8 minutes 30 seconds

I'm listening to a song worth writing to.

I've listened to this song so many times. I just today saw a video of the band playing it. They are such as I, mere mortals. Though the only decipherable thing we have in common besides our humanity is the fact that we occasionally can be found wearing t-shirts.

If you listen to "The Only Moment We Were Alone," you'll see that everything that happens before 8 minutes 30 seconds is good. You get lost thinking about everyone you've ever met, even imagining that high school and your worst fights had meaning. Yeah, it's a good song until 8 minutes 30 seconds.

Then, at 8 minutes 30 seconds, you realize you've been waiting for this. This is the purpose of the song. When the rifts swell into a wall, a roar, wave after wave of built tension finally breaking on land from on high. The absence of vocals makes me believe the tidal wave crashed on an uninhabited shore. Yet I am there.

I wonder if I'll be 80 when I hit my 8 minutes 30 seconds.

Stuck on an Island With Taylor Swift: 7 Days of 1989

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.

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!

OnetwothreefourfiveHA!

My music on shuffle, “Rocky Road to Dublin” by Young Dubliners catches me off guard this morning. Against my will, I’m transported to a back kitchen with blaring music and waiting dishes. 

One, two, three, four, five! Hey! I grab a giant serving tray and fill it up, in an instant attempting to memorize the placement of the special-order plates. I failed as often as I got it right.

On that first night, never having served an evening before, I was working with one other server. The other had walked out. Asked me was I hired, wages I required, / I was almost tired of the rocky road to Dublin./ One, two, three four, five. Ha! All the staff knew I was a newbie, and accorded a kindness and understanding that I still did not know was foreign to food service. I had left my home that night fully knowing that this might be the only night I ever had the chance to serve tables. The business was in trouble, and they needed someone to serve through their last week of reservations. I made up my mind as I applied my lip gloss that I would make the most of it, and absolutely have fun, and not be deterred at all. Then off to reap the corn, leave where I was born, / Cut a stout black thorn to banish ghosts and goblins; / Bought a pair of brogues rattling o'er the bogs / And fright'ning all the dogs on the rocky road to Dublin. / One, two, three four, five. Ha!

Through the evening, I constantly asked my fellow server about the menu, about the computer system, about timing, about drinks. I constantly asked the chefs to name the dishes that were up, repeat the specials, list the desserts. I needed help with a check, I needed a hand with a tray, I didn’t know what was in a hot totty, or how to describe the shelf merlot. All this I acknowledged with a humble humor. The room was full, the tables were lit up by their tealights and softened expressions. The whole room was aflame with a joy of living, it was like church.

At the end of the night, I tallied my tips: $210.60. Seriously? We must be overcharging. Or they must have felt pity for me. The Galway boys wer by, / and saw I was a-hobblin’ with a loud array, / they joined me in the fray / soon we cleared the way on the rocky road to Dublin. / One, two, three, four, five. Ha!

I took off my apron, and wrapped up my black book. Lee, the sous chef, came up to me, “wow,” he said, eyes bulging beneath his thick, black glasses, “you did a great job. I mean that. I’m not just saying it.”

“Thank you,” I was so surprised at his sincerity.

“No, I mean it, if Drew [the chef] takes over, he wants you to stay.”

“Lee, are you serious? I might have a job here? I’ve never done this before. I am not sure this is the wisest thing you could do.” It was true, and I’m still not sure it was the wisest thing they could have done.

“The way you handled tonight, tables at a time. Servers with way more experience get all grumpy and flustered. And you’re in the kitchen making jokes, just getting it right. It was awesome.”

This was not a normal complement for me to receive: that I kept my head about me, was relaxed in a stressful time, made smart calls when it mattered most. This was not the kind of thing to which my temperament is accustomed. So I took the job, in hopes of winning more such favor. One, two, three four, five, Ha! / Hunt the Hare and turn her down / the rocky road and all the way to Dublin, / Whack follol de rah !

I never quite did as well as that first night, when the pressure was on the most.