed it didn't. People talk all the time about how music moves them and makes them happy or cheers them up and how stage plays make them cry or make them think. But no-one talks about their response to watching dance. Is it too sublime for words to convey or simply too boring? I had no way of knowing. I asked my non-dancing family, but they didn't seem to understand the question.

The other thing that took me aback about the general theme of comments following that church performance was that it was the ending, the kneel, that moved them. The ending was actually the choreographically weakest part of the dance. It was literally just two consecutive repeats of the port de bras from the second verse at a painstakingly slow rate as the youngest one knelt on centre stage. I just tacked something on to run out the music (I was NOT going to cut it -- I loathe it when people chop off the song they're dancing to mid-note. Ever heard about the satisfying quality of the final perfect cadence?). But it seemed to be the most powerful part of the performance for people.

Now, I've kind of got myself into doing a solo for this same church for Christmas. I'm fine with dancing at church again, but as I've (probably) mentioned on this blog before, I really don't like solos. I don't like watching them, I don't like dancing them, and I don't like choreographing them. The one I originally proposed to the church has already been choreographed, technically, but the thing is, I do this thing where I choreograph things WAY above my actual skill level (hoping that some angel dancer with loads of experience will join up with me and perform my work while I choreograph it). I could alter it, at the risk of forgetting my own choreography because of confusion between the original version and my modified version. I will have to modify it, however, I just flat-out don't know how to make a solo 'powerful.' Give me a (theoretical) stage laden with twelve dancers and I can make magic happen. But give me one person and I draw a total blank. How do you add dynamics and pacing with only one person? Even with two people you can utilise some give-and-take, push-and-pull, opposition or symmetry or unison as needed. You don't have that kind of variety with a soloist and that makes it so much harder to give both the dancer and the audience anything to connect to. In a duo, there's another dancer to keep the audience's eyes and the other dancer's use of space grounded. In a solo, there is no point of reference. The soloist is self-contained. (Incidentally, that is what I hate most about modern/contemporary dancing -- how the movement all comes from 'within' the dancer rather than from interacting -- meaningfully -- with people or even the music.)

I feel this need to 'top' what I did this summer -- though the response to that was far kinder than anything I expected. I want to be able to move the congregation/audience like that again. But how did the dance this summer bring such a positive response? How did it move the congregation so deeply? Was it really my choreography or was it my surrender? In my intellect I think I know the answer, but it hasn't pervaded my reason. My pride wants a formula, a step-by-step guide, but I don't think there is one. Art is rarely (if ever) formulaic -- if it was, it wouldn't be art. This has been my cry for years as someone just learning to appreciate art, but as an aspiring artist, the idea of making this easier has such an allure...

Papers, Prodigal, Novels, Dancing and Doctors

I'll try not to get too bogged down in the minutiae of little stories because I'm technically writing a paper right now. It's on Christian artists and their role in contemporary culture, so at least it's something I'm interested in. The only problem is that I know too much about the topic and I'm having a heck of a time narrowing down my thesis.

Through a crazy set of circumstances, I am now the proud owner of one of the limited edition CD sets of Prodigal's discography. I'm listening to Electric Eye as I type and it is brilliant. I'm not a sound engineer so I'm probably not noticing as much of a difference in the audio quality, but it's kind of nice to not have the pops and clicks (though it's weird not hearing the more prominent ones). If you want one of these, word is there's only about a hundred left, and from my understanding, when they're gone... that's it. Trust me... you want one of these. As I'm listening, I'm being reminded again just how brilliant their songwriting is. And the rock genre doesn't hurt anything either.
Also, I really want to do choreography now -- got some really good ideas for the title track and Bobby just now. I've wanted to choreograph those two for a long time now but have never been able to get a bead on what style it should be (because, as previously mentioned on this blog, I refuse to do the easy thing and sully such brilliance with a lyrical dance).

On the NaNoWriMo front (yes, I'm doing NaNoWriMo at college. I'm a trained professional -- don't try this at home): my thirteenth novel has also been dealing a lot with themes of art and theatre and the nature of sacrificial love and friendship and then loss (spoilers: she dies). I'm over 44,000 words, so I'd say that's going well.

Speaking of spoilers, my roommate introduced me to the magic that is Doctor Who. (I promise to try to not fangirl too much on this blog -- I do enough fangirling over DA and Prodigal et al. to keep me busy for a while.) Peter Capaldi is brilliant. Favourite quote: well, all of them; but one that kills me every time is the one where he's looking at Clara and suddenly bursts out, "What's wrong with your face? It's all eyes; why are you all eyes... GET THEM UNDER CONTROL." Also, I've been watching a lot of the Fourth Doctor on YouTube and I'm seriously considering making myself a scarf like that.
Seriously though, the ending to the Season 8 finale (like the last ten minutes) is one of the most beautiful things I've ever watched (starting with the Doctor's monologue about who he is). I really appreciate how deep the show is (and the overall lack of strong language and inappropriate scenes). This season explored a lot of inner struggle and questions on the Doctor's part and I really appreciated seeing him wrestle with his own morality like that.

The college Christmas musical is coming up (next weekend!) and I just found out on Tuesday that I'm going to be dancing in it! I was in the choir anyway, but dancing is always better. Tomorrow we work on (and finalise) the choreography.
I also sort of committed to staging another dance in my home church (post forthcoming about the first one when I have time to finish it). I have a song that's already been choreographed that I can do, however, I have to reteach myself the choreography and get it to performance quality in less than a month. And write two papers and write finals and do a presentation... I honestly don't know if I'll be able to pull it off. I hope so though... this would be David Meece's One Small Child, which is a gorgeous song.

So that's what I came up with for an update in half an hour of typing. Impressive, yes? Hopefully I can start posting more soon. I miss this place.

Radio Station Re-Creation

So this is something that looks pretty darn cool. KMYS, the California (Orange County) radio station which, as I understand it, helped fuel the North American Jesus Music (1970s-80s awesome-music) movement, is being recreated on YouTube starting 23 October. I am actually so excited for this.

Watch the trailer for the project here.

Don't let the label 'Christian music' fool you -- this is going to be fantastic. Christian music back then wasn't crap like it is now. It was actually on par with -- if not better than -- mainstream artists at the time, musically. And you've all heard me wax eloquent on the lyrics from the time period. There is a lot of deep stuff, but it's not all theological. These are people talking about regular problems everybody faces. I think there'll be at least one song in here for everyone.

Apple Juice

I shall now regale you with the story of the one and only time in my life I have ever craved anything.

It was when I had strep throat this past March. I had developed the sore throat on Sunday afternoon and by Sunday night, I couldn't swallow anything. No food, no water... nothing. I fought through Monday half in a state of denial: "It can't be strep throat... I just had it less than a year ago... and anyway, I can't get medication because I don't have a vehicle... so it can't be strep throat..."

By Tuesday I realised that there was no escaping the reality -- it was strep throat. I began in earnest the process of trying to beg a ride or a vehicle from somebody, anybody, on campus. I even resorted to asking my friend who lives in the area if her parents could give me a ride to a doctor. But nobody was going to town. Literally. Nobody.

Tuesday night marked 48 hours without food. I went to dance class as usual, even though I knew I was likely to collapse of exhaustion. I was not missing dance class. By this time, I was so miserable I was actually considering walking to Moose Jaw (twenty minutes' drive from the college) -- figuring if I started out right after dance class, I should be able to hit town by the next morning. But when I returned from dance class, I found that one of the hall leaders had 'strongly suggested' to someone with a vehicle that they should take me to the doctor the next day. I had a ride to the doctor for Wednesday morning.

Wednesday I went to the doctor, got the diagnosis and a prescription, and the rest of the day is lost to me. I probably came back to the dorm and slept. I know I missed lunch because I felt so terrible. But I also know I didn't miss a single class over this entire strep throat story, so I must have gone to history class that afternoon.

Thursday the antibiotics hadn't really started to kick in yet. I had now lived over 72 hours without being able to eat enough to satisfy my hunger. I was getting faint and sleeping every spare second I had. The antibiotics made water taste like sulphur, which gagged me, and as a result I was dying of thirst as well as hunger.

Thursday afternoon, after lunch, I was laying on my bed, too spent to move. I had managed to choke down a grilled cheese sandwich at lunch -- the first substantial meal I'd eaten since Sunday lunch -- but the awful taste of water had prevented me from washing the sandwich down with anything. I was so thirsty, but the thought of drinking the water turned my stomach.

So it's 1.30pm and I'm laying on my bed dying of thirst. I can't have water because it makes me gag, I don't want anything sugary because I know it'll just feed the infection, plus I don't really like soda pop anyway. But I needed to drink something or else I would go crazy.

And suddenly it hit me. Apple juice.

The intensity of the craving startled me. I've never before craved anything in my life, and suddenly I wanted apple juice so badly I would have killed someone for it.

But the cafeteria was closed. I would have to wait until suppertime. Unless... I could go to the store. It was only a ten-minute walk to the store, but in my wiped-out, sick, and half-starved state it was too exhausting to even fathom the walk there, never mind walking back. (By this time I was so out of it that I could barely get off of the bed.)

So I lay there, staring at the ceiling, half-asleep with the phantom taste of apple juice on my tongue. I hadn't had apple juice in years, but I could taste it. And then I remembered the small bag of Granny Smith apples on the shelf directly above my head.

I have never eaten an apple so fast in my life. It wasn't apple juice, but it was an apple and it contained juice and that was all that mattered. It carried me over until supper, and then after dance that night, despite being completely wiped out (dancing when you haven't eaten in four days kind of takes it out of you), I walked to the store, bought apple juice and a Powerade, and returned to my dorm room, where I proceeded to guzzle the entire bottle of apple juice in half an hour.

And that's the last I remember about strep throat. For scarcely had I had time to recover before facing a new enemy... two major papers and a memorisation worth 50% of the course grade that had been due that week. And it was then that I learnt about the value of mercy, for it was merciful profs who kept me above academic probation.

The End Of The Rattletrap

Last Sunday I drove the rattletrap for the last time.

It was only a matter of time. Regular readers of this blog will recall the myriad of posts about its voracious appetite for engine coolant (to be regaled with one such tale, click here). It had no air conditioning to speak of, and the heat only kicked in if the vehicle ran for more than forty consecutive minutes. The door covering the gas cap clung to the side with a lone rusted hinge, flapping like a flag at highway speeds but try as we might, we couldn't pry it off of that last tenacious hinge. The thing was so run-down that I could probably leave it unlocked with the keys on the front seat in downtown Edmonton and nobody would bother to steal it. Somewhere in the back it had a chronic rattle -- hence the name. My mother hated driving it mostly for that reason, but I found that if you turned White Heart and Daniel Amos up loud enough, that usually fixed the problem.

It started out as a family minivan in September 2001, after my mother totaled our green Spirit. After carting around three, then four, then five, then six children, it entered retirement in early 2010 when the family grew too big to fit in its grey bucket seats and a larger van joined the vehicular ranks.

Retirement was temporary though... six months later I totaled my car, and my parents decided to dust off the minivan, rename it 'The Little Van,' and give me one of the keys. I had learnt to drive on this van... my dad would take to me to town and then tell me 'turn at those lights,' 'turn here,' and so on until we somehow magically wound up at Tim Horton's.

And so I become the proud driver of the Little Van, although I privately and affectionately christened it 'The Rattletrap.' It was in the rattletrap that I took the left turn that almost killed me for the first time since that accident, and it was the rattletrap that acted as taxi for my younger friends at church until they got their licenses. I was at the wheel when the odometer hit 200,000 kilometres, and I was also at the wheel this spring when it rolled over 300,000 (as I write, it sits at 307,329).

The rattletrap became a bit of a haven for me. The house is absolutely not soundproof at all, so the only time I felt comfortable enough to sing (something I enjoy but in which I am absolutely not confident in my 'abilities') was alone, in the rattletrap, listening to Petra, White Heart, Prodigal, and in the past year and a half, Daniel Amos. I memorised a ridiculous amount of song lyrics on my one-hour-each-direction commute to dance class and/or dance team every week. The rattletrap had a phenomenal sound system, and believe me, I took full advantage of it. It sounded better than every CD player in our house (trust me... we've got a few), and I grew to love driving. Because driving meant music, and I could pay (almost) undivided attention to the glorious music if the only other thing I had to focus on was driving.

I drove to ballet class, Bible study, and worship team practice most frequently. In fact, the rattletrap and I conquered the drive to the dance school so often that I could put in almost any album I owned and know exactly which part of which song I would be listening to at certain points of the journey. If I got delayed, the music and the scenery would be incongruent. To this day I cannot listen to White Heart's album Don't Wait For The Movie without seeing the city lights, the overpasses and the skyline (and the construction) during Dr Jekyll And Mr Christian. I would often pull up to the dance school exactly as the last notes of How Many Times was fading out. Driving home from Bible study and worship team practice would often have me driving during dusk or early darkness, and I relished every second of it.

But the rattletrap was aging. The aforementioned budget for coolant was growing. Even the faithful and much-used CD player started to get a little bitter and grumpy. At first it simply refused to play the CDs I've burnt on the computer. It was a blow to not be able to listen to my Prodigal albums (I haven't been able to get the new deluxe re-release package yet because of financial constraints -- however, you, dear reader, are in need of this collection), but hey, I still had a few factory-pressed DA albums. So I contented myself with listening to ¡Alarma! all summer long. But then, one day when I returned to the rattletrap to drive home from my grandmother's house, it simply refused to pick up the CD where it had left off. I argued with it for half the drive home and even put in DA's Darn Floor - Big Bite, which it had played without complaint only a few days earlier. It shot me an error message before the disc was even fully loaded in the player, and then refused to return the disc to me. I eventually got the CD back, but I knew the rattletrap was now in its final days.

Two weeks later it started to 'overheat' even with the coolant tank full. We could only drive it for about ten minutes (if that) before the warning light would come on. We could no longer tell whether to heed the warning or ignore it.

It was over.

I cried as I nursed it home for the final time, in silence. It still handles beautifully -- it was almost like a ballroom dance partner. People tell me all the time I'm such a smooth driver, but I think most of it was the rattletrap.

I knew when I first became its primary driver four years ago that its days were numbered, but you're never quite ready for the day when it comes. And now that I'm back at college, I will never see it again; never again share with it a dark magical highway with streetlight-stars and skylines lighting my way to dance, friends, or home.


I miss you already, Little Van. Thank you for the good times, and always for the music.

Record Collector Problems

So for my birthday, my grandmother took me shopping. Most females my age would probably buy clothes and shoes in such a situation, but to me, 'shopping' means 'music.' So on the Monday (freaking holiday Monday -- me and the August long weekend have a hate-hate relationship. Actually, me and long weekends in general have a hate-hate relationship), I hit the vinyl shops (all two of them) and came away with a pretty good haul if I do say so myself.

Some points I would like to make about the excursion:

Do you have any idea how much willpower it takes to leave the second copy of DA's ¡Alarma! at the store? I was seriously tempted to get both copies. Even though they were exactly the same. And I had already bought the first one. And I have the deluxe CD reissue they put out last year (buy it here. It is just as awesome as they say it is).

Found an After The Fire album that I only bought because I vaguely remembered reading about it on the 500 Greatest Albums blog. In fact, I found three copies of this album. Of course I bought the one with the skip in the middle of the best song.

Bought the 1977 Pantano/Salsbury album (entitled Hit The Switch) purely because of the ravings of those over at the Jesus Music forum on Facebook. Completely worth the money. Imagine mixing the songwriting of Prodigal with the playing of early DeGarmo and Key. And a talking guitar that puts the then-future Bon Jovi to shame.

Found the one Margaret Becker album we don't have... for $24.95. This at the shop where I snagged a pristine copy of DA's Horrendous Disc (which is, to my understanding, the most sought-after and hard-to-find DA record) a month ago for ten bucks.

Also saw Stryper's To Hell With The Devil not once, not twice, but three times... in the same store. In three different places.

Was hoping to find some Randy Stonehill -- nothing.

Why do they make the crate units at the shops so darn high? I had to stand on my very tiptoes and lean forward onto the tableau to flip through the records at the very back of each crate. I'm not very heavy, but those things were wobbling.

I realised today, while importing the ATF record and trying to classify the genre of it, that I really only need two genre tags for my iTunes library: Rock and Not Rock.



Also, two big pieces of music news!

1. White Heart is touring... and we have cities! Columbus, Atlanta, Dallas, and Chicago -- go buy your tickets now and bring these guys out of retirement! If these shows go well, we may just get another tour in 2015... and maybe they'll venture up to Canada for that one. Also, they've been dropping hints on a new album. They haven't actually come out and said, 'we're making a new album,' but they keep talking about new music coming soon, which is basically (hopefully) the same thing.

2. One of my favourite albums of all time, Daniel Amos' Doppelgänger, is being reissued in a deluxe CD package. This is cause for extreme excitement. No timeline on that yet, but I assume it'll be by the end of the year.

Choreography Dream, Part II...?

The short version of what happened since I fell off the face of this blog: I have survived my first year of college (except for the part where I almost died of strep throat -- the week EVERY SINGLE PAPER of the semester was due), returned to my dance school in Alberta just in time to be a part of the waltz of the snowflakes in the Nutcracker (and managed to screw up every performance except the last one), and am working a *gasp!* 9-to-5. I'm still not comfortable saying that. I don't want to get stuck in the world of the 9-to-5. This is only to pay for college next year. It bothers me even to say that much because I know so many people who get a 9-to-5 and they swear it's only temporary... and twenty years later they're still working the same deadbeat job and all their dreams have died. Or were they sacrificed on the altar of the steady paycheck...?

And now, to talk about dancing.

It was over two years ago now that I started getting serious about creating choreography. My goal was to build up enough half-decent choreography in my repertoire that I could make a half-decent setlist of some kind out of it. Having since completed thirty-four works and having probably hundreds more in varying stages of completion, I'd say I can check off that goal. Next goal? Finding people to actually dance this stuff.

I live in farm country, Alberta. Art is a word from a foreign language here. Art? What's that? Does it make money? Do cows eat it? Is it a new brand of canola or something? Ah, it's probably an oilfield acronym. (Who can keep up with those anyway? Those acronyms multiply like rabbits.)

As a consequence, the potential artists from Alberta either leave for New York or something, never to be heard from again because their families disowned them for not working 9-to-5, or they get a deadbeat job ('to pay for college') and starve the artist within until she slips quietly away somewhere between the alarm clock and the water cooler. This leaves no artists for those of us who remain to learn from or collaborate with.

And this is where I am now. I have thirty-four complete dances and zero dancers. I can only create so many solos (I don't like watching solos, I don't like choreographing solos, and I don't like dancing solos. Groups are just all-round more interesting to watch and to work with). Step one of this dream is accomplished, but now what about step two? Where are the dancers coming from? Yes, I have friends I've met at dance classes, but so far I can only name one (maybe two) who love dancing enough to do it outside of class.

I've thought of the idea of creating a dance team from whoever wants to be in it and then training them from the bottom up. However, training dancers from scratch is a much different animal than merely teaching choreography. It's the difference between saying, "Okay, here you do a jeté and then you go into chassé pas de bourré..." and "Okay, this is what a jeté is. Turn out. Bend your knees. Now brush your foot out and off of the floor and jump. No, both at the same time. Point the other foot as it's in the air too. Land with your feet together in fifth, turned out. Brushing foot closes in front. Bend your knees. Make sure you turn out. Don't thud down -- land lightly..." (and so forth). It's easy enough for someone to say they want me to teach them how to dance, but dancing does demand time and rehearsing and performing takes commitment and endurance. I can't start training starry-eyed college kids and then have them back out in the middle of learning, say, Sanctuary, muttering "homework" as they go because it wasn't as 'glamorous' as they thought it'd be. It's an idea, but I've yet to determine if I'm willing to invest that much time in people who may very well drop it when the novelty wears off. Or maybe I'm just being too negative and graceless.

I must, however, add that my two dancing sisters and I are putting together a little piece for a talent show for the upcoming family reunion. This same piece may also be performed in our church sometime in August. This will be the first piece of my choreography performed by people other than me (the only other piece that's been staged was a solo performed by a gravely-ill yours truly. This new dance still has me in it, but in addition to my sisters). And, if the church agrees to let us do it (Baptist church, you know), it'll be the first piece I've created that's been shown more than once.

So I suppose stuff is happening, just slower than I'd like. Maybe it's for the best -- easing me into it instead of just dropping me into showbiz.

An Update On Music Day/Blog In General

For those of you wondering, 'what the heck happened to Music Day?' here are a couple of excuses I mean updates.

First, I have always endeavoured to give an iTunes link and/or artist's website, someplace where you can buy the featured song legally. As I've moved deeper and deeper into the world of early '80s Christian rock, I'm finding more and more UTTERLY FANTASTIC stuff -- but it's not on iTunes. Or there's no artist website. I have deliberately avoided featuring some of my very favourite artists because there is no place to legally purchase their music and I know from experience that it's frustrating when someone talks about a fantastic song/album you just have to have... and it's completely unavailable anywhere.

Second, in order to pay for college next year, I have been forced into the Coliseum and fed to the lions -- sorry, I mean the 9-to-5 job arena. Nothing is more exhausting than the mere act of waking up at 8.30am. Nothing. Seriously. By the time I sit down in front of my computer to check my email at 10.30pm, I can barely string together a coherent sentence. But I want to make Music Day posts interesting (whether with a personal story/reflection or with a good description of the song), and I can't do that when I'm so tired I can barely see straight. I would often spend weeks crafting the average Music Day post you see on this blog, picking at it, refining it until I was satisfied before daring to post it. I don't have that kind of time right now. Even writing this, I'm taking breaks every paragraph to snatch a catnap.

Am I quitting Music Day? ...Temporarily, I guess. I'd really rather not. Music and sharing great music is one of my great passions, and Music Day is really my only chance to share that. I hope that perhaps I can re-instate a more regular routine over the next couple months.  Maybe I can hit a gold mine of great songs that are actually on iTunes, songs I love and treasure and believe in.

Am I quitting the blog? I hope not. This blog has been the one place where I can fangirl about White Heart or Daniel Amos all I want and nobody gets annoyed -- they can always just close the tab in the web browser. This is the place I can rant about and make sense of life as a wannabe artist.

For the sake of posting something, I may post some stuff that I wrote while at college this past year that has remained in draft form. A lot of it isn't accurate anymore, but it was an honest assessment of what I was feeling at the time. If I do post things from the draft archives, I will be noting that at the top of the post. Some of it is pretty good and makes me wonder why I never published it in the first place. Mostly it was because I was too stressed to be able to tell if it was worthy of publishing, so I erred on the side of caution and didn't post anything.

And now, bedtime. (I must be getting old. It's only one in the morning.)

Late Life Or No Life

I usually work until five or five-thirty-ish. And since my father is also my employer, he'll try to finish up early if there's somewhere I need to be in the evening.

Today (well, yesterday) I had music practice at the church at seven. It's no big deal as long as I leave home by 6.30. But we were very nearly done the roof we were shingling, so we pushed the time limit... five... five-thirty... six... None of us thought to check the time. It was six-thirty by the time we left the jobsite.

My dad drove exactly right at the edge of the limit the entire way home. It's possible to do the drive to church in fifteen minutes if you go flat-out so if I could leave home by 6.45, I would still have a chance.

We got home. I changed, washed my face, grabbed the sandwich my mother handed me, and raced back out the door to the rattletrap.

Full disclosure: At the time of my story, I was doing five kilometres over the speed limit. It wasn't intentional; it was that thing where you know you're late and can't afford to go slower than the speed limit so you keep nudging the pedal farther down until suddenly you look down at the speedometer and go, Holy cow, slow down, Flash.

I had just noticed that I was five over the limit when in the sideview mirror I saw the minivan behind me pull out to pass. At first I was gearing up for a rant to share with my persnickety CD player -- I'm late too, so you can't make that excuse. Plus I'm already speeding. You're still going faster than the limit even following me. And you're STILL going to pass me? 

The rant was choked back when I saw the car in the oncoming lane. At first it looked like the passing minivan might just make it in front of me... but, oh my, were we closing in fast. Suddenly the car was almost directly in front of me.

As much as my pride wanted to keep my speed and let the Stupid Idiot Moron in the minivan have a heart attack and be forced to move back behind me until it was actually safe, I couldn't. I slammed on the brakes, if only for the sake of the poor guy in the car. As it was, he almost had to hit the ditch to avoid a collision.

The minivan slipped in front of me without even a touch on the brakes or a signal light. Just cruised on through as if she hadn't almost killed somebody -- or herself.

I expected myself to be angry, but I found myself strangely gutted.

How can anyone do something like that? We look in the newspapers at stories of murders and rapes and stabbings and violent kidnappings and ask how anybody can do such a thing, but taking a chance on the road just because the gas pedal isn't touching the floor yet is not that far removed. Someone almost died on that road tonight. It may have been the man in the car. Or it may have been the idiot driver herself. Yes, there may be enough room to pass, but are you willing to bet your life on it? Is getting where you need to be on time really more important than your own life? What good is being on time if you arrive as a newly minted corpse -- or murderer?

That woman in the minivan owes her life to me. I don't expect her to do anything to thank me, but I do hope she realises that. She gets to see another sunrise. And I could have taken that away from her by simply not moving my foot -- or by not even seeing her in my sideview mirror.

Music Day - Writer's Block

Before the triumphant Kickstarter project...

Before the long-awaited reunion of the band that wouldn't go away...

Before Dig Here Said The Angel...

...there was Writer's Block.

Even when Dig Here was first released, many (myself included) noted similarities between that project's sweeping, moody title track and this piece of brooding atmospheric goodness tucked away on Daniel Amos frontman Terry Scott Taylor's 1998 solo project.

The most striking similarity is the bass intro. Thick and moody. String arrangements lend a stately grace to both songs. Booming drums lend some solid ground even among the swirling low-end instrumentation.

Personally I like the lyrical theme in Writer's Block. The song seems to ruminate on a general feeling of helplessness in the background of day-to-day living despite having learnt how to 'work the system' a little (I've made an art of clever demonstrations... But can't exchange it for my occupation as a fallen cleric, chief of sinners, poor in spirit...). It's a general cry for grace. And, like most of Terry Taylor's output, I like the imagery in the lyrics: I paint a thousand pictures here... On the inside of my skull... Sometimes I crack it open... Though my instruments are dull... In the bridge you get a sense for just how skilled a vocalist Terry is, when he goes from near-guttural screaming to nailing a decently high note without so much as a breath between. Not bad for a guy who was in his mid-to-late forties at the time.

Title: Writer's Block
Artist: Terry Scott Taylor
Album: John Wayne
Year: 1998
Label: KMG Records
iTunes here; YouTube here.

Sweeping, rich, deep, and of course, honest. It's everything you could really ask for in a song.