The Short Account Of The Field People

We're standing in the midst of a thunderstorm. The rain is shouting while it pummels our tender faces, occasionally lighting the sky with its magnificent sparks. Its a field, the muddy ground we stand on with occasional patches of yellow grass. A few people here are shoeless, every now and then picking their feet up as to provide feeling and drive away the numbness. Off to the side stands a tall man with his head slightly cocked to the right, as if something was eternally blocking his vision. Looking around he begins to notice distintive qualities of other Field People. One kid is almost his height, though no where near the same size. Small, lanky, but with an adorable face speaking innocence he barely talks to those around him.
Three people over the tall one's eyes are caught by two long legs, displayed by a pair of cut off jeans; she lingers about whistling sirenous tunes. What is important here is not who else is noticed but who isn't. For nearly eighteen hours the tall one stares at her, wanting her, but ultimately hating himself for it. Sitting in the mud he begins to mutter hateful words about himself, running a knife across his chest in some attempt to change the subject.
Hours later he digs a hole. It takes much of his energy, the constant whack of the shovel signaling his determination. Once he reaches five feet, not having nearly any strength to go another, the shovel is tossed up onto the pile of earth. Ignoring any sort of roof or cover his head rest against a root. The only sound heard now it the pitter patter of raindrops and the quivering breathing. From his lips come nearly inaudible words,

Into the dirt I run
hiding from the storm.
Ignoring the pain, the tears;
holding onto the fading earth,
they don't exist down here,
Only I.
Their pain isn't real down here,
Only mind.
Let my living corpse possess the earth
eating the red clay to heal my hurt.

Selections From Favorite Songs

In my quest for fulfillment there have been a few songs assisting the trip. Though my dad often complains of it being a problem with our generation (kids never taking their headphones off, brain dead beap boppers...) I think music has always and will continue to be great companions. Imagine the Jews traveling around the desert. Would it be brow raising to hear them singing? I think not. Even the African slaves sped their time along with song!

That being said, here are some small selections that tend to stick in my head. Enjoy!

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"I'm so lonesome I could cry..." - Hank Williams Sr.
"Love, is a burning thing. And it makes...a fiery ring." - Johnny Cash

"You're a disgrace to the concept of family the priest won't
divulge the fact in his homily and I'll stand up and scream if
the mourning remain quiet, you can deck out lie in a suit but I won't buy it
I won't join in the procession that's speaking their
peace using five dollar words while praising his integrity,
just cause he's gone doesn't change the fact:
'he was a bastard in life, thus a bastard in death." -Death Cab For Cutie

"Lost in the cloud, a voice: Have no fear! We draw near!
Lost in the cloud, a sign: Son of man! Turn your ear!
Lost in the cloud, a voice: Lamb of God! We draw near!
Lost in the cloud, a sign: Son of man! Son of God! " - Sufjan Stevens

"I need thee, Oh I need thee!
Every hour I need thee!"

"When he died then I died, then I died.
When he rose, then I rose." -Danielson

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Whispers from Gentle Beauty

Your gentle whisper roused me from dreaming,
Fluttering as butterflies about my face
While your evening grass comforts my aching back
The cool dew seeping into muscles torn by days labor.
From a black satchel comes a tonic you packed
Bubbling, nearly, as it touches my lip soaking
Into my tongue with a lasting moisture.
I close my eyes and see you standing there
Black silk waving in my eyes, brushing my mouth
As if you lie next to me.

When I raise my hands, to pluck a butterfly for my jar
Their wings burst into arrays of light
Shimmering in front of my bright eyes.
Their dimming glow now keeps me warm

Resting my head into the soft green
The midnight rainbows flutter away.

Those Damn Indie...Christians?

When I was introduced to the world of indie rock it felt as a warm blanket being wrapped 'round my head. The awkward resonating of their vocals, strange measures in their songs, and their never ending stream of creativity. If I recall correctly it was February 2005 when I purchased the three albums. Such enjoyable music, they were two CD's by Bright Eyes and one from Deathcab For Cutie. Immediately an obsession began to grow. Listening to Bright Eye's "I'm Wide Awake Its Morning" I'd finally found something similar to the depression I'd been dealing with since my childhood*. The barracks room was somber when "Poison Oak" would bellow from the speakers, reminding me of all my "lost loves." veering in the same direction, Deathcab for Cutie would level my thinking to the same notion of regret and sadness.

Though for all of it, these bands kept my interest until...well they still keep my interest. Since that time my CD case has been filled with names such as The Shins, The New Pornographers, and countless other hip names.

In the Fall of 2005 there was a shift. Hastings was brimming with sales. A used music/book/movie store is a bit of heaven for guys like me. See, unlike Wal-Mart, Hastings also acquired new music from labels most folks never hear of. So as I skimmed the 'S' section (looking for some Shins) I happened to see the name Sufjan Stevens. A chord was struck as Josh Seek's voice floated through my head, "...Christian..." and I figured, Why not? Picking out the CD, Sevens Swans, I quickly added it to my large collection (I left the store with nearly ten that day, not to mention the horrible movie "Brown Bunny.)

When I reached my room my level of excitement was beyond measure. I should explain. I'm a big of a loon. There are three things that get me bubbly. The first are girls I like, not that I am a "horn dog." Rather, consider it a bit of romanticism. They are placed on near levels of salvation. Next to this is going home. When the airplane touches ground in Arizona my feet lose feeling, my heart is attempting exit, and I become quite rude in attempts to leave the plane.

The third is new music. Not new downloaded music, but a new CD. Something about opening the case, the album art, and, well, just the whole thing excites me. I think people who only iTune their music miss out.

So, I arrive! As I put in each CD the individual journeys begin. Iron and Wine take me into a serene prairie; My Chemical Romance joins me in a cold, lonely alley. Almost forgetting of old Sufjan, I slide him into my surround sound supported stereo. About 40 minutes later, my eyes are sore from crying and my mouth is left opened. Never, and I mean never, have I experienced such an honest look at faith, fear, and hope. My faith had previously been filled with attempting to mask that. Sitting there was all I could do.

The trip didn't end there. Since then it has been a procession of musically skilled poets, rending my heart and helping to reform my mind. Since I am now being rushed I will suffice a list of recommended artists. Experience them, I guarantee you will at least find something new.

x.Sufjan Stevens.x
x.Half-Handed Cloud.x
x.Shannon Stephens.x
x.Br Danielson.x
x. Danielson Familie.x
x.Lenny Smith.x


Hopefully the list continues to grow. Perhaps one day my name will be added. As of now, enjoy!




*Not to be confused, I've not been diagnosed with depression though, to some extent, I've always dealt with it.

Solitude

First Blog

I fear not many folks will read this. I find it horribly sad that my friends, which are consider most dear to me, often forget about things like this. When a person finally decides to put forth their thoughts, emotions, and fears to others the reponse to it should be one of gratitude, right? Often recalling those situations in my own life there seemed to be a sense of bonding, as if walls were being brought down by trumpets of honesty.

Perhaps all this needs is a proper introduction. Maybe a "Who I am and Why I'm Here" type of deal. I guess even a few bumper stickers promoting a new blog may embolden some soul to venture in here, albeit if for only a few times. I shouldn't judge. Not everyone finds interest in reading Amazon.com reviews like I do. Just the other day four hours were spent reading people's thoughts on various products. Save they were books and cd's and not hair gel, it still seemed a bit odd in hindsight.

So...introduction. You might be wondering why this joint is entitled "Souveniers from a pawn shop." Even if you are not, allow me to explain. Pawn shops have never been a place of interest growing up. My cousin was the only person I knew who would waste perfect Saturdays for the sole purpose of visiting them. That being said, my thoughts often seem like a souvenier purchased at a place no one wants to visit. But if you're experience with these deathtraps are similar to mine, your cousin occasionally comes home with something neat.

So enjoy your stay here. Perhaps we will even hit some remarkable truths in discussion, create some beautiful art, and strike up a friendship.

-adumn

"God is like poetry - deep, mesmorizing, and always being misunderstood."
-me