Originally written 30 January 2014.
Art. God. College. Calling. People. Knowledge. Family. Dance. Engage.
A couple of the buzzwords in my head lately. There are others: isolation, depression, why?
I know God doesn't have to answer to me, but if I don't know the point of being at college, why bother being at college?
In chapel the other day, the speaker (the president of the college) was using rock climbing terms as his metaphors. One was 'dyno,' or 'dynamic movement,' which is when the climber leaves his three-point hold on the rock to leap up to the next hold. Sometimes the only way for the climber to progress any further up the rock is to let go, push off out of his other holds in a leap up to the next. Obviously that parallels life, but what is the hold that I'm leaping for? It would be stupid to let go without at least seeing the next hold (if not any further)... isn't it? I don't know.
The more I read from artists and about artists, the more I see the theme that God has entrusted artists with something he does not entrust to many: I don't feel I know enough about this yet to be able to tell exactly what, but it seems to have something to do with seeing and giving grace to a world starved for it, something to do with drawing the laity into a deeper communion with God and each other, something almost kind of like prophecy -- warning sometimes and providing hope sometimes. It's a high responsibility and I don't even know where to start handling it yet. Perhaps this is why some of the greatest art in history has come from Christians -- such responsibility can't be managed without full reliance on God. Art without God so easily gets stilted and hollow (or, nowadays, commercialised), and a world awash with that sort of 'art' degrades the whole idea of art -- even good art.
Another word that was used in the 'rock climbing chapel' was 'engage.' Engage with business, engage with science, engage with sports, engage the arts, engage the world. Engage with the arts -- how? I'm at best a mediocre dancer, I'm not training 60 hours a week like the pros do, and I'm not even healthy enough to dance for very long or very well. But to engage in the arts would mean I would have to be one of the best. I'm already too old for this. To train myself to that level where I'm even on the art world's radar... that would be the next thing to impossible. I would go crazy just trying to reach that level, never mind actually trying to maintain it once I'm there.
I've been settling back on these excuses, rationalising that no-one will ever see my dancing anyway because it's not suggestive enough for the world's stage. But this is exactly what I rail against all the time in Christian music -- this mediocrity, this sense of, 'well, I'm good enough... I'm better than the rest.' But if I won't stand for that in music made by Christians, how dare I stand for that in dance done by Christians?
All these excuses -- what am I afraid of? The work that will go into it? Actually succeeding?
07 July 2015
04 July 2015
Music Day - Say Goodbye To Neverland
If I had heard this song two years ago, this would have been my theme song for the summer of 2013. I mean, not that there's anything wrong with the fact that Vox Humana (*cough* Sanctuary) was the soundtrack to that summer, but this puts into words the entire train of thought that was eating my mind at the time.
No you can't go back
Or defy the clock
Brace your mind for impact
Let your soul absorb the shock...
Sparse instrumentation (actually, this has 'award-winning modern dance' written all over it), and a gentle but sad vocal delivery, as if speaking to a child -- how do you break this news? How do you soften the blow? How do you pick up and carry on, knowing that life is fleeting...?
No you don't have wings
That was just pretend
Blistered feet keep moving
Give your spirit to the wind...
This perhaps sums up the entire mood of the song. I wish you could see the film playing in my mind. Blistered feet keep moving... like a dancer who's lost the fire for the dance, just going through the motions, mere technicality. Give your spirit to the wind... just like everybody else. Sacrifice your hopes, your dreams, your passions, your gifts on the altar of the 9-to-5 job. Let your soul die... nay, take the knife and kill it with your own hand. Only the wind may have it... so say the clones around us demanding that we fit their mould.
Breathe in, breathe out
Heart don't fail
Embrace the moment...
And yet, keep going. Keep going. The sad reminder that tomorrow is not promised to us, and we have to make the effort to enjoy it while we can, before it's snatched away. Add to that the potential for regrets to be compounded upon each other so quickly... It's a heavy lyric, and the chorus is almost a literal reminder to the listener: Breathe in, breathe out... then the plea for another moment, another chance to get it right: Heart don't fail... And then words that sometimes don't even make sense, they slip out so easily and without thought in this age of stock sunsets on Facebook: Embrace the moment...
Title: Say Goodbye To Neverland
Artist: The Choir
Album: Burning Like The Midnight Sun
Year: 2010
iTunes here; YouTube here. Buy directly from The Choir here.
No you can't go back
Or defy the clock
Brace your mind for impact
Let your soul absorb the shock...
Sparse instrumentation (actually, this has 'award-winning modern dance' written all over it), and a gentle but sad vocal delivery, as if speaking to a child -- how do you break this news? How do you soften the blow? How do you pick up and carry on, knowing that life is fleeting...?
No you don't have wings
That was just pretend
Blistered feet keep moving
Give your spirit to the wind...
This perhaps sums up the entire mood of the song. I wish you could see the film playing in my mind. Blistered feet keep moving... like a dancer who's lost the fire for the dance, just going through the motions, mere technicality. Give your spirit to the wind... just like everybody else. Sacrifice your hopes, your dreams, your passions, your gifts on the altar of the 9-to-5 job. Let your soul die... nay, take the knife and kill it with your own hand. Only the wind may have it... so say the clones around us demanding that we fit their mould.
Breathe in, breathe out
Heart don't fail
Embrace the moment...
And yet, keep going. Keep going. The sad reminder that tomorrow is not promised to us, and we have to make the effort to enjoy it while we can, before it's snatched away. Add to that the potential for regrets to be compounded upon each other so quickly... It's a heavy lyric, and the chorus is almost a literal reminder to the listener: Breathe in, breathe out... then the plea for another moment, another chance to get it right: Heart don't fail... And then words that sometimes don't even make sense, they slip out so easily and without thought in this age of stock sunsets on Facebook: Embrace the moment...
Title: Say Goodbye To Neverland
Artist: The Choir
Album: Burning Like The Midnight Sun
Year: 2010
iTunes here; YouTube here. Buy directly from The Choir here.
13 June 2015
Music Day - For Annie
Trigger warning: suicide.
Here, the strings adds a poignancy to a tragic story that's replayed every day.
The song is about a young person called Annie. It details the loneliness and quiet despair she lives in until she decides to do something about it (which, of course, we've all been told to do through inspirational Facebook pictures, right?). Her solution:
Locked inside the bathroom
She grabs a jar of pills
The medicine that cures
Becomes the poison that kills...
The lyric climaxes here, with that juxtaposition of irony. Without even two measures to let you catch your breath, Greg Volz tells you straight up: it's too late for Annie. She's dead. She's gone. You will never see her again.
And now that they have your attention, they tell you the silver lining (if there can really be one in a situation like this): we each have the power to stop other people's stories from ending this way. There is another Annie somewhere, who hasn't grabbed the pill jar yet... and she could be sitting beside you right now. Your next words to her could be the last she hears.
What would you tell her? What would I tell her?
Title: For Annie
Artist: Petra
Album: Never Say Die
Year: 1981
09 June 2015
Covers That Need To Happen #1
Can we just take a moment to talk about a cover that really needs to happen?
Okay. Russ Taff's song Higher. Seriously. Go listen. You have full permission to groove. (I should probably throw an '80s-music warning on this song though. Then again, this entire blog should have an '80s-music warning on it.)
And now, picture Freedom-era White Heart covering this. Tommy Sims on that bass, Gersh on the keys... and I can't even properly handle the thought of Rick Florian's voice over that.
Okay. Russ Taff's song Higher. Seriously. Go listen. You have full permission to groove. (I should probably throw an '80s-music warning on this song though. Then again, this entire blog should have an '80s-music warning on it.)
And now, picture Freedom-era White Heart covering this. Tommy Sims on that bass, Gersh on the keys... and I can't even properly handle the thought of Rick Florian's voice over that.
05 June 2015
Music Day - Reach
Been thinking a lot, fighting quite a bit. And listening to a lot of DAS (well, music in general). There's a triad of his songs that seem to work together as a trilogy for me now: Reach, In Your Hands, and Slo Glo One (better known as Glory). Today I shall prattle on about the first one.
Reach actually took a really long time to grow on me. I always appreciated the chorus, but something about the song irked me; something about the execution of it. I never could figure out what it was, but apparently it's not an issue now because I can't remember what it was that bugged me (probably the tempo -- I'm still young enough to like my music fast and fairly complex).
I have a history of locking up inside myself ('history,' heck -- I'm doing it as I type), convinced that nobody could love me, even if they tried. I actually believed (and sometimes still do believe) that for somebody, anybody, to care about me was impossible. Depression is funny that way... it seems so obvious to other people on the outside that people love me and that I'm resisting their love, but depression is truly a mental illness. It actually blinds us to things like that. It's not a wilful ignorance of our 'worth' -- we actually truly cannot see it. We need you to tell us every single day that you love us because our diseased minds discard the truth mere minutes after you speak it to us. You can't rely on our 'knowing' you love us though you never say anything and you can't rely on thinking 'well, I told her that one time that she was pretty cool.' Depression is hell-bent on destroying those it infects. One offhand instance of 'You're pretty cool,' as much as you may sincerely mean something by it, simply does not stand up against my own mind telling itself it's worthless twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, three hundred and sixty-five days a year.
For years people would get frustrated with me. They would always say to me, "Just let yourself be loved!" They tried to say it kindly, but there was often pent-up frustration in their voices. I could not wrap my head around this idea that they seemed to take for granted. Here I was figuratively screaming for somebody to care for more than five seconds, and you're telling me it's my fault? I can't let you love me if you're not showing any love for me to allow in. That phrase is still a source of frustration for me.
(End rant -- my apologies...)
But although Brian Healy uses the words, Let Him love you, he does not stop there, and that's what gives his exhortation more weight. He doesn't expect that vague, tired phrase to magically fix everything, and realising the weakness of language itself makes a huge difference in how one comes across because it does inform and change how you communicate. Healy continues his thought with Let Him show you... Let Him touch you... Let Him heal you. Reach out your hands... and take what He has to offer. It's a gentle invitation, not an outburst of exasperation. And ultimately it's not by my strength that I can reach out and take it anyway. Grace has to visit me in order for me to have the strength to take it. Taking and accepting love is perhaps harder even than almost anything I can think of. To give love is easy enough. Even when the other person doesn't want your love, it's relatively easy to give it. But to take love someone else is holding out to you... that's well-nigh impossible. There's something in my mind that still tells me it's not real, it's a facade like everything else. It'll turn out to be just somebody else trying to relive their guilt about not loving me by pretending to love me.
How do you surrender yourself to someone else's love?
Title: Reach
Artist: Dead Artist Syndrome
Album: Prints Of Darkness
Year: 1990
iTunes here; YouTube here.
Reach actually took a really long time to grow on me. I always appreciated the chorus, but something about the song irked me; something about the execution of it. I never could figure out what it was, but apparently it's not an issue now because I can't remember what it was that bugged me (probably the tempo -- I'm still young enough to like my music fast and fairly complex).
I have a history of locking up inside myself ('history,' heck -- I'm doing it as I type), convinced that nobody could love me, even if they tried. I actually believed (and sometimes still do believe) that for somebody, anybody, to care about me was impossible. Depression is funny that way... it seems so obvious to other people on the outside that people love me and that I'm resisting their love, but depression is truly a mental illness. It actually blinds us to things like that. It's not a wilful ignorance of our 'worth' -- we actually truly cannot see it. We need you to tell us every single day that you love us because our diseased minds discard the truth mere minutes after you speak it to us. You can't rely on our 'knowing' you love us though you never say anything and you can't rely on thinking 'well, I told her that one time that she was pretty cool.' Depression is hell-bent on destroying those it infects. One offhand instance of 'You're pretty cool,' as much as you may sincerely mean something by it, simply does not stand up against my own mind telling itself it's worthless twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, three hundred and sixty-five days a year.
For years people would get frustrated with me. They would always say to me, "Just let yourself be loved!" They tried to say it kindly, but there was often pent-up frustration in their voices. I could not wrap my head around this idea that they seemed to take for granted. Here I was figuratively screaming for somebody to care for more than five seconds, and you're telling me it's my fault? I can't let you love me if you're not showing any love for me to allow in. That phrase is still a source of frustration for me.
(End rant -- my apologies...)
But although Brian Healy uses the words, Let Him love you, he does not stop there, and that's what gives his exhortation more weight. He doesn't expect that vague, tired phrase to magically fix everything, and realising the weakness of language itself makes a huge difference in how one comes across because it does inform and change how you communicate. Healy continues his thought with Let Him show you... Let Him touch you... Let Him heal you. Reach out your hands... and take what He has to offer. It's a gentle invitation, not an outburst of exasperation. And ultimately it's not by my strength that I can reach out and take it anyway. Grace has to visit me in order for me to have the strength to take it. Taking and accepting love is perhaps harder even than almost anything I can think of. To give love is easy enough. Even when the other person doesn't want your love, it's relatively easy to give it. But to take love someone else is holding out to you... that's well-nigh impossible. There's something in my mind that still tells me it's not real, it's a facade like everything else. It'll turn out to be just somebody else trying to relive their guilt about not loving me by pretending to love me.
How do you surrender yourself to someone else's love?
Title: Reach
Artist: Dead Artist Syndrome
Album: Prints Of Darkness
Year: 1990
iTunes here; YouTube here.
03 June 2015
A Time Machine of 1/500
I used to do a lot of photography. And even back when I started taking pictures seriously around 2009, it wasn't really about art or money or making a statement (although later it did become those things). My photography mainly centered around two things: people and events.
I learnt about photography principles of course -- the rule of thirds, the power of a wide aperture/selective focus and of zooming in, what sorts of compositions work best, how to use colour and light to draw attention and enhance the mood. My photography grew lovely in its own right, and by now it's so second nature I often barely realise I have a camera in my hand. My Nikon is essentially an extension of my arm. But the subjects are still mostly people and events.
When I started taking pictures, my goal was to capture moments and keep them. It was mostly for my own personal record more than anything. To this day I'll stop to take a picture of something and whoever is with me will give me a strange look -- 'that? Seriously?' -- but because they know taking random pictures is something I do, they say nothing. After all, no harm done. And my friends and family have long since gotten used to me wandering around with a camera at all times.
And now, in the wake of three deaths, one cancer diagnosis, and two shattered marriages, all involving people I love dearly, I'm reminded why I started taking pictures in the first place.
It's like a mini time machine. I was looking for pictures of my recently-deceased young cousin (it was her birthday), and in my quest I found myself scrolling back through 2013 -- the year I discovered Daniel Amos and started college... 2012 -- the year we held our Father's Day party as a barbeque... 2011 -- the year we invited a lady from our church to our family Christmas gathering and our dance school staged Little Bo Peep... 2010 -- the year of my accident, the last family reunion... 2009 -- how tiny my sisters look! the year my sister began ballet classes...
I had forgotten most of this. I had forgotten how my sisters looked so young. It's funny to think how at one time I could not picture them any other way, but five years later I hardly recognised them. Their hairstyles are different, two are now wearing glasses, one has lost a drastic amount of weight. I'd forgotten how short my brother once was. I had forgotten the full brilliance of Brittney's sweet shy smile and seriously cool wardrobe. I had forgotten that once my aunt and uncle would laugh and once they would sit beside each other and hold hands. I had forgotten what my uncle's twinkling eyes looked like -- last time I saw him, only a few weeks ago, those eyes were so lifeless. He was a completely different person from the man who hugged me goodbye last Christmas.
There was a time when things were right -- when everyone was here who should have been, when people were healthy and happy and while there were always smaller problems and the occasional falling out, we were all here. We were together. We smiled and laughed and no-one was missing. I can't bring that back (how I desperately wish I could!). But for a few minutes I can return there and see it all laid out before me, re-insert myself in the space, hear their voices again, if only in my mind.
Maybe it's a waking dream. But it brings the missing ones closer to me.
I learnt about photography principles of course -- the rule of thirds, the power of a wide aperture/selective focus and of zooming in, what sorts of compositions work best, how to use colour and light to draw attention and enhance the mood. My photography grew lovely in its own right, and by now it's so second nature I often barely realise I have a camera in my hand. My Nikon is essentially an extension of my arm. But the subjects are still mostly people and events.
When I started taking pictures, my goal was to capture moments and keep them. It was mostly for my own personal record more than anything. To this day I'll stop to take a picture of something and whoever is with me will give me a strange look -- 'that? Seriously?' -- but because they know taking random pictures is something I do, they say nothing. After all, no harm done. And my friends and family have long since gotten used to me wandering around with a camera at all times.
And now, in the wake of three deaths, one cancer diagnosis, and two shattered marriages, all involving people I love dearly, I'm reminded why I started taking pictures in the first place.
It's like a mini time machine. I was looking for pictures of my recently-deceased young cousin (it was her birthday), and in my quest I found myself scrolling back through 2013 -- the year I discovered Daniel Amos and started college... 2012 -- the year we held our Father's Day party as a barbeque... 2011 -- the year we invited a lady from our church to our family Christmas gathering and our dance school staged Little Bo Peep... 2010 -- the year of my accident, the last family reunion... 2009 -- how tiny my sisters look! the year my sister began ballet classes...
I had forgotten most of this. I had forgotten how my sisters looked so young. It's funny to think how at one time I could not picture them any other way, but five years later I hardly recognised them. Their hairstyles are different, two are now wearing glasses, one has lost a drastic amount of weight. I'd forgotten how short my brother once was. I had forgotten the full brilliance of Brittney's sweet shy smile and seriously cool wardrobe. I had forgotten that once my aunt and uncle would laugh and once they would sit beside each other and hold hands. I had forgotten what my uncle's twinkling eyes looked like -- last time I saw him, only a few weeks ago, those eyes were so lifeless. He was a completely different person from the man who hugged me goodbye last Christmas.
There was a time when things were right -- when everyone was here who should have been, when people were healthy and happy and while there were always smaller problems and the occasional falling out, we were all here. We were together. We smiled and laughed and no-one was missing. I can't bring that back (how I desperately wish I could!). But for a few minutes I can return there and see it all laid out before me, re-insert myself in the space, hear their voices again, if only in my mind.
Maybe it's a waking dream. But it brings the missing ones closer to me.
28 May 2015
Forever Goodbye
Originally written 29 March 2015.
I share this mostly for the final paragraph (as written on 29 March). This has had a profound impression on me since this performance, particularly in the wake of the sudden death of my young cousin one month ago today.
I stand on the edge of the rest of my life. I graduate college in less than a month. The last musical theatre performance is done. The final dance show is this Saturday. Tonight was the last choir concert.
It wasn't real. Usually at these things, I'm in the moment, trying to soak up every second so I can remember these times as vividly as possible later when I miss them. And I've been looking forward to performing in that church again for a full year. But tonight it didn't feel real. I've just gotten back from a performance, but instead of being hyper and telling my roommate about all the stupid insignificant hilarious backstage shenanigans that only performers find funny, I'm sitting here trying not to cry.
Performing is really just a series of goodbyes. I was Mary Lennox for two months and then, right at the culmination of all that thought and work and love put into her -- it was over. She disappeared from my life. How many Christmas productions and choir concerts have I been in that we worked on for months... and then they were over in a weekend? How many dance shows have I spent months honing only to give one three-minute performance and then it's gone? I have all these little parts, these roles that I love and cherish dearly and they become a part of me... but then I have to say goodbye. And to go back to it again and again and again just draws out the pain of goodbyes... Today our choir director seemed off and finally he told us he had just found out less than half an hour before that a good friend of his halfway across the country had passed away.
I was surprised how much that weighed on my heart. Having lost two people close to me in as many months perhaps made me more sympathetic. But for the entire evening it was all I could do not to cry. It's hard to describe -- it's like I felt his pain in my own heart. I carried it with me. Most people probably went, "Oh wow. That really sucks. I'm sorry," but I spent the entire concert watching him, noting how even the ever-present smile trembled though it never faltered. I watch people when I'm worried about them or when I know they're dealing with some hard stuff. I literally sit and watch everything they do with their hands, their body language, their facial expressions. I don't know why. It's just what I do.
Part of me was impressed with the smile. It never faltered. He never changed the way he spoke to us -- his voice stayed pleasant and calm and there was a smile behind it, like there always is. He's the conductor, his back was to the audience. But still he smiled -- at us. And I was aware how I, the performer, facing the crowd, could not summon up a smile from within myself for love or money. How does a man lose a dear friend and carry on with tears in his eyes and a smile on his face? It wasn't plastered on. There was effort in it, but it wasn't a total mask. Somehow there was something in him still giving him the courage and ability to smile and speak kindly to us.
I stand on the edge of the rest of my life. I graduate college in less than a month. The last musical theatre performance is done. The final dance show is this Saturday. Tonight was the last choir concert.
It wasn't real. Usually at these things, I'm in the moment, trying to soak up every second so I can remember these times as vividly as possible later when I miss them. And I've been looking forward to performing in that church again for a full year. But tonight it didn't feel real. I've just gotten back from a performance, but instead of being hyper and telling my roommate about all the stupid insignificant hilarious backstage shenanigans that only performers find funny, I'm sitting here trying not to cry.
Performing is really just a series of goodbyes. I was Mary Lennox for two months and then, right at the culmination of all that thought and work and love put into her -- it was over. She disappeared from my life. How many Christmas productions and choir concerts have I been in that we worked on for months... and then they were over in a weekend? How many dance shows have I spent months honing only to give one three-minute performance and then it's gone? I have all these little parts, these roles that I love and cherish dearly and they become a part of me... but then I have to say goodbye. And to go back to it again and again and again just draws out the pain of goodbyes... Today our choir director seemed off and finally he told us he had just found out less than half an hour before that a good friend of his halfway across the country had passed away.
I was surprised how much that weighed on my heart. Having lost two people close to me in as many months perhaps made me more sympathetic. But for the entire evening it was all I could do not to cry. It's hard to describe -- it's like I felt his pain in my own heart. I carried it with me. Most people probably went, "Oh wow. That really sucks. I'm sorry," but I spent the entire concert watching him, noting how even the ever-present smile trembled though it never faltered. I watch people when I'm worried about them or when I know they're dealing with some hard stuff. I literally sit and watch everything they do with their hands, their body language, their facial expressions. I don't know why. It's just what I do.
Part of me was impressed with the smile. It never faltered. He never changed the way he spoke to us -- his voice stayed pleasant and calm and there was a smile behind it, like there always is. He's the conductor, his back was to the audience. But still he smiled -- at us. And I was aware how I, the performer, facing the crowd, could not summon up a smile from within myself for love or money. How does a man lose a dear friend and carry on with tears in his eyes and a smile on his face? It wasn't plastered on. There was effort in it, but it wasn't a total mask. Somehow there was something in him still giving him the courage and ability to smile and speak kindly to us.
26 May 2015
A Lovely Night
The building blocks of a wonderful evening:
First, you take a dance practice. But not just any dance practice -- it's the first of extra rehearsals for Peter and the Wolf (WHICH OPENS THIS SATURDAY!). (I think my favourite part of performing is the extra rehearsals that get called as opening night gets closer.)
Add to this getting to see dance friends I haven't seen since Christmas break.
Plus, driving -- a commute long enough to listen to two full albums of music (White Heart and Daniel Amos today).
And don't forget the part where the driving happens at dusk (my favourite time of day).
15 May 2015
Music Day - Sin For A Season
This song opens perhaps one of the most emotionally heavy sides of vinyl in the history of vinyl. Side two of this record dealt with adultery, drunk driving, crooked TV preachers, hypocrites, teenage runaways, abortion, suicide, and the American dream with a clarity that one will almost certainly never find elsewhere. And all of it to catchy, groovy, and creative rock.
This, the side opener, comes in with a deep, groovy, almost mournful chugging guitar and a slightly ominous synthesizer arpeggio at the appropriate times. The lyrics spin first a tale of a married man's one-night stand, then the story of a drunk woman driving toward home, but not making it unscathed... And Steve Taylor, in his pull-no-punches way, also pans the lyrical camera to the part that nobody ever talks about and the young and (temporarily) innocent never see: the regret. The months, the years of crippling, life-altering regret.
If the healing happens as the time goes by
Tell me why I still can't look her in the eye...
Now the years run together as the guilt goes wild
She still sees the body of an only child...
Coming on the heels of the mournful lines at the end of each verse, the chorus -- a repetition of the cry we all use to justify everything we do, the sort-of right and the clearly wrong -- seems so flimsy in comparison. It seems disgusting, and then to realise these are our own words on a daily basis -- I'm only human... 'nobody's perfect...' it sort of makes one catch their breath.
The third verse states his point even more bluntly, just in case we didn't get it in the first two verses. And it spells out very clearly that sometimes the Christians -- we who think we'll never fall -- are the worst perpetrators of this deception:
Gonna get the good Lord to forgive a little sin
Get the slate cleaned so he can dirty it again...
It's interesting to note the role of the hands in all three verses. The hand in the first verse with the napkin, the shaky hand in the second verse belying how inebriated she is, the hypocritical hands in the third verse carefully and stealthily chopping down the very people they claim to be building up and supporting. Our hands betray us... oh, be careful little hands what you do.
Title: Sin For A Season
Artist: Steve Taylor
Album: Meltdown
Year: 1984
Label: Sparrow Records
iTunes here; YouTube here.
This, the side opener, comes in with a deep, groovy, almost mournful chugging guitar and a slightly ominous synthesizer arpeggio at the appropriate times. The lyrics spin first a tale of a married man's one-night stand, then the story of a drunk woman driving toward home, but not making it unscathed... And Steve Taylor, in his pull-no-punches way, also pans the lyrical camera to the part that nobody ever talks about and the young and (temporarily) innocent never see: the regret. The months, the years of crippling, life-altering regret.
If the healing happens as the time goes by
Tell me why I still can't look her in the eye...
Now the years run together as the guilt goes wild
She still sees the body of an only child...
Coming on the heels of the mournful lines at the end of each verse, the chorus -- a repetition of the cry we all use to justify everything we do, the sort-of right and the clearly wrong -- seems so flimsy in comparison. It seems disgusting, and then to realise these are our own words on a daily basis -- I'm only human... 'nobody's perfect...' it sort of makes one catch their breath.
The third verse states his point even more bluntly, just in case we didn't get it in the first two verses. And it spells out very clearly that sometimes the Christians -- we who think we'll never fall -- are the worst perpetrators of this deception:
Gonna get the good Lord to forgive a little sin
Get the slate cleaned so he can dirty it again...
It's interesting to note the role of the hands in all three verses. The hand in the first verse with the napkin, the shaky hand in the second verse belying how inebriated she is, the hypocritical hands in the third verse carefully and stealthily chopping down the very people they claim to be building up and supporting. Our hands betray us... oh, be careful little hands what you do.
Title: Sin For A Season
Artist: Steve Taylor
Album: Meltdown
Year: 1984
Label: Sparrow Records
iTunes here; YouTube here.
13 May 2015
On Finishing Projects
Written sometime in February 2015.
You know, one day I will be thankful for how college pushed me. It hurts and it sucks and I hate this feeling of doom until I find out what my final grade was, but it strengthened my will to persevere. I am such a perfectionist that I rarely get anything done. That's part of why I flaunt my choreographic accomplishments and my novels so obviously -- it's not about getting attention, it's just about the fact that I actually finished something. My room is a graveyard of unfinished projects. And being in college forced me to finish things. I hated every second of that Spiritual Formation paper last year (and the Church Ministry paper, and the history paper and every English paper ever...), but because my grade depended on them, I got them done. And it showed me I could.
You know, one day I will be thankful for how college pushed me. It hurts and it sucks and I hate this feeling of doom until I find out what my final grade was, but it strengthened my will to persevere. I am such a perfectionist that I rarely get anything done. That's part of why I flaunt my choreographic accomplishments and my novels so obviously -- it's not about getting attention, it's just about the fact that I actually finished something. My room is a graveyard of unfinished projects. And being in college forced me to finish things. I hated every second of that Spiritual Formation paper last year (and the Church Ministry paper, and the history paper and every English paper ever...), but because my grade depended on them, I got them done. And it showed me I could.
I have an iron will when it comes to things I really want (noveling, choreography), but if I don't care about something with every fibre of my being, I honestly don't care at all (the same goes for my friends, and it freaks them out because this means I'm very intensely loyal -- caring about someone with every fibre of your being has that effect). The perfectionist desire for decent grades forced me to finish these papers I hated. Writing a good paper was not my primary concern -- my primary concern was just meeting the word count and not getting a failing grade. College has forced me to see things through, to complete stupid and pointless things.
But now I do know that I can get things done. I know a few tricks to manipulate myself into actually getting things done. Most of them I originally learnt from NaNoWriMo, but they were refined and expanded on here in college.
I hate the stress. I will be so happy to get out of here, not because the profs or classes suck (I actually really like the profs and the classes, generally speaking), but because I will actually be able to breathe easy again. But I suppose once I'm out of the trenches I will be grateful for how it forced me to finish things.
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