you must be the seed. descend into the earth.
I remember, back in the days when my family's life was pretty bleak*, my mother used to say: God is good. All the time, God is good: because He is, as a fact, not a trait, not something He's doing right now, not because He just did something noticeable for you -- in the slums, He is good, and in the starlight, He is good; when you weep, He is good, and when you laugh, He is good then too. Another way of saying it might be: God is Love. All the time, God is Love. Because Love properly is essentially Good -- the word's got cluttered with a lot of other meanings over the last few thousand years of English, but I think the the purest white heart of Love is the greatest possible expression of selflessness and goodness and God. When you act out of Love, you are acting as the hand of God.
I'm reminded of this because it's really both those times -- I'm trapped in this ugly little town, I'm struggling to find work, still fighting off clinical depression, lonely, in debt, not in college... but the sun is blooming through hazy clouds, and there's a little fluffy calico kitten in my window, and I have some of the most amazing friends anyone could possibly ask for, and my parents are fun and thoughtful and aren't fussed when I bake in the middle of the night or run outside in the rain or listen to deeply weird music, and my bedroom is full of little clothbound worlds I can slip into, and I can write. And God is good.
* About four of the six years we spent in Massachusetts (when I was ten to fourteen) were by and large hellish -- Dad worked an endless series of jobs, some of them far beneath his expertise and intelligence, because we were desperate for money just to live on. We lived in one half of a duplex, not very large, that, while reasonably respectable, especially for our bad-reputation town, was in desperate need of repair. We had one car, which was mostly with Dad at work, and he worked all day and sometimes half the night (sometimes we barely saw him for days) -- which meant that the rest of us were essentially trapped in the house, especially as we couldn't afford to pursue many alternate routes of travel. We were isolated in our community, and the church we attended was a forty-five minute drive, and almost everyone else who attended was upper middle class, with beautiful homes, who didn't need to worry about food or new shoes or car repairs. In addition, we were still dealing with hurt and bitterness resulting from my father being told to resign from the ministry position we'd moved there for. I remember being in tears once because we couldn't afford to buy me a cheap camisole at Walmart to wear under a too-thin shirt for some occasion or another: not because I couldn't have a thing, but because of the humiliation and despair of not even being able to manage that much. It's a testament to how much we all loved the Boston area and New England culture that we still love it, even after that, and that I in particular want to go back.
* * *
So, anyway, I'm doing well, I think. When returning from holiday I tend to fall into something of a slump, and it's no different this time -- especially with the additional stressful circumstances -- but I'm stretching myself a little more every day, trying to make sure I accomplish at least one meaningful thing, and go outside, and drink enough water (I always forget to drink water unless I'm terribly thirsty... have recently begun to think my psyche might be vastly improved if I drank more). I'm thinking about alternate, outside-the-box ways of earning money, although my bucket's coming up a bit empty at the moment, to be honest. I'm a member of several money-earning websites, where you read advertisements and take surveys and things, which is great for, you know, a little extra pocket money, but the emphasis is on a little and extra. (Haven't got any actual money yet, because I haven't reached the pay-out rates yet.) I have a reasonable amount of things that I could sell, especially old clothing, and even a few books, but I'm not sure of the best way to go about that -- apparently eBay costs you money, too? and I don't know how regular a seller I could be, anyway, or if anyone would buy my stuff on the internet. We might have a yard sale sometime soon, in which case I could sell a lot of clothes for fifty cents or a quarter, and would probably make a pretty decent amount of snack/book/online music money from it -- ten, fifteen bucks, maybe, I don't know.
I'm thinking about things I make -- I'm a good cook and baker, but how do you go about peddling your wares, especially in a small town? I could make pretty fantastic jewellery if I had the supplies and learnt a few tricks, but supplies are expensive! I have photography, which might actually be a reasonable commodity, especially if I go through some place like deviantART so that I don't have to print things myself. (I can't take pictures for money, because my camera is sort of rubbish. A few more paychecks and not-being-in-debt-anymore-ness, and I can start looking for a good price on, say, a Canon Digital Rebel, but of course we're looking at three to five hundred dollars there. Then I might seriously look into getting photo commissions for portraits and events and things.) I make music... a little... I'm actually seriously considering, right now, writing a few songs, experimenting with found sounds and weird percussion -- gathering up scissors and windchimes and pots and pans -- and seeing what I can do. Maybe I'll come up with something halfway decent (if incredibly lo-fi) and see if I can get a few friends and relatives to buy it for five dollars.
Speaking of music, uh... a friend of my father's, who is an amazing guitar player and tends to accumulate quality guitars in much the same way his shelter-running wife accumulates homeless cats, just unloaded me with a beautiful professional quality Yamaha acoustic-electric guitar. Which retails for about two thousand dollars. My father just wanted to borrow an amp for our church picnic on Sunday, but Mr Fitzgerald gave him the amp, and threw in the guitar for me. He's always been sort of interested in my music -- he and Dad have written songs together and things, and he's kind of a gruff guy who I think must be even more of a softie inside than my father (who is far, far more sentimental than he lets on, and he comes across as a reasonably sensitive guy anyway, albeit a very masculine sensitive guy with a great beard). Also he gave me a really nice electric guitar a few years ago. You guys, I can't even. Seriously. This guitar is gorgeous, and it sounds as good as it looks, and, again, professional quality. There are probably some well-known if independent musicians who haven't got guitars this nice. It's very unique and very me, visually, with whale-tail fret markers made of abalone, and a setting-sun-in-the-ocean motif rosette (it's an Alaska guitar! ^-^) .
I kind of figure that after this, I owe the world a little bit of music, at least. So here's an extremely rough and lo-fi cover of Patty Griffin's "Poor Man's House". (The yelling you hear at the end is Leandra, who really, really did not want a nap.)
I'm reminded of this because it's really both those times -- I'm trapped in this ugly little town, I'm struggling to find work, still fighting off clinical depression, lonely, in debt, not in college... but the sun is blooming through hazy clouds, and there's a little fluffy calico kitten in my window, and I have some of the most amazing friends anyone could possibly ask for, and my parents are fun and thoughtful and aren't fussed when I bake in the middle of the night or run outside in the rain or listen to deeply weird music, and my bedroom is full of little clothbound worlds I can slip into, and I can write. And God is good.
* About four of the six years we spent in Massachusetts (when I was ten to fourteen) were by and large hellish -- Dad worked an endless series of jobs, some of them far beneath his expertise and intelligence, because we were desperate for money just to live on. We lived in one half of a duplex, not very large, that, while reasonably respectable, especially for our bad-reputation town, was in desperate need of repair. We had one car, which was mostly with Dad at work, and he worked all day and sometimes half the night (sometimes we barely saw him for days) -- which meant that the rest of us were essentially trapped in the house, especially as we couldn't afford to pursue many alternate routes of travel. We were isolated in our community, and the church we attended was a forty-five minute drive, and almost everyone else who attended was upper middle class, with beautiful homes, who didn't need to worry about food or new shoes or car repairs. In addition, we were still dealing with hurt and bitterness resulting from my father being told to resign from the ministry position we'd moved there for. I remember being in tears once because we couldn't afford to buy me a cheap camisole at Walmart to wear under a too-thin shirt for some occasion or another: not because I couldn't have a thing, but because of the humiliation and despair of not even being able to manage that much. It's a testament to how much we all loved the Boston area and New England culture that we still love it, even after that, and that I in particular want to go back.
* * *
So, anyway, I'm doing well, I think. When returning from holiday I tend to fall into something of a slump, and it's no different this time -- especially with the additional stressful circumstances -- but I'm stretching myself a little more every day, trying to make sure I accomplish at least one meaningful thing, and go outside, and drink enough water (I always forget to drink water unless I'm terribly thirsty... have recently begun to think my psyche might be vastly improved if I drank more). I'm thinking about alternate, outside-the-box ways of earning money, although my bucket's coming up a bit empty at the moment, to be honest. I'm a member of several money-earning websites, where you read advertisements and take surveys and things, which is great for, you know, a little extra pocket money, but the emphasis is on a little and extra. (Haven't got any actual money yet, because I haven't reached the pay-out rates yet.) I have a reasonable amount of things that I could sell, especially old clothing, and even a few books, but I'm not sure of the best way to go about that -- apparently eBay costs you money, too? and I don't know how regular a seller I could be, anyway, or if anyone would buy my stuff on the internet. We might have a yard sale sometime soon, in which case I could sell a lot of clothes for fifty cents or a quarter, and would probably make a pretty decent amount of snack/book/online music money from it -- ten, fifteen bucks, maybe, I don't know.
I'm thinking about things I make -- I'm a good cook and baker, but how do you go about peddling your wares, especially in a small town? I could make pretty fantastic jewellery if I had the supplies and learnt a few tricks, but supplies are expensive! I have photography, which might actually be a reasonable commodity, especially if I go through some place like deviantART so that I don't have to print things myself. (I can't take pictures for money, because my camera is sort of rubbish. A few more paychecks and not-being-in-debt-anymore-ness, and I can start looking for a good price on, say, a Canon Digital Rebel, but of course we're looking at three to five hundred dollars there. Then I might seriously look into getting photo commissions for portraits and events and things.) I make music... a little... I'm actually seriously considering, right now, writing a few songs, experimenting with found sounds and weird percussion -- gathering up scissors and windchimes and pots and pans -- and seeing what I can do. Maybe I'll come up with something halfway decent (if incredibly lo-fi) and see if I can get a few friends and relatives to buy it for five dollars.
Speaking of music, uh... a friend of my father's, who is an amazing guitar player and tends to accumulate quality guitars in much the same way his shelter-running wife accumulates homeless cats, just unloaded me with a beautiful professional quality Yamaha acoustic-electric guitar. Which retails for about two thousand dollars. My father just wanted to borrow an amp for our church picnic on Sunday, but Mr Fitzgerald gave him the amp, and threw in the guitar for me. He's always been sort of interested in my music -- he and Dad have written songs together and things, and he's kind of a gruff guy who I think must be even more of a softie inside than my father (who is far, far more sentimental than he lets on, and he comes across as a reasonably sensitive guy anyway, albeit a very masculine sensitive guy with a great beard). Also he gave me a really nice electric guitar a few years ago. You guys, I can't even. Seriously. This guitar is gorgeous, and it sounds as good as it looks, and, again, professional quality. There are probably some well-known if independent musicians who haven't got guitars this nice. It's very unique and very me, visually, with whale-tail fret markers made of abalone, and a setting-sun-in-the-ocean motif rosette (it's an Alaska guitar! ^-^) .
I kind of figure that after this, I owe the world a little bit of music, at least. So here's an extremely rough and lo-fi cover of Patty Griffin's "Poor Man's House". (The yelling you hear at the end is Leandra, who really, really did not want a nap.)