Your neck is already craned as far as it can go,
your head pushed forward.
Even your eyebrows reach for it,
but it still doesn’t catch that damn note.
Forget it.
It’s gone.
Category: Words…always words
When a song knows you
On that rare occasion when comes a song that catches in your throat and your moistened eyes lift; your heart swells and your tongue cleaves in silence to the roof of your dry, gaping mouth, one can only listen…
Music has wafted its way through the corridors of this boy’s life without either asking permission or signing a release form. At any given moment a particular song or sonata or ambient guitar piece has bored a hole into the otherwise forbidden regions of my soul where God doesn’t even like to go. And it stays. 
It stays and plays, disturbing the water leaving manuscripted ripples of memories repressed or forgotten, faces attached to long lost friends, pieces of time squandered and scattered on the floor.
I don’t mean to sound sullen for music has also drawn, even driven me, by the Spirit into all manner of delightful wilderness as well. It leaves its mark gently, but insistently, borrowing from what it knows will always push my heart into the deep end where my affections direct my thoughts and together, meet my will.
And I am changed.
It does seem a little more than mere serendipity when just the right lyric encased in the perfect package of notes, irrepressibly good and right, finds its way to my hungry ears. There is that moment of instant recognition. Someone knows this, has felt this before me and I am not alone. At these times a kinship is unveiled. Someone is already walking with me along pathways I had thought previously untraveled, and soothes me in the knowledge that they’re only unknown to me. Others have traversed these waters, even successfully, and been found by God, waiting on the other side; the same God you may have inwardly chided for his conspicuous absence, barely perceivable as you stumbled and groped along.
I remember the first time I ever heard Bridge Over Troubled Water. It occurred to me how duped I had been into believing I had already heard the best song ever, which at the time might have been the Thomas, the Tank Engine theme song. I was seven years old and nothing would ever be the same. I begged my parents to purchase the album (now extinct flat, black disc-like things with countless grooves magically holding music).
The next similarly visceral encounter was my discovery of Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring by…well, I had no idea then. 
Cliché as it might be among the classical music elite, no one can deny, in good conscience, the genius and mystical profundity of the piece. To this day it shatters me every time I hear it.
I was captured again when, on a drive from Calgary to Cranbrook, B.C., I encountered Bach’s Wedding Cantata and the opening Kyrie of Schubert’s Mass in Ab for the first time. To say I was captivated would be an understatement of hyperbolic proportions. I had to pull the car over, so spellbound was I at the unforgivably beautiful refrains. My love affair with this music continues unabated.
You may think it trite by comparison but, lately, my descent into a blubbering, snotty mess has been evoked by a simple little song, We Were Better Off, by Elenowen, a barely known duo. It has taken its place among those selections added to Rob’s warning,-this-one-guarantees-tears-so-avoid-public-places playlist. Go ahead, listen and tell me what you think. I dare you to do so without at least a hint of connection. If you feel nothing at all, you’re either at the pre-coffee stage of your day, a grumpy pragmatist, or a zombie (no pressure).
Music, like the people with whom we share it, comes at the most unexpected times. And, when it does, my self-imposed melancholy is banished if only for a moment as the notes probe places left unexplored and I am placed under God’s laser-specific microscope. Now that’s theology. If I were to say at those times that I now knew this song, it is then God reminds me that, in fact, it is the song that knows me.
Da signe al fine.
Sonnet from an airport lounge
This is not autobiographical. I repeat, this is not…oh never mind, you decide. As a recovering alcoholic with almost 10 years sober (no, stop, please…enough), this is an all too familiar scene. Trying to wash away fear, doubt and pain while dulling the insistent voice of comfort offered us by God and stranger. Hurting together is still better than drinking alone, n’est pas?
Sitting in the airport lounge with spirit bayoneted,
half-hearted conversations, words, more words, tumble out, un-netted.
Ne’er-do-wells sing trashy songs, their voices loud, un-vetted,
scare away all vestiges of peace, un-still…
* * * * *
Seeking solace, groping hope from speaker’d plane route changes,
arrivals swapped as airplanes, circling round, my vision ranges.
Slow, so slow and slower still the time, these hours, outrageous
offer little respite from these voices, shrill.
* * * * *
But in the lateness of this hour, e’en now there comes a voice,
some gentle, waltzing words of comfort land, offering a choice
to listen hard, to find, to seek and fin’lly heed this noise,
since Whiskey Sours failed their task, this heart to fill.
* * * * *
So much to lose, through burden’d care;
so much to gain when life we share.
Look now, the hidden road
Look now, the hidden road denies these footsteps
their certainty, unsure though they wend,
through what little solid soil succumbs
to plodding, silent shoe-footfall.
Forward slowly, halting back apace,
how often my wayward way, the Way, ‘tis not.
These choking vines abort momentum,
spilling out on soft and silent stones
their devious designs along this rutted path.
A fog, a mist, a nightling now,
I deign to trust what lying eyes will tell,
list’ning instead for the rustling wind
some branch to bow and bend and brush my face
and share with me geography.
Unsteady though the way must be
my hands atremble reach for other hands
for, only then, does lostness find its way.
Finding my way with words…again
As I say ad nauseam, words hold great fascination for me. Like a good wine or succulent steak, they should roll in the mouth teasing us out of lethargy and into fantasy. I’ve built entire paragraphs around a single tantalizing word I’ve discovered. I mean, come on, how can a person not get goosebumps upon hearing words like pandiculation, sententious; contumelious or jejune (thank you, Frasier). Since I am a word geek, but an amateur, I must speak without perspicuity (see, isn’t it fun?!) about a number of linguistic ailments troubling me of late.
The first is the unforgiving forward march of colloquialism for its own sake. The fullness and potential of our language is forced to pose as a mere undercurrent while our worst, or at least, carelessly casual renditions of it suffers from a “never cry wolf” scenario. It calls out, taunting us with its beauty and yummy goodness only to tease us upon reaching it with the text-speak it has become. Our etymologies, left underused, are trumped by the language of our street level encounters with one another. The onerous ubiquity of pop-speak, text-splutter all too easily bullies us with a kind of syntactical imperialism, usually from whoever holds the what’s-cool-now cards. Those of us self-appointed word cops run to the rescue of a drowning language only to discover that we had acted preemptively and the malady escapes. Like pushing a parachute underwater, it simply pops up elsewhere. When it happens again and again, we grow weary of the chase and join ‘em since we can’t beat ‘em.
Truth be told, this is how all language evolves. Perhaps this is not such a bad thing or we might still be in the throes of “straightway”, “contrariwise”, “forsooth”, “forthwith” and a host of other culturally high-nosed non-necessities. Lest I begin to sound too much like the aforementioned language-Luddites, I’m the first to admit my own occasional lapses into Facebook-ese if for no other reason than to escape the notice of those who might otherwise call me out on it.
Secondly, something I’ve said a jillion times – that abuse of overstatement otherwise known as hyperbole. Saying a word or phrase a jillion times does not, in itself, lend any greater credence to the word or phrase in question. Insistent hyperbole has left our language flat, uninteresting, boring and impotent, unable to even arouse us from our phonic slumber. I confess that my own struggle with the issue can easily be compared to the epic battles faced by Moses at the foot of Mt. Sinai or Lawrence of Arabia (this is exaggeration, not hyperbole…honest). The loss of subtlety, clarity and nuance delivers a word-life that is monochromatic, thin, even morose as a consequence.
Thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, (my posts are generally far too long) is our love for the more-is-better preference. Our love for more-chat-is-better, not in length, depth and style, but in frequent, drably trite verbal diarrhea (think Twitter) has left us yearning for silence, the spaces between the words where we regain our footsteps. It’s often the punctuation and not the words it contextualizes that can steady our gait, allowing us to reenter conversation and community with class, poise and aplomb. The constant barrage of words, ideas and images (kinda like this post) all but guarantee that we are robbed of silence, the very silence that could enliven our spirits and enrich our conversation, leading to community.
So, there you have it. These are my ongoing struggles both for and agin’ the forward march of language evolution. As you can plainly see, I’ve been the victim more than once of a sound playground pummeling. After all, who wants their words of simple communication continuously berated as sub-standard? Especially by some smug, self-appointed word doctor? Be that as it may, I stand by my diagnoses and humbly await the next unwelcome conflagration unwittingly brought upon myself whereby the shape and color of my face are akin to the same in our less than ideal lexical enrollment.
In case we do not speak again, farewell, and think thee not ill of me…
guest blog – thinking about dad: 666
This is the second post by guest blogger, Dan Erickson (www.danerickson.net).
thinking about dad: 666
(Originally posted on June 6, 2012)
It’s been two years to the day since my dad died. On June 6 at about 6pm of 2010 my dad made the transition from this life to the next. I couldn’t help but chuckle at the irony. He died on the sixth month, on the sixth day, at six o’clock: 666. That’s exactly what dad would have done, too. He would have laughed.
My father, Onnie Victor Erickson, affectionately known as Bud, was one of the kindest people I ever knew. He was non-judgmental and forgiving. When things were stolen from him he’d say, “It’s alright. I can always get another one. They need it more than me.” He said this knowing he couldn’t replace the item because he had very little money. When people would judge my dad based on his unique set of spiritual beliefs he’d simply say, “That’s okay. It’s part of their experience. That’s where they are in their life. I understand, because I’ve been there, too.”
Dad was also a seeker. It was his relentless desire to know more about God that got our family into a cult in the early 1970s. He thought he’d found the right path, the right group. Although he’d later leave that group, I’m not sure he’d claim it had been a mistake to get involved in it in the first place. His attitude was that everything we do and experience is destined. He’d say that we went through the cult experience because we were meant to at that time. He’d claim that coming through that experience helped us to learn something about God and would take us to the next level of our spiritual walk.
Dad later joined another fringe group and stayed with it until a few years before he died. Coming from the ministry himself, one thing may dad’s choice of spiritual leaders always included was a Christian-based belief system. He always believed that God and Christ were at the center of each group he attended, just not exactly as tradition might claim.
In the last few years of his life, dad forsook larger groups for studying a large variety of spiritual-based literature in smaller groups, small circles of likeminded people. In the end, I believe my dad had tapped into some ultimate truths concerning Christianity. He believed that the seed of Christ is in every soul that has ever lived, is living, or ever will live on earth. He called it “The Christ within you,” and he always did his best to live up to that phrase. He was honest, peaceful, loving, and fair. He was always there when a brother or sister, or a son or daughter needed a helping hand. We spent hours sharing our thoughts and feelings about God, Christ, and the state of the world. Dad was an optimist. He believed everything would work out for the good of God and all humanity in the end.
I started writing my first book A Train Called Forgiveness about ten months after dad died. Many of his ideals and values about God, Christ and religion are weaved into that story. It’s something I hope would have made him proud. Dad would have turned 75 on June 14, 2010. He was eight days shy, but now lives on infinitely. So, dad died on 666. But he’d say, “It doesn’t mean a thing. People are superstitious. God’s not superstitious. God is a beautiful representation of love.” God is a lot like “dad.”
the intricacies of supple hearts – a guest post
Friend, fellow musician and writer, Dan Erickson, has kindly used a couple of my own pieces on his blog: www.danerickson.net I would like to return the favor with a couple of his own. I invite you to learn more about Dan at his site. The best way to get to know someone however is through their creativity. Hence, I give you this first offering by guest blogger, Dan Erickson.
the intricacies of supple hearts
(originally posted on July 7, 2012)
Once broken, it’s hard to remain soft,
like shattered glass most tend to cut
ourselves or others again and again.
It takes ten, maybe twenty-thousand days
for the fortunate few to mend:
less fragile, less frigid than before.
After years of abuse: some learn
to become unbreakable without hardening;
to love without fear of rejection or pain.
Our paths to pliability were weaved
intricately; our supple nature shaped
by something greater than ourselves.
Knowing this:
If two should meet and intertwine,
melting together while continuously
bending to and fro, the intricacies
of supple hearts, like water and wind,
create a bond that cannot be broken,
neither now nor in the age to come.
words…
July 23, 2009
these time-rushed blips like panicked squirrels
refuse submission to
my lesser purposes; partnered anti-coagulants of
time and chance
pursue this restless memory till
soul tames mind
and sanded feet remind salted nostrils
of their richer fare
Triangle poems V
Upstream
From the mouth of this river
I can see forever.
But just to see it
is not to know
the gifts it
can bring
me.
Downstream
From here I see what has past
from early dawn to dusk,
meandering stream
of hearts and minds
too broken
not to
feel.
Midstream
From here I can see the moon,
in all her bright glory.
But still I can’t see
what direction
this bright stream
will go
next.
Half-mast
Is it high or is it low?
Starboard bow or portside?
How are we to know
which direction
we are be’ng
led to
go?
Solitary
Here I sit in places, still,
with rhythms full of grace.
An occupied peace
and quiet voice
that summons
me to
stay.
Although really a prayer it is done in poetic fashion, not unlike the Psalms…just lesser.
Lord, a heart lies in anguish’d ruins,
haunt of those whose boots are stuffed full
of the detritus found only on lonely hillsides
and mucky marshes.
There is no comfort in comfort;
comfort itself is a mockery, a shadow.
My soul is o’er grown with the sadness of sin,
untimely and magnetic North to this sorry South.
Finding is, to me, just another losing
of what was never found, nor seen;
the secondary reality of a desert’s shimmering heat
rising above an already parched, dead land.
Beasts of memory and regret feed
on the bowels of my discontent,
and I am emptied, disavowed of what might
otherwise provide hints of hope, of life.
The heartsickness of a harrowed soul
is its own reward to the one who is lost;
wretched reminder of yesterday’s loss by
the infected, troubled mind.
Is there to be yet a…
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innerwoven 