Times Gone By

In which our hero admits weeping brokenly over the sorrows of fictional characters....



Or, perhaps, weeping brokenly over the not so fictional circumstances of coincidentally fictional characters.

The musical 'Les Miserables' is an in depth study in fictional characters facing not so fictional circumstances. I love the musical. It is my favorite large scale dramatic work. I have been listening to it since I was small enough to not understand the lyrics. I knew the songs belonged to the specific characters and had, therefore, developed strong attachments to them before I started to learn that they almost all died tragic deaths....

That was a bit of a shock.

As time has passed, I have not lost these strong connections. I identify with Javert in many ways, but I am relieved by Valjean's version of the story, repentance, forgiveness. The end always makes me cry, the beautiful words accompanied by the triumphant music, in which the characters, having died, have rebelled against death and now live eternally.

Yeah, good stuff, I just teared up.

But more and more recently, I have cried more and more for 'I Dreamed a Dream' and 'On My Own'.
Both, of course, are powerful songs driven by terrible sadness. 'Little Fall of Rain' falls into the category as well, but not quite to same level. Les Miz, on the whole, is a very depressing musical. The only happy aspect, the marriage of Cosette and Marius, is mired in the sorrows surrounding it.

So then, that's the end right? Les Miz is sad, it makes poor pathetic-vocalist-blogger-person cry.
Zee end.

Not quite.

I don't know why I have thought this of late, perhaps my experiences of recent, and not so recent, times have created this ticking time bomb of thought in my head. Whatever it is, I am going to write about it and try to do it the justice it deserves... probably won't happen.

We live, in a time of 'times gone by.' The modern attitude towards women, on the part of both men and women, has chewed up our dreams, mocked our romances, and left us alone with no love, left to the shameful prostitution of fifty shades of black despair. We have been wooed by promises of enjoyment and freedom, license in licentiousness. It has left us bereft, weeping for dreams of times gone by, when men were kind, when the world was a song and the song was exciting. We were wooed by the devil, and he gave us what we wanted, freedom from romance. We gladly sing 'Pretty Ladies' with no sense of disgust or revulsion. It is the standard of the culture.

But then a Man comes, and even though the law stands and tells Him of how often we make excuses, how we are liars, deserving of death within the prison, He reaches out His hand, pulls us out of the ditch, takes us away from the docks. We still die, we are doomed to it, but we do not die in the despair of death, we die, Him at our side, promising us life for us and our children.

But I am speaking of Christ and the Church.

Thanks for reading.

Of Mice and Minstrels

In which our hero thinks introspective thoughts, imagine that....


Those who know me know that I am a rather proud person. I can hide it pretty well, but if you scratch the surface much at all you will find at the heart, a prideful sinner, much like many others, obsessed with his own affairs. I have enough gall to compare myself to the greats, make excuses, and in general not work as hard as I should.

I am, of course referring to myself as relates to music; however this is a concept which can, and probably should be universally applied to my person.

I have a strong voice, I have known this for a long time. When I was younger I would have barely been reticent to tell you I had the best voice of anyone I knew. I was not quite that crass; but I thought it. And still, when unchecked, my pride will flair up and threaten to consume that little veneer of humility which hides hubris and vanity.

This evening was Dr. Savage's faculty recital. It was a celebration of the 200th anniversary of Verdi's birth. As you may expect, it was all Italian, almost all Verdi, and all excellent. Dr. Savage is an incredible performer, and an incredible singer.

This week has been great for me, musically. Between the aforementioned recital, the vocal showcase --highlighted by the excellent performances of both my upperclassmen colleagues and my teacher-- and the Bach Collegium's performance of the St. Matthew Passion by Bach, highlighted by the performances of several brilliant vocalists, it has been a great treat.

But more importantly for me. These, like many such things, are a strong reality check.

For me, anytime I listen to Mark, my teacher, or Dr. Savage sing, I am given this overwhelming sense of perspective. I have a good voice, yes. But a strong voice does not the singer make, it doesn't hurt, but it does give me excuses. My performance might play out well compared to others in the eyes of the audience, but I, and those who know my voice, know that I didn't do it right. I got nervous, I clipped my vowels, I tilted my head, and, horror of horrors, I swallowed the sound.

I have taken to listening to recordings of Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau, another strong reality check. Dieskau's recordings are incredible. I am highly critical when listening to other people sing, almost to the point of being nasty, which partially comes from that over inflated pride I mentioned earlier, and when I listen to other people sing, especially in my range, I always say to myself, 'could I have done that better than him?'....

What did I know, fool that I was....

 When listening to Dieskau, I always realize, I cannot, now nor ever, perform at that man's level. His performance is flawless in my ears. He never sounds overwrought, or harsh, or nasal. He never sounds wrong. Everything he sings sounds right, like the way that it was meant to be sung.

And it brings everything into clearer perspective. My vanity and my laziness, and other people's talent and hard work, are all brought into stark contrast. Up til this point, I have been coasting through life, riding high --there's that phrase Patrick-- on the gift that God has given me, abusing it by not working harder to improve it. Laziness, lack of labor from lack of love.

Even in the writing of this I can see my perpetually present pride preening for presentation. Humility comes only of perspective, perspective, through wisdom, of which there is only one Beginning and one End.

Even in the writing of this, I have hedged statements, shaved my sentences, cleaned my clauses, and polished my phrases with politeness, in order to protect my pride or to maintain a thin gauze of humility over my pride.

Gauze is used to cover open wounds; this we know.

Anywho, I guess all I'm trying to say, is that it is Friday, I am tired and mildly disappointed at myself. Therefore I am venting my thoughts to the interwebs.

I hope you enjoyed reading this. Unless it was schadenfreude, if so, shame on you, it is Lent after all.

Thanks for reading.

Emergency Pressure Release

In which our hero opens some his consciousness overflow release valves....

I'm feeling restless tonight. Not in a manner that I cannot sleep, or even relax, but in the manner that my mind will not stop whirring. It spins in cycles chewing up, processing, and regurgitating information. But there is nowhere for these fancies and fascinations to fasten, and they quickly return to my mind to find safe haven and refuge from the prying eyes of wandering wrackspurts.

I feel, rather, like a spinning top, hung from a string being twisted into cat's cradles, suspended from a pendulum swinging against the wind. My mind is mincing its meat pies, mixing its metaphors, mashing its M-n-Ms, and meandering in a meaningfully menacing montage of mental menagerie.
Thoughts. They hum about my ears and make sounds, sometimes of a seamless symphony of sympathetic synonyms....

But I digress, I carried that on in order to exorcize my brain. I hope it made some sense, it makes sense to me.

On to actual topics which can be taken for what they are, or are not.

I feel behind; behind schedule as concerns school; behind on my reading; behind on my devotions; behind on life. I feel like I am moving forward, perhaps even quickly, but that the ground is moving faster than my feet and the objects in my rear view mirrors are closer than they appear. I feel that I am making progress, improving and learning, but oh so slowly, and sometimes too late. I am plowing forward, trekking, ever trekking, towards... what? I don't know. I have always felt that I had clear goals. Long term plans for my life. Now I only consider my future in definite terms as concerns my requirements for school. I suppose this has to do with having been assigned goals for the first time.

I was told something, by several different people recently; that, as a professional, and esp. as a performer, I have to define myself. I have to know who I am, and establish that for myself, and for other people. So then, how to go about that? Or do I do it already? Do people have a specific idea of who I am? Do I? If someone had to describe my personality to someone else, how would they do it. I hear people talk about other people they know, and I ask myself'; how do you talk about me when I am not there? I am not so foolish to not care what other people think, I try not to let it define me, but how people perceive you matters.

Ironic, I now have "Who Am I?" from Les Miserables stuck in my head.

When I took the SAT, the essay I had to write was based off of a question about whether we should let other people influence our ideas. Like all SAT questions, it was a low-ball pitch made to be struck with the full force of any highschooler's lofty opinions. I despise questions like this. They always ask for absolutes concerning things which have more touch-of-gray than silver lining.
My answer was that influence was inevitable. We cannot interact with anyone, or anything, and not have it influence our perspective. There is no avoiding influence, we are sponges, we absorb everything and assume it into who and what we are. Whether by adoption or repulsion, or even apathy, all things touch us and make us include them in our reality.

One of the things that has been the hardest about school has been the separation from my family. Nothing makes my day like meeting my brother on campus, whether for coffee or just to walk around talking. For my entire life, my family has been my first resort for advice and for conversation, and my classmates and friends, as excellent and interesting as they may be, do not make for very strong substitutes.

But now it is Lent, a season of prayer, fasting, and solemn meditation. It is strange to consider the fact that, in this world, I will only experience a limited number of Lenten-tides. Statistically, I have already been through twenty percent of them. My days are as an hand-breadth... I find that more and more, my favorite book of the Bible to sit down and read is Ecclesiastes. There is such a strong sense of perspective, of not just knowledge, but wisdom.

And that ultimately, I guess, will be what can help me in finding the answers to all of my problems: Perspective. To know who I am, and to know who He Is. A stark contrast to be sure. A sign upon my forehead and my heart. For, in this one of many Lents, even with the Golgotha of my sins looming in the horizon, I know that my Redeemer lives. And the neither the prince of this world, nor its principalities, nor my own foolish pride, can separate me from the love of God in Christ Jesus my Lord.

And that, was an explosion of thought. The last section is the only part that keeps me sane through the rest of it. Perspective for the day, eh?

Thanks for reading.

Oh, Tricky Definition

In which our hero searches for answers for questions that vex him....

More specifically the answer to one question: what is love?

Now don't think that I am descending into sophistry like the of Pilate or Plato. I am not looking for the keys to the universe, just trying to assemble thoughts based on personal experience and various external references.

This question was brought to my mind by a friend asking me what my personal definition of 'love' is. I tried to express, in as few words as possible, what it is. This is one of those times that words become hard. I told my friend that I have often re-considered my definition.

There are times when I will sit and do nothing but think. If you see me sitting and staring into space, it probably means that I have something like this on my mind. I attempt to regularly re-analyze my thoughts and opinions according to new experience or data, with only a few constants that provide perspective and inform my conclusions on all other subjects. I, no doubt, often arrive at the wrong conclusion. I am blessed though to have the best sounding boards in the world, my brothers, particularly my older brother, and my mama.

But anywho, that was rambling, you are probably thinking, 'and when will he get back to his subject?'

Love, as it is used in such times as, 'in love' or, of course, "I love you." How do I even begin to think about these things?

My definition, as of right now, is based on the understanding that the model for matrimonial love is Christ's love for the church. Then why should this not apply to all love between a man and a woman? That the ultimate definition of love is sacrifice? A giving of self for the sake of your beloved. Of course no man can keep this love purely, but it is still our example. A man should love his wife, and sacrifice for her, without thought of self or reputation.

Now how anyone ever reaches that point is still well beyond my ken. I know what I think love looks like, but that doesn't mean that I can see it.

Thanks for reading my spiel.

Profusions of Word Vomit

In which our hero attempts to relax by writing *for fun*....


As finals approach, I am feeling a little tired and stressed out. Between regular peeves, difficult/annoying class work, and extra-ordinary experiences; my brain is shot. I'm always about five minutes of the wrong train of thought away from weeping brokenly. It's not that I am generally morose but if, in the course of a day, I become depressed it is difficult for me to return to the happy mean of contentment.

I walk around campus smiling; it's a policy, I smile, people smile back, and that makes me happy. This system is very nice, people recognize you, you improve their day, they improve yours, a very reciprocal relationship. I say 'good morning' including their names if I can, just so they know that I thought their names worth knowing, a small thing for me that means a lot to them.

When I sit in a group of people, I try my darnedest to make them laugh. Nothing makes me happier than to hear other people laugh at me. It often involves a more than slightly eccentric display on my part, but those happen anyway, might as well make them aimed at making them laugh.

These things make me happy. They make long days feel short. They make me feel at home.

Sometimes things like that are all I have. Sometimes the day has collapsed beneath my feet, leaving me breathless and bruised. Sometimes I feel like a fraud, a college student making feints at being a musician; making the same mistakes over and over, failing to follow simple instructions; disappointing those who I want to please the most.

On days like those, I only have three things going for me: My mama, my peeps, and my God. These three keep me sane. When I'm scared, my mama comforts me; when I'm lonely, my peeps cheer me and provide me with happy conversation; when I am lowest, beyond the reach of the aforementioned, then I have my God, comforting me with a Word sweeter than life, and a Peace greater than death.

I've shifted all over the place tonight. My mind is elsewhere. It is now December, as of three minutes before I wrote those words. The year, like men, dwindles and dies, leaving behind the memories and morose, loves and losses. The New year is no more a beginning than it is an ending. Until God sees fit to brings about the new Anno Domini the world will keep spinning much as it always has.
But Christmas is coming. Advent, where we are bold to sing such things as "Prepare the Royal Highway" and "Savior of the Nations" a time of hope and prayer as we look forward to the coming of Christ.

We do not celebrate a cute baby in a manger. We celebrate a King taking up His throne. Enthroning Himself in our flesh. We celebrate a Child that already bore the great weight of our transgression. Before He could raise His holy head, He dragged the cross to Golgatha. There was nothing that we could offer Him, so He offers us more. He leaves us His very Body and Blood, not that we would remember Him, but that His Father would remember Him for our sakes. When the crowd says, "His blood be on us and on our children" we were, by grace, granted just that. Christ marks the doors of our hearts with His Blood, God remembers His loving mercies, and the angel of death passes o'er.

But I am tired. I have been already over long in ending. You have probably been noticing this for some time, yes? But time, like depression or joy, is transitory. Life is not lived in sensations or in seconds, but by every Word that proceeds from the mouth of God.

Anywho, I am finished. Thanks for reading.

A Not at All Spontaneous Rant

In which our hero reflects on a week, a Wednesday, and weeping....

There are no words to express certain frustrations. My peers attempt, through vain repetition of powerful and vulgar words, to express that which their vocabulary cannot grasp. I pride myself, perhaps foolishly, on being able to exhibit frustrations with eloquent verbiage. I am usually successful, having a wide and varied enough base of verbose vestiges to vanquish vile vehemency.

But in some situations my words fail. Syllables trip and fall out of my mouth forming incoherent babble as I grasp at straws, searching for the words. Anger and grief, clouding my thoughts in a morass of anguish and wrathful hatred. I try to think, speak, reason, but I can't, and so I cry.

And in the end, that is all that can be done. You can prevent, or forestall, greater evils, but in the end the infection festers through humankind. In this world that would not know its God, evil prevails, men harm the weak and defenseless, people don't tell the Police, the bad guy gets away, and Entropy drags everything to its inevitable doom.
The world is breaking, broken, lost in Adam's original fall, filled with the descendants of Cain, who in wrath and jealousy murder their brothers.

To cry, that is all that I can do.

I, however, am not the hero of the story. If I were it would be a Greek tragedy, meant to forewarn future heroes from inevitable failure. The Hero comes, not like a knight, in shining armor, but as a servant, wearing the robes of a servant and a crown of thorns. Through Him, I more than conquer.

I said it was a rant didn't I?
Thank you for reading.

I See What You Did There....

In which our Hero reflects on the wisdom of certain class requirements....

I am now several weeks into my classes, they are going very well, I have scored A's on all my tests so far. With this I am well and truly pleased. However even thus so well disposed as I am, I still stress out... this does not probably bode well for the future. This weekend a lot of that tension was at least lightened, if not removed.

My weekend began on Friday night, as many weekends do. I had decided on Wednesday that I wanted to see the Heartland Chamber Chorale Festival Chorus perform "Carmina Burana" with the Ft. Wayne Ballet. I was able, due to the help of a friend, to get a job ushering so that I did not have to pay. I had never heard "Carmina Burana" all the way through from beginning to end, and so, I was blown off my feet. It was an excellent performance, the Ballet was marvelous and the choir sang beautifully.

My weekend continued with Saturday, as weekends must. On Saturday evening, having spent my afternoon doing homework, I attended the Ft. Wayne Philharmonic's season opening concert. Rachmaninoff and Dvorak, absolutely sublime. I came out of that concert tired from just watching the pianist play the Rachmaninoff, feeling generally giddy having heard the spectacular Dvorak concerto.

My weekend is ending with Sunday, as it always will. Today, I went to church and had the supreme joy in participating and listening to the music of the Church, hymn and chant and high-thanksgiving. After church there was a welcome brunch for the Seminary students, a jovial affair, as always. Afterwards I came home and sat around doing nothing until it was time to leave for the French Baroque recital at IPFW. Not nearly as grand scale as either of the other concerts, but definitely well worth listening to; lovely pieces being played on stringed instruments of that time period.

Ah, but you must be saying, "Why? Why go on so long with seemingly no end, and no point, in sight?" and now friends, I will state my hypothesis. The IPFW Department of Music requires that its students attend ten performances in the community every semester. The point being that if you cannot manage that much, you have no business studying music; you have to be interested in music to study it. But I think it serves a dual purpose, I think that it also serves to calm down stressed-out music majors. It is almost impossible for me to imagine feeling stressed at all while sitting and listening to a live performance of some variety. It is a very relaxing experience. You cannot really spend any time worrying if you are busy listening to the music.

But now I must prepare for the week. With a performance on Tuesday and theory picking up in tempo, (yuk yuk) I will have an interesting and busy week ahead of me. At least, as I approach the week, I will have the memory of such beautiful music.