Music Through the Years

You know how sometimes songs come back to you, songs you haven't listened to in 10 years or more, songs you don't even like any more?! That's what happened to me today. I have "Every Heartbeat" by Amy Grant stuck in my head. So, in 5 year increments, can you find a song, artist & genre that was significant to your life? Here's mine

Age 5
Song: The Wheels on the Bus
Artist: Raffi
Genre: Anything with repeatable lyrics, Hymns

Age 10
Song: "Every Heartbeat" - Amy Grant
Artist: Twila Paris
Genre: Christian Pop

Age 15
Song: "Socially Acceptable" - DC Talk
Artist: MercyMe
Genre: Christian Rock & Praise Band

Age 20
Song: "Ballad of San Francisco" - Caedmon's Call
Artist: SuperChic[k]
Genre: Folk, Christian Punk, Broadway Musicals

Age 25
Song: "The Call" - Regina Spektor
Artist: The Killdares
Genre: Punk Ska, Broadway Musicals, Celtic Rock

PS - right now? I'm listening to "Stand in the Rain" by SuperChic[k]

Boom-di-yada

I found this by clicking around on Trick's vid:




Which is also awesome.

PS - I love Egyptian kings!

Searching for Inspiration

Okay, today is November 5th. I am officially behind in my writing. I didn't write yesterday. Not because I was engrossed with watching a US map being slowly colored in by the votes of the populace, but because I couldn't stand the idea of sitting in front of a computer screen. Honestly, I barely got with the sitting. Mostly I slouched (something you cannot do in an office chair & office clothes). Mostly I played Final Fantasy X. Mostly I did. not. write. Grrrr. But it's okay. Because ya'll are gonna bug me if I don't write for at least an hour tonight, right? RIGHT? 

In other news, I did occasionally switch from channel 3 awesomeness to Any Other Channel (except the CW) and check on the election. Yes, they apparently decided that this historic election was more important than the adventures of Ziva, Tony, Abby, Ducky, Tim & Gibbs. This, of course, disrupted my Tuesday enormously. I get my warm fuzzies from watching slaps up the back of the head and a happy goth forensic scientist with a caffeine addiction. And yes, the lack of NCIS did indeed mess up my night. I am a creature of habit. Fortunately, despite frustrating programming decisions on the part of CBS, I managed to get to sleep relatively quickly and slept fairly well. 

Okay, so the big news of the day is that we have a new President-elect, right? And, living in a liberal city in a conservative state, I feel like the only reason this hasn't been the only thing on people's tongues is that I'm at work. And you're not supposed to talk about politics at work. Right? Despite that, I could tell you without hesitancy the political leanings of everyone in the office. Although they probably couldn't tell you mine. Because mine, like me, are not simple. But my feelings right now, about the results of the last TWO YEARS of campaigning, are pretty easy to put forth:

The authorities that exist have been established by God. Consequently, he who rebels against the authority is rebelling against what God has instituted, and those who do so will bring judgment on themselves. For rulers hold no terror for those who do right, but for those who do wrong. Do you want to be free from fear of the one in authority? Then do what is right and he will commend you. For he is God's servant to do you good. But if you do wrong, be afraid, for he does not bear the sword for nothing.

I find that the theme of my time in Austin so far has been one of reminding myself that God is in control.  God did not sit up in heaven, watching the polls come in going "I wonder who they will pick!  Oh, what will I do?"  God has this planned out.  From beginning to the end.  Alpha, Omega.  God plans for big things like nations and little things like me getting a job or taking the GRE.  God is in control.

A living poet that I actually relate to

Eavan Boland is an Irish poet that Scott is reading for one of his classes. I Googled her today because I was curious about what he was reading. What I found was a modern poet whose train of thought I can really follow. Her construction is beautiful and gives me hope that, one day, I can express with words the thoughts that at the moment I can only describe as images...images I don't have the skill to paint or draw and only ever so often can I find a way to create them. So, today I give you this poem, one of the seven or so I found read-able online. I hope it makes you think, I hope it makes you remember, I hope it makes you look for beauty in your life.

What Language Did

The evening was the same as any other.
I came out and stood on the step.
The suburb was closed in the weather

of an early spring and the shallow tips
of washed-out yellows of narcissi
resisted dusk. And crocuses and snowdrops.

I stood there and felt the melancholy
of growing older in such a season,
when all I could be certain of was simply

in this time of fragrance and refrain,
whatever else might flower before the fruit,
and be renewed, I would not. Not again.

A car splashed by in the twilight.
Peat smoke stayed in the windless
air overhead and I might have missed:

a presence. Suddenly. In the very place
where I would stand in other dusks, and look
to pick out my child from the distance,

was a shepherdess, her smile cracked,
her arm injured from the mantelpieces
and pastorals where she posed with her crook.

Then I turned and saw in the spaces
of the night sky constellations appear,
one by one, over roof-tops and houses,

and Cassiopeia trapped: stabbed where
her thigh met her groin and her hand
her glittering wrist, with the pin-point of a star.

And by the road where rain made standing
pools of water underneath cherry trees,
and blossoms swam on their images,

was a mermaid with invented tresses,
her breasts printed with the salt of it and all
the desolation of the North Sea in her face.

I went nearer. They were disappearing.
Dusk had turned to night but in the air -
did I imagine it? - a voice was saying:

This is what language did to us. Here
is the wound, the silence, the wretchedness
of tides and hillsides and stars where

we languish in a grammar of sighs,
in the high-minded search for euphony,
in the midnight rhetoric of poesie.

We cannot sweat here. Our skin is icy.
We cannot breed here. Our wombs are empty.
Help us to escape youth and beauty.

Write us out of the poem. Make us human
in cadences of change and mortal pain
and words we can grow old and die in.

Eavan Bolan