Ball and Chain

It's amazing, all the things you've said about us
It's amazing, and true.
And it's amazing that I can still sing this song so simply about you.
Because, after all, it is just one of those things.


I remember the snapping feeling and the flood of understanding. I remember the bitter and cynical power it afforded me, the power to look back and scorn my own actions and yours. For a few days, I stayed that way, confident that this was the new me and that I'd finally struggled off of the plateau I'd been bogged down on for so long.

And all it took was one song and one sermon to shake me, one song and one sermon to call attention to the beautiful flaw in my reasoning: I am not that person. I am not that cold, I am not that harsh.

If you are like me, admitting that you were mistaken is no easy task. I admit that I fight against it at times, struggling to retain some sense of right even if I'm proven wrong. And so I struggled against myself, saying that I was reverting and I couldn't go back to this. But the seed was planted, and I couldn't ignore what grew from it.

I realized this: anybody can be a cynic. Anybody can harden themselves to others and scoff at cliched and gooey memories, thoughts, and actions. Anybody can criticize, anybody can hurt. There's no challenge in that for many of us.

The challenge lies instead in knowing our mistakes and accepting ourselves and each other anyway. The challenge comes in letting go without burning what's behind you. The challenge is not to hurt, but to heal.


"You are afraid you might forget, but you never will. You will forgive and remember. Think of the vine that curls from the small square plot that was once my heart. That is the only marker you need. Move on. Walk on into the light."

Because, after all, it is just one of those things.

For our musicians

I wrote this about a year ago, on a random spur of energy. I rediscovered it earlier this afternoon and thought, what the heck, why not post it. Hope you enjoy.


The great pacific beast hulked blackly in the center of the room, gleaming superficially. Regality permeated the air around it, causing visitors to the room to fall into a hushed reverence upon setting foot on the highly polished ash floor. The beast bore a hunchback; its smooth lid was held in the air by a single, delicate stalk. Its veins and spine were visible below this sloped cover. The brass on them twinkled in anticipation for what was to come. Its teeth glittered in the bright sunlight, ebony glimmering faintly and ivory shining gaily. Three solid legs, two at the front and one at the back, held the beast up to stand proud. In front of the teeth sat a plain black stool, expectant for its master.
A young man entered the room and walked slowly to the beast. He was tall and slender, with long arms and large, slim-fingered hands. His dark brown hair was untidy and looked slightly damp, like he had just taken a shower. His face betrayed his youth; it was the face of 17-year-old, close to manhood but not quite. He had a roughly oval face with a high brow, straight nose, and almost pointed chin. The teen’s wide eyes were a dark peat brown. His gaze was thoughtful and distant but became more focused as he approached the great being and ran a single, gentle hand along its teeth, preparing himself. He sat on the bench and centered himself before the beast, closing his eyes to take a preparatory breath.
He bent his head toward the keys and began to play.
He began quietly, his notes and chords soft and gentle. But after only a moment of peaceful build-up, his playing began to escalate. Slowly, his hands moved faster and faster, arpeggios and crescendos rolling off of the keys like rain off a leaf. Below his capable hands, the beast trembled and shook, its inner hammers beating upon the veins like so many hearts. The bass notes thundered like the steps of an oncoming army, the treble notes quivered in the air to be quickly overcome by more. His quick hands flashed from one end of the piano to the other, and his knees shifted subtly below the keys as he pressed the pedals expertly.
The song he played was fast and fierce, anger swelling and ebbing within it like a storm-tossed ship. It alternately calmed and infuriated itself, one second full of pounding chords and notes and the next ambling along sweetly with a few simple presses of a key. But the overall impression of the song was one of power and beauty. Perhaps a fuming beauty, but a beauty nonetheless. The power within it was unconcealed; it even lurked behind the slower, softer parts.
Above the keys, he moved back and forth with the music, his shoulders hunching during times of tension and slumping during times of release. His face showed hints of concentration and focus, but at times it was impassive. Only his eyes belayed any sense of feeling during these random periods, sometimes staring blankly at the piano in front of him and sometimes looking down to the keys for confirmation.
An indeterminate amount of time later, the youth’s hands slowed, bringing the music to a soft, near-reluctant halt. He held the last note until it had nearly faded away completely, then pressed a pedal and pulled his hands from the piano. His previously slumped shoulders straightened, and he passed a pale hand over a face that looked more tired than it had before playing. He stood up slowly from the bench and shuffled sideways to be free of it, exiting the room without a backwards glance.
Behind him, the great black beast seemed to sit forlornly in the middle of the room, its booming voice silenced. It gradually drew its stately cover over itself again to sit in cold glory.

Selective Hearing

When I found you, there was nothing to hold tight to. You left me adrift.
You'll only bleed me dry, so I'll ask you kindly to make your way.
You think it's alright--can't you feel the knife?
Pressing matters bear
If it's all or nothing, then let me go.
There is time, so much time

When push comes to shove, this is getting old.
You pray for rain, I pray for blindness
But now he lives inside someone he doesn't recognize,
We say goodnight from our own separate sides
and I'm not who I used to be.
Just because you've forgotten, that don't mean you're forgiven


I'm living in an age that calls darkness light--
Though my language is dead, still the shapes fill my head
Now that I'm older, my heart's colder,
I guess we'll just have to adjust
And I can see that it's a lie.

I try to write, but it's wrong
No one to leave the lights on
No answer
Search my face
A hopeless embrace


Let's start over again
Why can't we start it over again?
This time, we'll get it right.

I can't talk to you anymore,
and I miss you.
Set my spirit free
Set my body free