O Where Are Our Dear Children?

It's been a really ridiculous time in our country—ridiculous, but mostly scary. The coming administration, the highest offices in the nation, will be filled by those who would wish death and violence on those all around me and very dear to me and thousands of Americans whom I've never met. 

Last Wednesday, our campus was the quietest I've ever seen it. There was fear and grief each way I turned...and so much crying. Mr. Stover, the director of Chapel choir, opened rehearsal with a solemn speech. He said, "I, a thirty-eight-year-old white man, raising a three year old son, and bringing another into the world, but with more privilege than anyone, am terrified. I can't imagine how others among us feel." (And then he cried, because he is a very emotional man.) At Christmas Festival rehearsal, Dr. Armstrong lamented the great divide in our country, and revealed that he was among those of us who were grieving. 

And the next day, there was rage. There were hundreds of people in the atrium of the commons and looking down from the floors above, screaming and chanting and crying, saying, "Silence is violence!" and "Dump the Trump!" and "Fuck Donald Trump!". Many shared their stories and the stories of their families and loved ones facing overt racism and xenophobia and violence. Of course, someone in the administration sent out an email saying that she was "concerned" that some (i.e. Trump supporters) would not feel safe on campus. I (and many others) was incensed by this. Could she not smell the fear among the rest of us? The fear for our lives? To paraphrase an anonymous source, "To all the Oles and Carls saying that all viewpoints aren't celebrated here: cry me a river. If you want your racist, ableist, view celebrated, the rest of the world will do it for you." Unfortunately, that seems to be true; that half the country would support those ideals.

On Sunday, Chapel choir sang in worship. We offered two songs: the Lauridsen setting of "O Nata Lux", and a setting of an Appalachian folk hymn, "Bright Morning Stars". The text of the latter is thus:

Bright morning stars are rising,
Day’s a-breaking in my soul. 
Oh, where are our dear fathers? 
They are down in the valley praying;
Day’s a-breaking in my soul. 
Oh where are our dear mothers? 
They have gone to heaven shouting;
Day’s a-breaking in my soul. 
They’re upon the earth a-dancing;
Day’s a-breaking in my soul. 
Bright morning stars are rising, 
Day’s a-breaking in my soul. 

As we sang, I thought of all the children who might lose their mothers and fathers to deportation in the coming years, all those who would lose their mothers, fathers, and children to racial violence, all the children who won't get to have childhoods because they will be forced to grow up by the horrors around them, and I was overcome with grief. How can we sing "Day's a-breaking in my soul" when there is nothing but darkness on the horizon? Where is the hope? There is none to be seen.

The Flood

I'm sitting in the cafe in downtown Northfield that Oles and Carls alike frequent for studying. It's called "Goodbye Blue Monday". I'm not exactly sure what the history of the name is; I honestly don't care enough to find out. I don't come to town very often, because truly, why would I? Campus have everything I really need. Since some 95% of students live on campus all four years, student life is vibrant (not that I do much with other human beings), we have our own café (called The Cage; it's a popular study spot, and I often go there after practicing in the evening for a café au lait and and egg and cheese bagel), we have many, 350 acres of nature preserve, and plenty of concerts. This is all to say that the mile or so walk isn't really worth it to me, though I do occasionally stop by the small Mexican market at the end of Ole Avenue for a tamal or tamarind candy or some dried mango with chili and lemon.

It's parents' weekend at St. Olaf (and possibly Carleton? I don't keep track), and I often find myself in town when there are lots of parents around. I'm not sure why that is. Maybe it's that I'm missing my own family? I don't think so. Maybe it's peoplewatching. That could well be it. And often, people bring their dogs which is a bonus. Today in particular I came down to see the flooding. The river is some 8 feet higher than usual right now. The riverwalk is completely submerged, and two bridges are closed for danger of more flooding. Rice county is still on flood watch, I think. It simply will not stop raining. St. Olaf is up on the hill, so we're safe, but it's very scary for the farmlands in the area.

On another note entirely, I had my first dream in a long time about my childhood church. I dreamt I was home to see a concert there in which Gloria was playing. I tried to walk into the sanctuary but was accosted by one of the clergy, who was standing in the doorway handing out programs. I had to physically fight her to get past. I didn't knock her out, but came close. I wasn't forced or even asked to leave by anyone after that—I had reclaimed the space, and I listened to the concert in peace. On awakening, I was less out-of-sorts that one might expect. I lay there and just sort of blankly stared at the window for a long time.

Nothing, Really

It's half-past midnight and I have an 8am class tomorrow (International Relations, in case you were wondering, though I'm sure you weren't), but sleep is distant. My brain is awake, and there's nothing to be done for that. 

I'm not sure why I thought it would be a good idea to post on this deserted blog at this time. I was thinking about the "Tie That Binds" entry and came back and read it a few times over... I don't know why that wasn't enough; just to read it and then go play some dumb game on my phone til my eyes crossed (I'm all about Two Dots, personally). Maybe I just noticed that I haven't posted in a while and thought I should. Or maybe I was so haunted by rereading that post that I felt I had to sort out my feelings or something. I don't know. The exhausted brain works in mysterious ways. 

Well, I suppose I should mention that I'm back at St. Olaf after a long summer of waffling about and trying to decide if returning was worth the risk of crashing and burning, or if I was ready to go back at all. Anyway, here I am, thanks to my parents' generosity toward the education we all hope I'll get. That is, we hope I'll get it without any more visits to the psychiatric ward. 

I've finally started organ lessons. My skills going in were rudimentary at best, but I'm quickly making great strides. That's not to brag; that's to say that not only do I study with a very fine instructor, but study of the organ feels far more natural to me than study of piano ever did. When I first sat down to practice on the tracker organ in the recital hall, it felt as if I should have been there my entire life. Practicing is so gratifying, too. I feel my body slowly beginning to fit into the sleeve of an organist. My very first organ shoes are coming in the mail soon. I'm almost fit to be a real musician now. Every person to call himself a musician should study organ. The organ makes use of the entire human body and strings together the senses in a manner unlike any other instrument or form of musicianship. Mozart was quite correct in his assertion that the organ is "the king of instruments". That was probably the only thing Mozart was ever correct about in his short life. (Go on, ask me how I feel about Mozart.)

I also joined one of the non-first-year choirs. I'm not sure how I feel about it yet, but more on that later. And I'm back in chamber choir. Those rehearsals remain my favorite parts of the week, mostly because early music, but I also really like to sing in chamber ensembles, and Therees is a great person with whom to do so. 

My head is hurting. Time to stop looking at a screen. Goodnight. 

Photographic Memory

This is my first nonclassical endeavor. I made it with a very old version of garage band. It's a cover of one of my favorite works by Emilie Autumn. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SVHJla-JbEU

The lyrics describe a phenomenon that's been very common and relevant through my entire life. Here are the lyrics:

Photographic Memory

Emily Autumn Fritzges

Arr. S. Shaw Richner

"You’re not so far away

You’re sitting in the space between the night and day

And so I’ll wait*

For the sound of your footsteps

The tea that’s brewed too strong

Like part of me that’s waited patiently for oh! so long

(At least I tried)

But I’m relying on my photographic memory

While painfully realizing it’s not all it’s cracked up to be

And falling’s just another way to fly

(I wonder why it’s never easier

than the first Time)

-You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.

-I believe in God the Father almighty, maker of heaven and earth, and in Jesus Christ, his only Son, our Lord.

-It was a misty morning on the top of a hill…

-All creatures of our God and King…

-Have we met?

-I will give You thanks, O Lord.

-This’ll only hurt a little.

-It’s been a really really really long Time.

-I also love Mendelssohn! Have you heard the Hebrides?

-Oh Sorbie! Bless your heart.

-Hey, how good is your French?

The first time…

Time…"

*The original says “So I’ll wait”. In this cover, there are three voices in unison on this line. One of them is saying “I’ll wait”, but the other two are saying “I pray”.

Sources: The Miranda warning, the Apostle’s creed, poetry and tune by Carl Nagy, St. Francis of Assisi (tune: Lasst Uns Enfreuen, tr. “Let us all joyfully praise”; Auss­er­le­se­ne Ca­thol­ische Geist­liche Kirch­en­ge­sang), Psalm 138.

The lyrics describe clinging to something or someone who may or may not ever return to your life. In my cover, the lyrics are mostly very hard to discern. They are lost in the fog of memory. The irony is that your memory is referred to as "photographic", but in reality, everything you remember fades and warps with time, no matter how good your memory seems. Even those among us who think we remember everything that's every happened to us lose precious things in time. A strong memory is "not all it's cracked up to be", especially when you carry a yearning for things that will never come again. Memories aren't enough to sate such yearning. 

I finished this project a few months ago, but it's particularly relevant to my life right now (see "The Tie That Binds"). There are things I will never get back. There are feelings I will never experience again. Cutting ties is never easier than the first time. Opening your heart, which is both flying and falling, is never easier than the first time. Facing the consequences of doing so is never easier than the first time. 

The first Time...

Time...

Time...

The Tie That Binds

Severing ties is difficult under any circumstances. For a person such as myself who does not form bonds casually, who invests a great deal of emotional energy in attachment, it's especially difficult. Saying goodbye is a great strain. Severing ties—that is, saying goodbye on purpose and forever—is heartbreak.

I've rarely in my brief existence had to cut an entire person out of my life. Never have I had to cut out an entire institution. But it's what I have to do now: I'm leaving my lifelong church.

I don't really know what I'm doing, frankly. I don't know if I even have the resolve for an endeavor like this. I place a very high value on forgiveness. I view it as an important tenet of love: "Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us." I forgive all that I can, even though I never forget, because forgiveness is freeing. But I've wondered what my threshold is for trespassing. How much abuse can I take until it's healthier to stop forgiving? When does forgiving yet not forgetting lose its power?

When an institution you trust hurts you, it's damaging. Trust doesn't heal easily. Trust isn't resilient. And I've been hurt by the church more than a few times. It's damaged me each time, on so many levels. Each time, I've found reasons to nurse my trust back to health. Each time, I have reminded myself of the people there whom I need and who need me, and of my involvement in music there, and of all the memories and emotions I would have to leave behind. I spent twenty years there. That church raised me. That church brought me to faith. That church made me fall in love with music. That church brought me so much joy. That church also screwed me over and stabbed me in the back and broke me. And I can't take it anymore.

Things had been relatively good for many years since the last time I got stabbed in the back by clergy. We'd had run-ins, of course; I'm not super good at being compliant or submissive or even cooperative. The last time that the church really fucked with me, I was fourteen. I was a child in their eyes, and, to be fair, in most people's eyes, even though I comported myself as if I were older; the first time, I had just recently turned twelve, and the second, I was thirteen. I was fragile, and I was the property of my parents. On some level, I'm sure they still think of me as that child. I'm not a child at all anymore (my childhood actually died long before I turned eighteen, and that's another story, but I'm a legal adult now, too), but when I'm treated the way I was in those days, though, the child in me and the massive hurt she carries wakes back up. I can't put her through that anymore, and it's impossible to move on or grow up completely when part of you is trapped in adolescence. I'm realizing now that the only way to free myself from adolescence is to leave the people that trapped me there.

And it hurts. It hurts so deeply. It's a loss. It's estrangement. 

I could write for ages on the things I will miss. Unfortunately, I will probably have to use that time in therapy resolving the emotional, developmental, and psychological damage done. 

And that's how I know it's time to cut ties. 

Rice Balls!

I was telling my friend Gloria what I'd been up to that day. I said I'd made rice balls with salt salmon.

"What is salt salmon?" she asked. 

"Well," said I, "you take some salmon, and you put salt on it."

It's true. Making salt salmon is simple as anything. Simply take a side of salmon, cut it into fillets (you can leave the skin on), and cover it in sea salt or koshering salt. Let it sit for a while, then wrap each fillet in several layers of paper towel, then wrap em all up in newspaper. Set them in the fridge for several days, uncovered. Since its curing, it won't make your fridge smell.  Take them out when you're ready to make flakes. Keep reading to find out how. 

Here's how to make rice balls, and a recipe for salt salmon flakes will follow. 

-2 C freshly steamed rice
-nori
-salt salmon flakes, pickled plums, egg, and/or whatever other filling you want. Salmon is my favorite, followed closely by pickled plums with a bit of mint
-salt

Set out a few sheets of parchment or wax paper. Let the rice cool enough to handle it. Wet your hands a bit, and sprinkle salt on them. This is the prevent the rice from sticking to your hands. Take a smallish handful of rice. Cup your hand, and press a small divet in the middle. Add filling. Put some more rice on top. Press and roll firmly into a ball. Add a square of nori for decoration. Serve plain, or with shoyu for dipping. 

Makes 12-16 balls.

Salt salmon flakes!

-1 side of salt salmon
-shoyu (soy sauce)
-sake (or white wine or cooking sherry, if that's what's in the house)

Boil a few quarts of water. Add salmon fillets, and poach for 10 minutes. Remove the skin and place in a large skillet over medium heat. Using cooking chopsticks or 2 forks, fluff the fish. When it dries a bit, add a few tablespoons each of the shoyu and sake—I do 3 for each 10 oz. of fish. Stir til all the liquid has evaporated. 

The flakes will keep in a jar or Tupperware for a week or so, and you can do basically anything with them. 

Tomatoes and Depression

My best friend Yasmin came to visit this week on her spring break. What a lovely time. I got to make all kinds of food for us to share, and brew lots of coffee and play board games. It was such a joy. She just left for the airport a bit ago, and I am falling into a slump. Going through withdrawal of my favorite person's presence is very difficult for me. I sat down at the piano for a little while and played through some of my favorite pieces just to distract myself, but it didn't work very well. Maybe I'll just cozy up and watch John Oliver clips on YouTube, or play a dumb mindless game. I would finish the New York Times Sunday crossword, but crosswords remind me too much of her. 

Ah well. I've been meaning to post here recently, so that's something. There's a lot I've been meaning to do, actually, but my motivation has been so very low. Having my best friend around was actually quite good for my productivity, but there's still a lot I have to do--letters I have to write, paperwork to do, plans I need to make. I'm hoping this rush of productivity will last at least a bit longer.

When my mood gets as low as it has been that I can scarcely get out of bed, it's very hard to want to do things. It doesn't matter what it is. At the worst of times, I can't even do things like brush my teeth or shower. Two weeks ago, I had a five-day spell like that. Though things are generally on an upward trend, it's scary that the right circumstances can trigger these low lows. I know that I need to take care of myself; to start exercising more, to get out and volunteer and get a job, to do things I enjoy. The thing is that I'm still building myself back up to a place where I can do all those things at once, because until very recently--like, within the past day or three--I could only focus on one of those at a time. I have to to make some plans for this week so I don't just rattle around the house. I mean there's a memorial service to sing on Wednesday, and the services for Maundy Thursday and Good Friday, plus therapy thrice this week... but I need to just go be out and about between those times, I think. Or I should plan to make some kind of labor-intensive food, just to be busy with something other than being trapped in my head with my thoughts. 

Anyway, here's how to fry tomatoes.

Tomatoes on-the-vine
Corn starch
1 egg
Cornmeal (I like to use a medium grind, but you can use whatever you're used to)
Salt and pepper, and whatever else you want your tomatoes to taste like
Lots of cooking oil

Slice tomatoes to desired thickness. Pour some corn starch on a plate, and flip the tomatoes in it to coat. In a smallish bowl, whisk the egg with some water. Pour the cornmeal on a plate and mix with seasonings. Dip the starch-coated sliced in the egg wash, then immediately coat with the cornmeal. Heat a significant amount of oil in a largish skillet over medium-high. When it's hot, use tongs to place the slices in the oil. When the side in the oil is golden to your satisfaction, flip the slices over. When they're nice and toasty, take them and set them on a double layer of paper towel to drain.

Serve with a fried egg on toast. Actually, you can serve anything with a fried egg on toast. You can probably use fried tomatoes in  other creative ways, but I wouldn't know.