Say you sprain your shoulder really badly one day. Then the next day, I come up to you and slap your shoulder and give you a cordial squeeze and say, “Hey, buddy! How you doing?” Then you say, “Ow, that really hurts!” And I say, “Well, geez, sorry you took it that way, it was not my intention. You shouldn’t be so sensitive,” and then proceed to playfully jab you once again in the shoulder.
Either there is some misunderstanding, I am an idiot, or I am a jerk.
Or I could say, “Oh dear, what’s wrong? I squeeze my friends’ shoulders to say hi all the time and I’ve never heard any complaints until now. Will you help me understand this problem better, because I am your friend?” Then you say, “Well, you see, yesterday I sprained my shoulder something fierce in this gnarly water-skiing accident, and the doctor says to be gentle on it and give it time to heal.”
Now I could say, “Oh, I get it. Gee, I was totally unaware of the current condition of your shoulder, otherwise I would have exercised more care in my greeting. Sorry about the unintentional yet nonetheless very real pain I caused you. I’ll be sure not to do that again until your shoulder is ready for it.”
But say the accident was so bad that, no matter how much physical therapy you go through, your shoulder hardly ever seems to be getting better. And just when you think you’re having a good shoulder day, and decide to go out and play some tennis or catch, it gets jacked up again. The next time you see me, you explain that it’s quite possible you’ll have a poor shoulder your whole life
I could say, “Oh dear. Well, you know, I just don’t think I can be myself without squeezing shoulders. It’s who I am - I’m a shoulder-squeezer, always have been. And if I can’t squeeze your shoulder anymore…well, I just can’t imagine having a real friendship with you.”
Or I could say, “Oh for God’s sake, suck it up, princess! I can squeeze whatever I want” and squeeze and pinch the crap out of your shoulder anyway.
Or, “No worries, buddy. I’ll find other ways to greet you warmly and express my affection for you that don’t cause you such pain. I realize you didn’t ask for a bad shoulder and I’m not gonna let that ruin our friendship.”
It is the same with words and feelings. So please listen, be considerate, and tell good jokes. It doesn’t take much. It doesn’t change anything about your life. It just makes people feel better.
5:20 pm • 17 September 2014 • 2 notes
It didn’t hit me until today that I turn 24 in three days.
24 is a hard number. Not as in difficult, but like a rock or a brick. It’s a multiple of twelve with two even digits. Like a cinderblock next to two other cinderblocks stacked vertically, making a backwards L out of three squares that are almost a bigger square if you imagine the fourth in its place.
I was having lunch with my classmates/co-workers today and the subject of ages was brought up. Two 19-year-olds, the “babies”, high-fived. Someone else was 20, someone else 21. When my turn came, I made a face that, judging by their reactions, was unreadable and, to be honest, I can’t recall another instance of my facial muscles tightening in that fashion and have no way of knowing or explaining the appearance or meaning of that expression.”Come on, tell us the secret,” someone said. I looked down at the olives, strands of cheese, and pizza crust on my plate. And in that moment, I became one year older. I almost said 23, I could have said 23. I’m so used to thinking for a moment (22? 23? 23.) and then saying 23. But I slowly lifted my head and, looking at no one, said “I will be twenty four on Monday.” As if I myself was discovering it for the first time. It came out way more dramatically than I intended. And even more awkwardly. For a second, they just stared at me, as if I told them I had just gotten a divorce or my father was in prison. I doubt it was what I said, but probably the way I said it. It was really awkward.
See, it started out as a joke, that inexplicable look of dread (or whatever it was). When people ask what year I am or when I’m graduating or how old I am in a college context, I sometimes say “We do not speak of such things” or “Never” or “Well, enough about me” or “None of your business.” Sometimes people don’t get the sarcasm, so I have to explain. I’ve been in college for a long time. Longer than normal. And will be for a while still. And I’m okay with that, don’t get me wrong. It’s by choice. I’ve been responsible with scheduling, I’ve got a good GPA, I haven’t failed any classes. I’ve simply decided that learning what I want to learn is more important to me than getting any old degree “on time.” And had I graduated when most at my level would have (which I could have easily done), though I would have much less student debt and probably feel good about myself for a while, I still would not have received the education I came here to receive.
Still, there is a part of me that is ashamed to have my age broadcast, when all the people I want to be friends with are younger than me. I don’t want people to think I’m stupid. I don’t want people to think I’m slow. I don’t want people to think I’m behind. I don’t want people to feel bad for me. But most of all, I don’t want people to be disappointed in me. I’d like them to think that I’ve been in school so long that I’m a master at everything and not because I can master nothing. I would rather have people think I’m so quiet because I’m so busy managing the entire world of genius that is rotating in my head than because I simply lack the social skills to form a single unit of ordinary conversation. I’m already weird enough. I don’t want to be the weird, old guy.
Today was move-in day for all the new students, and there are older students that the school pays to line the blocks of the school and all living areas in school colors with balloons to leap and cheer at every new student that arrives. This morning, without thinking, I threw on my “freshman” T-shirt I received when I first came here. When I arrived home, the greeters saw me in my bright, patriotic newbie shirt and whooped and hollered at me as I pulled through the gate. I whooped and hollered back.
"This is gonna be the best four years of your life!" Yes, it is.
11:54 pm • 29 August 2014 • 2 notes
There are few things I am worse at than being Jesus. I can do a lot of things well, but that? That’s not one of my talents. That doesn’t come naturally.
Sure, I can *care* about people. I can be *nice* to people. I can feel *sorry* for people. I can even love people. Plenty.
I can buy a sandwich for a homeless person. But only if I have enough to buy one for myself, too. I can listen to the girl outside Trader Joe’s advocating for human rights. But not without calculating how much more time I have to stick around in the hot, crowded parking lot. Not without tapping my foot, waiting for my cue to shake her hand and say, I’ll check out your website. Thank you being here and speaking out. We need more of that. I can share links on Facebook and Tumblr, and sign online petitions. I can read stories about children who’ve been abused and abandoned and sold and look at pictures of women and girls who’ve had their faces burned off for speaking out of turn and watch videos of husbands and fathers beaten to death in front of their families for the color of their skin by those meant to protect them, and pray, Your kingdom come on earth. Your kingdom come in this heart and these hands. But not before thinking of the vile, disgusting, merciless things I’d like to do to those monsters if I had the chance.
I can hurt for you. I can cry for you. I can pray for you. But would I trade places with you? Would I go to hell for you? Would I give my life for you? Would I empty my wallet or my fridge or give the clothes off my back for you? Don’t count on it. If you were sweating and thirsty on the side of the road, would I maybe, just maybe, give you a half second of eye contact as I flew past you in my air conditioned vehicle to my air conditioned house where I would pour myself a cold glass of water and microwave a hot bowl of pasta and sit back on my fluffy couch and watch meaningless fiction on my television and curse when my internet connection is interrupted?
A professor of mine likes to say, Remember that you may be the only Jesus someone ever meets. I hope to heaven that I’m not, because if I am, then Jesus never rose. If I am not Jesus to you, then Jesus means nothing. And neither do I. And neither do you. And neither do the millions of innocent men, women, and children who are murdered, raped, cheated, left alone, and eaten alive by devastation every day while the rest of the world goes on taking selfies framing out the destruction and decay that surrounds even them.
I don’t want to be a dead Jesus anymore. Because I don’t want to die on the side of the meaningless.
I refuse to be a dead Jesus anymore. Because I don’t want him to be dead to me.
God knows I need him just as much as you do.
11:04 pm • 17 August 2014 • 2 notes
This prison press
Must hold inside
My printed mess
When fears intrude
And frees the message
while I hide
9:04 pm • 23 July 2014 • 1 note
Stop saying please
You’re not a slave
So get off your knees”
— Anberlin, “Depraved”
9:59 pm • 21 July 2014 • 2 notes
I don’t understand how people can stare at their phones with that dull, dead look in their eyes for hours at a time. If I catch myself doing that for more than sixty seconds, I stop immediately. I can’t stand purposeless disenjoyment.
Some people don’t have a beautiful world unfolding around them, and still enjoy it more than you.
10:10 pm • 20 July 2014 • 1 note
I use Spotify, because I can’t afford to buy six albums a month anymore. It’s awesome, don’t get me wrong, but I often miss the old way of experiencing music. I think music was better when it cost more. Not just in terms of price, but also in weight, storage, and commitment. I have a love-hate relationship with digital. Whether in film, music, or books, digital is easier, cheaper, more accessible, and “opens more doors.” And that’s true. But I see very little to convince me it’s made content better. Notice how nine out of ten current top songs are all the same? They start out ok, and you’re like, hey, this isn’t bad, who’s this? And then comes the syllable skip. You know the syllable skip. When the singer says something like “and we’re gonna live forever – forever – forev – ev – ev –EV – EV – EV – EVEVEVEVEVEVEVEV—” And right then comes the “drop” as kids are calling it. When everything musical about the song disappears and all we hear is tsum-wAAAh tsum-wAAAh tsum-wAAAh dum-chAAAh dum-chAAAh dum-chAAAh. Even great bands like Coldplay and OneRepublic are putting this tsum-wAAAh tsum-wAAAh dum-chAAAh dum-chAAAh crap into their songs. What is that? Nearly every song on the home page of Spotify is like that, yet I still find myself going there to discover new music, for some reason, when none of it is as good as half the CDs I have in storage.
Anyway. A more relevant quirk about Spotify that I dislike is that the “Gapless Playback” isn’t entirely gapless between “(Debut)” and “Godspeed” the sister opening tracks of Anberlin’s Cities. They’re really one song, but it’s such an awesome song that it needs two tracks.
It’s pretty easily said that Cities was Anberlin’s most spiritual album at it’s release. The band themselves felt that it was lyrically a step of maturation. ”[Blueprints] was childish in the fact that it was Man vs. World … [Friendship] was Man vs. Man. Cities, however, is Man vs. Self.” Several songs are full of introspection, bringing alone self-doubt, loneliness, cynicism, even self-loathing. Things I myself was beginning to become familiar with.
The most notable number on the record, without a doubt, is the epic (before that word meant nothing) “(*Fin)”. Stephen’s heart bleeds into every song on this album. On this track, it explodes. I used to listen to the final ninety seconds over and over again, trying to decipher the poetry of the distant, hidden lyrics. The line that stuck with me the best was this: “We’re not questioning God, just those he chose to carry on his cross.” This song marked the beginning of my realization that doubting my faith, questioning my teaching, criticizing my beliefs, wasn’t poisonous, but essential to my growth.
This album taught me that, when I’m confused, I’m not alone. When I’m alone, I’m not lost. And when I’m lost, I’m not forgotten.
Other songs that I still keep close:
“The Unwinding Cable Car” when I doubt my own abilities.
“Alexithymia” because that’s one of my favourite words, and it’s a beautiful anthem for living.
“Dismantle. Repair.” because things are gonna change for the better.
9:09 pm • 18 July 2014 • 2 notes
II. Never Take Friendship Personal
It’s probable that Anberlin’s discography could alternately be titled Toxic Relationships (and How to Get Out of Them). If it wasn’t obvious by the title, this album is quite heavy on that subject. All but two songs are about a relationship. Only one or two of those is particularly positive and only one isn’t clearly about a girl. Thus on the surface it would seem just another “love sucks”, pop-punk record, but Anberlin always seems to infuse the most negative of lyrical narratives with a strong dose of hope.
I’m always tempted to call this my least favourite Anberlin record, but when I actually go back and listen, it’s hard to justify that. It’s they’re most fun album to date. It’s cute and pop-y. But it also has a voluminous helping of angsty, explosive rock and a drop of what is arguably the most depressing song they’ve ever written (“(The Symphony of) Blasé”). And it all blends together in a perfect whole.
I remember listening to this album for the first time in a Whole Foods parking lot. Every payday, the family would take a trip to Fresno and go shopping, and having just bought the record, I opted to hang out in the car while Mom bought groceries and popped it into my portable CD player. It was like hearing all the potential hinted at in Blueprints exploding forth with greater confidence. It’s awesome.
There isn’t much deeply rooted sentimentality associated with this album for me, but it’s still fun to reminisce with. This album is road trips to the beach and nerf guns and home movies and bike treks through cotton fields and trespassing on houses being built.
“The Feel Good Drag” will probably always be my favourite off this record. The New Surrender version (attached above because it’s the one with a video) is great (more on that later), but it can’t replace the original for me. I love it when Stephen screams. My brother and I made a movie years ago about a pig named Paco Hernandez who was a spy assassin. This was his theme song.
Others I love:
"Time & Confusion" because it reminds me of my family.
"Audrey, Start the Revolution" because it reminds me of Les Miserables and West Side Story.
"Dance, Dance, Christa Päffgen" because the groove is sick and never gets old.
8:56 pm • 18 July 2014 • 3 notes
I. Blueprints for the Black Market
I was thirteen, homeschooled and incredibly sheltered when I discovered Anberlin with the rest of the Christian rock world. I was sitting in my parents’ living room, probably folding underwear, which seemed to be all I did in those days, when the video for their debut single “Readyfuels” had it’s world premiere on TVU, the Christian alternative music video station that my brother and I would drink from liberally when we could take no more of the Joyce Meyer, Benny Hinn, and Arthur (well, okay, we loved Arthur) that dominated the tube at all other times.
A spinning firework pops up on the screen like a Windows screensaver and the opening guitar riff sounds off with a smooth, but firm energy and right as the drums kick in with bullet precision, we see five guys completely lost in something electric. They look young, but play like they’ve been doing it forever. The lead’s hair looks like he just got out of the shower, he’s wearinga t-shirt with a huge mouth on it (what does that mean?), and he’s singing with a piercingly distinctive voice
We’re runnin’ hot tonight, and it feels so good
I hadn’t seen or heard anything like it. Pure energy. And not meaningless, wailing about energy, but real, raw, focused energy. Watching it now, I’m struck with how… young the whole thing feels. And the great thing to me about this band is that, as they’ve matured throughout the years, both in their music and as people, they’ve still managed to stay young. Through the many seasons of change, they’ve never truly lost their way. They’ve never changed. And that’s why, in a way, I’m glad they’re leaving like this. This way, they’ll always be young, honest, rock-your-face-off Anberlin. But I digress.
Every Christmas, my brother and I used to buy each other two CDs. And we would always know exactly what they were. Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure all we really ever spent our allowance on was music. And what else? It was the only essential to our life of full-time dreaming that our parents wouldn’t buy for us. Before iTunes, before the sanctity of an experience tied to a song on a physical disc with printed art on it, a star in an ever-lit constellation of a discography, was numbed into a perpetual, meaningless background noise, those 6”x5” plastic cases, the smell and feel of the fresh, glossy paper, the raised font of the liner notes, and the sweet, shiny silver hidden behind, glittering like Saturn’s rings, was the most exciting part of a Friday night on our bedroom floors.
Blueprints for the Black Market was one of the albums I bought my brother the following Christmas. I’ve since stolen it and listened to it infinitely more times than he has. I had gone into it honestly expecting “Readyfuels” and “Glass to the Arson” to be the only good songs, but I soon found that this record was so much more. Sure, it’s essentially a bunch of kids fooling around with instruments for fun and has it’s share of simplistic, sensational, teenage-y pop songs (“Foreign Language,” “Autobahn,” “We Dreamt in Heist”), but whether intended or not (perhaps destined), there is something far more special here. I guess to put it simplest, you could say this is the album I went through puberty with. It’s a coming of age album in ways I wouldn’t fully realize for a while, hinting at passions that weren’t quite ready to be awakened yet. Songs like “The Undeveloped Story,” “Cadence,” and “Naïve Orleans” would continue to echo throughout the following years of my life, carrying a piece of that younger me with them, along with new and deeper meaning.
This is not the Anberlin on stage today, nor should it be. In fact, it would seem the band would be happy never playing any of those eleven songs again. But it’s still an important part of what would eventually morph into one of the most genuine, beloved, and gifted outfits in music today.
9:46 pm • 28 June 2014 • 2 notes
Dancing through the Fibers of Time - Prologue
No good thing lasts forever, but a story and a song.
Early this year, one of my all time favourite bands, Anberlin, announced that they were disbanding after they’re seventh and final studio album release this summer. In several interviews, when asked “Why now?” frontman Stephen Christian said that he would much rather people ask “Why are they leaving?” than “Are they really still around?”
And as bittersweet as it must be, they couldn’t be more okay with it. “I think what’s so cool about this is that we’re ending the band on our time. Nobody in the band hates each other.” I’ve always been an admirer of creators who do it their way from beginning to end. It’s why I love Frank Sinatra, Olan Rogers, and the show Breaking Bad.
But after hearing the news, I was heartbroken, not so much because the band is hanging it up, but because I realized that, in the midst of trying to finish school and sort my life out, I hadn’t listened to Vital more than twelve times since 2012, had not gone through Devotion, or even caught their latest single off the new record. This band whose music has been a faithful accompaniment and influence to my life, I’d simply… neglected. Music used to be where I went to reflect, to unwind, to be refreshed and inspired, and this band was always there. Stephen’s lyrics spoke to me like few others’ could, saying the things I wanted to say, but in ways that made me see with different eyes. And over the past couple of years, I haven’t done a whole lot of that at all.
So for the past few weeks I’ve been spending liberal amounts of time with Anberlin’s discography, listening, really listening, to every song and fully appreciating the depth of care that went into each, recalling the places, smells, and emotions that each song still holds for me.
I’ve been dancing through the fibers of time. And oh, what a dance.
Stephen Christian recently made a blog in which he lists the lyrics to every song on every Anberlin album, along with a dissection of the inspiration and intended meaning of each. When I first saw this, I was a bit horrified, as one of the great things about music to me is that it can have such a strong, personal meaning to each individual who hears. I didn’t want that soiled for me. I can’t imagine ruining something so intimate and dear. I still don’t quite understand his motive behind this, but after my curiosity got the better of me, I visited the site. Some of the meanings made me like the song more, and some… well, I like my version better. But I suppose there is a part of every artist who wants to be understood completely and unambiguously. Maybe it’s time for curtain to be pulled back. Maybe we all get to a point where we need people to know that this is what this song/painting/poem/film/book is about to me. Brilliance isn’t about how cool you can sound, but how true you can be. And there’s only one degree of truth.
The point of all this is that I’ve decided to write a series following all six of Anberlin’s albums. These aren’t reviews so much as they are musings of the places outside of space and time where my life and Anberlin’s intersect. My tribute, my eulogy, if you will.
I don’t imagine anyone else out there would be interested in reading it, but I need to write it. It’s the least I feel I can do.
Feel free to dance along with me, if you like.
9:24 pm • 28 June 2014 • 3 notes