{and some 80 Hill Street in celebration of 5 more days}
It's a bit late, and though my speech is written, I've yet to find a theme for my C.S. Lewis paper. Still, I apparently had enough time to dash to the grocery store with Jacq and then spend the next two hours in Deep Discussion about love and Love, so I suppose a little bit of blog can't hurt now, can it?
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Sometimes I find joy in the silliest places. Tonight I just cannot get over
::: the glow of the Apple logo on my MacBook when open
::: reading by Christmas light
::: clear-cut winter air
::: blackberries + powdered sugar + buttermilk waffle
::: how, when wearing a parka, your legs positively freeze but
the rest of you's warm all over
::: the return of my (favorite) lost earring
::: the way I start writing in lists the moment finals begin
Walking alone along Seventh in snow boots should be a part of daily living. Such freedom in feeling so small and so incredibly full all at once.
The house is empty and still, and today I am grateful for
::: early wintry mornings and bright new sun
::: velveteen slippers and peony-print pyjamas
::: hot water bottle and IKEA pillow
::: pomegranate tea and lemon curd toast
::: Mosiah, chapters 18 through 26
::: a silent hour to myself to finish Till We Have Faces
Joy silences me.
“In memory everything seems to happen to music.” – TENNESSEE WILLIAMS
And now, a word from guest blogger O, giving me words to fill this space until I come back from the dead of finals. Figured you'd appreciate this work more than my Italian essay on the neorealistic movement of the 1950s.
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Laughing, I change the station and a familiar tune* plays. I sing along momentarily, until my laughter turns into a kind of sad nostalgic smile. “How is it possible that out of 100 stations there isn’t even one good song? Aren’t you so sick of this one?” my friend complains, changing the radio station. “No, not really.” I reply, switching it back to the song that sings glimpses of my past. Within seconds I am no longer a part of my reality. I am gone.
I can taste the salty air, feel the soft wind and hear the crashing waves seeping out of the stereo. I can’t physically see my memory, but I can feel it with haunting intensity. And to think I was fine, only seconds before; but then that song started to play---our song. I think back to that time, getting lost in the memory until I’m not just remembering, I’m living it: I’m walking along the rocky beach, the waves crashing down, drowning my feet. I’m eating Pavlova and banana chip sandwiches. We're singing this song on D’urville Island, sitting on the giant hammock with our guitars in hand.
Music can evoke the remembrance of memories within seconds, bringing back moments in life that have been set aside in our mind. It plays a part in our lives that is often looked over, but when you stop to think about it, every song accompanies some kind of memory or experience in life.
In Tennessee William's play, The Glass Menagerie, the characters' memories are always remembered with music accompanying them. Amanda fondly reminisces about her past with the gentleman callers every night and the beauty she once was. Laura obsessively plays the phonograph to get away from her painful reality---sometimes too often. The sweet-sounding music overshadows their current woes, and numbs their minds into a form of bliss. Music serves as both a reminder and an escape in the lives of the Wingfield family.
While my memory is not a tragic one, it brought back the same feelings I imagine Amanda and Laura experiencing: a longing for a part of life that isn’t real to you anymore. When remembering the past, we sometimes only want to see the beautiful aspects, the music. Eventually we must realize that, while the music of our past is beautiful and sweet, it ends more quickly than we’d like. We need to continue living our lives, moving on, turning on the radio only occasionally. We can’t get stuck like Laura is, constantly playing a tune of fantasy. Music can evoke so many emotions within seconds of hearing it, but whether it be a small experience or life-changing event, it’s how we sing the song in our life that matters.
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Not quite twins, but definitely sisters.
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*For the curious, the song that sparked this memory is, of all things, Michelle Branch's Everything. Except that we put it to new words (there were sheep involved). And strummed the song ourselves (from the top of the green, green Marlborough hills down into the blue, blue sea).
We met one day at the marae . . .
This should be a rant. A long, fiery, passionate rant. Because, if anything, I despise group work—and slipping this project amidst the hectic final weeks of semester only spurred me to greater spite. My group’s been great this entire semester, but with all the pressure of finals and outstanding homework assignments, we had a lot of trouble getting our schedules to match up. We traded a few emails, a phone call or two, and at last resort met last night, the night before it was due. Typical, I thought, annoyed with my own failure to pull the group together in some semblance of responsibility. It’s going to take all night and be awful anyway and why do we have to do this now, of all times? Of course, this was before the actual work began; before Bean threw the ramen, still packaged, into the pot, before Steve licked raw Bisquick from his fingers, before Chris held the dinosaur’s hand. I said should be a rant. Subjunctive. This is now a full-fledged, rave review.
We did get it done, and it didn’t take all night. Plus, it was fun. Ridiculously fun. The assignment's only guidelines were to create an eight-minute video on the topic we pulled from the pile, and we're not being graded on quality, either. Without the product to worry about, the process become one of camaraderie and creative energy, bouncing ideas off of one another as we were going, never quite knowing what happened next but tying it all together in the end. The process was such a release, such a welcome change from the stress-charged air of the semester’s end. For me, it was not only a chance to spend time with fantastic people, but make use of that time with real thought and action, no matter how ridiculous the result might be.
Surprisingly enough, we started with a clear idea, even typing up an outline and discussing the play-by-play. From the first scene, however, everything was given up for the tangential—which terrified me in the beginning. I’m a very have-a-plan-and-stick-to-it kind of gal, but the boys would have none of that. It only took minutes before I was swept up into their laughter and “go with it” attitude, and it was really enlightening. I loved letting go. This group project taught me that a little silliness is okay (which is another post entirely), that I can lay off the stress and seriousness for a while because it does the spirit good. The boys reminded me to laugh at myself, to embrace improv and forget the camera. It was liberating. Hip, hip hooray for group work (at least for now).
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