There lies a sensible heart

My uncle Travis was the first person to introduce me to the band, “City and Colour.”   During one of his [rare] visits, he shared an extensive amount of music files with me.  I remember he had asked me, “what kind of music do you like?”  It left me rather perplexed.  I could not merely limit my music taste to one measly genre.  In fact, my kind of music is vastly abstract.  I answered with multiple descriptions, but my prime genre was what I call “mellow music.”  If I were to define “mellow music” I would think of something intrinsic—Jack’s Mannequin, Augustana, Coldplay, Trespasser Williams, Analogous Rebellion, Freelance Whales, etc.   It is something independent and alternative, something that incorporates poetic lyrics with unique instruments [like the classical touch of a piano or the indie string of an acoustic guitar.] 

Travis replied with, “I think you would really like City and Colour.”  He must have been very confident in his assumption because he immediately transferred every album to my computer storage and added it to my happy itunes family of “mellow music.”  Such albums were Sometimes (2005-2007), Bring Me Your Love (2008-2009), and Little Hell (2010-present day). 

The first song I listened to was entitled, “Body in a Box.”  The song began with a musical piece incorporating a harmonica and an acoustic guitar.  Immediately, my perspective of the band was that it provided a folk music perspective.  It was a feeling I was rather familiar with after listening to The Weepies’s, “The World Spins Madly On.”  The lyrics were poetic and stimulated every appeal: ethos, logos and pathos.   In my personal opinion, I believe that the best music convey and provoke emotions and that is exactly what Dallas Green’s music does to his audience.  The lyric’s contents were an exceptional juxtaposition of metaphorical and poetic writing and folk, indie music.  If I were to annotate and generally analyze my interpretation of the song, my personal interpretation would take a vital stab at the idea of “death” as a metaphor (this can also be seen in Band of Horses’ “The Funeral).   Although the idea of funerals, death and mortality in general are rather uncomfortable to discuss, Dallas Green implies that death can be a beautifully earnest moment in ones’ life. 

After succumbing to a deep infatuation for the band, I spent every hour enjoying what my Pandora station could conjure for my latest obsession.   Out of the many songs I had listened to by City and Colour the following had left a memorable imprint:

Casey’s Song

Although the song is seemingly short and simple, the acoustic piece is musical perfection—from the initial stroke of the strings to the chords in the repeated versus.  The lyrics do not contain any thorough substance and are in fact rather vague.  But with all honesty, some of the simplest songs are the best ones. 

 Comin’ Home

Really underlining the cliché, “home is where the heart is.”  It puts a scrutinized eye on the idea of touring as an artist (with a rather tongue and cheek connotation, I might add) and explains this sudden sadness of leaving home.

Hello, I’m in Delaware

This song is one that exceptionally resonates with me.  Green’s voice is by far utterly gentle and the song’s repetitive chorus “I will see you again” is my favorite reflection on Dallas’s talent as a vocalists.  I had mentioned before in my first entry that this song reminds me of a tangible object.   When I listen to the song now, it only reminds me of the fact that it would be the perfect song for a memorial service.  I suppose it touches that melancholy and lugubrious appeal.

Save Your Scissors

At last!  The song I have honorably used to title my blog.   The lyrics are the perfect example of a musical juxtaposition.  The instrumental portion is very mellow and calming and yet the lyrics are very blatant (maybe even unintentionally violent) in which Green discusses the controversial issue of cutting.  I did not dedicate my blog title because of the lyrics (in my personal opinion, I believe that Dallas Green has other notable songs that I would have liked to recognize) but rather, I like the uniqueness of the name.  It’s something anomalous, particular and spontaneous. 



My parachute didn't open

Hello, Sprinkles.  I have been waiting forever to write another entry in my blog.  Now that it is officially summer, I am ready to sit in front of my laptop and peel every single layer of my story until I’m down to its most naked, raw core.  Kind of like a sunburn (Here I go with the similes and the incognito metaphors).    Since the semester finally came to its trudging stop, I have inquired a latest obsession with my Netflix account in which I spend continuous hours watching Weeds and Dexter and (most importantly) I have rekindled my love with my collection of Jodi Piccoult novels.   

But after being absent from the blogger world for nearly a week, I have decided to dedicate this entry to share a fond memory.  Unlike my latest blogging fetish, my sophomore year was fully dedicated to my reading.   I had picked up a book entitled, “Where the Heart Is” only to notice that it had been acknowledged as an acclaimed piece for Oprah’s Book Club.  Billy Letts’s novel, most commonly recognized as the story about the Wal-Mart baby, became my personal favorite.  I read it repeatedly five times.  I became so familiar with the novel that I could simply flip through its pages and single out my favorite quotes.  I picked up another book that was part of Oprah’s Book Club and thus I started a reeling goal to read every single book that was on Oprah’s list of critical masterpieces—from the deep, dramatic novelist, Wally Lamb to the poetic, short-story writer, Tim O’Brien.

I remember this clearly—I was sitting at my grandmother’s kitchen table thumbing through, “The Things They Carried” when CNN broadcasted the latest rumor that the memoir, “A Million Little Pieces” by James Frey was entirely fabricated.  I stared at the screen that displayed a picture of the memoir and listened to the most outrageous raucous that we call “news.”  The book’s cover had caught my attention a few times during my frequent trips to the local Barnes and Nobles, so I was vaguely familiar with Frey.  I was not completely entitled to an opinion at that moment at my grandmother’s kitchen table, but I was surely going to change that. 

I considered it-- as ridiculous as it may sound—an ironic sort- of- fate.  “A Million Little Pieces” had been on Oprah’s Book Club’s list!  It was my first memoir and I was completely enthralled with James’s writing.  At first, I had to adjust to his format.  He wrote without using proper punctuation and instead left sentences choppy and short as if they were broken up, get this, into little pieces.  He had the reverence of a poet and wrote with a benediction in mind.  His memoir documented his time in Rehab. Therefore; the entire piece was rather brutal.  The language was vulgar and had a bawdy humor to it. After reading Frey’s memoir thoroughly, I had realized that I could not, and adamantly would not, believe that any of its’ content was “fabricated.” 

So, I did further research.  I had waited for James Frey to make an appearance on Oprah’s talk show only to watch her belligerently attack Frey for “fooling his readers.”  It was there that she announced that Frey’s memoir would no longer be part of her acclaimed list of novels.  And furthermore, I found out that bookstores were making bargains with costumers that had purchased the memoir: If the customer had purchased the book a month prior to the news of its’ stated “fabricated content” the costumer could return the memoir with the receipt and receive full credit back.  Lets make a ridiculous assumption and assume that maybe some of the content was indeed falsified, it is still creditably his work and deserves to be awarded.   It does not matter whether the story may be entirely true, it is a story nonetheless and every story deserves some credit.  I tried to imagine how difficult it may be to keep a poignant documented record of events during a time of rehabilitation.   It is safe to say that James must had been at times, rather distorted and secluded from society, so not all of his memories of his trip with crystal meth will be CRYSTAL clear.

That summer I wrote a rather lengthy letter.  I had spent days on end trying to find any sort of contact information that might lead me through a bee line to Frey.  In the letter I wrote I gave him my utmost opinion, I annotated my favorite parts in his memoirs and related it to the controversy that had sparked in the media, and then I praised him and his work.  His assistant, Joyce, replied to an email I had sent her and told me that my letter was “by far inspirational.”  She had also informed me that she would directly hand it to James. 

All through June I waited with much apprehension for Joyce to contact me. In July I had received a package.  The envelope was worn and bore a vast amount of stamps on its face.  Inside was a copy of “A Million Little Pieces” and on its inside cover was a letter from James.  I recognized his style—the lack of punctuation, the short but yet straight thoughts.  “Thank you, Thank you, Thank you.” he continued at the end.  I knew at that instant I had accomplished what I wanted to do. I had given James Frey a piece of positivity that he could add to his own millions.

James had become my own personal pen-pal.  He had sent his first rough draft of the novel he was going to make and credited me. I was honored to say the least.  But what I found most treasuring was the fact that he told me that none of his documented writings was fabricated. In fact, the only thing that James had changed were the characters’ name for personal privacy and the true details of Lily’s death.  And that, I will keep to myself, bloggers. But trust me, trust me, trust me.

Song of the day: PlayRadioPlay!’s (I’m not sure if this band can still be searched as “PlayRadioPlay!” because the name had changed sometime in the long run when I lost touch with Dan’s music. If not, try “Analogous Rebellion.”)  Decipher Reflections from Reality.   It’s the song I had discussed with James as a musical reflection on his written piece.  Analogous Rebellion is a one-man-band from Fort Worth, Texas ---not necessarily considered “underground” but it surely is not recognized as much as it should be.

Paris is always a good idea

I was at Hobby Lobby the other day, absent-mindedly surveying their collection of home décor (in which I nearly always take home as an additional elaboration for my Paris themed bedroom) when it dawned on me—a sudden, life-changing epiphany.   I was going to go to Paris!

After spending my entire life anticipating college and its’ multiple (and yet seemingly slim) fortunes, I have finally realized what I want to do with my life and where it is I want to do such things.  I must make it a point, mostly for myself, that I have never taken my future with a grain of salt, or should I say le sucre!  I nearly almost surpass even my own expectations and now I have the most far-fetched, intriguing, and need I say most OUTRAGEOUS dream.  I want to be a journalist in the city of lights, vintage and fashion, beauty and wanders.  Je veux passer ma vie à Paris !

I’m not nearly familiar with any of the city’s history and I do not know how to speak French other than what a pocket translating dictionary may have to offer.  All I know is that it is beautiful and surely “beauty” is enough for me.  The inspiration is making me too anxious. 

The last book I read, after being mercilessly bombarded with the “masterpieces” of ancient Literature, was titled “Sarah’s Key” by Tatiana de Rosnay.   I am too familiar with the modern cliché, “do not judge a book by its cover” but that’s exactly what I did.  The cover looked as if it were a painting because the colors were tarnished like a hand-crafted Victorian peinture.  It symbolized vintage imagery in its most elegant form.  Sarah’s Key was a documented story of the Holocaust and its clandestine origins in France.  I have always had the most perverse infatuation for German history and had indulged myself in a plethora of other novels, but this was the first book I had ever read that was not stationed in Auschwitz, Poland or Germany.  Little did I know, and maybe other novelty historians were not aware of this, the Holocaust had some secretive connective tissues in France.   Rosnay reveals one of the most melancholy memories (At last, some alliteration!) of a young, Jewish-French girl surviving the 1942 Paris roundups and deportations.  Sarah, along with many Jews in France, were seized by invading Nazis and held in the Vélodrome d'Hiver right outside the city.

There are plenty of memorials for the French-Jews that had been imprisoned and exterminated by the German Nazis, one of the most exclusive memorials being in Paris. I would to have liked to be one of the many to place a remembrance stone at the old Vélodrome d'Hiver for my fictional friend, Sarah. It sounds strange, but I’m sure many writers and avid readers would understand.

After reading Sarah’s Key, I was inspired to write my own Holocaust novel.  Of course I am not nearly as knowledgeable as the holocaust historians, but I feel that I have read enough to be able to conjure my own story.  I have already decided on my main protagonist, Ada, which means “the noble kind” in Hebrew and her demolition lover, Joseph (yet another religious name to follow my name scheme).   Ada, a French-Jewish girl will be the voice of the novel. My novel will be a romantic drama and embellish more on Ada and Joseph’s story rather than the Holocaust in a historical text.  Joseph, a young soldier training under Hitler’s rule, falls in love with Ada before he finds out she is one of the many Jews that his father, a Gustapo, must deport to Auschwitz. It is still in its roughest form and I am constantly brainstorming.  Eventually, I will be able to complete my novel—maybe when I’m in Paris!

So consider this to be the first novel I introduce in my blog.  It is a quick, short read and I highly recommend it to those that find drama and its emotional appeal as a work of art, to read it thoroughly.

Mon obsession paris est venu à son apogée complet. Ce n'est que l'une des raisons pourquoi je veux simplement vivre en France, mais je suis plus que sûr que je vais trouver beaucoup plus dans une si belle ville. Donnez-vous dès mes amis, xx enregistrer vos ciseaux: Kayla-Ann

Hello sunshine, come into my life.

Hello, Sunshine! I am making a rather blatant introduction into this blogger world. I figured I would start my writing by stripping away every morsel of virtue and begin completely and utterly raw.   It has taken years of thought to publish any of my work, solely because I tend to reveal more than what I entirely ever expect to. I have seen my writing as my only weapon and therefore, I assure you, to those that will follow me on this virtual journey, to take a shield. I have decided that my blog will not focus on any specific topic. Rather, I will be writing about everything: every day experiences, the most brutal and yet most memorable memories (I should make a note that the literary element I tend to use OBSESSIVELY is alliteration!), music and movies, fashion, art, politics, environmental issues, etc.  I have taken on this summer project after my first year of college in which I hope to indulge myself in literature, to launch my own book club and to write extensively. Therefore, I will devote my time to “save your scissors” avidly.  [I must say, I wasn’t the one who initially came up with the unique title. That would be the music genius and prodigy: Dallas Green.  My music taste has been savoring; “City and Colour” for some time now—and I have been craving to write, annotate and analyze this band.  Consider this yet another note—MUST write about City and Colour.]


Like I said, I’m writing raw. So, I would like to dedicate my first blog and publish one of my most personal, treasured pieces of writings.  Initially, this piece, “Sunshine on my Shoulders” was written for the admissions office of the most pristine Ivy Leagues. Indeed, I chose to share my most intimate piece with the holy trinity—Yale, Princeton, and Harvard.  In return, I was one of the few students my junior year of High School to be part of the LEDA summer program at Princeton University for young, prosperous journalists.  Yale—might I add, rejected my acceptance—but both Yale and Harvard asked to publish my work in their university journals.  It still boggles my mind that Yale would ask to use MY work in THEIR journal after being rejected. I replied to their email with a simple—“NO, you pernicious pricks!” So, here it is for YOU my friends. 

Sunshine on my Shoulders

 My best friend, Summer, was the epitome of sunshine.  She loved the simplicity of life—walking barefoot, Leonardo Dicaprio’s jaw dropping smile and her collected artifacts of June bugs and caterpillars; whereas, I was the one who pinned over ridiculous things like the chicken pox scar branded on my upper lip. Summer was always my second consciousness:  She was fearless, spoke the language of toads, and had an eye for the smallest of stars. 

            We used to live in an old, run-down apartment complex through our childhood.  The landlord was an older lady named Margo, who sat on her balcony porch, humming the clattering tunes of “Tejano” music with her obese Chihuahua snorting the back vocals on her lap. The laundry room was furnished with ancient appliances that burnt holes in the sleeves of our shirts and a giant empty crater in the center of the apartments used to be a pool. One would think that this place was desolate of childhood fun but barricaded behind Summer’s staircase was a patch of land infested with the shells of vacuously cacophonous locusts and overgrown weeds. 

I had just finished reading The Secret Garden and had enthralled my adventurous friend with the stories of little Mary and Collin.  Inspired by the tales of Craven’s mystical realm of nature, Summer came up with the plan to create our very own “secret garden.”

            Michael, Summer’s step-father, was a firm believer in adventure.  He usually wore the same oversized army shirt and talked with a cigarette bud bobbing from the corner of his mouth such as warm summer bomb fires.  Every week, Michael would take us to the local flower shop to pick out a new plant until we learned to identify a flower by its leave’s texture and scent. Soon enough, it had become our own little “secret garden.”  Its erratic maze of grape vines, tulips and orchids made our cheap little apartment complex a better place.

            I remember when Michael planted a buckeye tree in the center of our fence of wild daisies.  It was barely sprouting with a few measly leaves wavering from a twig.  He told us an old myth: if you grew a buckeye tree with love and hope, you would always have good fortunes.  So Summer and I watered, plowed, and watched the small bud grow into a young sapling.  We put all of our dreams into that tree. Michael even went to the extreme length of having us pluck a leaf when we wanted to make a wish.  We were outrageous with our requests.

           It turned out that our fortune wasn’t as fruitful as our tree.  Michael was killed in a car accident, ruthlessly decapitated by an unlicensed driver, and it seemed too wrong to hope again.  Summer turned to winter and fell from grace, without the “grace” of a beautiful autumn. I stared into her bright sapphires, the color of Japanese orchids, while she plucked every last leaf off of our now desolate tree.  She said in a barely audible whisper, “I’m wishing for Michael.”  The leaves were fisted in her palm, knuckles burning snow-white before she released them and then they hovered and danced in the wind before raining down like a benediction.  I can think about all the hopeful promises that the season summer guarantees: an endless suntan, seedless watermelons by the pool, and a fresh start. I can’t help but wonder why Summer had never saved any wishes for herself. 

            I always hoped that Summer would rise from the winter ashes but it turned out that I was the one who was resurrected instead.  Raised by a teenage mother, I had learned the significance of sacrifice and hard work at an early age.  Unfortunately, I could not say the same for my absent father who spent most of my child-support purchasing the best “dope” in the Rio Grande Valley—chasing his own endless and empty summer. Soon enough, I abandoned my buckeye tree and its budding promises because I knew that I could not base my good fortunes on “simple luck” or “childhood fantasies.”

            It has been many summers since I have made a buckeye wish because I told myself that I never had the time to indulge in such fanciful things. By the time I had entered high school, I knew that it would take more than a buckeye leaf in my back pocket to get me where I wanted to go.  It would take Michael’s perceptive genius, Summer’s intrepid spirit and my diligent desire to help me realize that life was not about “free wishes.”

            The myth goes that if you plant a buckeye tree with hope and love, all your wishes will come true.  Michael planted this seed of hope in our hearts for Summer and I to believe in.  What we failed to realize was the significance of each wish.  We valued the buckeye tree for its free luck rather than the hard work and dedication it took to create it.  We were children and during the fruitful springs of our lives, we believed that our luck was guaranteed.

            The seasons have changed, as they inevitably do, but I am yet still the same.  I miss Michael every single day and I still cannot fathom the reality of his absence—every summer, every spring, every fall, every winter. I know my buckeye wish was his simple metaphor—it was a lesson—but a damn good one. I miss you, and I love you. Thank you for being the only father figure I ever had growing up. You were my buckeye wish.  

--There you go, my fellow bloggers.  I know for a fact that Michael would have wanted me to share this with the world and would be, in lack of better words-pissed, that I would deny Yale and Harvard the right to use it in their journals.  I can already hear him, "let it go, let them use it." But that was just it: I couldn't let it go. I suppose it's because I could never let him go.
I’m going to take a stab at my “note” and flag down: City and Colour.  I’m currently listening to, “Hello, I’m in Delaware.”  Ironic enough, the lyrics collaborate so well with my emotions at this point in my blog.  Dallas Green, his voice completely intrinsic with the acoustic guitar, conveys the most therapeutic emotions.  I would consider this “mellow” music but such a vague title does not begin to describe a song.  It may be odd—but I think of tangible objects when I hear a song.  What does this song remind me of?  With all honesty, I think of wind-chimes.  Most definitely not the obnoxious metal/silver chimes that are either piercing or flat out ANNOYING, but a set of wooden chimes that my grandmother has draped over a rusted hummingbird feeder.  Green’s voice does not have that near high, off the scale octave as a silver chime but has that warm, hallow tune of my grandmother’s wooden accessory.  Odd, I know. But like I said, how can I begin to describe such a song? Write you soon, friends. xx- save your scissors: Kayla-Ann.