Day One: I'm so glad I have this brand new CD for my broke-down car CD player. I love "Wildest Dreams." I think I have told everyone about it. I will listen to it on repeat.
Day Two: crying Still playing "Wildest Dreams."
Day Three: I'm driving to an outdoor wedding, thinking about my hair while it rains hard. "Clean" is on repeat until I pick up two more bridesmaids, and we drive to pictures together: "Wildest Dreams" six more times.
Day Four: Today is Sunday, and I'm reminded that I also love Jesus, along with Taylor. So I turn on the radio, and listen to... is that Michael W. Smith?... Can't do it. Back to Taylor, "This Love." I led small group tonight, and realized that at one point, three T-Swift songs were vying for being the song in my head. It was difficult to explain to small group, but I think they get it.
Day Five: I've begun to feel very emotional. Is it the music? Is it a lack of sleep? "This Love," on repeat.
Day Six: Maybe it's time to diversify my listening throughout the day? I listen to Mumford and Sons at work, but realize that it's their latest album, which, true to critique, sounds like nothing, and I was humming Taylor Swift anyway.
Day Seven: It has finally occurred to me that certain paths of my recent actions may have been influenced by Taylor Swift's catchy lyrics and steady eyeliner. This, of course, has led me to an important decision, in which I take out the CD I've been protecting by locking my car, and I insert a different CD. It doesn't matter which one. None are as good, none as smooth, none as fun, nor well-produced as Taylor. But it may be my last chance to grip reality, and I cannot miss it.
Thursday, September 24, 2015
Tuesday, September 22, 2015
Winter Always Seems to be Looming
Mid-July, a leaf falls:
the card house crumbles;
the card house crumbles;
Lothlorien mourns.
August sighs in green.
September breathes in gold.
October laughs a rusty red.
Obediently, the year grows old.
November throws one last charade
and haze before its grizzled gray
requires of me that I must resolve
to face the fading days.
December dies in drab and black,
friends leave for their cold evening's sleep.
August sighs in green.
September breathes in gold.
October laughs a rusty red.
Obediently, the year grows old.
November throws one last charade
and haze before its grizzled gray
requires of me that I must resolve
to face the fading days.
December dies in drab and black,
friends leave for their cold evening's sleep.
In a firelit flicker, the dawn arrives,
but morning offers no reprieve.
On occasions during the three
months of December,
a sun setting on white snows
helps me to remember
light, with life and inward feeling,
will explicate itself in rays and boughs--
On occasions during the three
months of December,
a sun setting on white snows
helps me to remember
light, with life and inward feeling,
will explicate itself in rays and boughs--
for it does not freeze,
though the sap runs slow.
---
These were my title ideas:
Summer Never Comes Cheap
Color Wheel of the Living Year
Wait For the Hope in the Last Lines
If Winter Is Going to Be There, I Can't Come to the Party
Writing About Winter, In Hopes It Will Be Satisfied
The Latter Half of the Year in a Temperate Zone
Resolving to Accept Winter as One Might Accept a Difficult But Rich Houseguest
When A Poet Hates Being Cold, It's Just As You Might Expect
If You Dream of a White Christmas, Please Keep it to Yourself
Tuesday, September 15, 2015
Piano: What I'm Afraid Of
I've begun to learn something new. Kendra is teaching me piano. Slowly, slowly, I crawl through octaves. I measure my footsteps in fours. Piano is counting. I like counting, when it's fast. But this... I remind myself, it's okay if it doesn't come as quickly as counting.
Most cords are still acquaintances from other countries, with strange customs, who I am afraid to offend.
Then there's the problem of fear in other regards. What if the neighbors hear me playing the same song two dozen times, and wish that they could quickly end their lives?
What if my roommates hear the same song, played wrong in the same places, two dozen times, and in a moment, realize that my intellect is questionable, after all?
I tell you, it's okay. Because Kendra is teaching me piano.
It is easy to laugh together as I play wrong notes, and try and try. Then, I watch in awe as she brings order to the unwieldy thing I've been practicing for a week. Try again. Piano is laughing.
Right hand
left hand
now together.
The best lesson we've had yet didn't involve the piano at all. We were talking about rhythm and jazz. The best thing about rhythm is you can create it out of nothing, anywhere. We grabbed play-doh cans, and pens and a plastic bottle, and made music!
Most cords are still acquaintances from other countries, with strange customs, who I am afraid to offend.
Then there's the problem of fear in other regards. What if the neighbors hear me playing the same song two dozen times, and wish that they could quickly end their lives?
What if my roommates hear the same song, played wrong in the same places, two dozen times, and in a moment, realize that my intellect is questionable, after all?
I tell you, it's okay. Because Kendra is teaching me piano.
It is easy to laugh together as I play wrong notes, and try and try. Then, I watch in awe as she brings order to the unwieldy thing I've been practicing for a week. Try again. Piano is laughing.
Right hand
left hand
now together.
The best lesson we've had yet didn't involve the piano at all. We were talking about rhythm and jazz. The best thing about rhythm is you can create it out of nothing, anywhere. We grabbed play-doh cans, and pens and a plastic bottle, and made music!
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