Now that I am in college, I have been exposed to more popular music in the past few months than in the past few years. Some of it is decent, but one day, overhearing some played at a tailgate, a notion sprang into my head, which has become more entrenched over the past several months.
At the heart of most popular music (meaning rock, rap, metal, ect, and even jazz-though there are exceptions) is dispair.
It is a loud scream, a desperate attempt to suppress the feelings of panic, guilt, misery. A distraction from gnawing pain, an echo to hide the lonliness that is really there. Even at the height of its frantic noise, dispair is at its heart.
It is a distraction from suffering which even it cannot hide, for the agony can be sensed in the frenetic attempt to seem upbeat, in the screams that disguise a heart that wants to cry out wailing.
It is an attempt to fill the emptiness of one's soul.
Sunday, March 23, 2014
Tuesday, August 20, 2013
The Character of Houses
Some people believe that a car can tell a lot about the owner's personality, but I do not subscribe to this notion in general. A person's car is far more indicative, in my opinion, of how much they are willing to spend, or of their personal needs, than it is of their character, in general. But go to a person's house, and there, I believe, you will discover far more clues to their habits, personality, and character than any car could ever display.
I have seen cars worth sixty thousand dollars and more, gleaming brightly in front of hovels. The yards were strewn with junk and trash, weeds were prolific, and the house itself was in disrepair. Perhaps the paint was peeling noticeably, or the foundation was unlevel, but all contributed to an air of chaos.
I have seen other houses, whose owners were clearly poor, yet who could be seen to be industrious and proud of their homes. Though the roof might be missing shingles and the paint peeling badly everywhere, the yard was clean of all junk. Lawn tools and furniture were neatly, tastefully arranged, and perhaps there were several potted plants or even a garden, in straight rows free of weeds.
And, of course, I have seen the homes of the well-to-do, with trim lawns and ornate houses, perhaps with a deck or a swimming pool. Houses whose yards are filled with yard ornaments, obviously arranged in some order, but so cluttered as to confuse the eye. Houses showing their owners of intricate detail and bright colours, often manifested in a surrounding garden as well. Houses of little individuality or personality (though not through the owner's fault) side by side with like houses, having like cars in their driveways. And once, a poorly maintained, cluttered house with two large pots of beautiful plants tastefully arranged in the midst of the clutter.
Because of such observations, it is a personal belief of mine that a good, though not infallible, clue to a person's character is their house. Here can be seen signs of industry, or laziness, order or chaos, beauty or ugliness, irrespective of apparent poverty or wealth.
I have seen cars worth sixty thousand dollars and more, gleaming brightly in front of hovels. The yards were strewn with junk and trash, weeds were prolific, and the house itself was in disrepair. Perhaps the paint was peeling noticeably, or the foundation was unlevel, but all contributed to an air of chaos.
I have seen other houses, whose owners were clearly poor, yet who could be seen to be industrious and proud of their homes. Though the roof might be missing shingles and the paint peeling badly everywhere, the yard was clean of all junk. Lawn tools and furniture were neatly, tastefully arranged, and perhaps there were several potted plants or even a garden, in straight rows free of weeds.
And, of course, I have seen the homes of the well-to-do, with trim lawns and ornate houses, perhaps with a deck or a swimming pool. Houses whose yards are filled with yard ornaments, obviously arranged in some order, but so cluttered as to confuse the eye. Houses showing their owners of intricate detail and bright colours, often manifested in a surrounding garden as well. Houses of little individuality or personality (though not through the owner's fault) side by side with like houses, having like cars in their driveways. And once, a poorly maintained, cluttered house with two large pots of beautiful plants tastefully arranged in the midst of the clutter.
Because of such observations, it is a personal belief of mine that a good, though not infallible, clue to a person's character is their house. Here can be seen signs of industry, or laziness, order or chaos, beauty or ugliness, irrespective of apparent poverty or wealth.
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
A Poem
Though I do not consider myself a poet, there are times when an overwhelming urge-prahaps a few rhymes circulating in my brain, or a poignant strain in a song-inspires me to. write one occasionally.
As a child, I believed that rhyming was the sole element of poetry, such as I often heard in advertising jingles. There was no inkling in my mind whatever of the importance of meter, or even syllables. But that began to change when I read the Illid, and discovered that it was written in hexameter.
I still am fairly ignorant of all the nuances and meters of poetry, but I now have some sense of structure, as well as of rhyme. And here is a poem I wrote on the Beatific Vision.
What is it like to behold
A vision brighter than gold,
Beholding God in the face,
Comprehending but a trace?
What doth the heart and the mind
In that awesome sight do find?
What ecstasy in the sight
Of that most glorious light!
To glimpse that vision splendid
For which man was intended,
Of God infinite enthralls
The souls of those He calls.
The end of men's desires,
How it kindles love's fires!
Forever in unity,
One with the Divinity!
As a child, I believed that rhyming was the sole element of poetry, such as I often heard in advertising jingles. There was no inkling in my mind whatever of the importance of meter, or even syllables. But that began to change when I read the Illid, and discovered that it was written in hexameter.
I still am fairly ignorant of all the nuances and meters of poetry, but I now have some sense of structure, as well as of rhyme. And here is a poem I wrote on the Beatific Vision.
What is it like to behold
A vision brighter than gold,
Beholding God in the face,
Comprehending but a trace?
What doth the heart and the mind
In that awesome sight do find?
What ecstasy in the sight
Of that most glorious light!
To glimpse that vision splendid
For which man was intended,
Of God infinite enthralls
The souls of those He calls.
The end of men's desires,
How it kindles love's fires!
Forever in unity,
One with the Divinity!
Thursday, June 27, 2013
Lighter Fare
One of my favorite hobbies (and a handy one) is sewing. I can't remember exactly how I first learned to sew, but I can recall stitching away by hand at doll dresses and even a few dolls.
So, now that it's summertime and I wanted some new outfits for college, I took up my long-forsaken-for-the-sake-of-school pastime.
This one is a pink jacket, with pleats and puffed sleeves (pleats and puffed sleeves are so pretty!)
This is a yellow dress, also with pleats. The pink jacket is made to be worn over it.
A plaid skirt, with pleats that can't be seen very well. This one should keep me warm on wintery days.
A blue herring-bone jumper, also for winter. It's a 1950's retro pattern (love retro clothes-unless its 1920's. Blah. But never mind that.)
This is just a plain cream-colored shell. Nothing exciting, but very useful.
This last one's a peasant-top-like casual dress. I actually disliked the print at first, so it sat in my closet for a year or so, until I decided that I might as well sew it up.
As you can probably tell, I love pleats, gathers, darts, and puffed sleeves. Probably a holdover from my Victorian-mania days, when I insisted to my family that my (future) little boys were going to wear knickerbockers, and I was going to wear hoop skirts all the time. I'm glad I outgrew that notion! But I still love Victorian and Victorian-like clothes
So, now that it's summertime and I wanted some new outfits for college, I took up my long-forsaken-for-the-sake-of-school pastime.
As you can probably tell, I love pleats, gathers, darts, and puffed sleeves. Probably a holdover from my Victorian-mania days, when I insisted to my family that my (future) little boys were going to wear knickerbockers, and I was going to wear hoop skirts all the time. I'm glad I outgrew that notion! But I still love Victorian and Victorian-like clothes
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
Thankful for the Past
Many decent, thoughtful people have in their hearts a love of history, and often, an affection for a particular era. Whether the attraction of the era is the beautiful homes and clothes of the Victorians, the strong force of Catholicism in Medieval European society, or the military equipment used by the brave soldiers of the Second World War, the admiration is based upon something good.
For some, when they think of what the past means to them, feel a deep sadness that what they admire exists no more, at least in society at large. "Why can't things be that way now?" Some think. For some, this spurs them on to strive to rectify the wrong, but for others, it can lead to discontent with their lives.
I used to think this way, but have begun to think of the past, especially of things that have passed away, with gratitude that such things at least once were. At least their was once a time when women's clothes were consistently beautiful, or when Catholicism reigned supreme in Europe,or whatever other aspect of the past I admire.
I am not suggesting that nothing be done about whatever is wrong with the present using the past as a model for restoration. Far from it! Rather, let the past encourage rather than sadden most of the time. Think on how blessed we are to have good models to follow, unlike some who went before us. For instance, Catholics today have a model for the Christianization of society, while the early Christians had none to look back upon as teachers and guides. At least, they show us a way.
Let us be grateful for the past that is given to us.
For some, when they think of what the past means to them, feel a deep sadness that what they admire exists no more, at least in society at large. "Why can't things be that way now?" Some think. For some, this spurs them on to strive to rectify the wrong, but for others, it can lead to discontent with their lives.
I used to think this way, but have begun to think of the past, especially of things that have passed away, with gratitude that such things at least once were. At least their was once a time when women's clothes were consistently beautiful, or when Catholicism reigned supreme in Europe,or whatever other aspect of the past I admire.
I am not suggesting that nothing be done about whatever is wrong with the present using the past as a model for restoration. Far from it! Rather, let the past encourage rather than sadden most of the time. Think on how blessed we are to have good models to follow, unlike some who went before us. For instance, Catholics today have a model for the Christianization of society, while the early Christians had none to look back upon as teachers and guides. At least, they show us a way.
Let us be grateful for the past that is given to us.
Thursday, May 16, 2013
Modernist Architecture and the Soul
The following is an essay of mine, written for pleasure.
Around the beginning of the twentieth century, roughly accompanying the emergence of abstract art was a new form of architecture, often known as Modernist. Its classification is baffling, for its forms and expressions varied widely, and still do, even among works by the same architect. But it is most frequently characterised by starkness, randomness, and ugliness.
Distorted and contorted, their chaotic forms pervades modern life. The exteriors and interiors of these buildings convey little sense of order, glass walls leave nothing mysterious and hidden, and there is almost no notion of beauty present, unless twisted, geometric, concrete facades and gleaming steel pipe pillars is one's ideal of architectural beauty.
But these buildings convey something, something beyond the whims of their makers. Behind this form of architecture is the philosophy of modernity, written in concrete,glass, and steel. Like these buildings, modern man is random, aimless,without a sense of order, purpose, mystery, or beauty. He, like these Modernist edifices, is merely a creature of whim and practical function.
If architecture is to improve, to convey order, truth, purpose, beauty, and mystery, then modern man must change. Man must regain a sense of, an appreciation for, and a love of the supernatural. Otherwise, what he constructs today will become the monuments of his despair tomorrow.
(I am not an architect or a student of architecture. This is merely based upon musing and observation.)
Around the beginning of the twentieth century, roughly accompanying the emergence of abstract art was a new form of architecture, often known as Modernist. Its classification is baffling, for its forms and expressions varied widely, and still do, even among works by the same architect. But it is most frequently characterised by starkness, randomness, and ugliness.
Distorted and contorted, their chaotic forms pervades modern life. The exteriors and interiors of these buildings convey little sense of order, glass walls leave nothing mysterious and hidden, and there is almost no notion of beauty present, unless twisted, geometric, concrete facades and gleaming steel pipe pillars is one's ideal of architectural beauty.
But these buildings convey something, something beyond the whims of their makers. Behind this form of architecture is the philosophy of modernity, written in concrete,glass, and steel. Like these buildings, modern man is random, aimless,without a sense of order, purpose, mystery, or beauty. He, like these Modernist edifices, is merely a creature of whim and practical function.
If architecture is to improve, to convey order, truth, purpose, beauty, and mystery, then modern man must change. Man must regain a sense of, an appreciation for, and a love of the supernatural. Otherwise, what he constructs today will become the monuments of his despair tomorrow.
(I am not an architect or a student of architecture. This is merely based upon musing and observation.)
Wednesday, May 8, 2013
The Outdoors
Despite my fondness for sturdy trees, green grass, and breezes smoothing over my cheeks, I am not an outdoors woman. I am not one to go racing ten miles over hilly meadows with ease, nor am I one to spend an entire day outside (except when camping).
What I do enjoy is looking around at the display of nature, admiring the subtle shades of green and brown, browsing my mind to conjure up fitting descriptions for what I see so that I can write it down. Listening to the grasses rustle as I watch their wave-like ripples in the wind. Watching the trees gambol in the wind, storing their delightful, frisking movements in my memory.
I also enjoy watching the miniature drama of our local flying creatures, such as hummingbirds braving territorial carpenter bees for a sip at the hummingbird feeder, only to be forced to grapple with the aggressive carpenter bees in mid-air. Or, the neighbourly mockingbird, forced to move to another bush when he tried to land on his former favorite-only to find a pale brown stump. And, how could I forget the invading blackbirds of the fall, who were seen flying away bearing pecans in their beaks from our neighbours two, aged pecan trees!
Now, searching my mind, I believe that I love the outdoors, not for the challenges it provides, but for its inherent beauty, the stories it whispers to the wind, noisy yet voiceless. In it, I see the beauty and providence of God.
What I do enjoy is looking around at the display of nature, admiring the subtle shades of green and brown, browsing my mind to conjure up fitting descriptions for what I see so that I can write it down. Listening to the grasses rustle as I watch their wave-like ripples in the wind. Watching the trees gambol in the wind, storing their delightful, frisking movements in my memory.
I also enjoy watching the miniature drama of our local flying creatures, such as hummingbirds braving territorial carpenter bees for a sip at the hummingbird feeder, only to be forced to grapple with the aggressive carpenter bees in mid-air. Or, the neighbourly mockingbird, forced to move to another bush when he tried to land on his former favorite-only to find a pale brown stump. And, how could I forget the invading blackbirds of the fall, who were seen flying away bearing pecans in their beaks from our neighbours two, aged pecan trees!
Now, searching my mind, I believe that I love the outdoors, not for the challenges it provides, but for its inherent beauty, the stories it whispers to the wind, noisy yet voiceless. In it, I see the beauty and providence of God.
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