The excitement, anxiety, and demands of a relatively new job and home have narrowed my focus in recent months--so much so that I have not been indulging much in music, which has been a fairly constant source of entertainment and consolation in my life.
For my erg workout this morning, however, I was feeling a real need to rock out. I had a particular song in mind, and, no surprise, it's a U2 song. Prior to today, I had only heard "A Celebration" on a live bootleg CD I have. The song has a guitar rift that "elevates" me with lyrics to match. There's an energy and simplicity to both that are a like cocktail of adrenaline and goodwill. I love the fearless naivete and hope of the song: "I believe in the 3rd world war, I believe in the atomic bomb. No way!" (live version from my CD).
And this morning, I made the delightful discovery on YouTube (God bless the Internet!) of at least two videos for the song. I like the first video's upbeat, optimistic rock 'n' roll, horseback riding, and pole dancing in the midsts of destruction and jailhouses.
The second video confirms for me that I'm not the only one ready to make myself vulnerable after listening to the song. Bono's bangs make a powerful statement in the live video, as do U2's fans' dancing and wardrobe.
The song speaks to me now, encouraging me to be hopeful and confident in my beliefs despite a lot of unknowns.
And speaking of reasons to celebrate, I've been seeing a wonderful, beautiful woman for nearly 6 months. Like the song, but on a slightly more profound level, Carol has been a source of consolation, confidence, and hope as I navigate uncharted waters. Maybe one day I'll be able to express my affection for her as unabashedly and boldly as Bono wears his tight red pants and flannel shirt.
Saturday, December 8, 2007
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Sweet Reflections and the Power of Music
I'm currently listening to a mixed CD by my spectcular friend Cary. The wonderful, alive songs, knowing some of the thought that went into the song selection, and the memories of Cary, San Francisco, and other San Franciscan friends that the CD elicits make for some pretty high voltage nostalgia.
Forgive this brief digression into etymology: if my classics education serves me well, the word "nostalgia" is derived from the Greek "nostos" and "algos", the words for "voyage" and "suffering", respectively. (Goodness, more than a geek I feel like a preacher doing some dilettante etymology on the "true" meaning of some Greek term in the Bible. Regardless...)
So, the point is that I was reflecting on the beautiful time past, but not so much on the "algos", on the suffering. Rather, it was truly a joyous reflection, and then a wonder at the incredible place where I am now--and on how rich this world is.
So, here's the proof that I'm more dilettante than dork: I don't know enough Greek to coin a neologism for the sensation I'm describing--the nost-celebration. If any of you out there are the real deal classicist, let me know what the word would be.
New Orleans is the last place where I thought I'd turn into Pollyanna.
And by the way, I'm particularly into PM Dawn's version of "Norwegian Wood" and Soul Coughing's "Screenwriter's Blues". It's one of those songs that make you feel cool just for listening to it. And this is a long time fav. Sorry, no PM Dawn link. These are all from Cary's killer CD.
And finally, check out Lejo--the best I've seen since Terminator X.
Forgive this brief digression into etymology: if my classics education serves me well, the word "nostalgia" is derived from the Greek "nostos" and "algos", the words for "voyage" and "suffering", respectively. (Goodness, more than a geek I feel like a preacher doing some dilettante etymology on the "true" meaning of some Greek term in the Bible. Regardless...)
So, the point is that I was reflecting on the beautiful time past, but not so much on the "algos", on the suffering. Rather, it was truly a joyous reflection, and then a wonder at the incredible place where I am now--and on how rich this world is.
So, here's the proof that I'm more dilettante than dork: I don't know enough Greek to coin a neologism for the sensation I'm describing--the nost-celebration. If any of you out there are the real deal classicist, let me know what the word would be.
New Orleans is the last place where I thought I'd turn into Pollyanna.
And by the way, I'm particularly into PM Dawn's version of "Norwegian Wood" and Soul Coughing's "Screenwriter's Blues". It's one of those songs that make you feel cool just for listening to it. And this is a long time fav. Sorry, no PM Dawn link. These are all from Cary's killer CD.
And finally, check out Lejo--the best I've seen since Terminator X.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Small Worlds
As I was driving Alfredo, Reyna, Lourdes, and Tu out of Hattiesburg, MS, I told them that I should drive carefully: I'd get accused of smuggling aliens if I got pulled over. I have a very Italian name, and I assumed that a MS sheriff would have found that the circumstances warranted a phone call to the feds. (My four colleagues, by the way, are all US citizens.)
Still, I could not help thinking throughout my time in Hattiesburg--a small college town in SE Mississippi--how odd it was to be attending an immigration law training there. Wherever I went with my Latino and Chinese colleagues, I wondered what the Hattiesburgers would make of us.
However, I think that I was more conscious of our multiculturalism than anyone else. With regard to my colleagues, being a minority and generating reactions from the majority has probably become familiar, literally everyday for them.
What struck me was the fact that we didn't appear to generate any reaction from the Hattiesburgers. They seemed altogether indifferent to our crew's ethnic makeup. And as I saw more of Hattiesburg, I was reminded that it is a small world after all. Our last lunch, in fact, was at a sushi restaurant (This blew my mind, since we didn't have sushi in Jackson in 1987.). And, though not present in the same numbers as in New Orleans, San Francisco, and Tampa, there were more colors than just black and white. Hattiesburg was ready for the likes of us.
And this blog entry is leading me to the embarrassing conclusion that I, and not Hattiesburg, have displayed the provincial mindset. I bet that that hypothetical MS sheriff probably would have just given me a ticket, told me to slow down, and sent me on my way.
Still, I could not help thinking throughout my time in Hattiesburg--a small college town in SE Mississippi--how odd it was to be attending an immigration law training there. Wherever I went with my Latino and Chinese colleagues, I wondered what the Hattiesburgers would make of us.
However, I think that I was more conscious of our multiculturalism than anyone else. With regard to my colleagues, being a minority and generating reactions from the majority has probably become familiar, literally everyday for them.
What struck me was the fact that we didn't appear to generate any reaction from the Hattiesburgers. They seemed altogether indifferent to our crew's ethnic makeup. And as I saw more of Hattiesburg, I was reminded that it is a small world after all. Our last lunch, in fact, was at a sushi restaurant (This blew my mind, since we didn't have sushi in Jackson in 1987.). And, though not present in the same numbers as in New Orleans, San Francisco, and Tampa, there were more colors than just black and white. Hattiesburg was ready for the likes of us.
And this blog entry is leading me to the embarrassing conclusion that I, and not Hattiesburg, have displayed the provincial mindset. I bet that that hypothetical MS sheriff probably would have just given me a ticket, told me to slow down, and sent me on my way.
Sunday, April 1, 2007
Easter in New Orleans
I've been feeling bipolar recently. Perhaps that's a New Orleans and Catholic state of mind. Black and white, suffering and celebration, death and resurrection. I alternate between the fear from leaving a beautiful city and beautiful friends, of having moved to a place that is broken, unsettled, and dangerous and the excitement and the joy of being in a place that at times has felt wondrously (even miraculously) right.
I have felt my faith wane in the past months, suffering from the busyness of moving, from a breed of reason that seems secure but sets me adrift, and from neglect. My first meeting with my colleagues in the Catholic Charities New Orleans Hispanic Apostolate, a couple of rosaries, and Palm Sunday Mass feel as though they're steering me aright.
The folks at the Hispanic Apostolate are warm and open and feel an intense sense of purpose. Unlike some of the merchants at the hip Magazine Street boutiques a couple of blocks from my house, my colleagues aren't asking me to prove anything. At our Friday meeting, they welcomed me, trusting in me and in divine providence. It seemed almost an article of faith for them that I belong. It reassured me in feeling that that is indeed the case. I look forward to helping and relying on them in our work.
Palm Sunday Mass was life-giving. St. Peter Claver is a black Catholic church in New Orleans' Treme district. In my limited experience in black American Catholic churches, I have been moved by the vitality and empathy that the black community brings to the celebration of the Mass. The lector groaned and weapt as she read the Passion and as her dancers reenacted it. It was while witnessing the Passion that I realized that I could not be in a more appropriate place or among a more appropriate community to celebrate the Easter season. Joy filled my heart as the church's band struck up the measures of "Come Thou Almighty King", and I was covered in chicken skin when after a five minute intro the choir burst into song. It's my favorite song of the repertoire we sang in Georgetown's Gospel Choir, and I had not heard it since. A palpable triumph filled the church as the gifts, led by the cross, were offered to the altar to the victorious tune. The Passion symbolizes the principal truth that strengthens my faith: we must be broken in order to be made whole, we must leave our lives behind if we are to do God's work, we must die to live. And I was with a community and live in a city that are emerging from death. Out of the wreckage I see promising signs of life.
I have felt my faith wane in the past months, suffering from the busyness of moving, from a breed of reason that seems secure but sets me adrift, and from neglect. My first meeting with my colleagues in the Catholic Charities New Orleans Hispanic Apostolate, a couple of rosaries, and Palm Sunday Mass feel as though they're steering me aright.
The folks at the Hispanic Apostolate are warm and open and feel an intense sense of purpose. Unlike some of the merchants at the hip Magazine Street boutiques a couple of blocks from my house, my colleagues aren't asking me to prove anything. At our Friday meeting, they welcomed me, trusting in me and in divine providence. It seemed almost an article of faith for them that I belong. It reassured me in feeling that that is indeed the case. I look forward to helping and relying on them in our work.
Palm Sunday Mass was life-giving. St. Peter Claver is a black Catholic church in New Orleans' Treme district. In my limited experience in black American Catholic churches, I have been moved by the vitality and empathy that the black community brings to the celebration of the Mass. The lector groaned and weapt as she read the Passion and as her dancers reenacted it. It was while witnessing the Passion that I realized that I could not be in a more appropriate place or among a more appropriate community to celebrate the Easter season. Joy filled my heart as the church's band struck up the measures of "Come Thou Almighty King", and I was covered in chicken skin when after a five minute intro the choir burst into song. It's my favorite song of the repertoire we sang in Georgetown's Gospel Choir, and I had not heard it since. A palpable triumph filled the church as the gifts, led by the cross, were offered to the altar to the victorious tune. The Passion symbolizes the principal truth that strengthens my faith: we must be broken in order to be made whole, we must leave our lives behind if we are to do God's work, we must die to live. And I was with a community and live in a city that are emerging from death. Out of the wreckage I see promising signs of life.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
20,000 Leagues into my Navel
My friend Mike emailed a couple of days ago asking me why I have yet to make additional postings.
A propos my blogging pattern: if you have been like Mike and checked back in with "Once in a Lifetime", you will have noticed that I had been inactive until today. As a "blogger" I have the potential to make myself exceptionally vulnerable. So I'm feeling a tension between the desire to keep you, dear friends, up to date on my life and the desire to cover my ass. I came this close [ ] to deleting the blog and to enjoying a sense of wonder at its fortuitously appropriate title. (NB: In this paragraph I'm expressing only a desire to err on the side of caution and don't admit to having done anything compromising.)
But ok, Mike, for you and anyone else frustrated by my circumspection, I'll test the bounds of my discretion. And, yeah, I'll fess up to doing this for myself too.
A propos my blogging pattern: if you have been like Mike and checked back in with "Once in a Lifetime", you will have noticed that I had been inactive until today. As a "blogger" I have the potential to make myself exceptionally vulnerable. So I'm feeling a tension between the desire to keep you, dear friends, up to date on my life and the desire to cover my ass. I came this close [ ] to deleting the blog and to enjoying a sense of wonder at its fortuitously appropriate title. (NB: In this paragraph I'm expressing only a desire to err on the side of caution and don't admit to having done anything compromising.)
But ok, Mike, for you and anyone else frustrated by my circumspection, I'll test the bounds of my discretion. And, yeah, I'll fess up to doing this for myself too.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Well, how did I get here?
I'm sitting on a barstool, which along with a futon, is the only furniture in my new room in my new home in New Orleans. I now live on the corner of St. Peter and Burgundy Streets in the heart of the French Quarter. I live above "The Front Page", a gay bar owned by a couple named Tarzan and Frederick. INXS' "Devil Inside" is pulsing its way through the floor, into my foot, and up my spine. Across the street is a hotel whose history of paranormal activity has earned a stop on the "Haunted New Orleans" tours.
Well, how did I get here, indeed?
Well, how did I get here, indeed?
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