Month: July 2019

A Word-Wrangler’s Answer

Ponderings, Word-wrangling

“Harnessing the power of words?”

“Yes.”

“But that doesn’t really say anything. I mean, what is it you do?”

Silence, my favorite way to speak.

“No, I get it. You’re good with words. You’re a writer…”

There’s more, I can tell, so we wait.

“…But it’s kinda vague.”

“I know. It’s a roundabout way of saying I’m a writer because I want to remind people of what writing is, at its core.”

“Communication.”

“Yes. Using the power of words. To convey ideas, truth, feelings.”

A nod.

I continue, “And it’s not just that it’s vague, it could even sound ominous. ‘Harnessing the power of words.’–It’s a perfect description for writing propaganda for a totalitarian government.”

“And you’re okay with that being your tagline?”

“I think we should acknowledge that words have power. It can be a scary thought. It carries responsibility. And I don’t think you can be a great writer if you aren’t a little awed by what words can do.”

“I guess you’ve thought about this a lot.”

“Yeah. It’s why I write.”

“Because you like power?”

“Haha. I walked into that one. No. Well, I like using power well. I want to make the most of my life. Words seemed like a good way to do that, for me. I think it started with teaching, helping the other kids in my class. There was something powerful about explaining things the right way to the ones who were struggling. It would click, and I could see a new light on their faces. It was like I was watching their brains make connections. And it took the right words to unlock it.”

“That’s really cool.”

“And then I realized how much I had learned from stories, and I wanted more there to be more good ones, so I started writing. And, well, music adds something really special. So musical theatre–to inspire, to embolden. Words wielded well can do marvelous things–they can open people’s eyes and hearts, and…I think that’s important.”

“Wow. So you think of yourself kind of like a windmill and the words are the power, the wind. You harness them to get things done…or something. I’m going off the word-wrangler post, here.”

“Sure that’s the idea, but I wouldn’t choose a windmill. I’d say harnessing like a sail.”

“Like a sail? Powering a ship?”

A smile. “Moving people.”

A Songbird Who Won’t Sing

Music, Stories, Water Between Us

Baydzar, a girl with a gift that feels like a curse–songs that take her home, but home isn’t there. “Once more,” she tells her sister, as they sail away. “And then never again.”

But someone hears her. He doesn’t know the pain in the words, only the beauty in her voice.

“Sing for me sometime?” he asks. “Sing with us tonight?”

“Tell him I sing when I am homesick.”

Later,

“You like the music?” He waits for a half smile. “Ask if she would like to sing. Something from her homeland.”

“Tell him it’s getting late. I should go.”

A couple days and a few head-shakes later,

“Baydzar, do you ever sing? Or is it that you don’t want to sing for me? And that’s all right.”

She draws bitter water from the depths of her hurt and draws a line in the sand.

No translator this time, and no holding back. Words fly like arrows. She means well, she speaks right and hits him right where it stings.

He swings truth like a fist. “…And here you talk about all the wicked things they did to you, all they took from you, but the one thing they didn’t take, what do you do?—you bury it! Talk to me about walls? God didn’t give you that voice so you could lecture me!”

Wounds from a friend.

Deep down, she knows.

Bird of the forest, born in a tree, why won’t you sing in a cage for me? Maybe she doesn’t want to remember flying. Maybe she doesn’t want to remember sky. Maybe she’s in a cage ’cause she’s not singing. Maybe she is too afraid to try.

She picks out the shards of truth from their wounded words. She lets his words hit deep. And she’ll never forget.

He was wrong about some things, but he was right about her gift.

“Who will speak?” she asked her sister. “Will you?”

“Some things are best not spoken of.”

“Don’t I know?”

Words can do marvelous and scary things. His words set her free.

Even a bird with a broken wing can learn to fly.

Little songbird, don’t hide it away. Show your heart to the world. Never stop singing. Don’t you ever stop singing. One of these days you’ll believe when we say, “You’re a songbird, God made you that way.”

-Ben Abraham (Songbird)

Did you know that in 2003 Ben Abraham decided that he never wanted to sing again? Tired of trying to impress people and playing popular music in order to make a name for himself, he laid aside his gift.

Four years went by, and Ben didn’t make music. Then he met a thirteen-year-old girl hospitalized for anorexia. Moved by her story, he responded the only way he knew how. He picked up an instrument and wrote her this song.

He’s been singing ever since.

A Sidewalk Tickle

Poetry

Laughter twinkling at the bottom of the pavement,
Bubbling up silent; knowing, growing.
Not yet…
Cracking under the surface.
Can’t keep down.
Night flies over,
And the sun comes up
On a renegade daisy in the sidewalk.
She hands the pavement an “I told you so” look.
The greysome weight blinks up at her sunny mane.
A pair of curious eyes stoops down.
“How’d you—”
“Yup,” she grins, “Bet you didn’t see that coming.”
Giggles all around.

When Google Translates Poetry

Music, Water Between Us, Word-wrangling

Computers don’t know when they’re confused, so sometimes artificial intelligence gives you utter nonsense and sometimes the brilliant ravings of a mad genius.

I’ve found Google Translate to be gold mine for poetic inspiration.

Working on the musical Water Between Us , I got to play with English translations of Armenian folk songs, fusing human translations with Google’s attempts. My aim was to craft not an exact translation, but a poetic interpretation faithful to the original.

Google crunched some numbers and popped out these gems–“flooded runaway fountains” and “look at my heartbeats.”

Even without a computer’s brilliant nonsense, translating idioms creates gorgeous eloquence. “The roads are crying awaiting your return.”

I didn’t end up using this song in the show, but it’s too beautiful not to share.

Here’s a line from “Kanchum Em Ari Ari:”

“The roses are wet with dew, my love…”

Google continues: “Circles are the cries of my heart.”

Humans say, “Those drops of dew are my hearts tears.”

I think Google gets the profound card here.

Grief can lend a certain kind of madness to one’s words. Like a vain attempt to express something beyond language.

So when a computer makes our language all topsy-turvy, it somehow sounds just right when everything feels all wrong.

A Forgetful One

Outdoors, Stories

“Bouldering tonight?” She flicked a twig into the fire’s orange belly. “I thought we could tackle the shelf below Ramshead.”

He pulled a thoughtful stick from the flames. “Okay. Visibility’s pretty good tonight.” His words made curls of vapor against the darkening sky. “You think you’ll be warm enough?”

“I’ll be fine once we get moving.”

He nodded and tossed his torch back into the fire.

“I did mean to bring a hat, though.”

“I know,” he said, pouring her some coffee. “It’s in the truck.”

A smile. “Thanks.” She caught the laughter in his eyes. “I know. I’m really bad about that, aren’t I?”

He gazed at her across the firelight, answered with a wink, and took a sip from his mug.

The Way of Virtue

Love Like Steel, Music, Ponderings

People say the high road is the way of virtue.

That’s because they don’t know the story.

Two brothers captured, locked in the Tower. Death for one, life for the other. They get to decide.

“Get to,” like it’s a nice thing. More like choosing between arsenic and a pit of vipers.

High road walks away.

Low road gets split body and soul–in the ground and going home.

“I’ll be in Scotland before ye…”

It seems the highest road is the low one.

This one’s for the artist’s name.
This one’s for the accent.

In the Clouds

Poetry

There’s lightning in the clouds tonight;
Tears falling on a barefoot field
Sown in hope.
O God, send some rain for this harvest.
Cracked earth like broken ribs;
To dust we are returning,
Letters on the mantel yearning,
Waiting on the stagecoach
And a rain cloud the size of a man’s hand.