Reflections on faith and art – Earworms of Grace: Leitmotiv

Like everyone else, I love Fridays. tgifIt was Friday. Friday is my day off. It also happens to be my Sabbath. I’m rather possessive of Fridays since they have become so reconstructive to my psyche, such as it is. Yet, ironically, if there is ever a day I feel more stressed about “wasting” free time, it’s Friday.

I have a fixation with fixations: an idea, a besetting issue, relational matters, missing car keys or, God forbid, a misplaced book bag. Whenever an idea, either good or bad, finds a perpetual return, I can get stuck in what the French call an idée fixe, a fixed idea. It’s something that, good or bad, refuses to go away; a kind of paralysis.

stressed

My brain and my soul spar over time served, with neither winning. I should be working harder at not doing something significantly insignificant. It’s a bit like standing in front of a wet paint sign and sensing an overpowering need to touch something, just to be sure. “Don’t think about sex,” the deacon tells the unsuspecting youth group and, for the next half hour, boys have a dreamy look in their eyes with one eyelid partially closed and crossing their legs. Ha! As if they’re fooling anyone.

I love to practice silence and contemplative prayer on these days and deal with distractions about the same as anyone else – poorly. But of all the distractions with which I’d prefer not to do battle during contemplative prayer, some trite, facile, mind-numbingly repetitive song would top the list. It just keeps showing up no matter how hard I try to redirect or quell the noise. You know that thing where, at sixteen, you finally get a chance to lean in for the long awaited kiss but start laughing instead because of the impressive fart joke your jackass buddy told you earlier that day? It just keeps showing up at the worst moments. Or, when you’re trying to find the Zen of vacuuming the stairs but the only thing that incessantly hammers away at your brain is that ditty from the ghastly used car commercial that sounds like it was written by angry zombies on a bad acid high.

I’ve heard this phenomenon described as an earworm. earwormI have no idea who first coined the phrase but it is very appropriate to my point. Sometimes my mental needle gets stuck and can’t move on (for those younger than I, that is a reference to ancient, black discs that magically play music when rotated clockwise and scratched by a needle on a stick). Such earworm annoyances can make a sorry mess of what might otherwise have been a nice day.

But maybe that recurring ditty from the horrible TV ad, vis a vis, idea-fly constantly buzzing around inside my head isn’t half bad. Even if it is a universal experience, I have to wonder whether it can somehow be redeemed, retooled from a shitty tune to some richer fare, something even…redemptive. Perhaps it’s possible to redirect such things and, in so doing, make for better internal music.

The Germans, not to be outdone, have a term, delightfully fun to say, referring to a short, constantly recurring musical phrase: the leitmotiv. It means literally, “leading motif” and is conceived as a guiding idea around which larger pieces of music revolve. This idea may be a short melodic phrase, harmonic statement or rhythmic figure that hides and flits about within a larger work. It morphs and changes according to musical or plot needs. Sometimes new ones are added, granting even more interest and mystery to the piece. Leitmotifs can help to bind a work together into a coherent whole, and also enable the composer to relate a story without the use of words, or to add an extra level to an already present story.

Think old movies. The piano accompaniment was used to enhance action, delineate one character from another, create atmosphere or just build a fun backdrop against which the characters could capably caper. Still closer to home, the Star Wars Theme continually reappears throughout an entire series of movies that, in its subtly changing demeanor, evokes equally subtle changes in characters, moods, settings, relationships.

Back to Fridays. I am coming, albeit slowly, to accept and even embrace these Sabbath earworms, these recurring dramas that play out in my overactive brain. Jesus said such cool stuff like “people were not made for the Sabbath but the Sabbath for people” (Rife Armchair Translation). This tells me a lot. It tells me a lot about Jesus and the kind of person he was and is. This is a statement primarily about grace. It is an indication of the kind of gift-giving God I seek to serve. The gift of Sabbath suggests that no amount of bad earworm ditties need steal what is always pure gift. To relax into guilt free nothingness is the best non-thing ever on a non-day to non-do.

sleep in hammockThese days, I love to try and fool these earworm triggers by writing long to-do lists, placing them on my lap during prayer and then crumpling them up while I go off to take a nap. Let ‘em come I say, these leitmotivs, since in God’s playground, they are diminished into earworms of grace. In a Spirit-borne rest, even distractions become holy. I might even find myself singing the nasty little buggers ‘cause, you know, if you can’t beat ‘em…

TGIF picture: www.runningcirclesaroundtheturtles.com

Earworm picture: www.blogs.davenportlibrary.com

Man in hammock: www.psypost.org

Shout Your Hosanna!

 A little late I suppose but still worthwhile I hope. This is a hymn text I wrote ten years ago for Palm Sunday.

 

Shout Your Hosanna!                                                                    

Music: Trad. Gaelic Melody (Morning Has Broken); Text: ©2003, Robert Alan Rife

Shout your Hosanna! Sing with elation!

Watch the Messiah humbly ride forth.

Loudly proclaiming, “Love rides victorious

into the city, Jesus is Lord”!

 

Shout your Hosanna! Jubilant voices!

Palms wave in blessing, enter the King.

Incarnate wonder, sits on a donkey,

let no one silence praises we sing.

 

Shout your Hosanna! Come, son of David!

Soon to be offered up for us all.

Power and glory, once were Your garment,

soon to be broken, Savior of all.

Restore

holding hands

Reaching from out to in, future through past for this tactile day.

Evading the magnetic north of separation,

still looking for merging places past submerging faces.

Tacit in self-flagellation, preferring the flesh of music,

origins reemerge and kiss what will be with lips of what was,

resuscitates love not so long lost but with luster removed.

Eternity wins out over the bully of time and

restores to earth what belongs to heaven.

Picture: www.justapieceofcraps.blogspot.com

Parking Lot Poems IV

hamburger and fries

Picture: www.thescarydiseasecancer.blogspot.com

Food Value

Such fine dietary fare,

this hamburger and fries.

If not for the milk,

‘twould be better

to eat a

cardboard

box.

* * *

Hoover

The vacuum cleaner clatters,

it’s rumbling roar outdone

by clinks, clanks and clunks

of somebody’s

favorite

silver

chain.

* * *

Territory

Who’d have thought this little dog

had so much shit inside?!

We’ve only been gone

for half an hour

and he’s dropped

a load

thrice.

* * *

Nowhere Kids

Some kids seem born to suffer

the fate of rejection.

Their peers, a mean lot,

off’ring thoughtless acts,

of cruelty-

their best

gift.

* * *

Locker Politics

He leans against her locker

and smells her golden hair.

He tries to impress

but gets instead

a shoulder,

cold and

hard.

imgres

Picture: www.that1guy19.blogspot.com

Theophany, Poetry and Specialization

Theophany+in+Russia

I recently shared a guest post on robslitbits, my literary site, which outlines the place of the poet in society. It was by Kate Harris, writing for a favorite blog site of mine, Art House America. Since the subject can be approached from a host of directions and focus in as many ways as one can conceive, I wanted to do the same here on innerwoven. This is a guest post by another Kate (Katy in this case) culled from another favorite blog site, The Grunewald Guild.

Beauty changes the world more thoroughly, more quickly and more meaningfully than anything else. To that end, I share this little essay. I hope it worked in you like it did me.

In name of the Logos…the First Word, R

 

“The Poet”

This piece by Kate Harris comes from a favorite blog of mine, Art House America, and is just too rich not to share here in my own little creative corner of the cyber world. I hope you glean as much from it as I did…and will for some time to come.

Bono

“Not simply because it reminds me of those happy, familiar sparks of gladness in my own heart, but more because it reminds me that the job of the poet — of the artist — while weighty and significant on a grand scale, is really first and foremost a work of invitation. The poet is one who toils and works and feels and sorts through all manner of things seen and unseen and then welcomes others in, beckons them, calls to them, “Come and see what I can see!”

 

     This invitation echoes a greater invitation by the first of all creators who begs us to see as He sees, to love as He loves. The poet, the artist-prophet, mirrors Him as closely as anyone — seeking to see rightly and truthfully, to give proper expression to that vision, and finally to invite others in to those experiences such that they might be changed. It is a worthy endeavor….The poet is one who gives us new eyes to see, who helps us make sense of what we experience, and who invites others to see more deeply into what it is that their experiences mean.

In the delight and joy of those who ever strive to see and tell, R

 

Photo: Steve Garber

Parking Lot Poems III

Gorgeous

She’s always been a princess-

Daddy’s girl to diva.

Now she’s just lonely.

She’s gorgeous

and knows it.

Gorgeous?

Sad.

* * *

Compulsion

He lives downtown in squalor,

sharing a space with mice.

Through tequila haze

he finds his way,

but can’t find

his own

soul.

* * *

First night

Mere hours after their promise

he fumbles with her dress.

He finds instead

the inside

of her

heart.

* * *

first time parents

First cry

It had been twenty-two hours

and still nothing to show

but pain, sweat and…pain.

Four hours later,

forever,

their lives

changed.

* * *

Redundant

He’d worked there for fifteen years

and never a sick day.

Sitting in his car,

this was a day

he’d rather

forget.

Soon.

Parking Lot Poems II

imgres

Gangsta

The parking lot skateboard kings

scatter like scared pigeons

when the cops return

to apprehend

the loud and

fickle

horde.

* * *

Queen of Hearts

She’s dressed far too well for here,

this queen of hearts mall-rat.

She’s most visible

by the food court.

She’s banking

on that

fact.

* * *

Husband Shoppers

Husbands, out grocery shopping,

make piss poor companions.

If you want to have

a better time,

just go there

with your

friends.

* * *

15 Items Only

It’s okay, they’ll understand.

I’ve got twenty-two things,

but it’s all small stuff.

Please, be patient,

I’m with my

squirrely

kids.

* * *

Customer Service

Shit, this place is humungous!

Is there a chance I’ll find

the four small items

I came to buy,

let alone

some help

here?

Photo from www.phlmetropolis.com

Parking Lot Poems

imgres

 

View from the Security Window

Upstairs, two teenagers gawk:

“Hey dude, come look at this.

Check the rack on her.”

They’re on their break,

and bored of

doing

work.

* * *

Compensating

I think he’s compensating

with that bad-ass truck.

But on the front seat?

His little friend,

a tiny

poodle

dog.

* * *

4-Way Stop

4-way stops have politics:

Speed up to get there first.

Get there together?

Then wave him on,

(unless you’re

in a

rush.)

* * *

Fast Food

Food sociology says:

Poor people eat poorly.

Rich people eat well.

Thin people eat.

Fat people

sometimes

starve.

* * *

Cell Phone Rape

Loud, self-important talkers:

do us all a favor –

toss your fucking phones

in the toilet.

We don’t need

to hear

you.

Photo from www.fdbusiness.com

 

Creatively reversing a stalemate

couple fighting

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The car door slams and with it…silence –

the deafening stillness of conversation’s end.

Tied as two instead of one from two.

 

It is the beginning of that stalemate

of back to back in unrumpled sheets.

She undresses in the bathroom.

 

Grunts, where words used to be.

Words, where dialogue used to be.

Stares where seeing used to be.

 

The carpets vacuumed a little too quickly,

the dishes stacked a little too loudly,

the radio blaring a little too obviously.

 

Four days later the icy surface cracks.

In the kitchen, his back against the wall,

with devilish grin, he loudly farts.

 

They’re laughing still.

They made love tonight.

Twice.