Alice (Gap Teeth continue to inspire)

This is a song that started out funny and ended up sounding sad. Most people who knew me a couple of years ago think it’s a little too painful, but I want to talk about where this song came from, because it amuses me. I started writing this in the final months of 2005, and finished the only recording I have of it in March 2006. The section where I now sing “callus” and “palace” used to be “Alice.” The song was going to be called Alice. I was writing a song from the perspective of Jankyn, who is the fifth husband of Alyson, or Alice, the Wife of Bath in Geoffrey Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales. While in her prologue it is obvious that he has died before she sets out on her pilgrimage, I envisioned her leaving him while he was still alive for this piece. There are a couple of lines that I threw in to make it sound specific to my own personal experience (there are obvious parallels anyways), but this has never been one of my more personal songs, contrary to popular belief. I must admit though that as the song was coming together, I saw the “sad potential” and tried to milk that. Truth be told, I actually enjoy it.

Calluses

I overlay her memory with gold,
And the finest jewelry.
The engagement gone wrong fills every song,
And brings on every callus.

And I admit my tendency to be possessive,
Was lightly put just a bit excessive.

I’m still not immune to her perfume,
That fills this empty palace.

How could I be jealous of her former lovers?
She said they got nothing on me.

And I recant every lengthy rant about all my needs.
On my knees I am.

All the brighter thoughts ignite my want for her.
I’m gaunt with worry, my judgment blurry.
I almost forget the calluses.

Rules Of Worship

When will the Shakespeare Sonnets album get made? I don't know. Hopefully someday. Definitely not anytime in the near future. I get excited about it when I'm talking to Riley about the possibilities of starting the process up again, but otherwise it is not a pressing concern. I was actually on the phone with Riley last night for a few minutes. He had to go because he was about to get chips for a poker tournament he was playing in. There's evidently no money involved. I guess because it's in North Carolina. I'm not sure. Anyways, he just loves to play with strangers, because he says "it's one of the best ways to learn about yourself and other people." I never thought about it that way. Maybe because I don't play poker. Just thinking about the whole gambling culture brought me back to the poem that I wrote in the Las Vegas airport this past summer while eagerly awaiting my plane ride back to NYC. I had just experienced an eye opening series of days with Tim in a place where everything that is wrong with the world seemed to be compressed into a few square blocks. Even though I never sat down to play a game, I did learn a lot about people who do.

Rules of Worship

Climbing up from all pits of life to this town,
Full wallets arrive in heat carrying fresh faces,
Soon dissolving into nervous sweaty brows,
Hung out to dry in the shower from their shoelaces.


Play your hand.
Change of dealer.
Lose a limb,
Due to Caesar.


Among the lot are withered retirees,
Who cash their checks from Social Security,
And come equipped with arthritis and crumpled 20s,
Proceeding to slowly die by the penny.


Take a seat,
At Tall Pink Duck.
Odds are set,
In lieu of luck.


Higher risk and chance attract men of business,
Producing many a dumbstruck standing witness,
Like the breathing accessories that accompany,
Receding hairlines that shoot craps and pornography.


Blow the dice.
Forget the hour.
Comp rooms at,
Eiffel Tower.


Common purses rub with those of the offspring of tycoons,
And fleets of nurses are soon dispersed to inflict subtle wounds.
Bringing free short orders full of demise,
They are tipped in accordance with cup size,
Spewing, "Sapphire Tonic and a White Russian."
Roulette wheels bullet train eyes still adjusting.


Praise the sin.
Embrace the vice.
Scream out, "God!"
And, "Jesus Christ!"


Love is licensed with petty vows,
That later become a liability,
For the ripe flesh of the here and now,
Limiting the frequency of promiscuity.

Lose your shirt.
Mesh your bodies.
Choke the dream.
Keep it gaudy.


Diamonds in the sand connect every language of Babel.
They blind every room, they bleed every table,
Occupied by the vibrant and the decrepit,
All suffering from flawed depth perception.


Double down.
Split the aces.
Bet your life.
Thank Las Vegas.

Gloomy Tuesday

I started this blog as a place to post my song lyrics and poems for anyone who wants to read them, and it sort of took on a blog life of it's own. So, to get back to the archiving.....here are the words to one of the songs I played last weekend at the CFF.

Go Free

Oh, my precious valentine,
A diva with nine lives to spare,
(I was lucky enough to occupy,
The one in nine for which you did not care)

You’re never not beautiful,
And I am not easily drawn away,
But still I’ll say,

Go free,
And tell the feelings you call prisoners,
That they are released from me.

Thought I’d push enough to win,
Thought I’d love enough for two,
(My ambition was in the red,
And that’s exactly what left us black and blue)

But our gardens weren’t meant to be so green.
No, we were just flowers shooting through cracks in the sidewalk,
On a cloudy block.

Go free,
And tell the feelings you call prisoners,
That they are released from me.

If you ever reach New York City,
And you forget what it’s like to be held,
(Though I don’t think you’ll have that problem,
I myself, know it all too well)

My arms are always open,
But my hands are still just as cold,
So,

Go free,
And tell the feelings you call prisoners,
That they are released from me.

My Songwriting Philosophy

Whenever I run into other songwriters after I perform and they ask me how I go about writing songs, I have the same irresolute response that I give to the question about what my music sounds like: “I can’t really explain it.” Or at least I’m really bad at trying to explain it. Many times I look back on a time when I wrote a song and don’t even remember what I was thinking of at the time. The memory is just a big blur that was only clear for that fleeting moment in time. That is only for the songs that come together very quickly (1 day – 1 month). Those are rare. Out of the 100+ songs that I’ve written (not counting my high school songs that have been discarded for very good reason) very few songs are finished within that time frame. If I’m very excited about a particular piece and no lyrics are surfacing I will wait for the lyrics to come, develop the melody, structure, and rework everything over a period of 6 months. That is average. Some songs have taken me 2 to 3 years to finish. A few songs are still in progress after 6 years or so. “What comes first, the music or the lyrics?” It’s always different. Sometimes the music gets written and just sits there with no lyrics for a long time. I have fit lines that I have written with no melody in mind with new music many times. At times I have let the music stir up the words, and have written down ideas that were spawned from the melody. I don’t know, I don’t really think about it. I really don’t ever think much about what I’m doing (the process that is). I have never had a single vocal or guitar lesson, and I know absolutely zero music theory. All I can say is that I listen to a lot of music. Listening to music on my headphones while closed in my bedroom is what I spent most of my younger years doing. Looking back I fear it might have been a horrible waste of time, and detrimental to my growth in all sorts of other areas, but that’s what I did. I still listen to more music than the average person, I would say. Not so much in variety, but in hours spent, and not in the background or as a distracter, but with undivided attention. I definitely listen to more music than almost all of my songwriting friends. Most of my friends have a songwriting/practicing/performance to just-sitting-and-listening-to-music ratio of 40/60. Mine is maybe 10/90, if that high. I know a lot of people who have a guitar in their hands anywhere from 4 to 8 hours a day/ 7 days a week. On weeks when I’m not playing shows or on a recording schedule (which has been the last year and a half) I have a guitar in my hands 4 to 8 hours in a whole week tops. And I like it that way. I don’t love playing guitar. I don’t love writing songs. But I love listening to music, and I am consistently inspired by it to use the guitar and songwriting as a means of expressing the joy that it gives me. The words are inspired by people, events, and experiences in my life. The only other thing that I will say about the music itself is that I do have a test for what I think is a musical idea worth developing: I have to love it. I have to say to myself “If someone else wrote this and I heard it on the radio one day, I would love it, and go buy it.” Why work on something that you would not love to listen to yourself? And the only reason that I can hear things that I like popping out of the guitar, is because of all of the music that I’ve listened to. If all I did was practice guitar and write songs all day, the output would be uninspired. Also, the music I’ve listened to is generally regarded by more people than just me or elite inner circles as being worth listening to. The vast majority of popular music that is listened to is not worth listening to (yes, even most of the bands in the beloved indie scene), and therefore will not develop a good ear. There you have it. There are the nuts and bolts of how I try to explain an unexplainable process. The mechanical gibberish. But to be perfectly honest, I never think of it in those terms. I have no idea what I’m doing.

Here is my personal songwriting philosophy:

Music is not created, it is discovered. All the notes are already on the scale, they’re just arranged differently. Every word is already in the dictionary, they are just tools. I believe that whatever it is that I do comes from God, and I am a tool that uses tools. I cannot even tell people accompanying me what key I’m in or what notes I’m playing. I have no musical training and no reasonable explanation for any of this. Sometimes I go 3 months without writing anything at all, musical or lyrical. Sometimes I’ll get 3 usable ideas in one week. I am proud to be the one who was allowed to write down what I refer to as “my songs.” But I have never understood where they came from. They did not originate inside of me, they only passed through me. Actually, a better way to say it would be: they always were. That is why my legal copyright name that I put all my songs under is “Predestined Excavations.” I’m the explorer that finds what was waiting to be found. The ability to play a musical instrument is a gift from the Lord, and so is this craft. I try not to dissect it. To quote T.S. Eliot, “For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.”

For the peeps that made it out to The Catacombs Folk Festival to see me play on Friday, thank you! It was an honor to be there. Here is the set list:

1. None Other Lamb, None Other Name (#157 in the Trinity Hymnal)
(Piano – Dave Hess, Bass Line – Max Belz, Alto Line – Sam Belz,
Tenor Line – Asher Payne, Soprano Line – Me)

2. Fake Plastic Trees (Radiohead cover)
(Piano – Dave Hess)

3. Go Free (2005)

4. Another Way To Roll (2005)

5. Era Of Unknowns (2007)

6. Shakespeare’s Sonnet 138 (2005/2006)

7. Sleeping/Reading Beauty (2007/2008)
(Accompanying guitar - Matt Brown)

What more?

The first thing I read this morning was my devotional "My Utmost For His Highest" by Oswald Chambers. Between that and the chapels this week (especially today's) on relational steadfastness and personal introspection, and discovering the Polish word for essential and vital (being of the greatest importance) last night when looking up their etymologies......is this not God's way of convicting? How then? Is this not the time for realization/action? If not, when? Why this unrelenting unrest?

Taking the Initiative Against Daydreaming

Arise, let us go from here —John 14:31

Daydreaming about something in order to do it properly is right, but daydreaming about it when we should be doing it is wrong. In this passage, after having said these wonderful things to His disciples, we might have expected our Lord to tell them to go away and meditate over them all. But Jesus never allowed idle daydreaming. When our purpose is to seek God and to discover His will for us, daydreaming is right and acceptable. But when our inclination is to spend time daydreaming over what we have already been told to do, it is unacceptable and God’s blessing is never on it. God will take the initiative against this kind of daydreaming by prodding us to action. His instructions to us will be along the lines of this: "Don’t sit or stand there, just go!"

If we are quietly waiting before God after He has said to us, "Come aside by yourselves . . ." then that is meditation before Him to seek His will ( Mark 6:31 ). Beware, however, of giving in to mere daydreaming once God has spoken. Allow Him to be the source of all your dreams, joys, and delights, and be careful to go and obey what He has said. If you are in love with someone, you don’t sit and daydream about that person all the time— you go and do something for him. That is what Jesus Christ expects us to do. Daydreaming after God has spoken is an indication that we do not trust Him.

-Oswald Chambers

What more outside motivation do I need?

1st Belz Poetry Reading

I got an e-mail from my sister Melissa today saying that she watched "the 1st Belz Poetry Reading" on youtube. I didn't even know there was a video. I don't even know who recorded or posted it. There was a poetry reading last October, and there were probably 30+ people who presented in a room with around 80 people in attendance. I read three original poems that night (Poem For Tim, an untitled selection, and 3 Successive Thoughts Pertaining to 1). Bits and pieces of Poem For Tim and the untitled one are in this video. A few of my good friends are also on here including Max Belz, Matt Brown, Seth Morgan, and Laura Childers. This was a nice little Sunday surprise for me.

Music enhances texts and images

Places I go to avoid assignments:

http://withington.covblogs.com/
http://mwithington.covblogs.com/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/cwithington/
http://www.myspace.com/winterboat
http://www.imdb.com/
While listening to: http://pandora.com/
Having Max Belz read me selections from his cousin's blog at: http://belz.wordpress.com/

Song picks for the day:

1. Here With You by Van She
2. She's A Star by James
3. Lonely Dirges by Paul Michel
4. Sparkle by Afterhours
5. Rotten Love by Levy

Fake Plastic Words

Someone asked me yesterday what kind of music I play. I have been asked this question numerous times, but obviously not enough to give a proper answer. I still can’t formulate a succinct reply that makes any sense. I don’t like saying that I’m a cross between two popular artists. But I obviously sound like something. What do I sound like? After I gave a very fragmented response, I was asked who I listen to. “What popular music do you recommend?” This person listens primarily to classical music, and had never heard of the band that I mentioned. “How would you describe their music?” AHHH!!!! Again, this is something that I have no skill in doing. As much as music means to me, I am bad at explaining what it sounds like to me. Music is something I feel, but don’t really enjoy talking about. That is why listening to people talk in musical journal-speak irritates me. It makes no sense to me. I wrote an article for the Covenant student paper last semester concerning the particular band that I was futilely trying to sell in my conversation last night. It is about the closest thing that I’ve been able to say about what music means to me.

It can be read here: http://www.bagpipeonline.com/?author=24

True Love Waits

My grandfather Laurence Withington and grandmother Esther Bobier married each other on Valentine’s Day. The story of how they got together is one I have heard so many times from my grandmother that I could probably type it out, but am afraid that I would leave out a crucial detail that would make it seem like I wasn’t paying attention during story time. It is quite a story, second only to the story of how my parents got together, which I have also heard MANY times. But when I think of Valentine’s Day, I think of my grandparent’s anniversary. I think about my grandfather. He died of cancer in April of 2004 at the age of 80. His life was significant to our family in so many ways that I cannot even begin to count them. Great Grandma White was the first person from the Withington side of my family to become a Christian. Her son Laurence went into the U.S. Air Force as a chaplain and served for a full 25 years. After he retired he taught chemistry for awhile at Covenant College, was a chemist at a soft drink factory, pastored a church, and was a ruling elder in my father’s church (that’s the short list). Like every other person that the Lord connects me with, by blood or otherwise, his role in my life was vital. There is no other man that I respect more on this earth than my father, and there was no one who he respected more than his father, and I recognized that at an early age. As I grew to know my grandfather personally over the years, I came to have that same respect and love for him. I worked with him over many summers on different construction projects. One summer we worked together insulating my grandparent’s entire attic, which was enormous. He would tell me stories about my grandmother, my father, my aunt Susie, Japan, Iwo Jima, Covenant College, California, me, the Lord’s providence, and hundreds of random stories I wish I had written down at the time. I am thankful that the last 8 years or so of his life were spent near my family, so I got to know him as more than the “Grandpa” I only saw once a year for 2 weeks. I have been blessed to know all four of my grandparents on a very personal level. In many ways they have had just as much influence on my life and the shaping of my character as my parents have. Grandma Withington and both of my mother’s parents are still living. Grandpa Withington was the first person close to me to pass away. I remember how hard it was to drive him to and from his chemotherapy treatments, and not knowing what to say. He was always strong though, and would make jokes about how he preferred me to drive him (Dad’s driving made him nervous). I’ll always remember our last conversation, and how I knew he was getting towards the end, but thought there would be at least one more time to talk. And then there wasn’t. I still wish there had been, but I know that God’s timing and purposes are beyond my comprehension. The final word is that there will be conversations to come. Conversations of uncountable number.
I wrote these songs in the summer of 2004. Someday Ben and I will make proper studio recordings of them.

Troubadour

He raised my dad,
The only one I have,
And made him the only one I need.
Though it seems sometimes,
That we were made to be sad,
With strategically timed seasons of relief,

His season has just begun,
And will never end.
For those of us who remain,
We will sustain fond memories of him.

He finished out,
With no inward doubt,
His last days in the shade of Woodbine,
Though I wish that he could’ve seen,
What I might’ve been,
Had he been given just a little more time.

That which is me was passed down the tree,
It ran through his limbs,
Keeping us all over 6 foot tall,
And solid, yet slim.

Though he was not a troubadour in life,
In everything he did, he was our guiding light,
And now he’s singing with the angels,
And shining on this troubadour tonight.

I feel I need some,
Inspiration,
When I play to empty seats,
But I know that he would be proud,
If a never drew a crowd,
So long as my heart keeps the beat.

Though he was not a troubadour in life,
In everything he did, he was our guiding light,
And now he’s singing with the angels,
And shining on this troubadour tonight.


Gloria

Gloria, Gloria, Gloria, Gloria,
We sing Gloria.

No more yawns from fatigue at the start of the day,
No more longing for peace with wars underway,
No more storing possessions subject to decay,
We sing Gloria.

Always knew you were just a stranger on this earth,
To the end of your walk from the day of your birth,
All your merits still don’t add up your Worth,
We sing Gloria.

Gloria, Gloria, Gloria, Gloria,
We sing Gloria.

Winter Boat

It is snowing a tad here at Covenant this morning. It made me think of Ben's latest musical project, and how I hope all will give it an attentive listen.

The very first day of this semester was when my brother and Winston Yellen started writing and recording music together. At present they have recorded 4 songs and are still going strong. When they showed me the first song they produced (Asia) and asked my honest opinion, I told them the truth. It was the best recording of original material I’ve ever heard to come out of Covenant College musicians, with the exception of the now defunct Infradig. The following songs that they have finished further prove this theory, to my ears. Now, it’s just a matter of time before everyone finds out. But you read it here first. Mark.

Here’s the listening station: www.myspace.com/winterboat

Quarter Century!!

Courtney is 25 years old today!!!!!! This is her second birthday spent in Suriname, and she is greatly missed. We couldn’t coax her back to the U.S. with the prospect of being able to rent her very own car.

This last summer I came home in May from finishing my first year of College Part 2. Courtney did not return for her summer break until June. I usually sleep out in the “Barn Room” when it’s a full house, but for a month I got to sleep in Melissa and Courtney’s old room, which has a lot more privacy. As I practiced in Courtney’s room I came up with a piece of music on the guitar that I knew had to be crafted into a song pronto. My family is always the first to hear whatever I’m working on. Courtney was the first to hear the Shakespeare Sonnets and many other songs upon their initial conception. A couple of years ago I showed her yet another song about a breakup, in which I was beating the smoothly packed dirt that filled a twenty foot hole where a dead horse rested not so peacefully at the bottom. She was a little fed up and asked, “When are you going to write a song for me?” I stored that suggestion away. When this piece came in May 2007, I knew instantly that it had to be for Courtney. I played it over and over and over in her room, but no ideas or words came. She came home in June and we had a great time talking about all the wonders that God was working in our lives, and what our prayers for the future were. We had many blessed conversations as we always do. I returned to Chattanooga, TN at the end of July to get a head start on moving in and job searching before school started at the end of August. The job searching did not go so well, and I found myself playing a lot of guitar. I kept playing that tune I had written in May over and over again…......still no lyrics were coming. It was frustrating. Then I was looking in my notebooks, and I came across a song idea I had started 3 years ago entitled My Era Of Unknowns. Nothing I had written besides the title stood out to me as usable. So, I took the title and dropped “My.” I thought along the lines of not knowing where you’re going, but knowing where you’ve been, and knowing that even though you are unclear, God has your fear of the unknown covered…….so, don’t worry! (Matthew 6:25-34 and Luke 12: 22-34) And then I thought about Courtney. This is what she and I talk about ALL THE TIME. Now I had a theme, but no lyrics. I went to bed with the tune in my head. I woke up very suddenly at 4:30am in the morning, turned on my lamp, grabbed my notebook and pen next to my bed and wrote out this gift which just came pouring in.

ERA OF UNKNOWNS

All of our lives,
We have been contemplating,
Slow to decide,
What’s most illuminating.

Now the turtle you once were is racing,
And hurdling towards the lightning.

We filled up our days,
By filling in these journals,
To excavate,
All that which is internal.

And the regulated love that you’ve been holding,
Is flowing out in streams now.

But when you go, take the leaves,
That we quoted from New York,
If you’re afraid that you’ll breach,
Your own soul and flaming core.
Remember these leaves don’t shake,
Remember these leaves don’t shake.

Prospect for gold,
Leave the rudimentary,
Semblance of home,
Failure is imaginary.

‘Cause the only regrets you left were carried,
Off, washed, and atoned for.

So when you go, don’t believe,
That your dreams are a mistake,
Or that you’ve made up and laid up,
Your treasures in L.A.
Though buildings fall, you won’t shake,
Through casting calls, you won’t shake.

Eras define,
All of our growth in stages,
Measured by time,
And notebooks with scribbled pages.

I sing these notes out over ground and clearly,
In our era of unknowns.
I sing these notes out over ground and clearly,
In our era of unknowns.


When it was all down on the paper, I just said, “Thank you, Lord,” and went back to bed. I got up later and made a demo recording that morning at 11am. When Ben got to Covenant I showed him the song and he wrote a piano part for it. We auditioned it for Mountain Affair at the college in September 2007, and it made the cut. Then we scored 2nd place with it at the actual competition. It’s one of my favorite songwriting stories, because it is another perfect example of God’s good gifts that I can only marvel at, and be privileged enough to witness.
The latest recording that Ben and I made of it is here: www.myspace.com/grantwithington.

Happy Birthday Courtney! I love you.

In the Doldrums of Glumgums

This is a little thingamabob I wrote a few years ago when I was going through my "bitter period." Paul thinks it is terrific, but also says its downfall might be that it is a little too "glum." All I have to say is that there will always be a market for glum.

Gums and Teeth

Love life is not like love in films.
It’s been badly cast in most brackets.
Although the faces that fill them,
Have all wonderfully acted.

Love life is not like love in films.
It never ends. In fact it,
Drags on for far too long through,
Episodes so anticlimactic.

There might be some initial chemistry.
The surface might seem to be blemish free.
But underneath is doubt and unbelief.
Once pretty mouths are now just gums and teeth.

Love life is not like love in films.
It’s hard to get enthusiastic.
There is no chasing down a plane while screaming out a girl’s first name,
Or anything quite so drastic.

Love life is not like love in films.
No, not nearly as attractive.
No happy coincidences, just lots of hidden expenses,
And a sad lack of want to give.

It might well seem like a dream,
With a pounding pulse and bright flashing beams,
But underneath is doubt and unbelief.
Once pretty mouths are now just gums and teeth.

The Trip To Over

Something is enforced everyday. Either something that I suspect to be true is confirmed, or something that I thought was the case is proved not to be. I completed a song a few weeks ago that I have been working on for the last 3 years. It started with a title: My Trip To Over. It was a companion piece to another song idea that started at the same time: My Era Of Unknowns. Lyrics came, sat, waited, got up, and left. Some decided to come back, and resigned themselves to rot in my notebooks. After My Era Of Unknowns took on an unexpected new life and a completely new direction over last summer, I felt this urgency that My Trip To Over must get finished. A couple weeks ago this nursery tune popped out of one of my practice sessions, and fit some of the lyrics perfectly. From there the rest came together so easily. I added a few lyrics and moved a few words around to fit the syllabic structure, but the idea is in keeping with the same vision that I initially had. Along our walk on this earth we are confronted by distractions. The verses represent the distractions and temptations that I have confronted in my own experience. But the chorus is a simple surrender to God, entreating Him to reset my vision to its proper place. As I find my own ventures failing to produce personal fulfillment, I am brought back time and again to the ultimate and only real source of comfort. I will trip. I will fail. That is inevitable. But thankfully, He is always there to steady me.

Last night I was reading some chapters in Isaiah, and I ran across one of those verses that seem to hit you in the face when you need it the most.

The last sentence in Isaiah 7:9 says:
If you are not firm in faith, you will not be firm at all.

I was also reading a book by Anne Lamott on the writing process entitled Bird by Bird. There is a paragraph within that made me close the book and use it to repeatedly beat the arm of the chair I was sitting in. Especially after my Bible reading, it was a little too close to exactly what I am going through right now.

“E.L. Doctorow once said that ‘writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can see only as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.’ You don’t have to see where you’re going, you don’t have to see your destination or everything you will pass along the way. You just have to see two or three feet ahead of you. This is right up there with the best advice about writing, or life, I have ever heard.”

The Trip To Over

Cap and gown and tassel turned,
Freedom bound, the books can burn.
They tell me that my competence,
Determines my sustenance.

Hold me now,
I need your love,
As I trip all the way to over.
Hold me now,
I need your love,
On my trip to over.

So, I run to the stage where masses flock,
To worship all of their false gods.
But I don’t want to see the backs of heads.
I want to see faces instead. (repeat chorus)

Is it so hard to find a mate,
With whom you can procreate,
And then dissipate back into dust,
Someone you can know and trust? (repeat chorus)

I fell in nostalgia’s gaping past,
Where half a dozen millstones crashed.
Fickle phrasing, fragile frame,
Song and writer are the same.

I made a recording of this song the other week which my brother Ben produced. It can be heard here: www.myspace.com/grantwithington

And really……..everyone MUST listen to one of the most phenomenal songs that I have heard in a year. She Will Have Her Way by Neil Finn off of his album Try Whistling This. Please listen to this song! Phew, it is so good!

Saint Entropy's Rattling Ribcage

I cannot surmise from the last week’s incidents what exactly is going on. Instinctively, I am thinking that other people’s euphoria is slowly killing me. After an evening last Friday night at a local roller rink, I put myself at the mercy of a couple friends as I participated in the “riding of the train.” I was already terrified enough by simply being out there, and not having any skills in this department. When the line that I was in the middle of “cracked the whip” I lost my balance, both my skates went out from under me, and I dropped to the hardwood floor, landing directly on my tailbone. The evening was over.

I have been long overdue for a good ol’ run of the mill sickness (flu, fever, soar throat, etc) . Having always been in generally good health my entire life is not something I take for granted, so I tend to dwell on how frail I really am when it does hit. This week was my sick week for the year. A horrible fever followed by flu symptoms that ruined Monday night and every following day, including today.

Last night there was a “Hoe Down” party that I skipped in order to catch up on school work that I will never be caught up on. As I was leaving campus to head back to my apartment, a group of my friends came into the lobby hopped up on post hick ecstasy. This proved fatal. Max ran up and with full force jumped at me, in an attempt to straddle my back. Since my back is still aggravated from the skate night accident last Friday, I knew the prospect of a person swinging off of it would most likely hurt. I shifted my body to avoid him, only to expose my ribcage to his incoming knee. Well, sometimes you cannot avoid what’s coming.

A couple of weeks ago I completed writing lyrics to a song that I have been working on for the last 9 months. One of the lines mentions “my rattling ribcage.” I don’t think my ribcage has ever been physically rattled before last night, but now I am certain that I would rather it be rattled in the manner that the song speaks of. It hurts to laugh. These incidents and my general condition made me think of the last song I wrote before I decided that I was definitely going to return to college. I was fed up with where I was taking my life. Many things have been fixed, and I am healing; but I am still breakable, and breaking.

Saint Entropy

“Saint Entropy, hear the call.”
Dead inside, impractical,
Until feeling the fantastic pull,
Of grace, grace, grace…
But all my vanities,
Disgrace the One who stands for me,
I pray, pray, pray,
To that which is invisible,
But my list is so pitiful,
And gray, gray, gray,
As Seattle skies.
Strip facades,
I just want loves to love,
And hates despise,
And fly straight, straight, straight,
In a tearless age,
Translucent and seeing through,
Redundancy and selfish rage.
I was called guilty,
And I agreed,
Because I was built to break and bleed,
I, Saint Entropy.

For all the Juliets

A Romeo

A Romeo you say you want.
With eyes of quartz, and hair of blonde.
A lustrous show that mimics love,
To have and hold, to drape and flaunt.

But aren’t you just his next in line?
Cause for every one, there is a Rosaline….
That he left crying.

A Romeo you say you want.
Not quite all there, not too far gone.
A fantasy, a pro at con,
Betrothed to elegance and pomp.

So, you’re taken by his lack of subtlety,
Self centered crave and childish bravery…..
Below your balcony.

I could try to emulate that.
And I could drink the poison,
So you’d never bring me back.

A Romeo you say you need.
The antithesis of all that’s me.
But I will change your mind to believe,
That I can connect dichotomies.

A Poem and also my notes from today's British Novel class in which Moll Flanders was Discussed and I almost Fell asleep because I am Fighting a Fever.

Poem For Tim

Here I sit in a worn out room, so bare,
With all of this empty paper to fill,
In the when I should be sleeping minutes,
Stabbing the time with pen, head with Advil.

Surrounded by books with good examples,
Of how to effectively put words down,
I look at the spines of inspired minds,
Then I simply squint and stare at the ground.

Now I stand by the broken window sill,
Just waiting for a gust of ideas,
But its cold and every story’s been told,
Except for that of my friend and Lea.

My friend Tim fell off of a moving car,
And to this day you can still see the scar,
Where they drilled an ample hole in his skull,
And they said if it hadn’t been for me,
His older brother, and the surgeon three,
He would most likely not be here at all.

But as he recovered, his condition,
Brought him down into a deep depression,
Making him quite susceptible to bad decisions.
That was when he met a doctor’s daughter,
Who seemed as refreshing as sweet water,
But cut deeper than his aforementioned incision.

I cannot detail every occurrence,
But can attest to Tim’s high endurance,
For the deadly drama she inflicted.
She, icier than the rings around Saturn,
And he, confined in a holding pattern,
Longed for their freedom, but felt restricted.

After much time went by he could not take,
Her manipulation and had to break,
The tie that had completely unraveled.
He had to get away from Florida,
Because it caused him to ignore God.
Tim decided it was time to travel.

So, my good friend then moved to Seattle,
Where he does daily corporate battle,
Amongst middle aged women and cell phone towers.
The wonder child who pushed through tubes that were tied.
Many said he shouldn’t even be alive.
Now he mingles with T-Mobile’s higher powers.

Oh Tim, how can I possibly begin,
To do this tale any sort of justice?
These are broad strokes leaving out all the jokes,
That could be told using smaller brushes.

Absorbed with books of quotes and metaphors,
Many records of thoughts, time, and living,
I tried to add something to this old shelf,
And fill this blank paper I’ve been given.

Notes on Moll Flanders

Moll is a product of the ......
Facts #1 & 2
More interesting things about this book.
[Important person to remember] - (insert date here)
Sufficient background covered in blistering detail.

• Bullet points to keep in mind
• Memorize this one in particular
• Use another pen color for easy recall of this point

Professor's personal opinion on material.

"Quotation to commit to memory."

Do not confuse student interjection for truth. More historical significance.

Stifle yawn.

Social conciousness is key, as well as conceptualization. (certain test question)

Pay attention to LEARNED SCHOLAR #9, 4, and 13 1/2, and also make note of author's use of language!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Try to follow visual strands verbalized through letters and other symbols, respectively. It is Imperative (double underlined) that comprehension of compressed character discussions be comprised of attributes indicated through words. Stress this.

It's all about semantics, honey.

Well, now this is happening.

This is the official lyric/poem archive, since there has never been one before. There's a bit of backlog. This autosave is so choice.

Here's a cool song: Clinically Dead by Chad Vangaalen

All the oldies coming soon......