Sunday, July 12, 2009
Taking a break
I'm going to take a break from blogging for a while. Need to just work some things out. It's all good. Don't worry. I'm reconnecting with God again and am encouraged by good godly friends. I feel I should do this in private. Thanks.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Casiotone for the painfully alone
Okay, okay! I stole the title of this post from a really cool concept album, look it up on youtube.com sometime. But it rings of truth for me.
I have a tiny little casiotone keyboard sitting in my loungeroom which the kids sometimes play with. My Grandfather gave it specifically to me, making sure to tell me that it was for my birthday AND christmas combined and that I could use it in my homestudio.
Here's a picture of the model.....
But it's still a cool present because it has some history for me.
For the first five years of my life I lived at my Grandparents house at Kareela in the Sutherland Shire. My mother and I, my Nanna and Grandpa and 3 of my 4 uncles all lived in the same house. The youngest uncle was about eight years older than me and he adopted me as a little brother of sorts. I spent many days with Nanna as Mum would be working, sleeping or "daddy-hunting" as she used to call it.
Nanna was (and still is) the traditional Catholic type. She would often be seen with her apron on preparing lunch and the night's dinner and was a creature of routine in her day of housework. I started calling her 'Mum' accidentally which upset my actual mother a bit.
There weren't any kids around to play with that I knew of, so I would spend my days trying to curtail my boredom. I mainly remember two ways my day would pass. I used to read a set of Funk and Wagnall's Encyclopedias and fill my head with lots of useless information. Or I would spend hours upstairs, by myself, playing with my only friend. It had beats and styles and cool buttons that would change the sound, as well as the usual black and white keys. My Grandpa's casiotone. The first song I remember learning to play was Frere Jacques. I figured out how to play it and worked out the best fingers to use to play it fast. And that I would. I'd play it over and over again, as fast as I possibly could, and drove my family up the wall! I was about 3 or 4.
I already loved music. My Mum tells me that when I was a baby she found it impossible to get me to sleep. She would try everything, including playing me Blondie tapes. She found a tape of Mozart and played that to me, and it worked like a charm. I instantly stopped crying and I would just listen quietly until I fell asleep. She tells me that one of my first words was 'Mozart' (I kid you not). She tells me that I would blurt it out with wide, excited eyes, whilst bopping up and down when hearing the first few notes of Mozart's 'A Little Night Music'. I don't know how to explain this, but when I hear that song I can vaguely remember the sensation of analyzing that song- hearing the symmetries, the cadences, the dynamics, the structure, the tension and release, though I would not have known how to word those descriptions of what my mind was hearing like I do now. I get major deja vu, like stepping in between two mirrors. I guess that's what happens when you listen to the same few songs every night for who knows how long- never failing to capture my imagination.
I started to make up songs. I started experimenting on the black notes (just as many of the latest children's piano teaching books start with now) and moved to the white notes. The notes had little stickers on them that told me what the notes were called. And I became very familiar with those little notes that are now too small for my fingers. The first song I remember that I wrote with words was called 'Gunrunner'. It was about a computer game my uncle used to play. I must have been about 4 because I still lived there and my uncle was around.
I discovered that I could work out melodies I heard by ear and play them. I wasn't one of those little prodigies playing 'Flight of the Bumblebee' like you can see on youtube a dime a dozen, but it was something that helped me learn songs I heard. I started to figure out how music worked; what sounded good, what didn't, what notes and harmonies illicited what feelings. I began to become more familiar with my palette and started to writing simple music a lot more. I didn't get lessons. I didn't read how-to-play books. Noone in my family was a musician so I don't know if it was genetic or if the situation I found myself in nurtured it. I just did it.
So, alone with my casiotone, I discovered both my escape and my home. My keyboard became an extension of myself. Whilst most little boys were playing with other kids or with trucks and blocks, I was cooped away reading, learning and creating sound.
I'm entering a season of my life where music is becoming a major focus again. The last few years until recently had seen music become very much a part of the background noise of my life (pardon the pun). Now it's my job, it's my hobby, it's my passion and I'm very blessed to be in the position I'm in. I often wondered what the point of my history with music was when I started to see it become less and less important in my life. It was beginning to look like a fading relic in the museum of my soul and I didn't know whether to dust it off or mourn. But my longing to feel, to breathe out, to create- I can't hold my breath anymore, I need to break free and play in the playground again.
I'm buying lots of cool new music making toys but I won't forget my old friend the casiotone, and I hope my children discover music like I did. But they might find their own unique pallette to paint with (like painting ;) ).
I have a tiny little casiotone keyboard sitting in my loungeroom which the kids sometimes play with. My Grandfather gave it specifically to me, making sure to tell me that it was for my birthday AND christmas combined and that I could use it in my homestudio.
Here's a picture of the model.....
But it's still a cool present because it has some history for me.
For the first five years of my life I lived at my Grandparents house at Kareela in the Sutherland Shire. My mother and I, my Nanna and Grandpa and 3 of my 4 uncles all lived in the same house. The youngest uncle was about eight years older than me and he adopted me as a little brother of sorts. I spent many days with Nanna as Mum would be working, sleeping or "daddy-hunting" as she used to call it.
Nanna was (and still is) the traditional Catholic type. She would often be seen with her apron on preparing lunch and the night's dinner and was a creature of routine in her day of housework. I started calling her 'Mum' accidentally which upset my actual mother a bit.
There weren't any kids around to play with that I knew of, so I would spend my days trying to curtail my boredom. I mainly remember two ways my day would pass. I used to read a set of Funk and Wagnall's Encyclopedias and fill my head with lots of useless information. Or I would spend hours upstairs, by myself, playing with my only friend. It had beats and styles and cool buttons that would change the sound, as well as the usual black and white keys. My Grandpa's casiotone. The first song I remember learning to play was Frere Jacques. I figured out how to play it and worked out the best fingers to use to play it fast. And that I would. I'd play it over and over again, as fast as I possibly could, and drove my family up the wall! I was about 3 or 4.
I already loved music. My Mum tells me that when I was a baby she found it impossible to get me to sleep. She would try everything, including playing me Blondie tapes. She found a tape of Mozart and played that to me, and it worked like a charm. I instantly stopped crying and I would just listen quietly until I fell asleep. She tells me that one of my first words was 'Mozart' (I kid you not). She tells me that I would blurt it out with wide, excited eyes, whilst bopping up and down when hearing the first few notes of Mozart's 'A Little Night Music'. I don't know how to explain this, but when I hear that song I can vaguely remember the sensation of analyzing that song- hearing the symmetries, the cadences, the dynamics, the structure, the tension and release, though I would not have known how to word those descriptions of what my mind was hearing like I do now. I get major deja vu, like stepping in between two mirrors. I guess that's what happens when you listen to the same few songs every night for who knows how long- never failing to capture my imagination.
I started to make up songs. I started experimenting on the black notes (just as many of the latest children's piano teaching books start with now) and moved to the white notes. The notes had little stickers on them that told me what the notes were called. And I became very familiar with those little notes that are now too small for my fingers. The first song I remember that I wrote with words was called 'Gunrunner'. It was about a computer game my uncle used to play. I must have been about 4 because I still lived there and my uncle was around.
I discovered that I could work out melodies I heard by ear and play them. I wasn't one of those little prodigies playing 'Flight of the Bumblebee' like you can see on youtube a dime a dozen, but it was something that helped me learn songs I heard. I started to figure out how music worked; what sounded good, what didn't, what notes and harmonies illicited what feelings. I began to become more familiar with my palette and started to writing simple music a lot more. I didn't get lessons. I didn't read how-to-play books. Noone in my family was a musician so I don't know if it was genetic or if the situation I found myself in nurtured it. I just did it.
So, alone with my casiotone, I discovered both my escape and my home. My keyboard became an extension of myself. Whilst most little boys were playing with other kids or with trucks and blocks, I was cooped away reading, learning and creating sound.
I'm entering a season of my life where music is becoming a major focus again. The last few years until recently had seen music become very much a part of the background noise of my life (pardon the pun). Now it's my job, it's my hobby, it's my passion and I'm very blessed to be in the position I'm in. I often wondered what the point of my history with music was when I started to see it become less and less important in my life. It was beginning to look like a fading relic in the museum of my soul and I didn't know whether to dust it off or mourn. But my longing to feel, to breathe out, to create- I can't hold my breath anymore, I need to break free and play in the playground again.
I'm buying lots of cool new music making toys but I won't forget my old friend the casiotone, and I hope my children discover music like I did. But they might find their own unique pallette to paint with (like painting ;) ).
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Edit Profile
* Backspace Backspace Backspace *
Now to redefine myself.
Again.
Or should I?
* Undo *
But is this who I am anymore? How can I say I am this when my life and daily activity no longer reflects it? Nor does it seem it will look any other way anytime soon....
* Backspace Backspace Backspace *
But who am I? Surely I still am? Is this the way my life was meant to turn? Surely this is just another chapter in the bigger picture? Surely this seeming u-turn is actually what was necesary for me to really be what I was meant to be? But what if it's not? I don't want to go there, but what if I am there already?
What if I say something from where I'm at now that I would have regretted yesterday?
Does it matter?
Yes it does, if I still want to be who I plan on returning to who I was yesterday.
* Undo *
If I deny yesterday's identity now, is that it? Is that the final ironic move that checkmates the old me?
So many questions.
Be real Ben.
* Backspace Backspace Backspace *
Edit Profile *click*
Now to redefine myself.
Again.
Or should I?
* Undo *
But is this who I am anymore? How can I say I am this when my life and daily activity no longer reflects it? Nor does it seem it will look any other way anytime soon....
* Backspace Backspace Backspace *
But who am I? Surely I still am? Is this the way my life was meant to turn? Surely this is just another chapter in the bigger picture? Surely this seeming u-turn is actually what was necesary for me to really be what I was meant to be? But what if it's not? I don't want to go there, but what if I am there already?
What if I say something from where I'm at now that I would have regretted yesterday?
Does it matter?
Yes it does, if I still want to be who I plan on returning to who I was yesterday.
* Undo *
If I deny yesterday's identity now, is that it? Is that the final ironic move that checkmates the old me?
So many questions.
Be real Ben.
* Backspace Backspace Backspace *
Edit Profile *click*
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
How it happened- Part 2
Mum made a point of giving me the freedom to choose what I believed. Well kind of. When it came time to get confirmed in to the Roman Catholic Church, Mum asked whether it was something I wanted to do. She said she always wanted me to make my own decision and not be forced into any religion. And thus the contradictions continued. I declined.
"Oh yeah, that. Um, no thanks". As I said before, I was pretty sure about the idea that Christianity was a fairytale which had somehow survived- a relic of primitive thinking with some nice ideas in it about love and such.
I already had one uncle, the oldest of four, who had become one of those fanatical born again Christians. I didn't see him much, as he lived in Brisbane, but I knew there was some back story there and some bad blood in the family towards him.
We were to gain another to the fold. My youngest uncle and I were very close. He was like a big brother to me with age gap of about 8 years (that could be wrong I might need to check that). We would spend a lot of time together and I have many happy memories with him.
He had a fairly tumultuous time in his last years of high school with some fairly serious health and emotional issues I can't get into here, for the sake of his privacy. He became born again as well in a blaze of drama, and much to the consternation of our family. He was very intense about his new found faith. Extremely full on.
My uncle insists that he led me to become a Christian around this time, when I was about ten. I think I may have been interested for a while but I honestly can't remember, so it can't have been too serious. Maybe I just went along with it because I looked up to him so much. What I do remember is that, even if I didn't believe what he believed, I couldn't deny there was a genuine, sudden and dramatic change to the makeup of my uncle's personality. Whilst once he was quick-tempered and mischevous (eg. he would often take me to sneak out of Mass to play basketball and then make up lies to Nanna about sitting "Closer to where we could hear the homily" or something like that), he was now obviously calm, gentle, principled and undoubtedly loving. Others would give him hell about his new belief and he would just turn the other cheek. I couldn't help but respect that.
My mother once said to me in my early teenage years "If you ever become a born again Christian, I will kick you out of the house. I wouldn't be able to stand to live under the same roof as you." To which I replied, "Yeah right Mum. As if I'd ever become one of those". Her comment would prove to be terrifying to me a few years later.
I grew older and many hard and dissapointing things happened to me. I would like to talk about more in other entries. But my attitutde towards Christianity did not change much. I was not a hard atheist as I did definitely feel an attraction towards spirituality and the New Age. Mysteries intrigued me, like the sort of things skeptic magazines make a habit of 'debunking' and ridiculing. I didn't need to cast a greatly critical eye over things like this, because at the end of the day, ESP, UFO's and Nostradamus had no bearing on the direction of my life or my ethics.
It's not like desperate times didn't bring out a hopeful theism in me though...
I once prayed desperately when I was young to find a sheet of homework I had lost after spending half the day turning my bedroom upside down for it. I was on my last chance and I had really completed it this time. "God, if you are real, help me to find my homework and I will follow you". I found it within moments of praying. I didn't follow Him.
When I was in Yr 10 I stood in line before class panicking as I had not done a very important assignment. My friend heard me pray out loud, "Please God if you are real, let the teacher be away today and I will follow you the rest of my life. Please please please!" I stood mouth wide open as another teacher came and informed us that our teacher was away. My friend smiled and gently insisted that perhaps I should keep my half-joke of a promise. I didn't.
And finally, one day later in Yr 10, I stood in my kitchen and simply looked outside at the blue sky. For no apparent reason at all my perspective changed. One moment I saw the world with no God, the next moment I thought 'there must be a God'. No explanation, it just happened. But that did not mean the christian God was the right one.
I entered Yr 11 after a very difficult few years. I had suffered pretty severe depression the year before and I was emerging a happier person. I began to get some of the few simple things in life I craved, that I thought would make me happy- friends, popularity, girls (well okay not that many girls ;) ), alcohol etc. Things were turning out okay. Right? Right?
A few friends of mine who had been brought up in a bible-believing Anglican Church became born again. And they eventually caught the radical bug too. One was more upfront in talking to me, whilst one just continued his friendship with me, allowing me to observe his life. Either way, conversations came up. With those in my life who were born again and spoke to me about it, at this stage, my approach was to expose the ridiculousness of their beliefs.
I battered them with questions that I didn't think there were any good answers to. I tried to stump them. Instead, they would be patient with me and continually came back with answers. They weren't necessarily convincing but they were better than I expected. Slowly, over a period of about 6 months, the answers became cumulativley weighty, and worthy of consideration. I attended an Anglican church a few times and heard a gospel presentation which I had heard many times before and something tugged at me in the depths of my being.
This continued to a point where it became all too much. I came to the realization after considering all that I had heard- this could very well be true. It wasn't my intellect so much that was holding me back anymore. This had exposed the depths of my heart. I knew the cost of becoming a Christian and I didn't want to pay it. I liked getting drunk every weekend, I liked living my own life and most of all, I had my Mother's words echoing in the back of my head "If you ever become a Christian I will kick you out of the house." We were very close and I didn't want to wreck that. So I shut this all out. I didn't want to hear anymore. It all got shoved in the proverbial bottom draw. But not for long.
It was the end of the school year, between Yr 11 and 12, Christmas holidays 2008. I was sitting in my lounge room by myself when, being Christmas holidays, a Jesus cartoon came on TV. I had been going to some effort to avoid the God question and this wasn't going to stop now.
'Oh no just go away would you?'. I got up to walk away.
And then I stopped. I stopped dead in the middle of the lounge room and was paralyzed.
Out of nowhere, taking me completely by surprise, I experienced something life-changing. Before me, in my mind's eye- as real as it could possibly be without being right there in the room with me- I was confronted with an image of Jesus looking at me, in bright, white shining robes. I could not move and I had waves and waves of pure ecstacy going from my head to my toes. In one moment I believe I comprehended both the perfect love of God and my own sin and complete undeservedness. I was overwhelmed.
It was too much. I got control again and I took a breath. A tear rolled down my eye. I was shaking and I sat back down on the couch. I immediately thought "What the hell was that???". (Forgive me as I smile and remember my inaproppriate response.)
I couldn't deny that. That came from nowhere. I thought to myself and realized that I had been running away. But this was not something, or Someone, I wanted to run away from. I wanted more. I knew I didn't deserve it but I knew God had chased me down.
I called my uncle and told him what happened. We met at McDonalds and I enthusiastically gave my life to the Lord.
And that's how it happened. That's how I became a Christian- the day I experienced a moment of heaven and a glimpse of the glory of God.
"Oh yeah, that. Um, no thanks". As I said before, I was pretty sure about the idea that Christianity was a fairytale which had somehow survived- a relic of primitive thinking with some nice ideas in it about love and such.
I already had one uncle, the oldest of four, who had become one of those fanatical born again Christians. I didn't see him much, as he lived in Brisbane, but I knew there was some back story there and some bad blood in the family towards him.
We were to gain another to the fold. My youngest uncle and I were very close. He was like a big brother to me with age gap of about 8 years (that could be wrong I might need to check that). We would spend a lot of time together and I have many happy memories with him.
He had a fairly tumultuous time in his last years of high school with some fairly serious health and emotional issues I can't get into here, for the sake of his privacy. He became born again as well in a blaze of drama, and much to the consternation of our family. He was very intense about his new found faith. Extremely full on.
My uncle insists that he led me to become a Christian around this time, when I was about ten. I think I may have been interested for a while but I honestly can't remember, so it can't have been too serious. Maybe I just went along with it because I looked up to him so much. What I do remember is that, even if I didn't believe what he believed, I couldn't deny there was a genuine, sudden and dramatic change to the makeup of my uncle's personality. Whilst once he was quick-tempered and mischevous (eg. he would often take me to sneak out of Mass to play basketball and then make up lies to Nanna about sitting "Closer to where we could hear the homily" or something like that), he was now obviously calm, gentle, principled and undoubtedly loving. Others would give him hell about his new belief and he would just turn the other cheek. I couldn't help but respect that.
My mother once said to me in my early teenage years "If you ever become a born again Christian, I will kick you out of the house. I wouldn't be able to stand to live under the same roof as you." To which I replied, "Yeah right Mum. As if I'd ever become one of those". Her comment would prove to be terrifying to me a few years later.
I grew older and many hard and dissapointing things happened to me. I would like to talk about more in other entries. But my attitutde towards Christianity did not change much. I was not a hard atheist as I did definitely feel an attraction towards spirituality and the New Age. Mysteries intrigued me, like the sort of things skeptic magazines make a habit of 'debunking' and ridiculing. I didn't need to cast a greatly critical eye over things like this, because at the end of the day, ESP, UFO's and Nostradamus had no bearing on the direction of my life or my ethics.
It's not like desperate times didn't bring out a hopeful theism in me though...
I once prayed desperately when I was young to find a sheet of homework I had lost after spending half the day turning my bedroom upside down for it. I was on my last chance and I had really completed it this time. "God, if you are real, help me to find my homework and I will follow you". I found it within moments of praying. I didn't follow Him.
When I was in Yr 10 I stood in line before class panicking as I had not done a very important assignment. My friend heard me pray out loud, "Please God if you are real, let the teacher be away today and I will follow you the rest of my life. Please please please!" I stood mouth wide open as another teacher came and informed us that our teacher was away. My friend smiled and gently insisted that perhaps I should keep my half-joke of a promise. I didn't.
And finally, one day later in Yr 10, I stood in my kitchen and simply looked outside at the blue sky. For no apparent reason at all my perspective changed. One moment I saw the world with no God, the next moment I thought 'there must be a God'. No explanation, it just happened. But that did not mean the christian God was the right one.
I entered Yr 11 after a very difficult few years. I had suffered pretty severe depression the year before and I was emerging a happier person. I began to get some of the few simple things in life I craved, that I thought would make me happy- friends, popularity, girls (well okay not that many girls ;) ), alcohol etc. Things were turning out okay. Right? Right?
A few friends of mine who had been brought up in a bible-believing Anglican Church became born again. And they eventually caught the radical bug too. One was more upfront in talking to me, whilst one just continued his friendship with me, allowing me to observe his life. Either way, conversations came up. With those in my life who were born again and spoke to me about it, at this stage, my approach was to expose the ridiculousness of their beliefs.
I battered them with questions that I didn't think there were any good answers to. I tried to stump them. Instead, they would be patient with me and continually came back with answers. They weren't necessarily convincing but they were better than I expected. Slowly, over a period of about 6 months, the answers became cumulativley weighty, and worthy of consideration. I attended an Anglican church a few times and heard a gospel presentation which I had heard many times before and something tugged at me in the depths of my being.
This continued to a point where it became all too much. I came to the realization after considering all that I had heard- this could very well be true. It wasn't my intellect so much that was holding me back anymore. This had exposed the depths of my heart. I knew the cost of becoming a Christian and I didn't want to pay it. I liked getting drunk every weekend, I liked living my own life and most of all, I had my Mother's words echoing in the back of my head "If you ever become a Christian I will kick you out of the house." We were very close and I didn't want to wreck that. So I shut this all out. I didn't want to hear anymore. It all got shoved in the proverbial bottom draw. But not for long.
It was the end of the school year, between Yr 11 and 12, Christmas holidays 2008. I was sitting in my lounge room by myself when, being Christmas holidays, a Jesus cartoon came on TV. I had been going to some effort to avoid the God question and this wasn't going to stop now.
'Oh no just go away would you?'. I got up to walk away.
And then I stopped. I stopped dead in the middle of the lounge room and was paralyzed.
Out of nowhere, taking me completely by surprise, I experienced something life-changing. Before me, in my mind's eye- as real as it could possibly be without being right there in the room with me- I was confronted with an image of Jesus looking at me, in bright, white shining robes. I could not move and I had waves and waves of pure ecstacy going from my head to my toes. In one moment I believe I comprehended both the perfect love of God and my own sin and complete undeservedness. I was overwhelmed.
It was too much. I got control again and I took a breath. A tear rolled down my eye. I was shaking and I sat back down on the couch. I immediately thought "What the hell was that???". (Forgive me as I smile and remember my inaproppriate response.)
I couldn't deny that. That came from nowhere. I thought to myself and realized that I had been running away. But this was not something, or Someone, I wanted to run away from. I wanted more. I knew I didn't deserve it but I knew God had chased me down.
I called my uncle and told him what happened. We met at McDonalds and I enthusiastically gave my life to the Lord.
And that's how it happened. That's how I became a Christian- the day I experienced a moment of heaven and a glimpse of the glory of God.
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