Moving On...

I need a fresh start, a new place to flesh out ideas and formulate opinions. So, I'm abandoning this blog for a new space, which can be found here:

http://www.eachdayaline.blogspot.com

Life Update...

This is way overdue, I know, but I thought I would let you all know what's been going on in my life since I left Martha's Vineyard 42 days ago.

A week after taking that ferry from Vineyard Haven to Woods Hole, I made my way west to participate in commencement. I met up with fellow graduates Jenny Baird (Semester 12) and Mallory Graham (Semester 13), feeling an immediate level of kinship with them both. This kinship quickly turned to jealousy as they told stories of the CMC reunion that had taken place a week before.

Graduation itself was a strange experience. There was the euphoric sense of accomplishment that I had been expecting but a stronger sordid disconnect that accompanied these emotions. Jenny and I were both struck with how close we felt to the people we had spent three months with verses three-and-a-half years. I don't think I knew more than five people in my graduating class by more than a distant name-and-face knowledge.

I returned to PA and worked the craziest week of the floral fiscal year: Mother's Day. I actually love working holidays because the days are packed and there is no downtime. It makes me feel productive.

After Mother's Day, I began to send out more resumes, trying to find summer work nearby. I got a phone call from Tara-Leigh Cobble, an independent singer/songwriter who lives in New York City. She offered me an internship to help her with booking and artist/tour management. Needless to say, I took the offer and began to make every effort to make it work out.

So I'm writing this from an apartment in downtown New York. I'm living near the World Trade Center, close to the Hudson, reminding me of another beloved Island. Along with the internship, I'm waiting to hear back from the Apple Store about a retail position at the Soho branch and am working out a deal with a music store near Columbus Circle to hopefully begin teaching private piano lessons as well.

It's crazy how much happens so quickly. I'm astonished I'm even here, but feel so grateful for the opportunities. I am indebted to many of you for equipping me and encouraging me towards this. And, if any of you are in the city, look me up. I would love to see you!

Peace,
Lori

Last night I volunteered for the Skillet/TFK/Decyfer Down tour. Though I haven't worked a show in a while, I found it was easy to get back into the flow of how the event typically goes. It was a good night, sold-out show with a packed house of 1500 and many willing to buy the TFK merchandise I ended up selling.
The show was a long 3 1/2 hrs with a two-hour teardown afterwards. Here are a few of my favorite moments from last night:


- The peanut butter chocolate cake Jesse scavenged from catering
- TFK's intro music, Ennio Morricone's film score from The Good, The Bad & The Ugly
- The "emergency gaff tape" stuck inside a glass box
- Amber texting Decyfer's backstage number for fun...and winning
- Skillet's "Best Kept Secret" encore followed by anticlimactic, Jars of Clay exit music


And for the favorite quote of the night:

"I admire your strength...and your earrings." - Bob, event volunteer to me during load-out

Dear Former Classmates:

Today is the day we graduate. Or we were supposed to. To tell you the truth, when they told us to look to the left, look to the right, I didn't believe any of us would be a statistic. I didn't buy into the myth.
But slowly, surely, only a third of my initial friends left, or transferred, and now I only know two or three of the near five hundred graduating today. Am I saddened by this? Maybe. Disappointed? It's worn off. But I'll tell you a few things I'm not expressing at your absence.
For most of you, I do not agree with what the baccalaureate speaker said about those seated before him working the hardest. Being the most determined. I still know you, I know how you're making things happen in your lives and have more self-motivation than I could ever dream of having.
I do not believe we robed and tasseled today are better than those who haven't made it here yet. One more semester or a few more years, you'll get here and have the same joy/relief/fear/anticipation that I do right now.
That said, I do not believe a degree is a be-all, end-all. Hell, it's just a piece of paper. Some of you have discovered this and are actually doing things with your life. That makes me so happy for you.

A Well-Deserved Victory

There are many things wrong with the current music biz. It's refreshing to see something work in the artists' favor.

http://www.ascap.com/press/2008/0430_ratecourtdecision.aspx

Madness/Miraculous...

Well, I have an excuse to move to New York...an internship. I'm uber excited and amazed and nervous and over-emotional, but mostly excited. Time to become all that is starving artist!

Whatever & Ever...

So I attended church for the first time in four months today. Maybe that's not quite accurate. I mean, I visit this church every Sunday. But today I guess was the first traditional church service I've attended since January.
At any rate, I knew this would be a change, that it would be a difficult thing to get through, this reintroduction to the traditional, normal worship service. Because I don't attend my parents' church on a regular basis, this makes the transition back into this part of "real life" all the more difficult, as people really don't know me, don't recognize me, and have little to say to me, except for the casual "Oh, is your sister back from college, too?"
I'm sorry, I'm rambling. It really was a good day, but for untraditional reasons. I didn't really find God at church today. I found him this morning after the thunderstorm that crashed into our house last night. I found him later, in that same house when I was alone and free to pray aloud with no one but the dog (and God, of course...ha) to hear. I found him in this Nada Surf song that I re-stumbled across this evening, reminding me of the true reasons embedded in the last half-year or so, what I've been learning all along. Like the Hornby story I read a few weeks ago, Jesus is where you find him, and perhaps where he finds you.
I've just begun the journey of processing all I have learned, and I feel that getting back into this church culture will be the most difficult. I was a jagged piece before all this happened, and I've become rougher still. I fear I may not fit in here again, and it's a fear that fuels and doesn't extinguish...whatever that means.

Tips For Going Home...

Don't panic. Don't stare out the window for eight hours of silent scenery, wishing you weren't moving at all. Don't play Joni Mitchell as you unpack the boxes and suitcases that seem to have made it back more intact than you. Don't sob when you're confronted with a million memories of the place you left. Don't find comfort in this becoming new normalcy. Don't get over what has happened to you. Don't forget it. Don't let it go. Let it become a part of you, even though it seems to have left a terrible hole. This is significant and will continue to be so for as long as it is remembered. God, don't let me forget.

Rock is Dead. Long Live Hip Hop?

Through a recommendation, I've been reading a lot of Bob Lefsetz recently. This isn't really related to any of his newsletters, but it's a conglomeration of musical thought that has been running through my brain this past week. Maybe because I've been thinking about music's place and progression as inspired by Mr. Lefsetz all these abstract ideas have been floating around. Who knows if it will actually make sense...

Our community meets weekly for a critical listening session. We talk about rock 'n' roll's history, key artists whose emergence gradually influenced music as it is today, and sometimes about where music is going. I was thinking about how rock has slowly died out and how I wasn't even around for the death rattle. Instead, it is the era of urban music, rap music. My thirteen-year-old brother abhors The Beatles but loves any hip-hop artist he hears.

And this disturbs me on a certain level. Will this generation of a-la-carte music purchases and Guitar Heroes forget rock 'n' roll altogether? Will the next great era of music be shaped by the history of hip hop, or will it fade out like the 80s scene? Will my brother's generation discuss the dichotomy of sampling and remixes instead of guitar riffs and bass lines? As the music dilutes into sub-genre after sub-genre, will it become edgier than ever and rock 'n' roll become analogous to the Lawrence Welk of our grandparents?

I thrive off of rock 'n' roll and to tell you the truth don't know the history of urban music quite as well. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy the genre, but would love to dig deeper into its roots. I've looked on the 60s and 70s too long and ignored my current era. Perhaps my children will ask me one day what I was doing when important rap albums dropped or hip hop exploded onto the scene as I question my parents about Woodstock. To not have good answers for these hypothetical offspring daunts me.

Who knows where the industry is going? Hip hop and rap could die out in five years, but I don't think so. On the other extreme, it could go the other direction. A good friend predicted once that he saw urban music spawning its own dialect in another eighty years. It will probably pan out to be somewhere in the middle. At any rate, I hope rock makes another appearance on the scene. It deserves to see another day.

Beatnick Scribbling

While I was in New York I had the privilege of going to the library. A conglomeration of manuscripts centered around the 1950s beat poet movement were on display. The focus was on Jack Kerouac, but photos shot by Alan Ginsburg as well as loose leaf or typed pages from cohort William S. Burroughs were also scattered among the display.

I felt a certain excitement in seeing all this work in its birthplace (New York) and an admiration for the library to accolade authors who were largely rejected and feigned during their lifetimes. The manuscripts were preserved like rare pieces of art, seven rooms worth, browned and yellowed, tattered and bloody. Kerouac's harsh New York experience put up and finally given the recognition it deserves.

I was most excited for the jammed-about original thought that papered the walls of the historic building and the tribute to the community that surrounded Jack. He was friends with crazy people, of course, because only the mad ones were for him. Together they clawed for words to live by.

By no means do I want to emulate Kerouac's personal life, forfeiting years to alcohol; or Burroughs', trading decades for smack. But their writing is another thing entirely, and the community they devoted to art and words and thought and experience makes me envious in the worst way.

This is what I long for - a Greenwich-esque life circled by friends creating and destroying and recreating themselves and their ideas. This is the way I want to live, and I think my recent trip to NYC has helped me redefine what I want my life to be, despite my location, occupation, et. al.

I wrote this poem last semester as a sordid ideal of what the CMC community would be like; what I see for my life after the CMC. And, yes, it is in sonnet form...

Greenwich

I've found a place where I can dream and drift
And gypsy friends who beg me not to leave
They are the sieve and I the sand they sift
Their stories are the yarn with which I weave.
The lights dim on this run-down beat-up shack
And pennies made do not provide a crumb
But I am free from all that may attack
Cause comfort's in my neighbor's constant drum.
My chances for survival may be slight
And winter may be cold with clothing torn
But we are clinging onto dreams so tight
To follow paths of risks that pain has worn.
To look back on the past would be to brake
In every life so many roads to take.

Tell It Slant?

I was introduced to the art of Kevin Gilbert this week. A brilliant musician, Gilbert was successful in collaborations with The Tuesday Music Club. I spent roughly an hour listening to his rock opera "The Shaming of the True" with friends, and afterwords launched into a discussion about this elusive thing we call art.

The album follows the saga of wannabe musician Johnny Virgil as he tries to make it in LA. Laced with vivid, if explicit, images set against a melange of amazing musicianship, you can taste Gilbert's bitterness for the industry in every measure. He takes the listener on a step-by-step journey of Virgil, but in the end, it is clear "Shaming" is autobiographical.

The conversations that occurred after the record stopped spinning were challenging, emotional, and important. We talked about the content of the album - its "shock value" - and if "Shaming" would have the same impact on the listener if formatted to FCC standards. Some of us thought the album could exclude some of the unpleasant imagery and have a similar impact. Others were convinced that, though you could make the record "cleaner", it wouldn't have the same value, and certainly wouldn't leave the same impression.

I sided with the latter of opinions. So often art is used to tell the truth, to show vulnerable moments on screen, cameos of brutality through audio, a single snapshot of pain on canvas. Artists see the world in a way that many cannot; therefore, it is a gift to show how we see the world through media. With the gift comes a responsibility to portraying an integral world: the truth in its entirety as it relates to the moment or story the artists attempt to capture.

As the discussion explored the implications of art, I was reminded of that poem by Emily Dickinson, "Tell all the truth, but tell it slant," and I wondered if she was valid in this advice. She argues that being confronted with the whole truth head-on is too overwhelming. The truth must be given in small fragments of light; otherwise, the world would go blind. Perhaps she has a point, but I cannot agree with her. The truth shouldn't be some puzzle one should have to piece together or some shadowed element one hopes to see in the right light.

Truth through art should be presented in purity - holistically, and not on its side. That is not to say art has to be obvious. Sometimes the artist is vague, leaving conclusions to be drawn by the observer. Elements used by the artist often shock, often challenge the consumer to think about something in a different context or unique form. But artists should never feel the pressure to compromise the means by which they present the truth they see to avoid offending an audience.

Art is an invitation, after all. Some will accept art and be challenged by it, and others will dismiss it, if only for content. Reaction should never inhibit artists from expressing the truth they see, for they would be doing a disservice to both their audience and, more importantly to themselves.

Art should be an abstract catalyst for truth, and the two should work in tandem.

As an artist, it's a daily struggle, a constant questioning if I'm actually getting it, if the way I use art to show the world images of itself is proactive or inhibiting. Therein lies the rub of art and how it feverishly and neurotically drives the artist in this struggle of becoming and becoming and becoming....

If I Have To Age....

...I'd like to do it this gracefully:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/england/london/7275861.stm

Jesus Camp

As films go, I am a big fan of the documentary. It used to be I would encounter the genre solely in the classroom (a la history or science class) but as I've moved out of high school and through college, I've discovered the documentary to be a part of the mainstream. Perhaps it's only been because of my life's progression or because the genre is becoming more popularized by culture, but whatever the reason, I find the lens of the camera capturing frames of "real" life to often be relational and always intriguing.

Last night I had the opportunity to watch the documentary "Jesus Camp." The film's main focus is on a summer camp for Pentecostal children, but it also takes a brief look at the Evangelical right, homeschooling, and the megachurch movement.

To tell you the truth, I had been avoiding this documentary since its release two years ago. I knew the experience would not be a pleasant one, that I would see things on screen that I had been privy to for most of my life, and that I would enjoy it as much as getting my teeth cleaned. So, as opening credits rolled, I braced myself for the emotional undertaking.

An hour and a half later, I left with sordid emotions that I'm still working through. Many scenes were humorous, allowing for comic relief in the midst of a movie that found me more nauseous than anything. But after the sickness came a deep-rooted sadness that has lingered as I continue to unpack the implications of this piece of cinematography.

It would be unfair to say I was exposed to a faith of this intensity at such a young age, but suffice it to say, I could relate to many a scene in the film. I was prepared for this, but still appalled at the rawness of it portrayed on screen. More painful than their intensity was the sincerity of the adults as well as the children. Though the sincerity was there, the understanding was not.

I could go into how mindless Christianity has become in the last decades, how we are so set on being trendy or partisan towards a certain political party. It would be easy to complain about the us vs. them mentality that is permeating so many churches, and it would be relevant to the film at hand. But I wasn't so concerned with these broad themes as I was at the subtle fractures in the faith presented on the screen.

The documentary focused on the children who are being raised in this extreme environment. The manipulation of these kids and the pressure to conform to the ways of their peers and the adults who are leading them is enough to scare anyone away. It hinted at a version of Stockholm syndrome that I have felt in so many services. You go along with the niceties of church: the emotions, mouthing the words, standing and sitting when appropriate, et. al. Being under that pressure all the time has to come to a head eventually, and my mind kept wondering where those kids will be in ten years.

Will this next "great generation" be dogmatic in every aspect of their lives? Will they see people as opponents or allies? The world in black and white terms? Will their anger turn to bitterness? Will they even be able to reason and think for themselves? So many frightening questions.

We had a brief discussion following the film and it was mentioned that these kids are learning a form of religious terrorism, a sort of jihad. In fact, the film often mentions that Muslim children are being taught to defend Islam through military training. Using the same concepts, Evangelicals are equipping their children in a similar manner. If that concept doesn't scare the hell out of all of us, I don't know what would.

Despite all of the questions and issues and qualms the film raised for us, I am confronted with only one personally. As I've trekked closer to the edges of faith in these last years, I have attempted to move away from this "Christian" subculture. It hasn't been easy. Comfort lies in the crowd, not in the margins. When you begin to question the bread in your mouth, people get uncomfortable. But it's been necessary for me to step away from the Church as a building and revision it as a body.

One voice of truth and challenge that has been a catalyst for rethinking faith recently is that of Derek Webb. His music convicts the comfortable, and as I watched this film last night, all I could think of was his songs "My Enemies Are Men Like Me" and "Wedding Dress."

"Enemies" discusses pacifism and equality of men, no matter their nationality or religious tendencies. The political overtones of the documentary were clear on a Christian vs. Muslim division - us and them. Perhaps out of fear or out of bitterness, these people proclaimed their hatred toward Islam and it made me sad.

Derek's other song, "Wedding Dress" is probably one of the most convicting songs I've heard in a while. He discusses how we can put God on and take him off as easily as changing our clothing. "I am a whore, I do confess/ I put you on just like a wedding dress/ and I run down the aisle...." Doing church, doing faith, can be so easy to don and shed. Emotions, actions, habits can become so comfortable and we can be caught in that cycle of Sunday morning sacrilege. I am at fault, too.

It is so easy for me to condemn those portrayed in the film, to somehow place myself above them because I think for myself, I don't buy into the subculture, etc. etc. This is a dangerous mindset. I damn myself when I fall into that frame of mind, not only because I am a guilty but because they are my brothers and sisters and fellow humans. As much as I want to reject their mandates and versions of faith, I cannot ignore that they are seeking the same God I am. That may be the hardest concept to process right now.

It isn't enough to identify the problems in others because they are blatant in my life, too. As long as I choose to identify with Christianity, I must recognize the fractures in my own life, my inability to love purely and to speak unfragmented truth. I cannot deny my association with the church, either, because, as Tony Compollo once expressed, "The church is a whore, but she is my mother."

The Weight of Words

Conversations are interesting things. The more time I spend talking with others, the more convinced I am that words can be lifelines or nooses, weapons or hospital beds. We must choose wisely. You already know all of this...

While here, I've been compiling a list of quotes spoken by people in this community. Humorous, honest, callous, whatever, I am keeping them safe. Perhaps I'll share them or keep them to myself. I haven't decided yet.

This afternoon I collected another of these phrases, directed straight at me. My boss in the kitchen came up to me and said:

"Come here, I can't see you very well, dear." Flicking on the light switch:
"That's better! You're fucking beautiful."

I know some may have been offended by his blunt statement, but his words brightened me. The juxtaposition of crass and complimentary words blended to be a wonderful turn of phrase, more salve than searing, and exactly what I needed to hear at that moment. Who knows what his motivation behind the observation was, but it allowed me to surface out of this present blue phase I've been in, for a little while, and that's all that matters.

Honesty On A Screen

"The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt." - Sylvia Plath

This quote resonates with the life I have led this last month or so. The intent for this time (roughly 4 months) was to be creative, artistic; to put down everything and anything, to have something to show for the time when it is over. But a third of the time has elapsed now, and I don't feel like I've grown much and I'm certainly not improving.
I believe it's because I carry this fear around, a fear of mediocrity, and a measure of self-doubt. Sylvia said it best, and may have diagnosed the symptom of stagnancy.
I find myself more uncertain as the days progress. I find myself failing at every turn.
I have heavy hands full of responsibility, fragile as infants, yet they feel empty, hollow, trembling.
My mind keeps returning to the place of doubt, questioning, second-guessing every action, bracing for the terrible reactions.

Because of this, I feel like a coward, afraid of life. Scared of everything. Like every movement towards normalcy, towards coping, has been shifted back to the beginning. I am no longer free of the feeling of inadequacy. Perhaps I never will be again.

I feel like Lady MacBeth in an endless attempt to wash failure from my hands, but never cleansing them of that damned spot.

For these reasons (and others) I am terrified and lower than I've been in a while.

"Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing." - Sylvia Plath

Every Day, A Line

I've been living in a musician's commune for about a month now. The experience has been as unique as it would seem from the outside, and my mind has been challenged to think about certain things differently. Though much of what we discuss here is not necessarily new to me, the concepts are so compelling and vital to revisit. Otherwise, my mind fails to engage the ideas behind them. The challenge has not come from understanding the concepts, or "getting it". Instead, I've struggled with becoming complacent with the ideas themselves and not applying them to my life.
One revolutionary idea that was mentioned this week comes from our "patron saint" in this community, Vincent van Gogh. Though a visual artist, van Gogh also communicated to his brother through a series of letters. He writes:
"Not a day without a line. By writing, reading, working and practicing daily, perseverance will lead me to a good end."
And I guess that's why I've taken this time. To get away, to reassess what lines I want to put down every day. How I can be more intentional about my life and where I go from each day on.