Kothbiro
"Kothbiro," by Ayub Ogaba.
It's a song that I've fallen in love with. There's also "Obiero." I went to Virgin records today in search of the album these songs are on, but I left empty handed. Out of stock. Discontinued. Something impossible, I guess. It's funny how something like this could frankly murder my good mood. I was determined to find this music, these songs by a peaceful man, meditating on the nature of his people, his country, and his species. I wanted the songs so I could play them over board openers in Creative Writing, so maybe one student, just one, would approach me and ask, "What was that music?" Because it inspired her. It brought about certain emotions in his soul. Who knows.
I feel like a lot of things in my life are out of stock. Discontinued. Something impossible. I can find the artist, his album, and a list of songs. But no amount of scampering around life's record store is going to put that record in my hand and in my collection and in my ears.
It's a strange metaphor. But it wouldn't be true if it hadn't slaughtered my mood today. I was angry, bewildered, and generally outraged. How could Virgin Records, the largest record store in all of Orlando, not have this apparently well-known African artist and his records? How could they ignore his genius, his talent, his ability to produce music that stirred the soul, and even MORE so, how could they ignore my sudden awareness of his brilliance? Shouldn't they have been waiting for me with baited breath? Waiting for me, the music buyer with eclectic taste (last weekend it was DJ Shadow tracks in the Dance/Electronica section), waiting for my inspiration?
I somehow feel that I have grossly misinterpreted God as a record store that I can sporadically shop at. "I know what I want," I say to the clerk at God Records. "It's this artist who performed these songs about seven years ago."
With a somewhat sorrowful look, the black woman I have approached shakes her head. "Sorry, we stopped carrying that in 2005."
God is not a record store, but I don't understand this. I can think it, I can write it here in a stupid online journal, but I do not UNDERSTAND it. Constantly I try to shop at God's pawn shop, bartering for things I cannot afford with money I do not know is forged and fake. God is not a pawn shop, a record store, a bank, a hotel, or even a brothel. God does not fit into the Republican, capitalist model of human society. God is above commerce. But I have been raised, been trained, to see the world this way. Come on, God. Just show me where you have that record in the back room. I know you have it there, somewhere.
I think Borders has the CD I'm looking for. I guess I'll go there tomorrow and find it, listen to it, and eventually decide I want something new. Having eclectic tastes is like putting all your chips on one number.
I guess my problem is that I will somehow always see God as the record store. But I will never see him as the music.
It's a song that I've fallen in love with. There's also "Obiero." I went to Virgin records today in search of the album these songs are on, but I left empty handed. Out of stock. Discontinued. Something impossible, I guess. It's funny how something like this could frankly murder my good mood. I was determined to find this music, these songs by a peaceful man, meditating on the nature of his people, his country, and his species. I wanted the songs so I could play them over board openers in Creative Writing, so maybe one student, just one, would approach me and ask, "What was that music?" Because it inspired her. It brought about certain emotions in his soul. Who knows.
I feel like a lot of things in my life are out of stock. Discontinued. Something impossible. I can find the artist, his album, and a list of songs. But no amount of scampering around life's record store is going to put that record in my hand and in my collection and in my ears.
It's a strange metaphor. But it wouldn't be true if it hadn't slaughtered my mood today. I was angry, bewildered, and generally outraged. How could Virgin Records, the largest record store in all of Orlando, not have this apparently well-known African artist and his records? How could they ignore his genius, his talent, his ability to produce music that stirred the soul, and even MORE so, how could they ignore my sudden awareness of his brilliance? Shouldn't they have been waiting for me with baited breath? Waiting for me, the music buyer with eclectic taste (last weekend it was DJ Shadow tracks in the Dance/Electronica section), waiting for my inspiration?
I somehow feel that I have grossly misinterpreted God as a record store that I can sporadically shop at. "I know what I want," I say to the clerk at God Records. "It's this artist who performed these songs about seven years ago."
With a somewhat sorrowful look, the black woman I have approached shakes her head. "Sorry, we stopped carrying that in 2005."
God is not a record store, but I don't understand this. I can think it, I can write it here in a stupid online journal, but I do not UNDERSTAND it. Constantly I try to shop at God's pawn shop, bartering for things I cannot afford with money I do not know is forged and fake. God is not a pawn shop, a record store, a bank, a hotel, or even a brothel. God does not fit into the Republican, capitalist model of human society. God is above commerce. But I have been raised, been trained, to see the world this way. Come on, God. Just show me where you have that record in the back room. I know you have it there, somewhere.
I think Borders has the CD I'm looking for. I guess I'll go there tomorrow and find it, listen to it, and eventually decide I want something new. Having eclectic tastes is like putting all your chips on one number.
I guess my problem is that I will somehow always see God as the record store. But I will never see him as the music.