"....I Can Feel The Distance Getting Close..."

Have you ever noticed that once an artist realizes they have reached their pinnacle of popularity, the focus of their work shifts from the singular audience to a global one?
Prime example: While my husband and I watched Michael Jackson's "Dangerous" music video collection I gifted him for Christmas, I couldn't help but notice that his attempts to do more than connect with people on a a one-on-one basis made much of what he sang about seem like contrived conviction. I've got kind of a similar taste in my mouth left from Tori Amos's last two projects and Sting's Sacred Love album. There are passionate moments embedded within each work, but this emerging pattern has left me wondering: what causes an artist to lose the intimate tone of his or her original breakthrough work?

Rasputina

I had nothing
So I used what I had
And you knew
It wasn't much more than that
You took your turn and then
You took a turn again
Tell me when
It's time for me to speak for myself

The truth as it
Occurred in perfect three quarter time
could not
accomplish the damage
So you spit
And set
Your sights upon a higher mark
And I
am finished
Before I even start


I think it's time
That somebody told you
You fight just like a girl
You fight just like a girl
And it's a shame
that nobody knows you
like I do
but they will

What Is It Worth?

In the spirit of the recent election, let's talk about freedom of expression. Specifically, the artistic variety. I'm not one to debate something I know squat-diddly about.

Growing up within many artists' circles, I've seen a tragic number of my peers swing wide on this precarious lane, drunken with perceived expressive freedom, and plunge off the creative mountain they believe to be climbing into a void filled with unstable relationships, casual substance abuse & constant emotional conflict.

Speaking from experience, when you find yourself habitually using inner turmoil as a source of inspiration, it becomes the axle upon which your life turns. It's like an internal parasite -- you consume more and more raw material with the intention of supporting life, yet you grow increasingly undernourished.

In my heart, I have adopted the belief that the talent and drive to express ones' self artisically is a gift best tempered with a dual sense of social responsibility and the consideration for the psychological health of the artist and her audience. Let's face it: words, sounds and images are a powerful cocktail of influence, especially upon young minds who are striving to define themselves.

"As a man thinketh in his heart so is he." (Proverbs 23:7) How I wish someone would've scrawled these words upon my beloved Nirvana poster hanging on my wall when I was a young teen, directing me toward empathy and away from that back-of-the-bus, liquor-in-my-locker brand of apathy so popular amongst my peers and I. To this day, I encounter former classmates who are still paying for the ideas they bought into at a tender age. I occasionally still find myself struggling against these demigods I sought and served in my youth.

What if Kurdt Cobain hadn't uttered those quotes I painstakingly copied into my junior high journal? What if Jack Kerouac, with his pot and bennies and casual physical relationships, hadn't made it look like his rootless lifestyle was the most beautiful thing on four wheels? What if Tori Amos hadn't painted the Christians in her world to look like drooling, misogynist carnivores? How different would my young life have been if I hadn't known any of these artists' works? Would I be a lesser person, or would I be a less conflicted person?

Maybe that little Sunday school song that goes, "Oh, be careful little eyes what you see...." should've included another verse:

"Oh be careful little mind, what you conceive...."

In honor of the election...

...I'm sharing a beloved clip from Berke Breathed's discontinued Bloom County comic strip because it reminds me so, so much of the vocal exchange during election time.

an unusual publishing deal

As a child in church, I often absorbed and toyed with bible-referencing watchwords many Christians make use of (only now do I recognize their value in helping us galvanize a common understanding of our shared faith).... Inevitably, as most children do, I heard or imagined many things differently than they were meant to be communicated (ex: one of our ladies who enjoyed bringing special music to the congregation often sang "People Need the Lord", the title line of which I innocently misinterpreted to be, "people need amor" -- and I thought she meant Amor brand tinned cat chow! To this day, you can occasionally catch me crooning "peeeeople neeeed cat foooood" around the house when I'm feeling frisky.)

In my innocent mind, the idea of what our pastor called "the Lamb's Book of Life" (ex: the ledger where your name is recorded in heaven when you are saved) played huge havoc in my mind for some reason.... What if the writer misspells my name? I thought. Or worse, what if he smudges or erases it?!

Being my proactive little self, I decided to write my own book in my head (which, for some psycho reason, I believed God would be able to open like a ripe melon and look inside where I myself had recorded my first profession of faith in Christ), which I envisioned as a leather-bound, handstitched tome containing each important memory of my life I would want to share with him, starting at the moment I was saved when I was six.

I know that some people would point to this instance as proof that a child of so few years is capable of comprehending the essence of faith -- believing blindly in the unseen. I hold a different, perhaps more optimistic view: God invites us to try Him, to let Him prove to us that He loves us beyond all comprehension and that we can trust Him in ALL things.

Veni, Veni, Emmanuel!

"O Come, O Come, Emmanuel", a 12th century hymn claiming the promises of the old testament prophecies concerning the birth of the savior, has captivated me for the longest time.... its solemn, simple medieval melody thrills me with its borderline-ominous tone. The impassioned lyric, though, calls out to me for a more explosive, joyous treatment than its traditional setting provides....

...I wonder how a Baptist congregation would react to singing in a smidgen of Latin. *mischievious grin* not that i would dare to limit the pre-conceived arrangement to any particular denomination...

Looking out my teller window at work today, I remember jobs I've had where I would've devoured glass-locked light like it was a Godiva milkshake. Funny how the lack of things commonly taken for granted -- light and fresh air -- can make all the difference in the world to someone previously deprived...and by choices of her own!



Even though I was initially enthralled to have gained the two jobs I had prior to my current employment, their corporate environments soon ran ALL over me, pulverizing my lust for life until my heart felt like a cup of tepid water with a couple dozen half-dead sea monkeys weakly struggling to swim around inside (sorry... that was the only way I could envision it for some reason).



But OH! -- from the place I'm at now, I not only get a little UV exposure to feed my freckles on, I also get to watch the leaves pass through their final dazzling cycles and drift across the gravel lot of the garage next door. I'm aware of how silly it likely sounds to count such mundane sights as pleasures, but those who have worked under the scrutiny of cool blue cosmetic lighting and the scrutiny of socially carniverous women know what I mean....

These Are a Few of My Favorite Thiiiiings (Fall Edition)

v- neck sweaters (par!)
Sting's Mercury Falling album
Countryside Magazine
broiled parsnips
When Harry Met Sally
Cinnamon-y candles
burberry men's fragrance
blackeyed susans & ferns
biscuits & coffee
6 am bible study
overalls
Twin Peaks (mostly season one)

My Heroes Aren't Cowboys Anymore

This post begins like so many good stories....

Can I tell you a secret?

My heroes are fallen. My friends are those I've failed before to recognize, and their numbers are precious fewer than previously calculated.

This is all unexpectedly comforting -- because now I know where I stand. And I've got choices to make. Do I allow power and ambition and gossip and vanity cloud God's vision for who I should become, or do I choose to align myself with those (be they few) who constantly strive to match stride with our Master?

Commencement

Here I am again, in my favored state -- creative and anonymous.