She might not be a giant

After memorizing a few songs on the ukulele and deciding that I don't suck anymore, it's time to suck at something again. Keeps me humble. So I've taken up songwriting.

So far I've only written one song about a very dear online friend... the first one I've kept for more than a few months. It wasn't too hard writing the lyrics. I'm definitely better at that than the melody-writing part. I'm all about simple, humble melodies and quirky lyrics, much like plenty of They Might Be Giants songs... not that all their melodies are simple.

On myspace music, you're supposed to list the musicians who inspire you. Since I don't have a page, I'll list them here:

They Might Be Giants
Leon Redbone
Billie Holiday
Shirley Horn
Ella Fitzgerald
Tom Waits

...to name a few. I love lots of bands/musicians like these people, but these are the big 6 who make we want to perform myself. Someday, I hope to write songs that are actually good, not just entertaining. Life gets boring if I don't set a new goal every now and then, unrelated to the normal goals like... read more, write more, exercise, look up new lesson plans, etc etc etc.

Here's a link to my youtube thread if anyone is interested: http://www.youtube.com/my_videos?feature=mhw4

The best people.

I'm sitting in front of a man at a cafe who just finished singing the most beautiful blues solo along with the music that's playing. It was an instrumental blues song. He started moaning along with it in this just-gritty-enough tone. He's a gentlemanly-looking guy--one of those Irish-looking hats, a navy jacket, and khakis with a polo shirt. He's speaking matter-of-factly about the Vietnam war and being homeless for a while.

"Lucky to be alive," he comments, and talks about someone's sister (maybe his, I couldn't hear) who took him in and helped him get back on track. He's basically offering up his life story to a woman who complimented him on his singing, and I wish it had been me. I love people like this--people who have done so much that they're overflowing. They're probably either lonely or just naturally loquacious; either condition makes them eager to unload on anyone who will listen.

I don't know if he's particularly wise. I don't even know if he's telling the truth. Still, I love encounters like this. This person makes me want to get off my ass and do as much as I can. So no matter who he really is, I'm thankful for him today.

Family newsletters

They're kind of like facebook status messages that you can't click away from. I just read a "New Years Resolution" newsletter on someone's fridge. Why would anyone waste postage on those things? You never see those people; it's not as if you're going to check up on them and their goal-keeping abilities. Why are people volunteering this useless information to friends of friends and distant cousins?

Children

I've been thinking a lot about whether or not I really want children. It's a scary thought, giving up so much time and energy for this thing that torments you internally for 9 months. What's scarier still is that people assume that all women have this button inside them that is pushed the second that little guy or girl comes out. Sure, these people don't normally assume that these instincts we're granted will answer every single question; but the mysticism surrounding women and their children disturbs me more than anything.

It seems unfair to make this assumption at all. Some women aren't fit to be mothers. Some women are fit, but no matter what kinds of internal prompts they receive, their heart won't be in the job. I'm wary of the unconditional love people talk about the moment they set their eyes on their baby's face. It can't be this universal thing; that's too hard to believe. It's easy for people who were prepared and wanted it or have at least warmed up to the idea. But I--who am scrambling against the clock trying to accomplish my goals, constantly aware that the relatively free schedule of a college student is running out--I am terrified of losing what little free time I'll have left.

It sounds really selfish, I'm sure. I cannot say that I admire mothers on the whole; it's just another thing to be. Regardless of the profession or life choice, what I admire is a devoted and well-informed person. So it is the devoted and well-informed mothers I admire. I guess I just can't avoid the question that keeps running through my head: Just because I have this uterus, am I forced to use it to house another human life--one that I'll be responsible for for years?

Selfish as it might sound, I'm more concerned about fulfilling my own goals and supporting the dreams of those around me who already exist than dreaming about the unborn children I might make one day. Or maybe it's not selfish. No one calls a childless man selfish when he's not feeling paternal.

Anyway... felt good to get that out. This isn't some decision I need to make any time soon. It's just something that's been gnawing on me for a while.

Dreams, 1/9/10

I can't keep track of how many times I've written about dreams--once, twice, or never at all. And since this is just a casual online journal, I can't be bothered to backtrack. So here's an [another] installment on weird dreams:

Last night I dreamed that my dad was chasing family members around with one of those dull training epees and whipping us with it. It really hurt, so I had to get a wooden spoon and start whapping him with it to make him stop. He didn't understand why we were so upset. Then I found out that I had a son I didn't know about. Who knows how that's possible? But his name was Jonothan, and mom introduced me to him, reminding me that I had been pregnant for the past 9 months, and TADA!

So I strapped him into my monster truck and took him to meet his father, who I assumed was my boyfriend. He ran a hot dog stand on the side of a freeway, just like the guy in that old 1950s cartoon. I took a detour first to my grandma's house. She had died, and these gangsters were using it for a meth lab. I ran over all of them. By this time, Jonothan had learned how to talk and was saying that he was scared. I replied that it's ok, because they were "bad guys."

Finally, I found Jake grilling dogs on the side of the road. He seemed surprisingly calm and even happy about having a son. That's when I started to suspect that this pregnancy was some sort of shady conspiracy put together by he and my mother. You know how those men get the baby fever... Of course, I woke up just a few seconds later.

Real resolution

I always resolve to get healthier and read more and stuff like that. All I really want this year is to be more honest, and by that I mean bite my tongue less. There are too many moments where I missed out on showing people the real me--people who are going to be in my life forever and should know me by now. But to save a lot of time and aggravation, anything that will cause an uncomfortable silence or an argument dissolves before it can escape my mouth. Some of it is necessary, but most of it isn't. There will be baby steps, but this is going to be a more honest year for me.

Oops

I can't say much on the subject. But apparently I didn't know someone as well as I thought. Maybe I knew that person, and I ignored a lot of the things that make us incompatible. We'll always be friends, but I foresee a lot of arguments on the horizon. There's no rule in my friendship handbook that says we have to have everything in common, but a few more things would make this easier. Oh well. This happens a lot.

Straight up keepin it real wit Jesus.

At the moment I'm between deities, going through something that most young people go through. I'm not sure exactly what I believe, so I've tossed religion aside. I still pray, because I believe in God. Maybe I'm not exactly sure what kind of God I believe in, so it's hard to make any kind of commitment.

But my spiritual issues aside, these doubts rose up in me years ago. In high school, I truly wanted to leave religion behind. It started when the music changed at high school mass and Christian retreat leaders started using odd tactics to reach us. Looking back, the reason was stupid, but it's something that still bothers me today.

Why do people want their religion to be cool? Why are mostly wise religious leaders who've spent their lives reading and teaching doctrine regressed into MTV VJs? I know I'm not the only one who realizes how this cheapens spirituality.

There are so many definitions of cool that it could easily be twisted into a word you could use about religion, but I'd prefer not to. In my experience, I was cool when anyone with pull in the social world approved of my actions and caused others to feel the same. I was uncool when the opposite occurred. Most of my decisions that synched up with being a good Christian would have been considered uncool--not drinking or smoking at parties, not having sex, not questioning my mother and father... you get the idea. At that stage in your life, it's pretty cool to be bad. I'm not stating an opinion, just the definition I learned through others' actions.

So, do we really want to apply this word to religion? Are our religious leaders so desperate for members that they're selling their god as an eager-to-please, rapping man in the sky? The truth is that most people who strive to do the right thing are pegged as boring, prudish, and even offensive.

Instead of cheapening religion, we should be preparing our youth to deal with the reality of the situation. If you choose to do the right thing, there's a good possibility that many people will laugh at you, ostracize you, or even try and hurt you. Most people in this "out for yourself" society couldn't get on board with that.

Have yourself a merry little holiday

I can understand that Christians are sad about the obligation many employees are under to wish people "Happy Holidays" instead of "Merry Christmas." Sure, more people celebrate Christmas than they do other Winter holiday, but it seems like most employers encourage their employees to use a more all-encompassing term.

You, during your free time shopping, buying coffee, and watching TV, are free to wish people a Merry Christmas--unlike the workers with whom you're interacting. Be glad that you can wish it to others when they're unable to do the same, even if they may want to. Every time I'm out, I hear people respond to Happy Holidays with "same to you" instead of "Merry Christmas." Worse yet, some people don't respond at all. If it's what you want to say, why not say it instead of complaining about it in the car or at home. No one's forcing you not to say it.

People complain to everyone who will listen, and when one employee finally does say "Merry Christmas," that poor soul has to endure a pious lecture preceded by "Well I'm so glad to FINALLY hear that! *cue a time-wasting rant*

This is the season of giving, and yet everyone can't stop thinking about the greeting they want to receive. Indulge in your freedom and your love of Christmas. Be glad you can say it as much as you want, to whomever you want, no matter what they say to you, because you are free on your own time.

Music is my life

It's used so often, mostly by people who mean to say that songs move them. They react emotionally to music, and it often helps them through the day or makes a shower/car ride/dance club more pleasant. There's nothing wrong with this at all, and it describes most people's relationship with most of their music.

I've found that we all challenge our minds with different media and use other to "escape." Some of us read books so terrible that a more suitable vocation is kindling... and then devour a truly genius film. Others chortle through Dumb and Dumber and then spend the weekend breezing through Dostoevsky's novels in a weekend for the 3rd time. Sometimes it's a combination, or it depends on the mood. My point is that--while it's not quite as isolated as I'm making it out to be--I've found that people usually have one art form that they use to exercise their mind more often than others.

"Music is my life" seems like a phrase that is best used by those who challenge themselves with music. These people often forget about the concept of classification and embrace any sound that makes them think of something they hadn't before. It's a need that goes beyond emotion. We don't eat because starvation gives us the weepies. These people aren't devoid of emotion regarding music. They just don't feel the need to gush. True artists don't always realize they're making art. I think you can apply this to enthusiasts of something as well. It comes so naturally that gushing about it never occurs to them.

There's nothing wrong with being a music lover in one way or the other that I've described. I'm closer to the former than the latter. It's just a difference I've noticed, and frankly, the term's been thoroughly diluted thanks to facebook users.

*Insert safe question here*

The inability of humans to be satisfied and/or live in the moment comes through in the small talk with which we assault innocent people. We all endure a series of questions that plagues all people whose description is similar to ours. For example, I can guess what every heterosexual woman hears throughout her lifetime:

-->So, what do you plan to do after high school?

-->So what do you plan to do with your degree? And when do you graduate? *more general "how's school" questions"

-->So you've been dating __ years? When are you planning on making it official?

-->Congratulations! So when are you getting pregnant???

-->So, what have you been doing since your eggs went away?

-->Would you care for a black or brown casket?

Ok, maybe I made the last two up. Older people have it good in at least one respect: no one bothers them about the next stages of their lives that much. I suppose we have a need for small talk, but I'd prefer it if it was considered "acceptable" in mixed company to ask more interesting questions.

I'd like to ask people questions that my boyfriend asks me when we're bored, such as: "Would you rather fly or be invisible?" As tempting as invisibility is--easier to hide from small talk--I'd prefer to fly. I guess either of them would be good powers for escaping inane chatter, though.

Inviso-bird, awaaaaaaay!

Coffee

I used to force it down so that I could stay awake. Cokes didn't cut it. They made me feel very up for 10 minutes, and then completely hopeless, as if I would never be active again. Energy drinks, with their impossibly tall containers and threatening names and slogans, never appealed to me much. Who needs 60 ounces of what is essentially nourishment for a very busy hummingbird in their system? Not I, I think, since I love answering my own rhetorical questions.

So it started with a Granita when I was 15. My sister brought me to Caffe Cottage, now better known as a bar and venue than a place to have a quiet cup of joe. It was sweet and delicious, too sweet by my current standards. Most important, it perked me up for a good, long while.

That led me to the Starbucks by Barnes and Noble. This was when I started to notice how many people equated coffee and cafes with inspiration. And today, cafes are no longer places to congregate and be social. They're studying nooks and smooth-jazz caves for aspiring writers. I'll admit I'm writing this at a cafe. It's hard to help; the atmosphere is such a nice change--much better than the Student Union.

A Louisiana coffee company, Community, jumped on the complicated-espresso-drink bandwagon and created CC's (now Community Coffee Houses). Their frozen drink was the Mochasippi, and it was my regular for a long time--mostly plain ones, sometimes with vanilla mixed in.

Hot coffee was a fiscal decision at first. Blended drinks were expensive and not all that good for you either. It was a slow process. First I drank mostly mochas and flavored lattes--training wheels. One afternoon, I order a cafe au lait and added a single packet of turbinado sugar. The milk was all frothy on top. As I stirred, the little crystals sank into the froth, making the top this lovely caramel color.

That's what I'm drinking right now, and it's perfect. I feel completely awake.

Squirrels and relationships

I love eavesdropping. I can't even pretend not to.

Conversation to my left:

"I just don't like not being in a relationship. Because I like... don't like.... being... alone?"

"Oh, totally. So how's that guy--?"

"I don't know... I mean he's not a bad person, but...I don't know. I just don't wanna go to that party alone."

Not so bad, right? But my favorite part comes after I left to order my coffee and returned:

"Sometimes I'll see a run-over squirrel and be like 'oh, it sucks to be that squirrel' but then I'm like, it's just a squirrel, ya know? People die, like, every day."

--Which is completely true. When you think about the crimes against humanity that occur every day, a flattened rodent seems a lot less sad.

And now one of the girls is talking about how she doesn't like babies, and there was this one time when a baby drooled on her Harvard hoodie. She also doesn't like their oral fixations. OH, good, now the other one's talking about Freud!

Philosophy and Craps

This morning, I lost a coin on the floor of the College of Education building. As I searched, something hit me like a ton of bricks: It's impossible to find a coin on the pattern that they chose. The same goes for most of the buildings. It makes so much sense. They're just like casino floors--perfect camouflage for money and valuables. The cruel, complicated patterns encourage you to give up. "It's only a quarter.... it's only a 5$ chip."

Colleges are poor, and casinos are greedy. They both want your money, and they'll take advantage of butterfingers to get it.

I might love you, yeah, but I love me more.

Jeez.

Usually I don't like to talk about how songs hit me. It's hard to explain why. I don't like to gush, I suppose. I feel like my words are cheapening what I feel. That must be a common worry--that there's no way we can possibly describe our emotions without coming off as cliche' or something.

But screw it, I've just listened to one of my favorite Cowboy Mouth songs, "New Orleans." It's about a girl who cheats on a guy. Old news, right? Near the end of the song, Fred Leblanc sings:

But sometimes when she sleeps, she turns and she whispers his name.

This line always just breaks me. I can feel something rising up my throat, and my head even aches a little. My stomach churns, and there are little sharp sensations all over me, like I'm being cut.

I have never been cheated on, but the idea of losing trust in someone forever is such a nightmare situation for me. That type of betrayal is something I've never experienced. The unknown can be really scary, I guess, because that one little line never softens. The image just hits me--A guy lying in bed restlessly, and he hears a stranger's name over and over, every night, until he finally has to end it. Must be torture.

Must I write?

There was an article that my Senior English class was required to read. I loved it. Most of the class hated it. They found it snobby and elitist. Let me explain.

It was about what makes art, and that liking something doesn't automatically make something good--especially in the eyes of experienced critics. Writing from the heart is a nice idea, but the truth is that more goes into it than heart. It takes work, thought, and so much cutting and cleaning up. By the time it's finished, the author has poured more than just their soul into it. What they've revealed is their character, their patience. It's not easy, just like any other art. And when you think about really raw, "passionate" writing, it makes sense--all the gratuitous adjectives, the unbearable level of drama. Making it something that people can relate to is a greater challenge than clumsily spilling your guts onto paper. But it's comforting to think that it's possible, I suppose, to have a masterpiece in hours instead of months or years.

The part of the article that keeps me from quitting every time writing gets hard was an aside. He wanted the reader to know that he wasn't saying that heart and passion weren't important. If someone is unsure about whether or not they are supposed to write, he or she need only ask one question: "Must I write?" If your life would seem empty without it, then yes, you must. You're "supposed" to. If you care that much, then you're likely to have the patience to do the cleaning--the stuff that's probably less fun. And you'll probably be willing to kill off and cut away parts of your baby for the sake of a cleaner story.

I cannot and will not give up.

Post Secret

Something's been eating at me. I wish I could say it here, but I don't want anyone to know--anyone. So I'm sending it in to Post Secrets. I might even find a book at B+N and stick one in there too. This is something that I never thought I would do. There was never anything so secret that I couldn't turn to at least one person.

It's kind of cool to have a secret, but I can't wait to tell someone.

An unfortunate weakness

Novel writing month disheartens me. I can't write quickly for one reason: I'm good at describing, I'm good at developing characters, and I'm good at creating a vivid setting. What can't I do? Advance the damn plot.

I've begun writing a simple adventure story that comes from an old dream I wrote down. There's not much to it but the story. Therefore I won't have much else to focus on. It's about knights and the kinds of adventures they have. So of course, we've got a bunch of brave, bold people trotting around on horses. Sure, it might become something better than that. But if not, at least I'll have gotten closer to moving the action along instead of just describing people and things and writing tons of dialogue.

My goal is to break myself of the habit of focusing on those perfect little pockets of a story that I spend so much time developing and think about what I want to say and what I want my characters to do. I really don't want my schedule to make my writing any more stale than it is.

I'd rather not work with parents in school

'Just got a call from a classmate... a 40-50 something classmate with an 8-10 year old kid who has the flu. Parents have more damn germs to worry about. I know it's a valid excuse. I KNOW people my age can get sick too. She's awesome for coming back to school, actually. But my God, I've had to deal with more kid-related excuses in college than I'd care to name.

Of course, in the kinder part of my brain, I'm totally understanding. I sent her an email telling her not to worry about it, because she shouldn't. Her kids' health comes first, and she's smart for not coming to class and possibly spreading it around.

But damnit... we might not even get to present tomorrow, because SHE has a lot of the supplies we need.

The Mark of a Good Musical

A lot of the following can be applied to any sort of music. I just feel that musicals get little credit as a genre, and that isn't fair. Sure, a lot of them suck, but many of them are beautifully composed and have great story lines.

Everything's a musical now. They had a Carrie musical a few years back, for God's sake. I think one big problem is that people don't want to accept that some stories just don't work in this genre. There are some stories that work well without following the "show, don't tell" rule. Then there are some that just don't. Trying to force big musical numbers into moments that are better left silent...that's a bad move.

Then we can look at the songs themselves. One of my favorite musical songs is "If I Were a Bell" from Guys and Dolls, because even without the lyrics, the tone and purpose of the song are totally clear. The melody itself speaks of silly, half-drunk, new love. Then someone I know tries to sell me on Wicked and plays "Popular." I can't speak for the rest of the musical, but when I strip away the words and think of the melody, I don't think strongly about the message of the song. It's just writing plinky music that sounds vaguely appropriate and then tossing in some lyrics.

I've fallen away from musicals partially because so many are just so cheesy. And I guess I don't always want people's feelings spelled out for me in song. But I'm grateful that I've been able to define why some appeal to me and some don't. It's truly a relief.