Summer Tunes.

During the summer, I get a chance to write quite a bit.  Aside from that magical month of November, the summer becomes my most productive season.  This year, with no softball, I’m getting even more time to work on my projects, from The Wandering Kind to poetry.  And, as you might have learned by now, I usually need some good music to do my best work.  So, I thought I’d share some of my favorite summer tunes that I’ve been using to get some work done… as well as a poem! (:

Album: Songs For Searchers

Artist: Andrew James O’Brien

Favorite Track: Through My Days

This album is an emotional journey, and each track takes you somewhere a bit different.  The whole album is great from start to finish, and it leaves you satisfied in every way.  I’ve done some sad scenes to some tracks, and done a quirky vignette to another.  I love Andrew’s voice, and the array of instruments used leaves me seeing the emotion as well as hearing it.

Couldn’t find my favorite track, but here’s a good one off the album.

 

Artist: Peter Bradley Adams

Favorite Track: The Longer I Run

He’s got a few albums out, and nI’m playing around with them, and there are some really great tracks.  This song in particular fits well with TWK, so I’ve used it a few times to write some duller scenes.  I love his casual sound, and the instrumentals are great.  I mean, come on- anyone who uses an accordion wins brownie points in my book.  Great listen.

 

Album: Bear Creek

Artist: Brandi Carlile

Favorite Track(s): That Wasn’t Me, Hard Way Home, Keep Your Heart Young

If you haven’t ever listened to Brandi Carlile, you are seriously missing out.  I love her voice, everything about it.  She’s raw, heartfelt, and simply ripe with emotion.  It’s very hard for me to find female artists I can really dig, but Brandi (along with Adele), is always able to make it work.  This is her newly released album, and to be honest, it’s the best thing I have set ears on in a long time!  Great pick, as well as anything else she’s done.  Her version of Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah (which is one of my favorite songs ever), is by far one of my favorite versions, and inspired me not only to write the poem below, but also set me up for a paint interpretation of the song, which won 1st place in mixed media at a local art show.  Brandi is an excellent summer listen!

 

Here’s the poem ‘Hallelujah’, inspired by the song.

Hallelujah, hallelujah.

Can you hear the angel singing?

The one with the broken wings

And pierced breast.

A battered guitar in his lap he strums.

The swoop of his nose a precipice

From which saltwater notes fall,

Downward, downward into his silk-robed lap.

A broken cry escapes his lips,

A song heard in every tongue of fire.

Hallelujah, hallelujah.

 

Hallelujah, hallelujah.

Do you hear the young lovers sighing?

There in the dark in the heat

And the fervor of their youth.

A wondrous game they play tonight.

The curve of her neck a sounding board

For his hot breath and cries,

Echoing, echoing into the heavens.

A holy moan from their mouths,

A word known in all speech.

Hallelujah, hallelujah.

 

Hallelujah, hallelujah.

Do you see the old man laughing?

There on his park bench

In tweed jacket in autumn.

A pen and paper in wrinkled hands.

The crows feet that decorate his smiling eyes,

A template for his greatest works,

Joyfully, joyfully he creates.

A baffled exclamation springs from his smile,

A pleasantry known in every land.

Hallelujah, hallelujah.

 

Hallelujah, hallelujah.

Can you hear the world give word?

There from all mouths

each creed and race decree.

A boundless chorus we give each day.

The thousands of tongues in all corners,

Breathing life into the reaches of existence,

Together, together we say.

A simple song comes from our mouths,

A unique truth for each passing voice.

Hallelujah, hallelujah.

 

The Wandering Kind.

First of all, hi.  I know it’s literally been forever since I’ve posted anything, and I really don’t have any excuse other than my life has been crazy.  To give you a quick recap as to what’s happened in the last six months, I turned eighteen, celebrated one year with Keegan, officially chose my college, started my new job, won some scholarships, went to All-State Speech again, went to State Track again, lost my dog to a speeding car (RIP), dyed my hair red, wrote a ton of stuff, took an AP exam, went to senior prom, got in a car accident (and it was the other guys fault!), quit softball, wrote my commencement speech, and graduated high school, not necessarily in that order.  It’s been literally insane, and that list doesn’t even get everything.  However, I’m a little more under control now that school is done and I don’t have softball and such.  I’m going to try to blog twice a week and give you all the writing that I’ve done in the last few months (There’s A LOT.)  Sound good?  Good.  Well, to start things off, let me give you a bit of backstory on this piece/excerpt.  As you know, I won NaNoWriMo again this last November, and I think the novel I produced is by far the best thing I’ve ever written.  I let it sit for while, and now I’m making some big and small changes all over it so that I can let my mom read it on our plane ride to Ireland in July.  (Oh yeah, Mom, Dad, Keegan, and I are going to Ireland in July.)  The novel is called ‘The Wandering Kind’, and it centers on a living Celtic legend and a woman who pursues it.  My draft tagline for the thing is: “The story of a legend running from the truth, a woman chasing after a legend, and of a man searching for a woman.”  It sounds good in my head, anyways, and it definitely suits the book.  Anywho, the book starts with the actual telling of the legend of The Wanderer, which is what I’m serving up today.  Enjoy, and feel free to shoot me an email, comment or tweet about what you think! (: My Twitter handle is still @ecassabaum.  Enjoy! 

-Emma

 

The storyteller carefully tucked the edges of the quilt around her audience and turned out all but one light, setting the mood for her tale.  It was the child’s favorite story, which was strange because it was more of a wordy explanation rather than a fairytale like most children preferred.  But this child knew the importance of this legend, and so she loved it.  She would listen carefully and drink in each word like a cold spring water on a hot summer’s day.  She might even, if not too tired from a day of reckless imagination and play, quietly tell the story along with the storyteller, who now was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding her hand.  Taking a deep breath, which the child emulated, the storyteller began her tale.

“Once upon a time, for that is how all good stories begin, there was a legend of a man that walked the hills of Scotland.  In fact, there are tales of folk seeing him well into England, and some say that they have seen him roaming the fair greens of Ireland.  You see, this legend walks often and always, and has been doing so for the entire duration of all time forever and ever amen. He walks for every happy, fulfilled man, woman, and child on this earth, bearing the weight of the world.  He walks without companion other than the sound of the wind in the grasses and the music of the fiddle he carries on his back.  Compelled, he moves always and onward.  Some say he is cursed, whilst some say blessed. For even though he walks so freely and sees so openly, the beauty he sees he must take with him in memory only.  Loneliness and harsh reality he sees also, graced with only thought and imagination for his own.  For such is the creed and curse of the wanderer.  He walks onwards throughout our world, unseen until he desires to be seen. 

 His legs are long and lanky, and he takes bounding strides like a colt. His eyes bright and shining like a child’s, and his hair thick and white.  His skin is weathered by sun and rain, and his heart is much too big, but in a symbolic way, not in a dangerous medical condition way.  His shoes, if he bothers to wear them, are the color of bare earth, and are as old as the tall trees in the great Caledonian Forests of Scotland itself.  His scarf is said to be weaved from snowflakes and leaves and feathers, and is vibrant as a Highlands sunrise.  To most people he is The Wanderer, but if he had ever had a mother, she might have called him Ambrose, a name fitting for a man that will live forever.

   He listens and sees past that which is presented to him, and he heals the hurts of all those he touches.  He is a healer, a magician, and a storyteller of the best sort, able to see into souls and hear the whispers they speak.  He can find the invisible music hidden in the open sky, and can sing it into life.  He also is very proud to say that he can juggle six apples with his eyes closed and eat a full bushel in one sitting.  He also fancies himself a fair knitter and once learned to play the bagpipes.  His set of skills is incomparable by any man of this earth, and thus he is charged with his duty.

 Now, you never know when he is coming, you never hear him or smell him or see him.  He just arrives, but never uninvited. You’ll be at a market, out walking, at church, or in some other like. You’ll be minding your own business, and suddenly you just happen to bump into him.  He may pick something up for you, hold a door, be making a small scene in a shop, or just quietly cough, just loudly enough that you turn to see him.  

Then, without knowing why, you’ll find yourself desiring to speak with him, to open your heart and to listen to all he has to say. The sound of his voice will entrance you in all of its richness and musicality, reeling you in like a freshly caught fish.   Even the coldest and hardest of hearts can be warmed by the gentle kindling of The Wanderer, who is also a master of fire-starting. You’ll chat with him, and he’ll be humble, charming, and amiable, and without even realizing you’ve just said it, you’ll ask him where he plans to stay the night.  He’ll reply, as he always does, “under the stars somewhere.”  And then, at long last, you will invite him to stay in your home, and he will graciously accept.

From that point onward, it seems things differ by experience, dependent on your situation. Remember, he has quite the array of skills and talents and medicines and stories- as to which you may receive is decided only by fate itself.  The only thing that remains the same, for all encounters, is that he will be gone in the morning, and all that you will have left of him are some neatly folded bed sheets and an overwhelming calm and contentment about all that was once wrong in your life. 

No one ever truly forgets his visit, but whether you choose to remember the experience as a fantastical dream or a curiously quirky reality is your choice.  After all, he is The Wanderer, and to each he appears unique, yet always the same embodiment of life for all.  For not a man is he, but Hope.  Not a traveler is he, but Faith.  Not a storyteller, but Imagination.  He is always and everything and forever, or until the stars burn out and the sun ceases to rise. He will be here until the song is sung, the story is told, the hurt is healed, and the earth reaches the end of its spin, much like this tale now has. The End.” 

And the child slumbered.