In the Studio

A few months ago, a fellow parishioner and I had a chance to have a quick jam session one night after a meeting at Second Baptist—me on the grand and him in on the drums. The experience was exhilarating; Sitting down with another person musically that could follow my lead so well was something new for me. I hadn’t played music with a drummer in a good while let alone someone with as much skill as Richard Savercool.

He had mentioned to me—after our session—that he would like to do some recording. I brushed it off, and didn’t pay much attention to him. As I carried on into the days following, I soon realized the offer that had been presented to me. I tracked down Richard’s number, and called him immediately.

I found myself headed to a small town—north of the Houston metropolitan area—called Paton Village. It’s probably one of the smaller communities I’ve seen since living in Texas. A quick turn off the freeway and down a tree canopy covered road, I landed at Richards’s house.

We began brain storming about the music that I have been writing for the past four years: talking about beats and pads. After letting him hear some of the recordings I had already done myself, we were certain that where we needed to start was at the beginning of everything with the song I first fell in love with: “Flamingo Fandango”. What I have always favored most about the song is that it was a strong narrative, lyrically and musically.

Over the course of a lunar cycle we invested about 24 hours into the song, meeting once a week. I really had no idea where I wanted it to go; while we were doing the first couple of takes of the song, I was interpreting “Flamingo” in the same fashion that I had when I recorded it back in 2007 and I featured it as the opening number of Constellation BluePrint. The issue was that the song had evolved since then.

More than a year ago, I played a set at an open mic. I played “Flamingo” that night, and it fell apart on me somewhere between my head, hands, piano, and my nerves. Since then there was resentment left: a bad taste in my mouth. Soon after, the song became novel and no longer relevant.

I believed that the song had true value: It was one of the first God given inspirations I had. Because of that, I knew that it HAD to be on what Richard and I would be doing, but the phrasing had changed a lot since BluePrint; It wasn’t the solo piano opener that it was designed to be anymore.

I can recall sometime last year: I was setting up my equipment to do a session, and I was approached—within my writing—by “Flamingo”. Though the words verbatim escape me, it and I were in conversation.

I was sitting in a room a lot like the judges at an American Idol audition would. The song walked in, and I knew who it was immediately. It had become more masculine since our falling out; it molted its pink feathers to show its newly found sun burnt skin, but there was still the ominous red glow that had always been. It presented itself—and its growth— but I paid no mind to what had happened to it in the time that it and I separated.

So, there I was on the first night of recording with Richard, and I was struggling to make anything happen. I was summoning the song, but it turned a cold shoulder to me. Richard was steadily giving me encouragement that we had no deadline to make the song come out.

I was starting to get pretty upset with myself that—I wasn’t able to perform on demand: this has always been one of my biggest fears about recording in a studio. Richard and I were taking a break. I remember staring into the corner of the studio where I could a cob web in motion; I saw how the light was reflecting off of it and the shadow that was cast. I started playing the song again. Richard spoke up saying, “Wait, what you are doing? That’s different!?!”

I saw what I was doing: I was trying to make the song something that it no longer was. During the recording of “Flamingo”, I learned an important lesson about evolution and expectations (something I thought I learned years ago). After that the project took off.

Richard had a lot of ideas to bring to the table; Things that initially I thought were going to be a bad move ended up being the best. It’s amazing working with someone else on something that you’ve put so much effort into; there is a certain amount of bending and stretching you have to do as the artist whenever you’re working with a producer. I’m really excited about being in good company with someone who’s excited as well about making this record, and wants the best for the music while still taking into consideration my personal artistic vision as creator.

I got a call earlier this week from Richard telling me that he’s done mastering the song. I’ve been riding around in my car listening to the rough version: tons of layers and unbalanced tracks. This coming Tuesday Richard and I are getting together to hear the song together, and discuss the next track we’re recording. It’s only the beginning of the album, and I’m in full anticipation to see the outcome!

The song is relevant to me again. Its evolution has been one consistent with the restoration that the Father has begun in my life. That is something that I am most thankful for. It only further confirms that the work was a gift to begin with. I’m bound to it again in the same way that I was with the song back in the days of BluePrint.

I think next we’ll have a little white cherry~

Vole’ T


Milk Carton Mother

It was raining that day; the morning sky was dressed in the overcast of a storm falling from the sky. On the third snooze after the initial alarm she decided to get out of bed. It wasn’t a day that she was looking forward to.

She sat at the table like she did every morning before work with a typical breakfast: toast, jam, coffee, and milk. The milk carton sat across from her; She stared at it barley moving in her robe. A tear rolled down her cheek.

After the hustle of stormy morning traffic, she made it to her cubical early. She sat at her desk, scanning news reports from her computer in a daze. Her eyes meet the calendar pined to the partition. the 20th was circled in red pen. While staring, the daze caught up with her as it soon became a haunted memory.

Through the pathways in her mind she started to trace her steps back to where she was on this day a year ago. It was raining that day too. She got the call around dawn. It was a gruff and scratchy voice, “We think we’ve found her...” Her heart fell to stomach.

She was brought back from her thoughts when her phone rang. Wiping away her tears she answered it on the third ring. “Harris County Sheriff’s Department...” she wiped away her tears, and started her day. The voice on the phone was the same that she heard that morning a year ago.

“Rebecca?!? I told you to stay home today! What the Hell are you doing at work?” the voice spoke.

“I know David, but I have a lot to do this morning, and I wanted to at least get in half a day.”

“I can hear it in you voice Beck, You’re a wreck!”

She replied quickly to stop the conversation, “I’m forwarding my calls to voicemail, and I’m not going to the briefing this morning. I just need to get a few things done.”

“You’re as stubborn as the day is long, girl. Go Home--Get some rest!”

“Goodbye David.” she said as she hung up the phone.

She laid her head down on the desk, and again she started to think about that day a year ago.

She was still in bed when she answered the phone, “What are you talking about David?” she question him in a delirious state.

“It’s a mass grave,” he said, “about twenty kids spread out over about 300 feet.” he said coldly.

She paused, and with a trembled voice she whispered to herself, “... Bailey?”

“You should get down here--Tucket’s Pasture is where it is. I’ll be waiting for you.” David hung up the phone.

She pulled into a muddy dirt road in a panic hoping not to find what she would. Red and blue lights flashed from the police cars lining the entrance to the property. She was flagged down by an officer who asked for her ID. She showed her badge, and parked her car.

It was a blur. She saw a cadaver dressed in her daughter’s clothes that she was reported wearing three months ago when she went missing. Rebecca fell to her knees.

She lifted her head from the memory, staring at the calendar with the red circled 20th.

It was lunch time, and David walked in behind her. He stood and watched as she stayed glued to her monitor typing reports. “You should let me take you out to lunch,” he said.

“I’m not very hungry.” she replied.

“It’s an order.”

They were sitting under the over hang of a cafe’. Not much was being said over the salad and soup they were having. David lit a cigarette, and broke the silence after the waiter came and took their plates.. As the rain was clearing leaving a the blue of a mid day overcast he said, “You should talk about it.”

She sat there staring at her coffee. She started to speak:

“How old are you boys David?”

“18 and 20,” he answered.

“She would have been 9 this year,” she paused and looked up at him. “Your boys have a lot ahead of them: graduating from college, marriage, and grandchildren if you’re lucky,” she laughed.

“Bailey was 8 years old. She could have been anything she wanted to be. She could have been anything that I could force her to be for that matter. Our children are our legacy: the part of us that we leave behind.” She paused.

“She could have been anything,” she said staring off into the distance.
“Whatever it was: fate, destiny, God’s plan... Bailey is nothing now. Her legacy has been made, and it stares across the table from me every morning on the side of the milk carton. We found her a year ago, and they’re still printing it. Your kids are going to go on and be great men, but my baby will forever be that kid on the side of the milk carton.”

Love Wins: Rob Bell and True Irony

The following is a summarized quote from the trailer of Rob Bell’s new book Love Wins.

“Several years ago we had an art show at our church… there was one piece that had a quote from Gandhi in it… …Somewhere in the course of the art show somebody had attached a hand written note… they had written, ‘reality check, he’s in Hell’… …He’s in Hell? And someone knows this for sure? And felt the need to let the rest of us know?...”

Though roughly summarized, one could get the point of where Bell is going with this. Since the release of the book, the Christian community has been in an uproar over what the mega church pastor is saying: justifiably enough, However, I’m not here to voice my opinion on whether Bell is a Universalist or if what he’s saying is correct.

Let me take you back to a few months ago before the world knew about Love Wins.

I began attending a class at a church that I regularly do not attend. On the wall of the class room I was in hung a poster of Jesus’ “so called” Facebook page—as if it were something real. Along the many categories, quotes, groups, and comments was Jesus’ friend list. It contained some of the more notable names within the Christian faith: C.S. Lewis, King David, David Crowder, and YOU! Among these names was Rob Bell—third on the list.

I attended this class throughout the time of about nine months. It was during this time that the rise of Bell’s new book came about. One evening I entered the room as usual; perhaps I was getting coffee when I noticed that the poster had been altered.

In the same fashion that Gandhi has been banished to hell, so had Bell. There was an “X” over his picture with a blunt two word statement: “Not Anymore”

Rob Bell isn’t Jesus’ friend anymore? And someone knows this for sure? And felt the need to let the rest of us know?

For the first time in my life I have witnessed true irony.

closing the monolith

It's been a long seven months.
My prayer is that I continue to move forward.
When the book began, I saw that the monolith was upon me.
It drastically changes man kind when the monolith appears.
I prayed for change;
God brought the monolith.
I crossed a thresh hold;
I'm on the other side now.

"The Monolith" ending pg.
**Note that what is read here has be edited and revised from the original manuscript by the author.

Osama bin Laden: Dead or Alive?

So it seems we’ve found the guy: the infamous villain of the American 21st century. Last night after finding out the news, I was brought to a strange solacing emotion: a familiar place that plagued me some ten years ago whenever I was in the eighth grade and first heard that the towers had gone down.
I wonder how the American community is going to respond to this as a whole—let alone the response from the divided political parties. Soon there will be talk of “the end of the war.” Everything within the past ten years has somehow been affected by that one day in September, and for the first time--in a long time--some sort of resolution has come about.
Or has it?
Almost every news report out there is talking about what has happened within the past evening, and almost every American is quick to believe that which is being said. I’m interested in seeing how the conspiracy theorist will approach this situation. A Karachi-based GEO television network out of Pakistan and Bloomberg has already begun making claims that bin Laden is still alive.
I find it odd that bin Laden is dead only DAYS after the highly debated birth certificate is revealed to the media.
I find it odd that the picture of the bin Laden’s cadaver had to be edited to be released to the masses.
I find it odd that the body was given an immediate burial by sea.
Not to mention the countless reports of bin Laden’s connection with the Bush family, and the many discrepancies found within the 9/11 report.
I’m not trying to persuade a reader to believe one side or the other, but I am saying that there is another side to this ten year long epic we as Americans have journeyed on. As humans we lie to each other every day for many different reasons. I ask each citizen to be more discerning—if not, as much as possible—during this next year.
Do not believe everything the “talking box” in your living room is saying. The revolution is NOT on your television.
Pakistan Taliban Says Bin Laden Is Still Alive, Geo Says- http://www.bloomberg.com/news/2011-05-02/pakistan-taliban-says-bin-laden-is-still-alive-geo-says-1-.html

Express 1MX


About a year ago my boss approached me about my work attire: jeans and an embroidered polo. She was concerned about how “professional” I did NOT look, and requested that I find new uniforms.

Shopping for clothes is something I don’t regularly participate in. Usually if I find what I like, I stick with it--until my body shape begins to rejects it. I remember being pretty concerned whenever I was asked to wear a button down shirt and a black pants—not my cup of tea. Being slim I worried if I would be able to find shirts with the proper cut that would fit my form, but find them I did.

Express 1MX shirts

This shirt is a fine garment cut to fit the build a modern day millennial; it seems that Express has the monopoly on solids color shirts like this. In my search I have found no other shirt to fit me better than a 1MX, but there is a horrible down fall.

“Dressedlikethis” is a commenter on Express’ website; he spoke correctly when on 2.15.11 he recognized the shirts calling them “Colorful short term shirts:”

“…the darker colored shirts fade drastically after one dry cleaning so tell your cleaner to be gentle. Machine washing doesn't fade the shirt as fast but will leave it with a textured look--as opposed to a crisp look it starts out with.”

He’s right. I started wearing the shirts everyday as part of my regular uniform. Over time, however, I found that they began to become worn. The shirts do not hold up for any extended amount of wear.

The problem here is not the fact that the clothes don’t hold up; it lies within the fact that the shirt priced very expensively: running about $60 a shirt. You can buy two and get one half off averaging the shirts at $40 apiece.

The price does not match the quality. The shame is that, like I said earlier, there is not legitimate competitor to provide me with either the same quality shirt with a better price or better quality shirt for the same price.

Houston to Austin: MS150

This coming April I will be participating in the MS150. It's a bike ride from Houston all the way to Austin. All the proceeds will support the National MS Society. Because I'll be riding I've been asked to reach a goal of $1000. I need all the help I can get, so if you're in the giving spirit PLEASE follow the link below or click the link in the side bar to donate on my behalf.

Thanks for the support.
Terrell!

http://main.nationalmssociety.org/goto/terrellbrinlee

A Piscean Transcendence Through the Martian Battle Front

Still in love with the profound truths of “Flamingo Fandango,” “Out of Aquarius,” and, my beloved, “Of Circles” I was yearning to continue my plight as a songwriter. Personally I never take this well, especially after coming off of such a great episode of my writing that was: “Constellation BluePrint.”

I was working at a fabrication yard in South Louisiana, and making my first attempts to fulfill the pledge I made during the writing of BluePrint. It was an environment of Men; I knew only few people, so as a self loathing homosexual, insecure in himself, and had recently obtained sobriety from mild drugs needless to say I was an emotional wreck. I found, however, that in such a wreckage is where one truly finds Jehovah.

It had been a few months more or less of a year that I had completed BluePrint, and I wanted to continue writing. I needed the emotional and expressive release that is the creative process due to my situation, but I was finding it hard to obtain because I had two dilemmas: “How does one properly and expansively follow BluePrint” and my dear ol’ friend writer’s block was spending the night--indefinitely.

As I often describe it, “Constellation BluePrint” was a complex conversation between God and I about many thing: the fate of my music and His involvement in my writing, the questionability of the validity of His son Jesus Christ, the ideology of apocalyptic myth, and--most notably--my almost compulsive decision to separate myself from the Gay culture and said lifestyle.

The bulk of this communication can be found in the musical suite “DreamCast & SolarFlare.” On a night that I was beautifully inebriated, God seemed to step in with a ten minute flood of improvised inspiration. I had no intention of this piece becoming anything more than what it was, however, I soon found that what I thought was a musical interlude, was actually part of a much larger structure. It was then that I entered the atmosphere of the song “Ode to MARS” or “Mars,” and began to write the next chapter of my anthology protractively titled, “A Piscean Transcendence Through the Martian Battle Front.”

Soon after that, the map that was “Constellation BluePrint” led me to find many of the other songs--planets as I came to call them--that were orbiting in the same solar system in which I was currently residing. In the depression of my uncomfortable work environment I would often find myself in a garb of safety glasses, ear plugs, and multiple layers of work clothes drilling holes in metal, tacking off hand rails, and grinding away the slag of freshly cut hot steal. The songs would play over and over in my head, being the only release I had during the lesson of endurance that my Creator was teaching me.

In early 2009 and In the middle of this writing, I moved to Texas. With a change of scenery and new outlook on my life, I began to be released from the depression that had set in. The songs I had written did not seem to reflect my current situation on the opposite end of a dismal existence; I felt separated from the music. After the “new” had worn off, however, I discovered what lied along the outer circumference of the planetary system: songs like “Cadence” and “Where I’ve Been.”

Finding the last fragments of the complete work meant that the refinement process would inevitably follow. I stayed in refinement for roughly over a year. This was difficult because--unlike BluePrint--These songs would not find themselves in such a stagnant recorded state, despite my effort to lay them down. The songs that did find themselves recorded were rough interpretations that were logged long before the refinement: flimsy intonation, jumbled melodies, and clipped layering. I never quite became confident in what was made, and I lost motivation.

This past December, as the war and turmoil of what seemed to be a failed work died down, I ended “A Piscean Transcendence Through the Martian Battle Front,” and closed the most dramatic era of my writings to date. It was then that I longed for writing again.

I can confidently say on this night, that, despite my uncertainty, I have come into the next phase of my writings, and with that said, I feel as though it is only right that I submit to the reader the music that was recorded. It is a proper closing and the only testament to the work. In hindsight It has become clear that this ending was not just the end of a chapter, but also to an even much larger work: an epilog, if you will, bringing a complete conversation full circle.

I’m thankful to the Father and Christ for for this lingering long awaited conclusion, and allowing such a work to be presented to the masses.

"Constellation BluePrint" and "A Piscean Transcendence Through the Martian Battle Front" are available DownloadFREE. Click the cover art along the side of the page or within the blog for further information.

**All songs available through "This Intangebel Exsistance" and www.Purevolume.com/terrellbrinlee are all written recorded by Terrell Brinlee, other than "9/11 tribute"

So It Ends -- So It Begins

No words have come since the first harvest of this first season out of the wet lands.

I'm in downtown Houston, in the first coffee shop I could find. Mark is running a half marathon and I'm his support.

I walked around this city for the better part of the last hour looking for a place to get a coffee. I've landed at what seems to be a chain coffee shop. The sun is beginning to show it's face.

I feel like it's safe to say that I have stumbled upon a new phase of writing. No clue do I have regarding what his is about, but I've discovered two main themes: My inner self & Squares. There's not too much to be said really in regards to either of these, but the fact that I have two conceptional and--what I believe to be--three melodic leads is comforting and encouraging.

I am without my device this morning. What a dependency I have formed on H.A.L. 2oi0. Anxious I was to think that no one could contact me, that I couldn't contact them, I couldn't take a picture, hear music, check the map, or balance my check book.

The first runners are passing me by about a block west of me. I should leave here to get back to Mark's Jeep to meet him back with his recovery bag.

A beautiful morning its has been: And to think I almost overslept and missed all of this.

There is something profoundly masculine about running--
There is something profoundly masculine about taking care of your body--
There is something profoundly masculine about being shirtless--

I'm ready to fully begin this journey into masculinity.

"The Monolith" pg. 74
**Note that what is read here has be edited and revised from the original manuscript by the author.

Conversations: Elaina Ballew & the effects of science

A few weeks ago I had begun collecting data for an essay that I was to bring together; it was to be on the effects that science & technology have on the human race. As I was reaching out for testimonials from friends and family, I had the opportunity to talk to Elaina Ballew—a vlogger on the YouTube channel Elaina43. The conversation that she and I had was so amazing that by the time we were finished I felt as though there was really nothing more that I could say or add to the information that was collected. The following is a transcript of our shared words:

Elaina Ballew Big breakthroughs in science are rare; but small advances have a huge impact on our lives. I find few things more inspirational than images from the Hubble Telescope. And few things irk me more than a theist lambasting science through a microphone and web cam illuminated by halogens talking aabout a DVD they saw on their HD television while texting with friends and fans on twitter claiming that technology is "something different" from science. Science is hope; hope that we can feed the world, get clean water to every community on Earth, breach the ideological gulfs that separate and alienate us from one another. By recognizing reality, contemplating its wonder and mysteries, we have at our fingertips evidence to unite us all.

Terrell Brinlee How would you respond to the idea that because of technology and science the human race has been allowed to gain much larger number of population, and seeing how hunger and poverty have always existed since biblical times, science and technology have at least had little-to-no effect on breaching these gulfs you speak of--and quite possibly brought the human race to an even more unstable state of existence than before?

Elaina Ballew I would say that religious dogma is what keeps a lot of the world in poverty and ignorance - the prohibition of birth control being quite possibly the number one contributor to both. Education and the empowerment of women are key factors in leading populations out of poverty - even in the "developed world."

Elaina Ballew Re: an unstable state - I agree that nuclear proliferation is a terrible thing - but consider the mind set of populations currently threatening other countries or populations with annihilation: are political concerns or religious fundamentalism paramount?

Terrell Brinlee You mention science being hope; how do you think it's possible for science--as hope--to rise above the adversity that politics and religion present? What will it take for science to reveal or "resurrect" its self as that hope?

Elaina Ballew Science as hope lies in education. I do not mean rote memorization of the multiplication or periodic tables; school should teach people how to learn, how to reason, HOW (not what) to think. Science classes should start by explaining what a falsifiable claim is and what constitutes scientific evidence - how it is different from anecdotal evidence. More people should know what the word "theory" means in scientific terms. Science, as in our understanding of the natural world - including ourselves, is the only way we can understand more about the world we share and that is the only way we can find common ground in competing and contradictory points of view. Science must be understood as a process not a static stance - we can be wrong, discover that we are wrong, learn what led us in the wrong direction, and thus change and improve our understanding of reality. What dogma will allow for this flexibility and growth?

Terrell Brinlee I think with your question you have landed in the heart of what my thesis is. For thousands of years, we as a human race have found ourselves using religion/dogma to completely define how we understand life, not just from a mechanical standpoint, but our complete world view. Now rather than the mysticism of religion, we're moving into a firmer take on life: a "show me the facts" mentality. Regardless of the information and source, the human race is approaching a new understanding of life, and accepting the views of the scientist in the same way that one would refer to their religious leader. There is a paradigm switch among us and the human race refuses to recognize something that I think you have already. I think that's what I'm trying to convey.

Elaina Ballew I have one quibble with what you wrote. Re: "...accepting the views of the scientist in the same way that one would refer to their religious leader" People should not / could not / would not place their trust in scientists in THE SAME WAY they do religious leaders because popular or revered religious leaders derive their authority from nothing that can be authenticated. Scientists must be accountable for their work in a way that religious persons could never be.

Terrell Brinlee I like how you say, "...we can be wrong, discover that we are wrong..." but I have to recall an article that I read on NPR** that stated that--in reference to the link between autism and vaccines; finding that one vaccine was not directly related to the disorder--"Still the suggestion the MMR shot was connected to autism spooked parents worldwide and immunization rates for measles, mumps, and rubella have never fully recovered." The people still believe that it's bad for you even though peer review has said otherwise.

I agree with what you say in regards to schools teaching humans "how" to think, but in the real world and the hustle and bustle of every day’s life no average American has the time or resources to complete the testing that is involved with discovering these things.

Americans are required to go to the scientist whose information CAN be wrong and misleading or led by a political agenda even. How do you respond?

Elaina Ballew The person speaking the loudest, spreading the most alarm, crying "DANGER! DANGER, WILL ROBINSON" tends to get the most attention. We, unfortunately, do not often listen to the calm, reasonable voices all around us. Americans, indeed people everywhere, have a responsibility to inform themselves - and that might mean more than watching a couple YouTube videos or reading one Wikipedia article. If in the hustle and bustle of everyday lives people listen to the wacko with the bullhorn and fail to immunize their children, the rest of us will suffer and we must do our best to address such willful ignorance and encourage others to correct their myopia - for our own sake if not for theirs! Imagine a driver endangering everyone around him for lack of a pair of glasses. How senseless! That person would be considered criminally negligent if they harmed anyone or anything - including themselves. What will the world do when polio is once again the threat it was? How stupid will we all feel? I am not saying that one person can fix everything - but people like you give me hope. You are addressing tough questions and putting yourself out there - listening to others and doing research. If more people were like you, I'd have even more hope for us all.


If you would like to see more of Elaina, I encourage you all to go check out her channel: www.youtube.com/elaina43.

**The article quoted can be found at the following link: http://www.npr.org/2011/01/05/132692497/journal-study-linking-vaccine-to-autism-was-fraud?sc=tw

Vole’ TBottom of Form

Like This

I starred at you from across the room,
and in my mind I made that place our home.
In just three days it had made this be love,
As you wrote your goodbye on the back of a canvas.
You told me to look into the broken canopy of the sky,
But for the first time I said I cared and I lied.
The door opened on your body, against it I pressed the weight of mine;
Then came a fulfillment, and slowed became time.
I rolled in your linens for the better part of the night,
With my arms wrapped around you and your lips pressed to mine.
In this embrace I found that we had stopped time.
The memory’s more vague now: more than yesterday.
In my heart you were just for one night.
Now grief has settled in from where you pulled your knife.
Away from my walk of life I was, in your delight.
There is a pain that sets in because I can’t have you.
But if again I ever do taste your kiss,
Or the hair on your face
Scratches my lips
In our embrace the song would play out like this,
And I would hold you for longer.
I would hold you like this.

Waters So Deep To A City Made of Stone

This past summer I dove into the recording project called “A City Made of Stone.” I published it in three different parts as I felt that I had accumulated enough material to be considered a “release.” Each publication consisted of the numerous sessions and live recordings I embarked upon while writing the chronicle of the same title. Many of the works recorded here had not be recorded before, however some of the material had been laid down previously. They acted as the soundtrack of that specific time in my life. Looking back on this, I’m filled with mixed emotions of the work.

It was a rocky place in my artistic experience. I came to a placed in my musicianship where my inspirations had become stagnant, and it seemed that my writing was taking a halt. Up until this summer I had only seen myself as a musician, and disregarded any extracurricular artistic experience as side work of the musical material that I was writing at the time. However, I hadn’t written any music, and by the time I came to the end of “A City Made of Stone” there was no new musical material to be accounted for other than the expounding and refinement of the current phase of writing I had been in since late 2008.

As a song-writer approaching your eighth year something like this shoots up a red flag and the sirens begin to go off. I became desperate for inspiration, but that is something that is not easily obtained.

Then, as if to save myself, I turned from my musicianship and began to look at the whole picture of what I had been writing over the past eight years. In order to do this, I had to see myself as artist and not musician alone; musicianship is only a facet of artistry. This is where I find myself today.

Through prayer and conversations with the Father, I have come to find that I’m being led into the more tangible arts. This has always been something that has scared me because I’ve never been quite good with the pencil or brush. As a musician, colors are a more abstract thought process that blend easier than they would ever on paper.

In November I was asked by a friend of mine if I could create a piece for him. I told him that I was no painter, but I had had a lot of experience in paper murals and collages; I showed him some previous work I had done for another person, and he thought it would be a good idea. The project I made for him--which was called “The Monarch”-- became an awesome introduction of the tangible arts for me. I felt within my mind the same creative processes occurring that would whenever I would write music. The only difference to this was that the creation was concrete, so if you did something wrong there was no starting over.

I have also come to find one other difference in the this new art is that there is no evolution. In song-writing when a song is originally composed there is the opportunity of it becoming something else later. Songs are more fluid and viscous rather than hard and tactile.

With this new paradigm change a door of inspiration, challenge, and adventure has been opened up to me by the grace of my Father. It’s an interesting new place I find myself in. Before my medium was the piano and whatever means of recording I was using; now I see a whole new spectrum of paint, plaster, paper, and pastels--a growing favorite.

Looking back on my past, I see the world of music that I was in for some eight years. I spun many circles and wrote many a hook. My life was music for so long, and I intended it to be that solely for the rest of my life. Now everything is unexpectedly different, and I’m excited to see what I am to experience down the road.

I’ve opened this new phase of understanding with masks made of plaster. Though I do not understand this project completely--and probably won’t until toward the end or after completion--I’m beginning to see the relationship between this art and the music. I’m happy to see that they are getting along nicely. My hope is that in the future the creation that is materialized will turn around music in the same fashion that the music has inspired the tangible thus far, however I fear that putting expectation in the water will hinder the artistic process. I guess I’ll just have to wait and see :)

To close, I would like to announce the publishing of the last installment of “A City Made of Stone” subtitled “From the Hive.” The songs here are more concentrated studies of concepts that were featured on my YouTube channel during the time that “A City Made of Stone” was being created and released. The tracks are very short--under a minute--and they remind me of things that you would find on the B-side of a single released in the mainstream: hints the name. I’ve put the songs up for downloadFree in celebration of my new artistic drive and the end result of a project that I’ve come to be very satisfied with. I hope it is enjoyed.

vole’ t

It Should Be Said...

I have taken a different perspective with "this intangible existence." Initially when I began to blog here, it was to be a digital record of the previously hand written works of mine. Now I'm seeing that this is a place for a more concrete creative process. From time to time I'm sure I'll continue to post my personal writings, but I feel this space is going into place of more organized thought than originally intended.

vole 't

Alma Mater; Praise to Thee

Tonight, Patterson High School will be participating in the Louisiana state finals of football. In most cases while one is looking at their alma mater’s success they should feel a sense of pride and secondary victory: knowing that the game’s possible winning outcome could shower victory over your homeland, or it’s losing could still give you something worth talking about at the water cooler on Monday morning when you return to work.

While browsing a very popular social media site today, I continually saw on the news feed post after post of “Go Jacks!” or “Who Dat” from the natives of my home land. It made me ill to see that, yet again, the athletics department of PHS was attracting such a mass of people. With a purpose to shock and to get a little rise on the feed I posted the following:

“I hope the Lumberjacks lose tonight... that’s right... I said it.”

I admit that mostly in jest this comment was made, but it wasn’t until after responses were applied to my message of doom that I found that it really upset people. Things along the lines of “those boys worked really hard” and “you shouldn’t say things like that” followed my words. It was then that I actually began to understand my motives and was brought to my reasoning.

Friday night football games still to this day are the place of high school social interaction, and a source of entertainment among “civilians” that live in the local communities. They are an American tradition that will not be tampered with or objected to, however looking back on my high school experience I can only recall fowl memories of these events.

I was an budding artist back in those days. Unable to be rejected by my peers, I struggled to find my place among the Friday night lights. I was not an athlete, but I was quite good at making a fool of myself; being the mascot was an appropriate place for me to call my territory. I was the jester among the warriors, maids in waiting, and--the least of these--the minstrels. In my freshman year of high school I got to experience, along the sidelines the soldiers, what it is to make it to the super dome and then experience failure. It was a sad thing when we lost. The community disbanded from that moment in time and we moved on.


Two years later I was upstaged by a more deserving idiot, and I found myself ripped from my large plastic head: banished to south side of the bleachers among the minstrels. Although it was a place where not much respect was given for our musical talent unless we were playing the anthems and war cries of our people, I found, as a musician, it was where I was most accepted and appreciated. 


It was there, among the cymbals and drums, that I began to see a certain unfairness within our educational institution. Within the following years of my high school career it became more clear who was ranked the lowest in value among each sector of the Friday night tradition. When the distance of the battles became great the musicians were not allotted the funds to participate within the event.


To further display our place among the athletes, we would practice our half time routines on the baseball field. This required applying lines to mock the 100 yards that was a football field. During the fall was when marching band was in session and baseball was not. There were many times when we were not permitted to use the field because the head baseball coach thought that it would be damaging to the land: leading to the musicians being inadequately prepared to perform.

I spoke to Chris Costa--an alumni of Patterson High School who graduated at the top of his class, about the effects of an over aggressive athletics department and he had this to say:

“I feel that in any school that allows extracurricular activity to take prominence over it’s students academic success is already crossing the line into a dangerously lacking educational experience. The effect is severely magnified in schools representing small towns or communities because now the citizens, in their over-zealous support of said activities, are actually encouraging the school systems to allocate both attention and funds unevenly.”

But the problem doesn’t just run within the financial and political realms of the high school culture. Being an athlete makes you somewhat of a celebrity, says Francheska Rebardi, a graduate of PHS in the class of 2006. She supports the athletics department by saying, “I believe that PHS’s athletic department gave hope of a future in sports to those talented athletes in such a small community.” And there is a real idea of hope; Patterson, Louisiana has spun off many very successful athletes, some of which made it to play the game professionally.

However, with such a dream ahead of you, one can put themselves in a place of egoism, not to mention that place of celebrity that their peers allow them to be in. Chase Broussard of the graduating class of ’08 quite often found himself victim of this. “Growing up around athletes and an athletically encouraged community, especially as a homosexual male not even mildly interested in sports or taking part in male rituals, was at best awkward,” he says:

“There is a certain quality of our culture that attributes success as a male being physically adept: something leftover in our DNA from the hunter/gatherer days. Being a boy who was introverted and interested in the arts, eccentric ideas, and NOT sports could be enough to get one labeled as a school shooter in the making in a high school setting.”

I must point out the obvious that the opinions expressed here are not that of the masses, but I believe that it is very important that we realize the effect of what our school spirit is doing and has done to our minorities within the educational institutions. Athletics have dominated and leeched from all areas within education.

From academics to the arts, sports will always prevail and bring in the most money for an institution; this is something that I have found to be a great injustice among our local communities and our American culture. With that said I will close with an obligatory tip of the hat to the young gentlemen playing on the field in New Orleans on this evening, but I will not condone the success of a department--or institution for that matter--that continues to deny the success to all areas of the human condition other than football.

The Gods That Failed

Spice-GirlsIt was the summer between my fourth and fifth grade year whenever my act of worship began. I thought I was listening to two boys and some girls singing a song about being someone’s lover. I passed it off because at the time I was still deep into one woman’s literary devices.

Like most people when discovering god, I knew where I was when I was first touched by their graces. “I’m giving you everything, all that joy can bring, this I swear. And all that I want from you is a promise you will be there.” It was an alter call to begin all alter calls; I responded.

My contribution to their gospel was small at first, but over time snowballed from one cassette single to the album, cassette singles and CD singles, posters and dolls, and of course the movie. I identified myself through them; I became their representative and part of the church of SPICE.

Just when the magic seemed to be at its peak the power of my god would soon be crucified. I was sitting in the back seat of my sister’s car coming up on the last bend before Highway 182 on Red Cypress Road when I heard the news that made me sink in my seat. We were listening to 104.1 when the radio was turned up and my sister got quiet. I felt like they were just waiting for me to respond when I heard the news that Geri had quit the group. She was not my favorite of the girls, but one of the girls none the less. My heart filled with sadness as I had to quickly come to terms with the fact that my god had died before my very ears. The light was warm on my neck that day in the setting sun.

My god had died, but what is the death of a god without a proper resurrection. In 2007 I had heard that they had returned. They were reclaiming the power and reign over the world that they once had, as though to fulfill a prophecy long since forgotten. I couldn’t have been happier. The most exciting thing about it was that there would be a world tour. I was a lowly grocery store clerk at the time, so realistically I knew that I could never afford to go see my gods in person, but I had the overwhelming hope and faith that they would fulfill my hope, and that hope was that there would be a recording of the show. It would be a testament to their return: proof that I was not a liar and that they would prevail in the end.

However, when it came to the end of it, like it did before, they failed me again. One would say that it doesn’t really matter or that they weren’t that good of a band to start with; that may be true, but It wasn’t about the music or the show, the dancers or the costumes; this was about my childhood. This was about the devotion, worship, adoration, gospel spreading effort, and girl power that I invested MY LIFE in. This is about the fact that I’m still hung up on the five girls from England that came into my life as a child and broke my heart so bad that I feel it necessary to write a blog about it over ten years later that barley anyone will care to read.

I don’t understand: it was a multi-million dollar concert that sold out everywhere it went. Why was it not even considered that there would be a DVD release? I don’t understand why they did not release the footage that was shot, or why they have continually lied about there not being any footage--even after it was leaked onto the web & Geri Halliwell spoke about it.

Good Job girls! You’ve left me hanging again.

Save KTRU

In March of 2009 I moved to Houston with the intentions of finding a better way of living. I’m from Morgan City, South Louisiana where there is not much more than fishing and oil to be found. I have always considered myself to be more of a liberal thinker and have strived to push the envelope while still holding onto my conservative values at my core. One thing that I found most fascinating about Houston was the radio. Two of my favorite channels in the Houston area are 88.7 KUHF and 91.7 KTRU.

Both station appeal to a wide variety of people who, in my opinion, all lean to more of the intellectual side. 88.7 is an excellent station; I enjoy classical music and I LOVE NPR, however KTRU holds a much more significant place in my heart.

As a musician I am always looking to fill my ears with new sound. KTRU is a new sound. On occasion I’ll enjoy the pop candy of 104.1, but top 40 music is nothing more than the product of an industry that is designed to be sold. 88.7 also hold some of those same values as a station. Like I said, I listen to classical music, but NEVER have I felt so compelled to go in search of a song or artist like I have when it comes to the music that is played on KTRU. This station has led me to find some of my favorite artist.

I drive customers who drop there vehicles off with us for repair to there house; so you can imagine how much I’m actually in the car during the working day. I can remember exactly where I was when I heard Joanna Newsome’s “Occident” and “Requiem for Dying Mothers” by Stars of the Lid. Theses songs have become a mark in the ticker tape of my life that I can reflect to; these artists have become some of my favorites to follow. I would have never been introduced to such fine musicianship if KTRU was not around.

Another moment that I love to recall is when I heard “Teen Angst” by M83. A friend from high school and I often exchange mix CDs to stay in touch with each other. I had only listened to the CD he sent me on this one occasion once through to get the general idea of it. The song I’m speaking of was the last track of the CD. I remember one day hearing the song on KTRU and freaking out because of how awesome it was. I emailed myself via my phone, like I usually do when I hear a good song on KTRU, so that I could go check the set list later in my free time to know what it was a download it later. I was pumped to find that it was the same song.

KTRU is a medium to showcase new and controversially unorthodox music into the Houston subcultures. Without KTRU there will be no place for this. The station envelopes and feeds youth culture and counter culture alike. When you take the food and the driving force behind these things you damage those cultures. I’m certain that I am not alone in my thinking or experience.

The music that KTRU offers is much more than any radio station on the airwaves at the moment; it would be an injustice to society to fill it’s spot with nothing more than another 88.7 KUHF.

I am very upset with idea of KTRU going off the air; I would hope that you would hear my words and that of other avid listeners, and reconsider what you plan to do with the station.

www.savektru.org


The WoodGrain Sessions

A wreath is commonly practiced Pagan ritual that still continues here; we are born Pagan: pagan is the natural state of the fallen man Even in this traditionally indoctrinated Christian land where we proudly display the symbols of our faith, every man has the wreath; every one does not question the wreath. They accept the traditions of our fallen fathers and press forward as if we weren't upon something. The Monolith is dark and impenetrable: some say is was a pyramid, and other say it was a tower; regardless of what is was God knocked it down.

Today is October 3rd, 2010

I'm sitting at my sisters house, at a very large piece of what they would call furniture. I've recently learned that she will be collected for soon; I wanted to come here, and ask her to sing with me. Together we will make this record: "The WoodGrain Sessions." This session has tons of potential. I'm excited about putting it down. Today at lunch, as I was talking about the wreath, among other things, to my friends, they told me to make a wreath. That's really what music is: gathering things along your journey and spinning them into circles; it's how you understand them: make them make sense. Oh, the things I see. Do others see them like me? Oh, this WoodGrain: that secret grain of the sea I have finally found. Finding Harvest once again. C minor is just my Victim; She used to be my friend. This is an overflow of words.

WoodGrain in the sea. Is this something I have found, or something that I have seen? Perhaps it is a place from my past where I once left seeds.

"The Monolith" pages: 009-010
**Note that what is read here has be edited and revised from the original manuscript by the author

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