Choral Passion

I enjoy singing in choir very much. I love making side jokes and faces with my neighbors in between singing, chuckling at their humor, and, on occasion, sharing the pain of hearing discordant voices who can't quite detect their error. It's an enjoyable change in routine, as I traditionally prefer the company of myself.

What I love most, however, has nothing to do with socializing. I love the challenge of improvement, tackling a song one phrase at a time; the rush I get when I nail a tough interval; singing a low A with a broad vowel in my mouth; feeling goosebumps ripple along my limbs as individual notes burgeon into beautifully blended music.

I love making sweet harmony with something that is bigger than myself.

In high school, my class schedule never allowed me to be a part of the award-winning concert choir, so I never got the chance to sing beautiful pieces of music with passionate peers -- something I'd always dreamed of -- and recieve great recognition for doing so. I was stuck with my small-time church choir, never really coming across a truly moving arrangement or composition.

Imagine my surprise when I came across the works of Eric Whitacre and his virtual choir:

Underneath my stilled heart and mesmerization, as I listen to the music I can't help but feel a sense of longing: longing to be a part of that choir, longing to have had that opportunity just months ago. There's also a knowing that I just missed the boat on this. It's a crappy feeling.

I sometimes wonder if I'm destined to forever be the alto extraodinaire that could have been. It's a small hole in my heart, this dream, and although it's an absence of substance, it weighs heavy within me.

Boys

I decided to rescue this post from the dregs of my draft pile, as it still holds true to my feelings. Written sometime last year.




Is it so unusual for me to never have had a true, go-weak-at-the-knees crush? Anyone who finds out is very surprised, and must ask me again. "Not one?" they ask. Unless the puppy love for Kevin Richardson of the Backstreet Boys at the age of five counts, I have never had a crush on any boy, ever. I don't think it's weird.

There's this boy who has a grandmother in my church. He lives in California, but he spent last summer up here. He's my age, he's tall, he's tan, and he's very handsome. He was at church again today, and he leaves for home tomorrow. Yesterday, a friend of mine and her mother came up to me and told me that he had been here these past few Sundays that I've missed, and that I should make sure to attend today because he would be there. "So make sure you come all dressed up!" they said. The giddy, excited look in my friend's eye was almost comical. I felt like I was in Pride and Prejudice. It was almost as if they expected me to have the same reaction to his presence.

No. Not I. Although he is very, very handsome, he is still a teenage boy. He still gets a kick out of practical jokes, he still loves first-person shooters, and he still enjoys "that's what she said" jokes. I want something deeper. I want a thinker, like myself.

Granted, I still get a cheap laugh out of "your face" jokes, but we're all allowed our cheap laughs -- on occasion. What I'm getting at is, I see this boy for what he is on the inside, and my conclusion is that our personalities are not very compatible, as far as dating goes. I guess that's a mark of maturity on my part, because even though he's fun to drool over, I'm not a big fan of "eye candy". It's what's on the inside that counts for me.

Worth Telling

Watched a few episodes of "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition" and saw the many stories of individuals who overcame adversity, live with hardship, or fill their hearts with love.

Do I have a story worth telling?

...I don't know the answer to that question.

Letter to Humankind

Dear Humankind:

Please stop hating. I know it's hard; it's hard for me, too. Believe me, though, it's just not worth it. It's a waste of energy, and it can consume you. It has in the past. We both know you have a real problem with it. When you're hating something, are you happy? Do you think about anything else?

Didn't think so.

Please, just go be happy and love something for once. Don't do it for me; do it for you. You owe it to yourself.

Let me know if you need to talk about it later. I've always got an open ear for you.

Love,

Thinker

Thoughts

The stage of the mind can be so fickle at times, that it's hard to quiet one's thoughts enough to simply fall asleep. What do you do to wind down? Personally, I listen to soft music as I get into bed, and let it fill my head until I finally fall asleep. Now, I find it's almost impossible for me to sleep unless I have my music.
And therein lies the rub. I think it's safe to deem my situation as a dependence on music for an escape from my thoughts.
(Instert double-take here)
An escape from my thoughts? What is so bad about them that I have to find an escape? Why must I escape from myself?
The answer is seemingly simple: I need sleep. But what if I'm treating a symptom, and not the root problem? Could it be that I'm experiencing a backlog of thoughts due to my day being filled with activities that overtake the stage of my mind, pushing aside the clowns, poets, musicians, and scholars, forcing them to wait until I am quiet enough to listen?
Yes. I think that's it. I think that I would be able to fall asleep without assistance if I allowed myself time to think each day. Call me an introvert, but it seems as though I've been missing the solitude that has allowed me to obtain peace and calm within myself. Imbalance manifests itself in the most mysterious ways.

Emotions

Fickle things, aren't they? As varied as the colors in the spectrum, too. Some are dull, and some are potently vivid. For me, the dull ones can be borne with minimal difficulty -- in fact, they comprise the majority of my daily emotional experience. Being able to deal with dull emotions is an advangtage in times where the bright emotions come few and far between. However, my prolonged exposure has left me weak and unbalanced. I have, and have always had, a very poor arsenal of tools to deal with extreme emotions, or even emotions that are just intense. Happiness, in any degree, is a good thing, and I don't need to deal with happiness; it's the darker emotions that get me when they're intense.

Frustration, Fury, Extreme Remorse, Painful Sorrow, all of these come into my life at one time or another. Usually, it's once in a long while that they arrive at my emotional doorstep. Any time they do, though, it's hard. Some know breathing excercises and meditation. Some have reliable, trustworthy friends they can talk to. Some know just the right music to release and calm themselves. Me? I know maybe one or two songs for Fury, and they only get half of the job done. I have but one cure-all tool that works, but at a price. Physical pain usually does the trick for me, but it's certainly not the best out there. It's probably one of the worst. Depending on how vivid the emotion, this tool has the potential to lead to injury, although it seldom has, and never in any severity.

I've never drawn my own blood or broken my own bones to deal with this stuff, but recently I felt the most fury I had felt in a long time, and now I've got a nasty bruise on my hand, and it feels like my knuckle is sore.

I've got a diagnosis: I'm ill-equipped. I've got a prognosis: find a better outlet. I've got a problem: I don't have any idea where to start.

Dropped lines much appreciated.

Reflection

It's been five years since I started this blog. I was twelve when I got up the guts to announce my existence to the internet, which is ironic, seeing as barely anyone reads this blog. Reading through my first posts to now, it is almost comical to see my juvenile origins and the huge change - the burgeon - that has taken place. Did I really post that many religious blurbs that have outright jabs at atheism? Where was my sensitivity? Or, should I say, my political correctness? Every tweener is allowed to be opinionated, awkward, brazen in some topics and shy in others. They're also allowed to grow. I'm continuing to grow.

As are we all...

The Pain of Love

Have you ever experienced genuine compassion for someone else? I imagine it's happened at least once in your life. For some, it's an innate gift. For others, it's an impossible task.

For as long as I can remember, I've wanted to help people, and lift their burdens. I've wanted to make others happy, because I cared for them. I was genuinely concerned for their well-being. I still am, for that matter. I've always thought it was a great gift, and a talent I had that I should cultivate and use. It has always brought me happiness. That is, until a few nights ago.

It was a great day. I slept in, I cooked a delicious breakfast with my family comprised of bacon, biscuits, and gravy. I had an entertaining rehearsal for a play. I relaxed the whole day, and had fun with my family, laughing as I pleased. What more can a day give you than being with who you want to be with, doing what you want to do, relaxing and laughing the whole way?

Happiness. I was truly happy. When does that ever happen? Once in a blue moon for me, at most. Of course, me being me, as the day was winding to a close I thought about my friends and family and how I wished they could be as happy as I.

Then I thought about all of the pain, weight, depression, and discouragement they were all feeling. Alienation. Isolation. Hopelessness. There was nothing I could do for them, even if I dedicated every fiber of my being to the cause, because none of them would let me in and let me understand.

And so dawned my epiphany. Charity and compassion are a gift when they can help, but they are also a curse when faced with helplessness. The sword revealed its other edge, cutting me deep to the heart in the process. Pain of a whole new make racked my body and soul, forcing tears down my cheeks as a void slowly grew in my very core. The pain of love.

Now I know why God weeps.

The Cinema Experience: The Dinner Analogy

While many people go to movies solely to kill time or to be entertained, there are those of us who watch movies to be blown away through a careful balance of cinematic and stylistic elements. My mom is basically the embodiment of all family-values viewers; as long as it's not scandalous, lewd, or profane, and it's entertaining, it's good movie. I, however, am a little more picky when it comes to movies.

When people asked me how I judge a movie, I found it hard to explain my paradigm without sharing a passion with them for great film. I have finally been able to encapsulate my criteria into an analogy. Here goes:

The cinematic experience can easily be likened to a three-course meal at a restaurant. What any person with high food standards should focus on is the experience of the meal, as opposed to simply whether or not the food was good.

Any person, like any moviegoer, has a set of likes and dislikes that they know affect their enjoyment of a meal. Some people have a sweet tooth while others like things a little more salty, for instance. Therefore, they will have looked at the menu and description (trailers, reviews, etc.) before deciding what to eat.

After they've ordered, the first course (act) is placed before them, and the aromas fill the nose and the first glimpse of the food is given. Here, the aromas and appearance of the food should be designed to intrigue, entice, and invite. Does it look appetizing? The first bite should likewise be enjoyable and sensational, and as the first course progresses, the customer should get a feeling for the stylistic themes within the meal, and the chef's touch in what they are eating. They should have an idea of what to expect for the future courses, but nothing should be given away. More importantly, they should be wanting more.

The second course is larger, and stands apart from the first. A real meal needs to have substance and individuality. It should be better than the first, and "wow" the diner. The characters, plot, and script are the real "meat and potatoes" of the meal. The visuals, sound effects, and soundtrack are like the various spices and garnishes: they're only there to add color and make things a little more interesting, and enhance the food; they should never be the focus. This course should have some surprises, but it builds up to the third course.

The third course should be the best course. The chef should have prepared everything whilst keeping in mind what the customer walks away with; the last impression is always the greatest, because it's what you'll remember. This means the customer should have their socks blown off, and this can be for any number of reasons. As far as film goes, maybe it's a realization of a truth, or a brand new perspective on life, or a rush from seeing some seriously intense action, or maybe even warm insides from a cheerful message.

One last thing to consider is a meal's repeat value; if it was a good "one-timer", then it didn't do its job. A great meal can be eaten repeatedly over time, with very little loss of enjoyment.

Don't get me wrong: you don't have to walk away a changed person from a film in order for it to be a cut above the slop of Hollywood mainstream, but it should be a form of art, not just a pastime.

Thanksgiving

Perhaps one of the most nonsensical places I know is the male teenage psyche. Like any mind, it differs relatively between subjects. However, there is a sadly a common element in all of them, however differing in concentration: immaturity and low self-esteem.
There are, of course, cases where there is very little of these present, but it's always there. One of the most infuriating cases of such a high concentration is when a lack of skill or understanding is compensated with ridicule and rejection. It makes it hard to be the better person when a guy starts doing that to you.

This time, I wasn't.