Fairytales

Another bit of poetry...I'm learning!

This is something I wish I could say to all the little ones out there who wish for their own Prince Charming.

She spins carefree
Through wildflowers,
Her arms outstretched
Fairytales sketched
Softly through the hours.

A baby girl
Of scarcely four
With windswept hair
Her skin so fair
Easy to adore.

She wears a crown
Of daisy-chain
Her seashell ring
A sacred thing
Tells all of her reign.

She dances with
The singing birds
Their songs of love
From high above
She hears as prince's words.

Baby girl,
Don't lose belief
Your perfect prince
He will exist
He'll steal your soul, that thief.

Beware, for there
Are charlatans
They'll lie to you
Break you in two,
They'll say they are your prince.

Sweet baby,
When you've grown enough
Don't be fooled
For not all "jewels"
Are diamonds in the rough.

But still he'll wait,
His perfect face
Hidden from sight
When time is right,
All heartache shall he chase.

Your dreams will be real,
Sweet baby girl.
Just wait, you'll see
And patiently
Watch as they unfurl.

Dream On

Last night, I had a dream.

The world was quiet, everyone was asleep, and my overactive imagination came out to play.  I dreamed that I was on a stage in a huge empty theater.  Well, empty except for one person.  The figure remained in the last row, in the shadows, for the extent of time I was performing.  The song was sad and sweet; I'd never heard it before.  But I moved across the stage as one does to a song they hold dear to them, feeling the lights on my face and the air rush over my skin as I twirled and jumped.  Never once did that person in the audience move or show an expression of gratitude or appreciation.  I was performing for an audience of one person that didn't even show signs of care.  But I cared.  I wanted to be sure that person left the theater feeling moved by my dance.  Did they?  Who knows, I woke up before the song ended.  I like to think they did though.

It's inspiring to hear that the things I do are appreciated, but it's also inspiring just to know that they might be.  Some may walk away from a situation moved to tears while others may walk away feeling just as moved, but only inwardly.  I'm inspired by these people as well.  I don't think I have a reason for why I dreamed I was onstage dancing for one person who seemed unappreciative.  Maybe it was to teach me something: not every good thing I do will be met with accolade, and I may never know the people I've touched who prefer to appreciate inwardly.  I think that sometimes it appears as though nobody cares about what you're doing, when in reality they really do and just don't know how to show it.  So, I've decided to not make assumtions about the sincerity of an emotionless person.  Life is too short to get hung up on digging good comments out of people.  Do your best, and if they outwardly appreciate it, awesome.  If they decide to remain quiet about it, all you can do is assume gratitude.  Otherwise, we'd all go crazy.

On another note, or maybe a different side of the same note, I love this song and can't get it out of my head.  Funny really, the title:

BTW, I think the person trying to communicate with "Olivia" in the beginning is hilarious.  They should definitely do this in choir.  It could be awesome.

Living In The Looking-Glass

For a writing contest, I got to compose a letter to the author of a book that inspired me recently.  I chose Lewis Carroll and his book "Through the Looking-Glass."  Here's the letter for my readers who are interested:

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Dear Mr. Carroll,

How would you describe the feeling of reading the last words of a beautiful story?  To me, finishing a good book is like saying goodbye to a best friend.  I get a bittersweet feeling after hearing the familiar sound of a back cover falling onto the last page of a finished book.  Upon a story’s end, I must take time to reflect on the message it revealed to me during the reading adventure.  This is why I never finish a book in public.  I must be in complete solitude as I inhale the parting words, the final insight, that the book gives me.  That last chapter is a farewell hug, a somber wave goodbye, a smile that I remember long after departure happens.  The words on the last page put the finishing touches on the picture that the story has been painting—finishing touches that define the entire book.  During the picture-painting, the characters take up residence in my mind, and will remain there until the story’s end.  Because the book is now living in my mind, I feel as though I’ve made a new friend.  It is for this reason that I say the feeling of finishing a good book is bittersweet.  My new friend, this book, has nothing more to tell me, but yet its message, given that it’s a good one, will live on in my mind as I ponder the meaning behind it.

One such story whose message I still ponder is “Through the Looking-Glass.”  Alice’s residency in my mind began when I first spotted the worn copy of the book perched on the bookcase in the front room of my house.  My mother has a tendency to gravitate toward old books when the family goes “antiquing.”  It must have been on one such antiquing occasion that she scavenged the copy of “Through the Looking-Glass” that I happened upon one October Saturday.  The moment I opened the cover of the book, I was met with that delightfully enchanting “old book” aroma.  The sunlight streaming through the window lit the dust that flew from its pages as I fanned them apart.  Throughout the month, “Through the Looking Glass” went everywhere with me.  Sitting on the floor in the corridor of Aberdeen Hall is how I did the majority of my reading.  Because I waited at the very end of the hallway, I saw little traffic, so it was the perfect place to immerse myself into Alice’s world.  It was mostly there that I had the chance to lose myself in the story, to forget the rest of the commotion in the real world.  I got to go through the looking-glass with Alice, and as I followed her through the land of backwards dreaming and nonsensical exchanges, I realized that the real world is far too boring.  I would much rather spend my days sharing cake with unicorns and lions than becoming caught up in the same hum-drum of daily life.  During the time I spent reading “Through the Looking-Glass,” I started to develop a unique perspective of the world.  I began to look at things as not only what they were, but also what they were not, and what they could be if they became what they were not.  Really, my imagination experienced a change during my time reading “Through the Looking-Glass.”  Much like Alice, I think of things differently after having ventured into the looking-glass.  Because of this boosted imagination I seem to have developed, I feel that I have become a better thinker.  The ideas I develop have more color.  For this, Mr. Carroll, I must thank you.

Sadly, as with all stories, “Through the Looking-Glass” had to come to an end.  I had the opportunity to finish Alice’s story on the floor of Aberdeen Hall, but I didn’t take it.  The event of finishing the book seemed much too sacred to happen in such an open place.  So, I waited until the day was over and I was in my parked car.  The lot was relatively empty, and I had always parked in the last spaces anyway, so I felt alone enough to finish the story.  So, I opened the old book to page 184 and read the last chapter.  As Alice came out of the looking-glass world and was left pondering the certain dream she’d just experienced, I felt as though I too was returning from the looking-glass world with Alice.  As I heard that bittersweet sound of cover falling onto page, I took away the realization that we all have our own looking-glass imaginations that we step into every so often, and occasionally, I find that in a reality of chaos and confusion, my imagination is sometimes the place that makes the most sense.

With praise, thanks, and regard from my own looking-glass world,

                ~Jessica Edwards-Smith

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Envelope Art I drew for the letter. . . so it can arrive in style ;)

Cheers!

Here's to a new year!  As I raised my glass and kissed my boyfriend last night at 12:00, I was reflecting on the events of 2011.  As is happens, I've done some pretty amazing things this past year.  I've grown a lot-- spiritually, emotionally, mentally, and musically (also, I grew an inch!  Does that count?)  I have also gotten the chance to see and do many amazing things (like seeing Pat Benatar and going to NYC to see Wicked!)  2011 has seen many life changes as well.  I graduated highschool, started and finished my first college semester, had the chance to act, sing, and choreograph my first musical, celebrated with my boyfriend our third Christmas together, made some new friends while growng closer to existing ones, joined a band, picked up a new instrument, and started a novel. 

Indeed, the year has been a big one.  I've never been one to make huge New Year's resolutions, but if I were to make one this year, it would be to continue playing, performing, and learning music.  I miss dancing, so maybe I will join a class again.  Maybe I will even get the chance to choreograph again!  Whatever the case, I know that music will be a big part of the coming year.  That is something I;m very much looking forward to.  I'm not seeking to become a rock star (although that would be awesome, no?)  but I would like to keep finding my voice.  Taking singing lessons with my cousin was a great part of 2011, and it helped me to explore another facet of music.  I think I made a good choice there.  I also think I made a good choice when I decided to learn the bass.  Although I haven't had much time to find my inner crazy groovy bassist, I have learned a lot about the instrument, and in 2012, I hope to get more in tune with that inner bass musician.  Who knows?  She might be pretty good.  Another thing I'd love to do is go back to New York.  That was such an amazing experience.  Wombatting down the sidewalks of NYC is something I'll never forget.   If I ever find the video of the experience, I will post it.  But for those of you who know what I'm talking about, and for those of you who were there in person, you can have a laugh too ;) 

So, my friends, here's a toast to the new year and the memories made in the last one.  Cheers!

I'll Have The Usual

Okay then . . . On to bigger, greater things.  My first college semester is over and it's life as usual again.  Wait. . . Can we define that first?  What exactly is "usual?"  Is there even such a thing as "usual?"  Sometimes, I'm not so sure.  I know there are many things that can be qualified as "UNusual" (at least in the eyes of others.)  Usual is one of those words--like "pretty" or "smart" or "funny"--that has a different meaning for everyone.  So, what's your usual? 

I can state this as a personal fact--music is my usual.  It's a familiar face in a new town, a bright beacon in the middle of a stormy sea, the guiding trail through a decieving forest.  It's a common language among nations, a lovely middle ground between new aquaintances, a healing element for broken friendships.  Can you imagine a world without music, my dear readers?  How dreadful would that be?  I'd rather hear nothing at all than everything except music.  But friends, as long as I have a voice, I'll sing.  As long as I have fingers, I'll play.  I promise.  Will you promise too?  There is something I once read, and it goes like this:  ". . . and he answering said to them, `I say to you, that, if these shall be silent, the stones will cry out!'" We are "these," my friends, and "these" are much better musicians than the rocks (yes, even singing off-pitch in the shower.)  Let's not leave the music making to the rocks.  Their usual is lying in the forest and looking pretty, not pouring forth songs from their hearts.  That usual belongs to us.  Music was made to be humanity's usual.  We are the only earthly creations capable of it.  Let's not waste that, eh?

So, maybe my question has changed from "what's your usual?" to "how usual is music to you?"  Is it a best friend, or more of the "new kid?"  Is is your favorite blanket, or an unfamiliar, itchy sheet?  Your hometown, or a foreign country?  Your forever-and-always . . . or your not-just-yet?  Wherever we stand, let's not be rocks.  If we become as rocks, then the actual rocks will be forced to take away our most sacred possession as a creation--our melody.  Know this, dear readers:  music speaks, and it will always have something to say as long as there are open ears to listen to its message and musicians to pass it along.

One.

My heart is broken for our world.  We have to see that it's about more than who's right and who's wrong.  It's about who's loved and who needs to be.  There's so many cries for help across the globe--all races, all religions, all ages, all cultures.  We are too disconnected, too many separations.  It's only one planet after all.  We all came from the same earth.  So why do we fight and kill for superiority?  Can't we see that we're killing our own?

In the end, we're all the same
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust
All identities will rust
Graves will fall unnamed

In the end, you cannot tell
After all, we'll each bleed red,
Share Earth, a common bed
And show our bones as well

But in the end, we should be proud
Did we unite, did we stand?
Have we loved across all lands,
Or did we fade into the crowd?

In the end, when we look back
Did we live only by a ballot?
Will we see a color potrait,
Or is it all just gray and black?

Before the end, please hear my plea:
"We were made for more than this;
Push aside all differences
And be one humanity"

Another Appetizer

I've spent my whole day studying for this test (grr).  I'm seriously about to gouge my eyes out with a wooden spoon.  Ok, not really.  But it's frustrating.  So, what do I do when I'm frustrated?  You all know the answer to this already--I write things.  Lots of things.  Today, I bring you another appetizer.  Comment or message me if you want to vote for your favorite or just read more from one of them. 

Appetizer #3-

The sky was on fire.  Huge oranges and expansive reds sliced through the billowing clouds.  And there, in the center of it all, was the source--a molten globe of flaming yellow just totally filling the surrounding space.  I was truly breathless.  I know people always mush and gush about sunsets, but man, this was not a sunset.  This was an explosion.  Someone (I've forgotten exactly who over the years) used to tell me that the sky turned red and orange because it was absorbing all the hate and anger in the world and burning it up.  When the sky went black, it meant the fire had no more bad stuff to destroy and you could sleep peacefully, not having to worry about that hatred and anger attacking your dreams.  I wish I still believed that.

For Starters

For those of you who don't know, I am starting a novel! (eek!) Here are a few starting paragraphs to ponder.  Message me or comment if you like them or have more ideas.  I'll probably be posting a few more like them as I am struck by creativity.

Appetizer #1

The words will come.  The words always came.  He stood there for the longest time, waiting for the words to come.  They hadn't yet.  The blank page laughing at him from underneath his poised pencil was too much to bear.  But, he had to do this.  He had to apologize, set things right once and for all.  The way he'd left things two years ago had haunted him ever since he'd left.  These "hauntings" were growing more frequent now, and that's why he knew this had to be done today.  He had to make the words come, because if he didn't, he'd be facing another sleepless night of tossing and turning and playing out in his head all the "what if's" and "had I only's".  He was determined.  So, he pressed his pencil onto the snowy white, pristine page and wrote the first words that came to his mind...

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Appetizer #2

"Run!"  A voice from behind her shouted.  She turned her head just in time to see her friend finish forming the word.  Branches and leaves grabbed her as she tore through the darkening forest.  How much longer until the trees emptied onto the road?  Were they lost?  It didn't seem to take this long to get into the woods. "I knew we shouldn't have come here,"  she thought, pressing onward.  They had come on a dare, though.  And she was never one to turn down a good dare.  Suddenly, she stopped short.  There was a light in the distance...two lights...headlights.  "Look!"  She shouted behind her.  "We made it to..." She didn't need to finish the sentence--her friend was gone.

Rewriting The Dictionary

I have words.  Many, many words that are tumbling around in my brain so fast that they keep stopping up the passage that sends them to my fingers, then onto the page.  Words and words and words and no sentences.  I feel like a dictionary.  All my words have meaning but they don't form any kind of order at first glance.  I have to put them together before the people who might read those words will think they apply to them.  I just have to take my dictionary and rearrange it.  That's all.

By the way, that essay at which I was so angry last post actually turned out to be one of the best I've ever written (nevermind that I never got the chance to actually submit it).  Don't let me forget that technique.

It's Not Writer's Block, I Just Need A Flu Shot.

Today I cannot write.  I have the words inside, but they will not come out.  So, I'm attempting to fix this by... writing!  Ironic?  I think so too.  College application essays.  By the thousands.  That's what I'm trying to avoid this evening.  Actually, I'm not trying to avoid them, I'm putting them off untilI can make them better.  Isn't it funny how our performance in any given task changes when we know it will be criticized?  I know that whatever admissions officers will be reading these hateful essays are going to look for an outstanding performance.  I know I can do it, and that's just what bugs me.  I'm not doing it.  I just tried to write one, clacking away on the keyboard, thinking it was going great.  So I finish it up, read back over it and think to myself "Oh goodness this is terrible!"  I hate that.  So, I took a drive.  A very uneventful one at that.  I drove, hoping that the mundane task at hand would clear my mind so I could come back home and fix whatever atrocities lay in that essay.  It didn't.  I brewed a cup of the tea I had just bought, sat down to write and went blank... again.  It's so frustrating, knowing that I can do something, but whenever I try, I fail.  Since we were just on the topic of irony, I find it a little bit hysterical that part of the topic I'm writing about in this college essay is persistence.  Right now, I don't exactly want to persist.  All I want to do is get a refill and watch An American Haunting.  (After all, it's Halloween...)  Since driving didn't help, I'm trying a new approach.  What I have isn't writer's block (obviously, because I'm sitting here writing).  I don't know what it is, but I think I can cure it by getting my brain and fingers moving by writing something that won't be analyzed and criticized and however else they process application essays.  Maybe it works like a flu shot.  By injecting a small amount of the flu virus into your body, the doctor develops a stronger antivirus that combats those ugly little cell monsters that could possibly constitute a real flu virus.  In my mind, by writing a little harmless blog post, I can prepare myself to tackle the bigger monster that lurks in my minimized Word document.  So, readers, thanks for ignoring this and by the way, I appreciate the fact that you aren't forming an angry mob to come burn my house down since I haven't posted in over a month.  Don't worry.  I'm going to give you a real post soon.  This is just an experiment.  I'll let you know how it goes.

College, Choreography, and Psalm 98

Oh, dearest readers!  My humblest apologies.  I've been gone for far too long.  I visited the blog this morning and after dusting the cobwebs off, I discovered my last post date- August 29th! 29th!!!  So, here I am, making excuses.  I've started college.  Hold on, have to let that sink in for a second.  I've started college.  It's pretty great actually.  I've made some new friends, learned some new things, and gotten into a new schedule.  I'm actually rather enjoying it.  My professors are pretty cool (especially my English professor, but maybe that's just because we have a lot in common).  I must say, my favorite classes so far are Psych and English. 
Anyway...enough about school.  Let's talk about music.  Music... I'm choreographing again, for those of you who don't know already.  I'm acting/dancing in the Christmas musical at the church and for one of the main dance numbers, I get to choreograph!  I'm so excited because I just finished the last piece today!  I've been missing regular dance though.  So, so much I've been missing it!  My cousin and I talk about how awesome it would be to join a dance class together, but neither of us have the time.  It's so frustrating!  We could've danced in the church's group, but it met at the same time as something else I'm involved in.  Actually, this brings me to my next announcement- I've joined a band! Getting involved at church this year has meant helping to start the band (which is named by my suggetion which was pretty cool).  PS98 we call ourselves- after Psalm 98 which says this:
 
 ¹ Sing to the LORD a new song,
   for he has done marvelous things;
his right hand and his holy arm
   have worked salvation for him.
² The LORD has made his salvation known
   and revealed his righteousness to the nations.
³ He has remembered his love
   and his faithfulness to Israel;
all the ends of the earth have seen
   the salvation of our God.
 ⁴ Shout for joy to the LORD, all the earth,
   burst into jubilant song with music;
⁵ make music to the LORD with the harp,
   with the harp and the sound of singing,
⁶ with trumpets and the blast of the ram’s horn—
   shout for joy before the LORD, the King.
 ⁷ Let the sea resound, and everything in it,
   the world, and all who live in it.
⁸ Let the rivers clap their hands,
   let the mountains sing together for joy;
⁹ let them sing before the LORD,
   for he comes to judge the earth.
He will judge the world in righteousness
   and the peoples with equity.

I am a singer.  In all, there are 5 (ish?) singers and 7 (ish?) instrumentalists.  And at this point, I must tell you something awesome.  It was the Wednesday before last and it was the first week of band practice.  Everyone was deciding if they wanted to go with the singers or go with the instrumentalists, and when all sides were decided, the instrumentalists left to go practice.  That left me, four girls, and my mother and her friend who have to be there for liability reasons (and to keep us all straight- they're kind of our managers, I guess you can say. Ha! Just kidding...). Anyway, so there we were, just the seven of us and a grand piano, all alone in the sanctuary.  We sat there for a while, just talking about who is a soprano, who is an alto, etc.  We soon realized we had no way of singing the songs because we had no track.  A few people who knew I could play that grand piano told me to get up there and do my thang.  I offered it to someone (anyone) else, but they insisted I do it.  (GASP! I GET TO PLAY THE STEINWAY?!)  Ok, so it's not too bad.  Fast forward a few minutes.  Everyone is gathered around the piano, I'm banging out some chords, and everyone is singing in perfect pitch, harmony, and balance with everyone else.  I mean, we really sounded GOOD.  I smile a little smile.  Occasionally we'd lose our place, or sing a wrong note, but I mean, we just went together.  Really, really well.  It was a fantastic feeling.  If that's what it feels like to sing without practicing, I can only imagine how God will use us once we have practiced!

A Musical Storm

Crash.
Rain throws itself against my window, as though trying to out-do the howling of the wind.
The trees groan in protest as the churning sky whips them to and fro.
Flicker.
Lights dim, then blacken as the electricity is lost to the darkening atmosphere.
I light a candle, it's fire illuminating my small table. I lift my pen again, just hardly set back by the loss of light.
Whimper.
The dog lays at my feet, whining with nervousness at the monster who wreaks havoc on the outside.
The sky, black and heavy with storm, pours the rain upon the fragile flowers in the garden.
"Please..."
Flowers try to gaze upward with tired eyes, but are beaten down relentlessly by the sky's burden.
The clouds above grumble with thunder and scream with lightning, each streak a reminder of how furious the storm is getting.
Goosebumps.
I watch, intrigued from the danger.
I'm tired, but won't let sleep hamper my creativity.
But the storm- it plays me. Coaxes me.
"Sleep..."
Pulling my energy like a harpist pulls her strings.
Breathe.
I resign myself to the fact that the storm is more powerful than I. Putting down my pen, I wrap myself in a blanket and curl into bed, exhausted.
Crash.
The rain still pounds.
The thunder still roars.
The candle still flickers.
And I lie there watching it, hypnotized.
Until finally, I close my eyes,
And sleep.


*Inspired by, but not directly taken from, Hurricane Irene. Praying you're all safe and will get power back soon!*

To Each His Own, To Me A Mountain

Mountains...and lots of them.  Everywhere you looked there was another monstrous hill rising in front of you.  And behind you.  Left, right, front, back, 360 degrees of rock, coal, and trees. 

Pick up a rock and it doesn't exactly invoke wonder.  But pile it together with a few billion more rocks and you start to get lightheaded just by looking up in amazement.  Mountains are probably my favorite geographical phenomenon.  Something about the humbling feeling you get as you cast your gaze upward.  And upward.  God must've been showing off when He created them.  Each one is unique, holding a story and mystery all its own.  Have you ever hiked a mountain?  What about hiking a mountain with no trail to follow?  Kinda throws you off a bit.  You hear a waterfall, and would swear that it was atop this next little hill, only to discover that the water's cascading sound was echoing from the complete opposite side of the mountain.  It's adventurous, thrilling, and a little scary knowing how easily you can get lost if you wander too far off the trail. 

And the air, so pure and untouched by human pollution.  It's enough to make you dizzy if you breathe too deeply.  You know it's a high that's good for you though.  So breathe again.  And again.  Get as much of it as possible before climbing back down to the humid, polluted reality that we constantly breathe.

*Pictures of my favorite mountains on earth- The Blue Ridge Mountains that cross Sparta, NC*

Rain

What is it about the rain that brings calm,
Yet urgency?
Hope,
Yet sadness?
Peace,
Yet disturbance?
Why do the same drops that persuade you to dance so energetically under their shower sing you into a motionless sleep at night?
It caresses,
But stings.
Whispers,
But screams.
Comforts,
But exasperates.
That's why I like it.  All emotion, all feeling, can be brought to the surface with just a short soak in the rain.  It's amazing what the sky does to a person.  The rain you just so spontaneously and happily danced in has all of a sudden turned you into a grouch who hates getting wet.  So beautiful in its contradictions.  That's why it fascinates me.  I love to hear it.  It plays with the same orchestra over and over again, but each time the melody has been re-composed.  It colors the earth the same shades, but paints with a different brush each time.  It soothes you, it angers you; it helps you sleep, it wakes you up.  It's so complex and just when you think you know how it's going to make you feel,
It changes.

Revel Grove

Ok, so.  I've made the executive decision to expand my blog's horizons.  I've got a lot of thoughts that need a place to live so they're not tumbling aimlessly through my brain.  A lot of these thoughts that may or may not be music-related.  Don't worry.  I'm still focused on music and dance.  Just a few other things as well. 

Anyway.  On to bigger, greater things.  Like the upcoming season.

Fall.  One of my favorite things in life.  Nothing invokes such calm as the changing leaves.  I drive to work every weekend and I've been seeing the leaves gradually fade from bright green to a muddier version of their summer color.  Its exciting.  It promises spiced apple cider, scarves, bonfires, Halloween, and most importantly, the Renaissance Faire.  Each October, the family (plus Amanda) makes a trip to the Faire to enjoy the merry-making and festivities.  There's jousting, costumes, theatrical performances, food-on-a-stick, and quaint little shops to visit.  The whole atmosphere is just enveloping.  Once you step through the gates you are whisked away somewhere back in time, hundreds of years ago.  The ages of knights and ladies, courtly love, quests, chivalry, castles.  And the smells.  I mean, there's nothing like it.  The scent of crisp leaves and sugared pecans dances softly through the festival, mingling beautifully with the sound of laughter and music. It's just kind of surreal and you can't help but smile and pretend it really is 1512.  Then you turn to look behind you and you see this towering, majestic figure shrouded in white.  It's wearing a porcelain mask.  Whatever it's supposed to be, it's on stilts.  And looking up, you can't stop yourself from cracking a grin as it tilts its head and dips slightly toward you in greeting.  Offering a small wave, you turn back to meander through the crowd.  You can see the elephants to your left and at the bottom of the leaf-laden hill, a woman sells roses from a hand-woven basket.  A man dressed as a pirate (and just because it's the Faire, you let yourself believe he IS a pirate) touches your shoulder and dips his tricorne hat below his eye, offering a coy smile while doing so.  "Good day sir," you say in a practiced British accent.  The scene from atop the hill hasn't changed, but a breeze is blowing now.  Chilly and laced with the mystery of the past.  Somewhere in the distance, the clash of lance and shield can be heard, followed by a tumultuous  "HUZZAH!"  A horse's neigh.  The sharp clink of tankards.  Raucous laughter from a tavern nearby.  Stand there for a minue.  Just take it all in.  You probably have the best view of the Faire from up here.  Through the amber-colored trees, you can almost see the performance happening on Fortune Stage.  Children run around chasing one another, giggling and squealing, brandishing wooden swords and shields.  Wandering down the hill, you come to a little shop.  Paintbrushes and palettes sit in the window sills and costumed figures stand over their customers, decorating them with strokes of deep purples and reds.  Works of art, really.  You sit in an empty wooden chair and a lady walks up to you.  You let her work magic, making pleasant conversation all the while.  When she's finished, you look in the mirror.  Glittering ribbons of paint cascade down your cheek, branching off in all different directions, forming a mask over your face.  Everyone turns to look as you wander along the pathways.
Soon, the chilling Autumn twilight descends upon the festival, giving it a new atmosphere, one of secrecy and enchantment.  There's not very many people out anymore.  They have all either found their way to a tavern or gone home.  A feathered costume brushes past you.  Goosebumps.  You spin quickly enough to see the hooded creature disappear into the darkness.  You smirk at the excitement of it all.  Music still plays somewhere.  The warm glow of the glassblower's fire beckons you near.  He's still hard at work, creating beautiful masterpieces by the dozen.  "Come in," he calls.  You enter.  Your eyes wander around the shop.  It's warm, comforting, crammed full of beautiful glass vases, gazing balls, and ornaments.  You find yourself standing beside the fire, watching as the old man crafts a blue globe from the top of a long tube.  You can still hear the music.  It's slower now, becoming accustomed to the approaching night.  You know you have to leave.  But what a hard thing to do.  You slowly turn from the comfort of the fire and head back into the growing darkness.  It's a hard walk, the one from the Faire to the car.  One you wish you never have to make.  Bittersweet, though.  You know you'll be back.  Next year, the leaves will change again and you'll find yourself caught up in the mystery and intrigue of the Faire once more.  And at that thought, you can't help but smile.

Frozen

A totally unrelated post.  Sometimes though, you just can't stop the pen from writing what it wants to write.  Thank you, Facebook buddies for telling me to do nothing.  It worked.

~Frozen~

Ever wish you could make time stand still?  The scene before you captured; locked away in your memory forever, ready to be recalled at a moment's notice.  How often we fail to remember what we promised ourselves we would, or worse still, what we wish we could.  That moment you so cherish loses small details over time, a snip here, a bit there, until you can't even remember the year in which it happened.  It seems so important when you first commit it to memory.  "I will never forget this," you say as you lock it away in the safety of your long-term memory.  When you try to remember though, you realize you've placed your special moments in the hands of a false security.  Sure, you'll remember the important things- the way your grandfather's signature joke lit up the room no matter how many times you heard it; how it felt at 2:00 am laying deliriously on the floor with your best friend, talking about nothing and everything and life and death and all the important questions.  However, the small details of those frozen frames have a tendency to melt away.  Lost forever in the hapless depths of your own mind.  What was the punchline of your grandfather's joke?  What was it your friend had said that suddenly made you see things so clearly?  And thinking about it, its those little details you long so desperately to remember, grasping out in the velvet darkness of your brain, listening to the cruel taunting of your "safe" long term memory as it teases you with "I can almost remember".  But you can't help it.  What can you do, except keep searching and in the meantime, replacing those disappearing memories with the new ones you are bound to make?

No Humble Opinion

I officially have no voice.  But then, who would, after seeing Pat Benatar and Dennis DeYoung live?  We screamed, we sang, we danced, we went crazy.  Last night will go down in history as one of my all time favorite nights EVER. 
Too often I realize I was born in the wrong era.  Let's face it.  Most of today's music is CRAP.  Can I go on a little rant?  It's my blog, so yes, I will rant.  Let me start with one of all time least favorite "artists" on the charts today.  Her name is Lady GaGa.  Actually, I don't know what her real name is (nor do I care) but anyway, not only is her songwriting/singing terrible, but her whole image is just dreadful.  She tries too hard to be outrageous. I mean, seriously.  How can you call yourself unique when all you're doing is copying Cher and Madonna?  (Btw, the whole raw meat thing, totally done by the Beatles first.  Don't believe me? Here's proof.  Told you so.)  I don't like her style, I don't like her image, I don't like her music.  If you can even call it that. 
I can't stand the sound of Autotune and electronicalization. (Yes, I made that up.  No you can't use it.)  Why would you waste time listening to a fake, robotic voice when you could be hearing the multitude of raw talent that already exists?  I understand that most people listen to music to be entertained, and that entertainment comes in many different forms and is relative to the entertainee, but if you're looking for music, please, please, PLEASE do NOT try to convince me that Lady GaGa is top of the line, best in the industry, yada, yada, yada.  I don't want to hear it.  Emphasis on the DON'T. 
A part of me feels sorry for today's kids, believing that Lady GaGa is all there is out there.  Part of me also feels a little disappointment in the parents who allow their kids to believe that when they are keeping the good music of their generation a secret.  It's not fair.  Kids are growing up believeing that all there is to listen to is Justin Bieber, Ke$ha, Lady GaGa, and (heaven forbid), Glee.  Yes, that noise you heard was a small part of my soul crumbling in anguish. 
One of my favorite things to do is start music wars at red lights with cars blasting the "hot 40" from 104.3.  Give me Queen, give me Yes, give me Foriegner.  Give me ANYTHING but that ridiculous overplayed Ke$ha song.  Is it wrong to say that I like the confused looks I get from adults who converse with me about music?  So many times, I have found myself in a conversation about music with an adult my parents' age.  It's so sad to see their amazed expressions when I'm able to name more 80s songs than just what appears on the Guitar Hero menu.  It's sad because that means kids my age are expected to not know about the good music.  They are expected to be so dumb to the musical spectrum that they are stuck like a broken record talking about Justin Bieber's newest hit.  Gosh, it just kills me inside knowing that these amazing bands and artists of the 60s, 70, and 80s are slowly disappearing into the "oh yeah man, that was a jam way back when" archives. 
I want to start something.  I want to cause a revolution.  A music revolution.  I want to get people out of the rut that is today's music.  Now don't get me wrong, I'm not saying abandon all music produced in the last ten years.  But seriously, guys.  Purge your iPods and reset your car's radio stations to the ones that play the good stuff.  Like I said, I really do love some of the more recent stuff like Adele, and I will admit that Katy Perry and Rhianna have amazing voices as well, its just that their songs are so shallow, empty, meaningless.  The lyrics have become just cliche verses and choruses that appear over and over, reincarnated from the hit last month.  I'm serious about starting something.  And this is why, dear readers, I need your help.  I know that only 14 of you (so far) follow me.  But hey, it only takes a spark to light a fire, right?  I want to start a musical fire.  I want to explode the airwaves like they were exploded in the 80s.  The right way.  With the good stuff.  There is no such thing as an overplayed Journey song.  You won't go crazy after hearing Come Sail Away a hundred times.  You will still headbang to the guitar solo in Bohemian Rhapsody even after you've had it on repeat for the last two hours.  And I know you know that somewhere, deep inside you, you agree with me, even if you won't admit to that hairbrush karaoke session you had this morning to Heartbreaker. 
I hope I haven't offended any of you.  Lord knows I'm not trying to pick personal fights.  Just trying to voice my opinion.  Its not humble.  In fact, music is quite possibly the biggest and most outspoken opinion I have.  I can go on for hours about it.  I'm generally a quiet person who won't get into arguments, but I just can't seem to keep my mouth shut about music.  It's SO important to me and my identity.  Which is why I don't mind ranting about it.  I'm so grateful to have my buddies who like to rant with me.  Many a conversation I've had with my cousin, bestie, and boyfriend on the matter.  Join us?  Who knows...maybe one day I'll pull up next to you at a red light.  Let's just hope that the music war would be between Aerosmith and Van Halen.

Cookies

You know that moment, the one when you're just like, "oh!"  And it suddenly all makes sense.  Well, I'm waiting for that moment.  Increasingly often I'm finding myself in that state of mind that reminds you of when you were little and you saw the cookie jar on the top of the fridge but you didn't know how to reach it.  I can see my goals, I have a plan, but I can't see how I'm going to get there.  But I know that when I do reach the cookies, they will be the best cookies I've ever tasted. 

*This post is dedicated to Amanda Testerman.  Thanks for helping me reach the cookies.*

The Perfect Bass Guitar

It's beautiful. 
So vintage and full of character, like I can't wait to get to know it.  So how did I get it?  My awesome grandfather, the guitar buff, passed it down to me.  We were in a pawn shop looking at guitars when I told him that I was saving for a bass.  He seemed interested and happy with the idea of me learning to play, and proceeded to tell me about the bass he had somewhere that he would give me if we could find it.  Of course, I was ecstatic.  So after driving home, we went on a hunt through the basement. 
We found it in a dusty beat-up case back in a nook behind the furnace.  I watched as my grandfather clicked open the rusty latches and lifted the lid.  There it lay, its thick, silver strings and semi-hollow body clouded over with age.  Man, it was beautiful.  I loved it instantly, and I hadn't even heard it yet.  Under the strings, little pieces of masking tape written in in my grandfather's handwriting marked the notes.  I had to smile to myself.  Hard to imagine someone as musically inclined as him needing to be reminded of something as simple as notes.  Upon closer inspection, we saw some pretty major flaws.  The neck had sunken in, the strings needed replacing, and there were some cracks in the top coat of varnish.  Nonetheless, I was in love. 
It gets better.  We took it out to the garage and set it on top of the four-wheeler seat to clean.  I stood there Pledge dusting the wood and my grandfather left to get something from the house.  Next thing I know, he's lugging a 1960's vintage tube amp out the door.  Painted with blacklight white and flourescent pink paint, it was quite nostalgic.  "Let's plug it in and see if it works," he said, blowing the dust off the cord. 
As he plugged it into the outlet it made a fizzling sound, reminiscent of a freshly poured glass of coke.  There was a soft pop as he plugged the other end of the cord into the guitar.  The vibrations sent little shocks through my fingers.  It was working.  I plucked a few notes and had to smile.  It was horrendously out of tune.  But all at the same time, it was one of the best sounds I'd ever heard. 
My bass.  Me, playing my bass. 
It fit me well. not too big, not awkwardly small.
Just right... 
Perfect. 

"We're all in the mood for a melody..."

Ahhh, Sparta, North Carolina.  More than a few words come to mind when I think of the town (and no, gladiators are not involved).  Among them are peace, beauty, home.  I love the atmosphere, the people, and pretty much just the whole aura the small town possesses.  Unfortunately, I only get to make the trip twice a year.  This year, the farm feels empty.  My great grandmother happens to be in a nursing and rehabilitation center to heal some broken ribs.  So, needless to say, I have been making many visits up there to see her. 
The first time I went up there, I noticed a piano sitting in the corner of the dining area.  I know, I know.  Leave it to me to gravitate to a piano.  It was humble to say the least.  An upright Baldwin, in nice condition but in terrible need of a tuning.  Behind it there was a window that looked out into the hall where I stood.  Looking through the window, I saw something beautifully inspiring.  There, sitting at the piano was a little old lady playing hymns.  Walking into the room, I asked her if I could sit and listen to her for a while.  After another hymn, she asked me if I played.  I smiled a little and nodded.  "A little bit".  She stood up from the bench with some help from her walker.  "Well honey, let's hear it!" her southern accent was adorable.  "I can't hardly see no more, so sometimes I end up on the wrong keys, but it don't matter.  Nobody can tell it anyway." 
We traded seats.  I felt the keys under my fingers, guessing how it might play for me.  I couldn't stand the suspense, so I played the first C7 of Billy Joel's "Piano Man".  It was comfortable, out of tune though.  Definitely out of tune.  But somehow, beautiful.  My fingers took right to the keys, like I had played it my whole life.  It practically played itself.  As I played, a few residents and urses began trickling into the dining area, coming to see who was causing the ruckus, no doubt.  I looked around sheepishly when I realized that everyone was watching and listening.  Not wanting to appear nervous, I kept going.  A few chords here, a riff there, just messing around, really.  I'm not used to playing solos to people.  But the best part was that the people loved it, no matter what I played or how many times I messed it up.  It was a great feeling. 
When I was finished, I stood up to leave and was surprised by a smattering of applause from the people who had gathered to watch.  I hadn't expeced that.  What to do?  Smile and wave :).  Finally, I was able to leave.  Before I got out the door, however, I felt a hand on my shoulder.  "Honey that was beautiful!"  It was the same old woman I had first talked to.  "Thanks." I offered.  "I don't think I caught your name?"  "Esther,"  she said with a smile.  I introduced myself and she squeezed my shoulder.  "I hope you come back and play for me again.  I really enjoyed it."  I smiled back.  "So did I."