"HAVE YOURSELF A MERRY LITTLE CHRISTMAS"
November 27, 2013
We've really been getting into the holiday spirit around the Bramble household, so I thought I'd do my part to spread a little Christmas cheer by posting my rendition of "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" from last year's Songs for the Season. Happy holidays, my friends!
November 18, 2013
Heaven as a vision is a construct of the mind
But heaven as a concept, there's nothing more divine
It's a landscape of cathedrals, towers, and people
With pearly gates to separate "my kind"
Heaven. Heaven as far as eye can see
Heaven. Heaven as far as I believe.
Matter of fact or matter of opinion, it's a matter of design
What matters is faith, so no architect of science can ease my troubled mind
Because I want...
Heaven. Heaven is as far as I can see.
Heaven. Heaven is as far as I believe.
Convictions of religion plague my insecurities
Oh, but Heaven, Heaven, will you have a place for me?
I've tried to make my peace with what I do and don't believe...
And the consequence it brings.
I want to throw away the keys...
Scream, "cast me out and banish me for all eternity."
But I don't knowing where you'll be.
Heaven. Heaven is all that I can see.
Heaven. I'm in Heaven so long as I can breathe.
WAITING FOR THE MUSE TO SPEAK
October 25, 2013
Lately, it feels as if I've nothing left to say; no enlightening thoughts to convey or articulate words to speak. How's that for bleak? And unfortunately, I'm not entirely sure there's any real resolution to that statement, at least not in this post.
Until very recently, I've chocked my lack of genuine creative productivity up to an absence of spare time; there are just so few opportunities these days to devote to crafting anything meaningful in the way of music or lyrics. Consequently, I've been reflecting a lot lately on the period of my life when I was in my late teens/early twenties. I had few distractions and even fewer responsibilities to prevent me from engaging in my creative process, so I've never been more consistently prolific than I was in those years. And perhaps rightfully so; I had the luxury of disappearing from nearly all human interaction for weeks at a time, all for the sake of creating. Now, at 27yrs old with a family to support and several jobs to maintain, I think it's safe to say those days are long gone.
It occurs to me now, though, that my creative process has never been contingent upon availability in my schedule or ideal timing - it's always been a matter of sheer necessity. I'd create simply because I couldn't stand not to. Writing music and lyrics was both my escape from and means of sorting out my reality of discontent. So, in the past I'd drop anything and everything, regardless of circumstance, to follow up on a song idea because music was my way of finding some semblance of controlled peace in my discontent. This is no longer the case. Yes, I'm at a different point in my life, one where dropping everything simply isn't a viable option anymore, but I now recognize that my lack of composing over the past several months has little or nothing to do with time or availability - I'm simply waiting for the muse to speak.
Discontent. Sorrow. Heartache. Anger. Yearning. Frustration. Disappointment. Rejection. These are the kinds of fuel sources that stoke the fire that is my creativity, for my muse has always stemmed from my unhappiness. Presently, though, I find myself in a chapter of my life in which none of these emotions is a regular or lasting presence, which I assure you isn't to say the past few years have been only peaches and cream. In truth, many of the aforementioned emotions reached new heights in recent years, but those moments have passed and along with them so have their respective songs. Happiness. Joy. Contentment. These are now the fuel sources I now find myself trying to stoke the creative fires with, but to no avail. Why one would choose voluntarily to take the time to write about being happy rather than simply living in the reality of that happiness is beyond me; art is merely an expression of self, and life's just too short to waste creating anything that has no cathartic purpose.
Unfortunately, I'm not sure where this leaves me. I have this overwhelming desire to create - to compose and arrange purposeful melodies around well crafted and thought provoking lyrics - but without an emotional need to do so, I fear my muse will not speak. How counterintuitive is that? Even as I type, I can't help but wonder if there's some shadow of longing in me for the discontent that gave me reason to create. Or perhaps I'm just trying to come to terms with my inability to channel my apparently arcane inspirational source in my newly acquired (relatively speaking) contentment. Quite a thicket of predicament, is it not? Ultimately, I don't have the answers and I don't suspect I ever will. What I do know without question, though, is just how grateful I am for my present circumstances; I no longer feel the need to write about life - I feel the need to live it. And that is well worth waiting for the muse to speak.