Posted in Being human

Maple Syrple

Roses are red, violets are purple
Sugar is sweet and so’s maple syrple

Roger Miller

That quote will never not be hilarious to me.

THIS MATTERS.

A pot of violets an da bottle of maple syrple.

Little things matter.

Little things people consider frivolous matter.

Sometimes they matter more than most things.

They’re part of the humanity that I get denied every day.

Just being allowed to care about shit like this.

Being allowed to have little things like this.

You only notice when people start trying to take it away.

Trying to make it sound like it’s not important to have things like this in your life.

Sometimes they do crap like decide this is all your life can be, and that’s all kinds of fucked up.

But other times they act like you can’t have this.

Like you can’t or shouldn’t care about things like this.

Especially when you’ve got lots of serious shit going on.

People act like you should be super-serious all the time.

And only care about certain things.

And care about whatever the hell they think you should care about.

And so you hold onto shit like this.

Which is why it pisses me off even when people say that people shouldn’t post their dinner on social media.

Maybe their dinner matters.

It’s actually little things ike this that make up everyone’s life.

Little bits of the world.

They matter.

Noticing them matters.

Living them matters.

Life without them, especially forced life without them, doesn’t work well.

People need things like this. Different people need different things. But everyone’s got things.

I’ve loved the maple syrple line my whole life. Not stopping now.

When people share things like this with each other it’s being social about little things we care about.

And people who like to do that like to do that, and that’s fine.

And people who like to keep it private, that’s also fine.

It’s just, there’s all kinds of ways to deny someone’s humanity.

And denying people these little weird bits of life, it doesn’t sound like much, but it does deny part of your humanity.

And it has a bigger impact than you’d think.

So think twice before you make fun of people for posting things like this, or pooh-pooh it to people, or say that people who like things like this are stupid or something. You don’t know who you might be hurting, or how deeply.

People don’t understand what gets taken away from you.

And I don’t know how to explain.

All I can say is:

MAPLE SYRPLE MATTERS. PERIOD.

Posted in Being human, joy, music

The song and dance underneath everything.

Grace Vanderwaal and her kitten wisdom strike again.  (Note: Some lights may be flashy.  I don’t know how to gauge which are a potential problem, so assume in videos and music videos I post especially, watch at your own risk.)

Lyrics (“City Song”, Grace Vanderwaal):

Fresh laid concrete
Melodies blowing
Don’t care where we’re going
But the day is wasting
Just keep moving
And take it all in
The rumble of voices are the bass to our song
The horns are just on the beat
Honkin’ along
Let’s be the harmony
But no note is wrong
And let’s take the city
And make it our song
Our song
Our song
Let’s take the city
And make it our song
Pencil tapping
Feet speed walking
Cars just driving
Daydream gazing
Just keep moving
And take it all in
The rumble of voices are the bass to our song
The horns are just on the beat
Honkin’ along
Let’s be the harmony
But no note is wrong
And let’s take the city
And make it our song
Our song
Our song
Let’s take the city
And make it our song
Everything going on around you
Just close your eyes and disconnect for a moment or two
And hear
The rumble of voices are the bass to our song
The horns are just on the beat
Honkin’ along
We’ll be the harmony
But no note is wrong
And let’s take the city
And make it our song
Our song
Our song
Let’s take the city
And make it our song

There’s music underneath everything.  Everything.  It doesn’t matter where you are, there’s music.

There’s music in a city, there’s amazing music in a city, any city.

There’s music in countryside sounds, wilderness sounds.

There’s music in silence.

The music you want to listen for especially, is the music in between the sounds.

Not the music of the sounds themselves. But something that happens in between the sounds, in the silences, in between the silences themselves.

And there will sometimes be singing, in those silences.  Silent singing inside silence.

Every sound is a part of the music.  Every silence is a part of the music.  Every sound in between the sounds, every silence in between the silences, every singing in silence, every singing between sounds.  It’s all part of the music.

And if you listen just right, you can hear it sometimes.  Maybe even dance to it.

Sometimes my body moves to the rhythm and beat and melody and harmony of these sounds, and silences, and sounds between sounds, silences between silences, songs within silence, silence within songs.  And I can feel them more than I can hear them, feel the rhythms of everything around me moving through me and making me a part of them, and it’s important.  Even if nobody sees me dancing to this music, or understands that it is dancing,   Sometimes it doesn’t even look like dancing, sometimes it looks like wandering into the right place at the right time and doing the right thing and leaving.

But there’s music in everything.  And I think there’s a level where we can all either hear it, or physically feel the rhythm of it, or otherwise react to it, whether we’re aware of all this happening or not.

And that music goes deep down into the depths of things.

Momo listened to everyone and everything, to dogs and cats, crickets and tortoises — even to the rain and the wind in the pine trees — and all of them spoke to her after their own fashion.

Many were the evenings when, after her friends had gone home, she would sit by herself in the middle of the old stone amphitheater, with the sky’s starry vault overhead, and simply listen to the great silence around her.

Whenever she did this, she felt she was sitting at the center of a giant ear, listening to the world of the stars, and she seemed tohear soft but majestic music that touched her heart in the strangest way. On nights like these, she always had the most beautiful dreams.

Those who still think that listening isn’t an art should see if they can do half as well.

— Michael Ende, Momo, 1984 Brownjohn translation

Momo listened to everyone and everything: dogs, cats, crickets, toads, even the rain and the wind in the trees. And everything spoke to her in its own way.

On some nights, when all her friends had gone home, she wouuld sit alone for a long time in the old theater’s large, stone rotunda listening to the deepening silence while the starry sky arched high above her.

Whenever she did this, she imagined that she was sitting in the middle of a giant ear that was listening in on the entire cosmos, and she often thought she could hear soft but powerful music that went straight to her heart. On those nights she always had especially beautiful dreams.

Anyone who still thinks that listening is nothing special should simply try to do it half as well.

— Michael Ende, Momo, 2013 Zwirner translation

Even silence has a song, and it can be heard even with things that are not ears.  Any time you can hear or respond to it, you’re experiencing something important about the world.  And you may not even always know you’re doing it.  But… this is stuff that’s real, this is stuff that can remind you the important things in life.

So much of life disconnects us from the music and our innate awareness of it, makes it hard to feel, hard to hear, hard to respond to.  But it’s there.  And if we don’t hear it, we feel it, or move to it, or respond to it.  It’s there.  It tells us what the world is.  It tells us who we are and our place in the world, and our place in the dance.  And the dance is many and varied and beautiful and everything and everyone in the world is part of it.