Be still and wait without hope.

"I said to my soul, be still, and let the dark come upon you
Which shall be the darkness of God. As, in a theatre,
The lights are extinguished, for the scene to be changed
With a hollow rumble of wings, with a movement of darkness on darkness,
And we know that the hills and the trees, the distant panorama
And the bold imposing facade are all being rolled away—
Or as, when an underground train, in the tube, stops too long between stations
And the conversation rises and slowly fades into silence
And you see behind every face the mental emptiness deepen
Leaving only the growing terror of nothing to think about;
Or when, under ether, the mind is conscious but conscious of nothing—
I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love,
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:
So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.
Whisper of running streams, and winter lightning.
The wild thyme unseen and the wild strawberry,
The laughter in the garden, echoed ecstasy
Not lost, but requiring, pointing to the agony
Of death and birth."

--T.S. Eliot (The Four Quartets)

I. LOVE. THIS. POET.

For the past few months, doubt has overwhelmed my perspective. I can't pinpoint a specific incident or issue. It's all interrelated and complicated, but in short, I have been living without hope.

After a long period of silence about the issues I'm dealing with (I'm choosing to be vague here), I reached a point where my need for answers began to outweigh my fear of being honest. I have finally been able to talk things through with several good friends; some who are dealing with the same things, and some who aren't. These conversations have been healing, life-giving, and honest. I'm grateful for them.

I started re-reading Ecclesiastes after friend reminded me that it was once my favorite book. This time around, I'm realizing how much uncertainty Solomon expresses in his writing. My current reading of it is likely being influenced by my state of mind. Still, the supposed wisest man seems unsure of the possibility of a resurrection, the difference between animals and humans, the existence of a soul, God's degree of involvement with the world, and the purpose of man's existence. Interestingly, uncertainty on such issues is not popularly expressed or acknowledged in the church. If I've learned one thing over my past few months abroad though, it is that silence surrounding these issues solves nothing. Openness about my doubt has given me a new kind of freedom from it.

In my doubt, I have also gained a new understanding of what faith is. Faith is not independent of doubt. In fact, you cannot have faith without doubt. Believing is a process. And "certainty" is often a crutch. Faith is not as safe as we would like to think it is.

"And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices

In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices."

--T.S. Eliot

Unsexed [Why is it that whenever I have a ton of stuff to do, I suddenly have a poem to write?]

Unsexed

Come, you spirits

That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here,

And fill me from the crown to the toe topful.

--Macbeth (I.v.40-42)

I read once that cloistered nuns,

When caught in the torrents of desire,

Would grind up the buds of roses

And drink their pulp, in order

To abate lustful cravings.

Their penitence sheathed

In self-denying acts,

They found salvation in an Order;

In a balance, finely crafted

Of holy love--of chaste touch.

Crushing their lust to pulp,

They drank full the very pap

Of the un-budded passions

Which they denied themselves,

Clipped before blossom's flourish.

I can see them,

Their silver chalices

Of blush liquid

Tipped back on pale lips,

Drinking a world of sin away,

As Yam, god of the sea-

The world his goblet, tipped

Back on vast lips-

Drank the sea's roaring wake.

How did it taste?

Was their liquid lust sweet?

Did it burn as they swallowed,

Dross rising like froth

Away from their golden flesh,

Burned holy in denial's fire?

I, too, drink to holiness,

Have cloistered and denied,

Skimmed sin's dross, and strong-willed

The passion of my wiles. I try

To follow suit, seven self-flagellating nuns,

Painfully, as they rise above.

--Alicia (2010)

A few hours alone in Galway...becomes a poem.

Galway, Ireland

On a promontory between two rivers

flowing out to sea, I walk alone.

One river thrashes virulent.

The other flows placid.

In their parallel journeys, one fights

as the other accedes to tide’s inevitable purge;

a resigned recognition

of the unjust workings of the world.

I am alone with the silence and the fog,

the flecks of rain on the grass at my feet,

and the overcast glow of the sky

as the sun’s faint orange ekes through white.

Pale light glosses the evening; a reminder

of another day, another era fading.

Smoke drifts from distant chimneys;

the heavy ash a smell, black as this land’s history.

It rises silent above the rooftops,

carrying secrets unuttered, toxic.

I pace to the sound of my own blood

pulsing behind my ears.

I accede to the rhythm of my heartbeat,

as the rivers accede to their end.

The smoke accedes to the sky,

as the people accede to their myth.

The land accedes to the waves,

as history crumbles in clods of broken past.

The sea is giant tear, rolling down the cheek

of a nation, stained with blood and ash.

--Alicia (2010)

The result of philosophical conversations in the drizzling rain at 1:00 AM. [Edited]

[I just wrote this poem. I'm sure it needs a lot of editing. But I'm going to go ahead and share it before my better judgement prevents me from doing so.]

You are the devil at my left shoulder,

Leaned back against the bench

As you draw from your pipe,

Smoldering languid, casual.

Soft plumes

Of smoke drift up - sweet miasma

In night's black expanse.

Above us cloud tufts pass, changing

Over the constant moon - ever distorting,

Ever re-shaping its image as it looms, distant above.

And the moon is never the same

Or exactly explained

By what we can see of it,

In a single moment under starless expanse,

Suspended with the effervescent ping

Of invisible water flecks on skin.

Always there is a thin veil

Shrouding its full,

Luminescence.

You wax calmly about Kierkegaard,

Existential philosophy,

The downfall of Marxist theory;

About how you don't believe

In objective reality,

Or any collective human identity.

Beside you in the dark I hope

For some sign of your belief in my own

Fragile reality; want you to touch me warm,

Touch me soft under the smothering

Canvas of dark, amidst the faint hiss

Of smoke diffusing through light rain.

You depress me more than anyone

I have ever known. And still,

I see the luster of your lips in moonlight,

The firm angle of your jaw,

And wonder how it would feel

To brush lightly, lips over your brow,

Across the satin of your skin,

And blossom for you, the throbbing,

White-hot reality of my presence.

I shiver next to you in the dark.

I gaze up at the sky for a shard

Of escaping light,

As the fog obscures the moon.

--Alicia (2010)

Yes, I am blogging about Project Runway.

A new season of Project Runway premiered two weeks ago. And this time, Tim Gunn has a clear favorite, who also happens to be my favorite (in my supremely limited knowledge of fashion - I really only watch this show for the antics). His name is Mondo Guerra. He's kind of eccentric, and more than a little shy. Mondo is cool. I don't think he knows how cool he is.

In last night's episode, they aired a clip of Mondo getting really emotional during one of his interviews, talking about how lonely he is. I've never seen Project Runway (or any reality show, for that matter) air such a genuine, heart-wrenching interview. It was actually kind of uncomfortable to watch.

Mondo said something along the lines of:

"I need a connection to be whole, and I haven't found that with anyone really. I am alone with my thoughts too much, and they just eat away at me. I am all alone, and I just want to be loved for who I am, but it's what I create that I need to be loved and appreciated. I am so creative with this gift and I am cursed with always having to create to get by and be noticed."

Sometimes our gifts can become curses. Sometimes they can define us in an upsetting way.

Mondo doesn't feel like he's connecting with any of the other designers. He doesn't feel like he's ever been loved for who he really is. Instead, it's always about what he can create. I feel for this guy. I have felt this way before about singing. I hope he's ok.

In other news, this week I had my last voice lesson for the next five months. I am SO excited for the break. I think it's going to be refreshing to concentrate on English.

New Blog!

I have a new blog for England Semester!

http://aarchambault.wordpress.com/

Don't worry...I'm still keeping this one. I'll continue writing in it after I'm back. But in the meantime, the new blog is a good way to share what I'm experiencing in the UK (because a lot of people don't know about this blog :).

Until next time, cheerio!

Of course not.

Almanac

by Carl Sandburg

Scrutinize the Scorpion constellation

and see where a hook of stars

ends with a lonely star.

Go to the grey sea horizon

and ask for a message

and listen and wait.

See whether the conundrums

of a heavy land fog

either sing or talk.

Let only a small cry come

in behalf of a clean sunrise:

the sun performs so often.

Speak to the branches of spring

and the surprise of blossoms:

they too hope for a good year.

Search the first winter snowstorm

for a symphonic arrangement:

it is always there.

Take an alphabet of gold or mud and spell

as you wish any words: kiss me, kill me,

love, hate, ice, thought, victory.

Read the numbers on your wrist watch

and ask: is being born, being loved,

being dead, nothing but numbers?

[See title of post.]

--

Also, I wonder...

When did I stop thinking in paragraphs

and start thinking in poems?

Is this some weird form of ADD?

Noteworthy quote from my dad:

"Love is patient, love is kind.

Love means slowly losing your mind."

haha

If you haven't met my dad, he's pretty much the best.

Update:

Another quote from my dad...

When asked about getting a facebook: "No, I wouldn't talk to anyone. I'm just your garden variety stalker."

When the time comes to leave, just walk away quietly and don’t make any fuss.

--Banksy

Life has been teaching me how to do this lately.

Walt Whitman knew what was up.

A Noiseless Patient Spider

A noiseless patient spider,

I mark'd where on a little promontory it stood, isolated,

Mark'd how to explore the vacant vast surrounding,

It launch'd forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself,

Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.

And you, O my Soul, where you stand,

Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,

Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them,

Till the bridge you will need be form'd, till the ductile anchor hold,

Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my Soul.

--Walt Whitman (1900)

Mozart

It was only fitting that the child prodigy should die
before fruition,
before age stole his verve and dried his mind as a raisin
in desert sun,
before years carved bitter lines, like rivers
into porcelain skin,
before he gave the world all that he had, and was left
without a melody.

Instead he left at the height of an era, his eon,
a Requiem Unfinished;
unheard and unwasted on dying ears.

He surrendered to the earthen enemy, Time,
thirty-five years still young,
as a star crumples on itself, then expands.
It explodes in its cataclysmic
infancy and is lost, having left all of its light so hastily,
forcefully at once.

And then the dark.

--Alicia (2010)

Jealousy

Her fingers danced across his shoulder,

traced a line up the back of his neck, and

brushed through locks of umber brown.

Wry lip corners curved upward, behind

the frame of her shining blonde's arc,

as his eyes fixed and smiled on hers.

My neck muscles tightened as I

let out a silent scream,

muffled by tongue and cheek.

--Alicia (2010)

Nocturne in D Flat Major

I can’t stop listening

to 
Chopin’s Nocturne in D flat major.

Quietly forceful, lyrical, sad,

it reminds me of you.

Staring at my computer screen

in an empty coffee shop at dusk,

I can’t force myself to write

my Music History paper.

There is nothing for me to say

about Mozart’s harmonic structure.

All I have is a list of things

unsaid on that last afternoon

as I stared into your ocean blue,

right across the table and close

enough to touch. But I

was terrified and could not make

the invisible wall between us

disappear. I could not tell you that

I want you more than a melody,

more than a breath; not for me, but for

your lovely soft blue, and for all

there is to know behind it.

The air hung, static,

screaming in my silence. I opened

my mouth to speak and felt

my lungs touch, deflated and dry.

I don’t think that you knew.

And now, as I gaze at the

vacant chair across from me,

its emptiness is smothering.

As Chopin’s melody rises,

pulsing strident to its climax,

I realize that this is the last crescendo

before its final cadence, and soon

I will sit aching in the silence.

And I am not ready

for it to end.


--Alicia (2010)

In the quiet dark of night, alone (Edited)

In the quiet dark of night, alone

I sat and wondered at this life, which

frustrated the knowledge of wise men

and the irony of Fools;

us wise fools,

living in a strand of incoherent musing,

revolving hazy on this celestial sphere,

round thoughts, lives, and cosmological constructs:

primordial gasses mixed with an inexplicable Something,

which is explained: divine.

Divine and nothing,

out of nothing,

formless and void,

formed

in the depths of nothing,

in the shadow which crept along

the edge of a glistening web of star:

star dust and star ashes,

from dust to life,

we are.

We form out lives, logical and succinct,

squeeze the inexplicable world

into explanations of nothing,

as loss blunts the edges of our star-crossed passions.

We learn to love those humble melodies we trace

along the listless drone of the metronome, Time.

We do not waste life wanting things we cannot-

lusting things we should not-

And we do not concern ourselves with higher things.

For the Lord is our shepherd,

we shall not want.

And yet . . .

--Alicia (2009)

Why do you sing?

Today I received possibly the best compliment about my singing that I've ever been given.

I sang my concerto piece (O Quante Volte) with Westmont's orchestra this weekend. After today's concert, an older man (of about 80 years) walked up to me and introduced himself. He told me that he has always loved classical music and enjoyed listening to orchestral music. But he's always hated opera, and whenever he would listen to classical radio stations and any opera would come on, he would turn the station. He told me that my singing changed his whole outlook on opera, and that I opened his eyes to the beauty in it.

I haven't been all that inspired about music lately. I struggle with the feeling that it was never my choice to pursue music - that it was just decided for me by everyone else that it was what I wanted to do with my life. I don't enjoy the vulnerability that comes with performing, and I've often felt like a slave to my talent (as melodramatic as that may sound). But I've gone along with it because part of me is afraid of being "wasted talent."

I participated in the Metropolitan Opera National Council Auditions this past fall. It's a pretty intense vocal competition (one that I don't think I was ready for). After it was over, I had the opportunity to get feedback from the judges. One of them asked me a simple question:

"Why do you sing?"

I didn't have an answer for him. It was actually pretty embarrassing, how much this simple question made me doubt my motives. It made me wonder if I only sing because I'm good at it - and because it's what has always been expected of me.

After talking with that older man today though, I think I figured out what keeps me singing.

I remember when I was in middle school, I would sit on the floor in my room, listening to recordings of Kiri Te Kanawa, Maria Callas, Kathleen Battle, and all of these gorgeous sopranos, in awe of each unique voice. I would go from aria to aria for hours (as nerdy as that sounds), amazed at the things they could do. I've always loved listening to opera, and practicing what I could do with my own voice. I've struggled with performing, though. This is partly because acting is awkward for me, and partly because I spent a long time not liking the sound of my own voice. But now that I'm over being insecure and comparing my voice to this un-attainable ideal in my head, I realize that even though I don't always enjoy performing and being so vulnerable in front of people, I do it because I want people to feel what I feel when I listen to opera.

I know that opera can be brash and obnoxious - especially the nationalistic opera of Wagner and Strauss, which is what people usually imagine when they think of opera, crazy ladies with viking helmets and such. (Part of me is afraid of being associated with that.) But opera can also be completely divine, like the Bel Canto arias from 17th c. Italy. There can be such agility, subtlety and gorgeous expression in the human voice. I want to share the wonder that I feel, listening to the instrument which God creates uniquely in each person. Singing is a beautiful, more heightened form of expression amidst otherwise mundane, uninspired life. I want to share that with people.

And that is why I sing.

Salt and Pepper

Measure the world up to size,

categorize and classify.

Sort and label:

salt from pepper,

sugar from salt.

All kept at a comfortable

distance - shelved

in their places and

labeled distinctly,

for free-functioning life.

I don’t fit into your salt and pepper paradigm.

Spilled my grainy substance through

table cracks and mixed,

irreparably,

foreign matter with mine.

I’m strange. All too strange for you.

--Alicia (2010)