https://soundcloud.com/jensenmcrae/sets/lighter
My EP is out. Go listen and then come back to this (or better yet, listen while you read).
I really wanted to write a post about all the songs on this EP, because I really love all of them for different reasons. I just want to get out of some of the thoughts and feelings I have about the songs, many months after writing them, a few months after recording them, and only a couple hours after their release into the world.
1. I Don't Date Smokers Anymore
Written: June 2016
I had just finished my freshman year and I was in a writing slump. I only wrote 3 songs in May that I could call legitimately finished, which for me is an abysmal count, and I was feeling uninspired. The piano was dull and the guitar was limiting. But then one day when I sat down again to write, determined to churn something out, regardless of quality, this song came out of me. I didn't realize it was a feeling I had to get out -- the reclamation of self, the declaration that I would no longer fall for people who were better at self-destruction than anything else -- but the metaphor came out so tidily and the guitar part sounded so cool that it felt like fate. Don't worry, I've still crushed on a smoker or two since writing it...;)
2. Night
Written: October 2016
In the middle of October, my songwriting professor brought a guest speaker in to teach us about alternate guitar tunings. I was inspired by the sound, and went home that night to change the tuning on my own guitar. I didn't write anything, as the next night was the first sophomore pop final and I wanted to rest my voice, but I hoped that something interesting would happen to me in the next few days so I could return to the guitar and write something I was proud of. Literally the next day I got my wish...and the day afterward, that Saturday morning, I journaled frantically for half an hour straight, then sat at my guitar, and wrote this song in one fell swoop.
3. I Came Home
Written: November 2016
The 2016 election broke my heart, as you know if you read previous blog posts of mine. My professors consoled us with the knowledge that now, more than ever, our art is important. Our voices matter, especially those of us who are marginalized in some way. The Friday after the election, during my music history discussion section, I wrote the lyrics to this song without humming a note, though I envisioned the chords and melody in my head. The next day, I sat down with my guitar and recorded it in one take.
4. Light Goes Out
Written: April 2016
I didn't write this song envisioning an EP, let alone knowing that this would function as a title track of sorts. But man, did I enjoy writing this song. I was three months into learning the guitar and still figuring out how to trick people into thinking I knew how to play it. I had been playing some version of this chord progression for weeks, but all at once, on one of my last Tuesday nights in my freshman dorm, the lyrics and melody started coming out of me. I've said before that every time I sit down to write, I think I'm trying to write "In Your Atmosphere." This is the closest I've ever come, I think. The day before I wrote it, I heard "Mama You Been On My Mind" by Bob Dylan for the first time, and I quote the title in the bridge. I think this is my version of that song, too. Really, though, it's a love letter to a person who cannot love themselves. A theme, I suppose...
So those are the four songs on this EP. I have written dozens of songs I'm very proud of that I've never shared, and hundreds of songs I'm not that proud that maybe will find a home someday, anyway. I'm excited about this new chapter, about putting all the things I make in my room out into the world. The people who helped produce and play on this are stellar people and stellar musicians. The people who have been sharing it are wonderful friends.
I feel lucky and happy and whole.
#TheLighterEP
Friday, April 28, 2017
Sunday, April 23, 2017
Time and Starting Fresh
I'm not gonna lie to you, I had a weird night last night.
Honestly, it was a weird day that dovetailed into a weird evening that didn't end until 4 in the morning. Ted Mosby's mom was right: nothing good happens after 2 a.m. (although shoutout Mackin Carroll for always bringing his conversational A-game no matter the hour. And his Crazy 8s A-game. We will finish sometime, and I will trounce you.)
Whenever I go to a party, I have a small existential crisis. If you see me looking up to the sky, I assure you that nothing interesting is happening up there, I'm just looking for stars. I started doing this at the beginning of freshman year, when I was so consumed with social anxiety that I needed something to ground me. I chose constellations, however few and far between they may be in smoggy LA skies. If I can find just one star to look at, somehow my brain is satisfied and convinced that Everything Will Be Okay.
These existential crises progress into stranger and deeper spirals the later I stay up. By 4am, the last hour where people could conceivably still be awake without intersecting with those damn early birds who are starting their days, I am Full Philosophical Jensen. Even though I am her, I do not like being around her. She is so pretentious and she talks so much and she writes poems that do not make a lot of sense in the morning.
When I first woke up today, I felt embarrassed. I didn't get drunk or make any materially bad choices, but I had let my night be guided by unrealistic expectations. I thought if I just stayed up late enough, if I just saw the night's events through to their logical ends, then I would receive a reward from the universe. All my insecurities would disappear, all my anxieties would be soothed, all my behavior justified. But the truth is that we mythologize the lateness of the hour because we think time can absolve us of our weaker selves. "It was late" is almost as good an excuse as "I was drunk." Time is relative. At 4am in Los Angeles, it was noon in London, and I had the audacity to believe that I was special. I talked about that at length last night, as I so often do, asking my friends if everyone thinks they're special. Mackin quoted Fleet Foxes lyrics.
So it goes.
I guess I am writing this to tell you that it is not too late to give yourself a fresh start. You can make choices based not only on what feels good, but also on what feels right. You can be radically honest with yourself and the people around you and you don't need a broken clock to do it. You can choose to fix what you did last night, or forget it, or follow it home. You can wash your face and take some Emergen-C and drink a warm mug of tea. I know it's the end of the semester and the end of the month and, unless you are a baby or very old, some strange middle point in the long and confusing continuum of your life, but listen:
You get to pick when your fresh starts happen. And a Sunday in late April seems as good a time as any.
Honestly, it was a weird day that dovetailed into a weird evening that didn't end until 4 in the morning. Ted Mosby's mom was right: nothing good happens after 2 a.m. (although shoutout Mackin Carroll for always bringing his conversational A-game no matter the hour. And his Crazy 8s A-game. We will finish sometime, and I will trounce you.)
Whenever I go to a party, I have a small existential crisis. If you see me looking up to the sky, I assure you that nothing interesting is happening up there, I'm just looking for stars. I started doing this at the beginning of freshman year, when I was so consumed with social anxiety that I needed something to ground me. I chose constellations, however few and far between they may be in smoggy LA skies. If I can find just one star to look at, somehow my brain is satisfied and convinced that Everything Will Be Okay.
These existential crises progress into stranger and deeper spirals the later I stay up. By 4am, the last hour where people could conceivably still be awake without intersecting with those damn early birds who are starting their days, I am Full Philosophical Jensen. Even though I am her, I do not like being around her. She is so pretentious and she talks so much and she writes poems that do not make a lot of sense in the morning.
When I first woke up today, I felt embarrassed. I didn't get drunk or make any materially bad choices, but I had let my night be guided by unrealistic expectations. I thought if I just stayed up late enough, if I just saw the night's events through to their logical ends, then I would receive a reward from the universe. All my insecurities would disappear, all my anxieties would be soothed, all my behavior justified. But the truth is that we mythologize the lateness of the hour because we think time can absolve us of our weaker selves. "It was late" is almost as good an excuse as "I was drunk." Time is relative. At 4am in Los Angeles, it was noon in London, and I had the audacity to believe that I was special. I talked about that at length last night, as I so often do, asking my friends if everyone thinks they're special. Mackin quoted Fleet Foxes lyrics.
So it goes.
I guess I am writing this to tell you that it is not too late to give yourself a fresh start. You can make choices based not only on what feels good, but also on what feels right. You can be radically honest with yourself and the people around you and you don't need a broken clock to do it. You can choose to fix what you did last night, or forget it, or follow it home. You can wash your face and take some Emergen-C and drink a warm mug of tea. I know it's the end of the semester and the end of the month and, unless you are a baby or very old, some strange middle point in the long and confusing continuum of your life, but listen:
You get to pick when your fresh starts happen. And a Sunday in late April seems as good a time as any.
Saturday, April 22, 2017
On Forums and Fangirling
Last night I saw John Mayer at the Forum.
It was a great show.
The first time I saw John, it was a really different experience, to say the least. I finagled my way into the Hotel Café despite being 19 and lacking identification that said otherwise. I sat in the very front of an already small room. I arrived at 7pm to see my good friend Madison Douglas play a beautiful acoustic set, then watched five and a half hours of increasingly intense and awesome music, until at 12:30 a.m., John emerged to no introduction, no announcement, no fanfare. The room released a collective gasp, even those of us who knew he was the secret closer. He played some of my favorites--"Slow Dancing in a Burning Room," an acoustic cut of "Love on the Weekend," "Dear Marie," an underrated track from his less-than-popular album Paradise Valley--and he played some songs I don't get that hyped on--"Who Says," "Waiting on the World to Change," etc. His voice was even more transcendently beautiful live than I could have interpolated from all the live videos I've watched online. His guitar playing was legendary. He was what I wanted him to be and more. I tore a page out of my journal and scribbled a note that said something to the effect of:
Dear John --
You are my greatest musical influence and inspiration. I'm currently studying popular music at USC's Thornton School of Music with an emphasis in songwriting. Every time I sit down to write, I'm trying to write "In Your Atmosphere." I hope one day I figure out a way to do it, and that I make you proud. Here is my email address [redacted] and my phone number [redacted] -- contact me if you are so moved. You are my hero.
Love,
Jensen
When he finished his set, after multiple jam sessions over Bill Withers tunes and a series of encores, I leapt up from my table.
"John!" I yelped. He turned around. Hands shaking, I handed him the folded note--when did I get so bashful?--and he smiled.
"You're my hero!" I blurted.
"Thank you," he said, holding the note up, kissing it (!) and sticking it into his pocket.
I think part of me knew he was never gonna read it, but there it was, attached to his person.
What happened next can be summed up as: I went in the green room to hang out with Madison and Theo Katzman and hopefully get a chance to have a real conversation with John, but dehydration and overstimulation contributed to me fainting--not once, but TWICE. No, that is not a euphemism. I quite literally fainted, mere feet away from my greatest songwriting hero. No word on whether or not he saw or not, because the first time I came to, he was still taking selfies with fans, and the second time I came to, he was gone. I got in the back of an ambulance, they prescribed me food from the 24-hour diner across the street and to Locate My Chill, and Madison and I ate four hundred orders of sweet potato fries and laughed hysterically at what our lives had become.
This second time was more calm. I split an Uber five ways with some other super fans in my program, and while they went up to their seats in the nosebleeds, I sat by myself on the floor. I was next to a very sweet couple who loved John as much as I do. As soon as he came out, we were all losing it. And he really did slay a long and demanding show. His voice rarely wavered, his lock with the drums and bass was the dream of every performance professor in my program, and he seemed genuinely elated to be onstage for us.
But there were parts where he looked tired, and he seemed like he was mailing it in.
I've watched the "In Your Atmosphere" video--conservative estimates only--four hundred million times. I know every vocal inflection and every guitar lick and could probably sing the lyrics and instrumentation a cappella note for note. So when he played it last night and he changed things up, or perhaps forgot his original version...that hurt a bit. And I'm gonna be honest, that video from "Where The Light Is" is one of the most heartbreaking solo performances I've ever watched. Last night at the Forum, 9 years or so later, he wasn't emoting the same way. His raspy voice has this naturally evocative quality, but it wasn't the same. Maybe he doesn't love the song as much as I do. Maybe he was eager to get to his trio set. Maybe he was just genuinely tired from being on the road, knowing he's got many months of touring ahead.
After the show, we rehashed every song in the Uber back to campus, and continued to dissect his showmanship over McDonald's fries. A woman wandered into the restaurant and screamed at the patrons through a hoarse voice that none of us were innocent of sin. We were all college students. Of course we weren't. I digress.
It was 12:30 or so at this point, the same time four months ago when I first saw John Mayer take the stage, and like the previous time, I was more worn out than I thought I'd be. The thing about late nights is that they're not nights at all, that by technical measures it is already the next morning. I got an extra order of fries by accident, and I graciously handed them off. We were all starving, burning through our food at a breakneck pace and having the conversations that all music students have--here's what you need to be listening to, here's who I want to play for one day, here's what John should have played in the acoustic, no, the trio, no, the full band set, here's the best concert I've ever been to. There were lulls borne of exhaustion but never of boredom, because when you go see your favorite artist on earth with other people who love him as much as you do, it is impossible to be bored. But here you thought it was impossible to be tired, impossible to feel weary when you are watching your hero play, when you're someone else's hero and you're playing to a sold-out crowd in one of the greatest cities on earth.
But you can get tired, whether you're awestruck in the audience or up on the elevated stage, looming larger than life above the rest of us. John Mayer is a goddamn human being and I am sorry for ever pretending he was something else. He makes mistakes. His gear doesn't work (and didn't last night, on what one of my buds later told me was supposed to be "Heartbreak Warfare"--DAMN it!). His voice breaks--he had to get surgery in order to get it back, and he thanked his doctor, who was in the audience with us. He has songs he likes, songs he's tolerates, songs he truly hates but knows he has to play anyway. And more than anything--how could I miss this?--he gets hurt. The songs on "The Search For Everything" are about a loss of love that leveled him so profoundly he had to make an album about it. John Mayer is not only breakable, but broken. He gets sick and he gets rejected and he has to pay taxes and this is a job for him, for all of us, last night was a two-hour escape from the drudgery and stress of our lives, but for him, for all the magic and dreams coming true on that stage, he was getting paid for it, and it was work, and there is something about getting paid to make magic that sucks a little bit of the life out of it.
I still love John Mayer. He is still one of my biggest influences. But I don't think I'll ever faint at the sight of him again. And I think I'll cut him some slack if he plays "In Your Atmosphere," and he skips the real ending.
It was a great show.
The first time I saw John, it was a really different experience, to say the least. I finagled my way into the Hotel Café despite being 19 and lacking identification that said otherwise. I sat in the very front of an already small room. I arrived at 7pm to see my good friend Madison Douglas play a beautiful acoustic set, then watched five and a half hours of increasingly intense and awesome music, until at 12:30 a.m., John emerged to no introduction, no announcement, no fanfare. The room released a collective gasp, even those of us who knew he was the secret closer. He played some of my favorites--"Slow Dancing in a Burning Room," an acoustic cut of "Love on the Weekend," "Dear Marie," an underrated track from his less-than-popular album Paradise Valley--and he played some songs I don't get that hyped on--"Who Says," "Waiting on the World to Change," etc. His voice was even more transcendently beautiful live than I could have interpolated from all the live videos I've watched online. His guitar playing was legendary. He was what I wanted him to be and more. I tore a page out of my journal and scribbled a note that said something to the effect of:
Dear John --
You are my greatest musical influence and inspiration. I'm currently studying popular music at USC's Thornton School of Music with an emphasis in songwriting. Every time I sit down to write, I'm trying to write "In Your Atmosphere." I hope one day I figure out a way to do it, and that I make you proud. Here is my email address [redacted] and my phone number [redacted] -- contact me if you are so moved. You are my hero.
Love,
Jensen
When he finished his set, after multiple jam sessions over Bill Withers tunes and a series of encores, I leapt up from my table.
"John!" I yelped. He turned around. Hands shaking, I handed him the folded note--when did I get so bashful?--and he smiled.
"You're my hero!" I blurted.
"Thank you," he said, holding the note up, kissing it (!) and sticking it into his pocket.
I think part of me knew he was never gonna read it, but there it was, attached to his person.
What happened next can be summed up as: I went in the green room to hang out with Madison and Theo Katzman and hopefully get a chance to have a real conversation with John, but dehydration and overstimulation contributed to me fainting--not once, but TWICE. No, that is not a euphemism. I quite literally fainted, mere feet away from my greatest songwriting hero. No word on whether or not he saw or not, because the first time I came to, he was still taking selfies with fans, and the second time I came to, he was gone. I got in the back of an ambulance, they prescribed me food from the 24-hour diner across the street and to Locate My Chill, and Madison and I ate four hundred orders of sweet potato fries and laughed hysterically at what our lives had become.
This second time was more calm. I split an Uber five ways with some other super fans in my program, and while they went up to their seats in the nosebleeds, I sat by myself on the floor. I was next to a very sweet couple who loved John as much as I do. As soon as he came out, we were all losing it. And he really did slay a long and demanding show. His voice rarely wavered, his lock with the drums and bass was the dream of every performance professor in my program, and he seemed genuinely elated to be onstage for us.
But there were parts where he looked tired, and he seemed like he was mailing it in.
I've watched the "In Your Atmosphere" video--conservative estimates only--four hundred million times. I know every vocal inflection and every guitar lick and could probably sing the lyrics and instrumentation a cappella note for note. So when he played it last night and he changed things up, or perhaps forgot his original version...that hurt a bit. And I'm gonna be honest, that video from "Where The Light Is" is one of the most heartbreaking solo performances I've ever watched. Last night at the Forum, 9 years or so later, he wasn't emoting the same way. His raspy voice has this naturally evocative quality, but it wasn't the same. Maybe he doesn't love the song as much as I do. Maybe he was eager to get to his trio set. Maybe he was just genuinely tired from being on the road, knowing he's got many months of touring ahead.
After the show, we rehashed every song in the Uber back to campus, and continued to dissect his showmanship over McDonald's fries. A woman wandered into the restaurant and screamed at the patrons through a hoarse voice that none of us were innocent of sin. We were all college students. Of course we weren't. I digress.
It was 12:30 or so at this point, the same time four months ago when I first saw John Mayer take the stage, and like the previous time, I was more worn out than I thought I'd be. The thing about late nights is that they're not nights at all, that by technical measures it is already the next morning. I got an extra order of fries by accident, and I graciously handed them off. We were all starving, burning through our food at a breakneck pace and having the conversations that all music students have--here's what you need to be listening to, here's who I want to play for one day, here's what John should have played in the acoustic, no, the trio, no, the full band set, here's the best concert I've ever been to. There were lulls borne of exhaustion but never of boredom, because when you go see your favorite artist on earth with other people who love him as much as you do, it is impossible to be bored. But here you thought it was impossible to be tired, impossible to feel weary when you are watching your hero play, when you're someone else's hero and you're playing to a sold-out crowd in one of the greatest cities on earth.
But you can get tired, whether you're awestruck in the audience or up on the elevated stage, looming larger than life above the rest of us. John Mayer is a goddamn human being and I am sorry for ever pretending he was something else. He makes mistakes. His gear doesn't work (and didn't last night, on what one of my buds later told me was supposed to be "Heartbreak Warfare"--DAMN it!). His voice breaks--he had to get surgery in order to get it back, and he thanked his doctor, who was in the audience with us. He has songs he likes, songs he's tolerates, songs he truly hates but knows he has to play anyway. And more than anything--how could I miss this?--he gets hurt. The songs on "The Search For Everything" are about a loss of love that leveled him so profoundly he had to make an album about it. John Mayer is not only breakable, but broken. He gets sick and he gets rejected and he has to pay taxes and this is a job for him, for all of us, last night was a two-hour escape from the drudgery and stress of our lives, but for him, for all the magic and dreams coming true on that stage, he was getting paid for it, and it was work, and there is something about getting paid to make magic that sucks a little bit of the life out of it.
I still love John Mayer. He is still one of my biggest influences. But I don't think I'll ever faint at the sight of him again. And I think I'll cut him some slack if he plays "In Your Atmosphere," and he skips the real ending.
Wednesday, February 15, 2017
This Whole Swastika Thing Is Getting Out of Control
If you don't go to USC, or you do, but you spend very little time on the Internet, you might not know that there was a firestorm today about a vendor on campus who was selling shirts that had swastikas on them.
I've seen pictures of the shirt. I don't know the vendor personally, but based on the images, it seems like the vendor was attempting to shed some light on the history of the symbol, and to condemn those who have used it to spread hate. Which is, like, nice, I guess? But ultimately irrelevant.
A USC student who posted about an emotional response to the shirt was immediately assaulted with an onslaught of comments from people calling her an oversensitive snowflake, mocking her for being triggered, and making a lot of anti-Semitic remarks in general. There were even more people who jumped in to play devil's advocate, to explain that the symbol is *supposed* to be peaceful, to denounce Nazism but to defend free speech and the right of the individual to sell the shirt.
Here's my thing.
I'm a black Jew who has never felt particularly welcomed by the Jewish community. So it goes--I'm not really religious anyway, so it was always more of an inconvenience to have my heritage questioned than a real point of offense. Nonetheless, I have ancestors that were persecuted in the Holocaust, and my white, Jewish mother is just as integral to my identity as my black, non-Jewish father. So seeing swastikas for me is always kind of painful. Even if other Jews don't usually recognize me as one of their own, some part of me still feels tied to that community. The experience is sort of like (though not identical to) when I hear people say the n-word. Even though it's not (usually) directed at me, and even though its usage does not directly subjugate me, I can feel the weight of its historical significance. I know that I'm only a couple generations removed from people whose lives were made absolutely unlivable by that word, and that symbol. (Also, black people were murdered during the Holocaust. As were gays, and the disabled, and a whole bunch of other marginalized groups. I digress).
But even if you AREN'T descended from people who were historically persecuted, you should have a problem with the swastika. It's not what it used to be. I know the "swastikas have seen better days" argument sounds silly when I phrase it that way, but they have. The only reason that any words or symbols have meaning is because we have assigned meaning to them. And when a meaning--particularly a violent one--becomes widely accepted and installed into the historical canon, it is imperative that we keep that in mind as time passes. I don't know if humanity will ever be able to "reclaim" the swastika, or the Confederate flag, or any other symbol that has once stood for hate, without facing repercussions.
Also--why are people (specifically straight/cisgender/white/Christian/male people) so obsessed with playing devil's advocate? Do you hear yourself? The devil doesn't need any more advocates! (And yes, I did order a shirt from Customink that has that very saying emblazoned across the chest). I get that you have been brought up to look at controversial issues from all sides, and to look at the facts. But I read a great quote somewhere about politics that essentially says: don't bring facts to a feelings party, and don't bring feelings to a facts party. When it comes to the swastika, you're in feelings territory. Climate change? Facts party. It exists. Economics? Facts party. Unemployment is a quantifiable statistic. Hate speech? Big ol' feelings party. It doesn't REALLY matter, in my opinion, that the swastika has peaceful origins, because those origins were perverted by the Nazi party. And that symbol has brought a lot of people a lot of pain. Your facts will crumble in the face of the trauma that millions of people experienced during the Holocaust, and that even more people experienced in the subsequent decades as a result of the genocide.
My final point, I suppose, is that you have to really think about what you're getting worked up about. If your Big Cause that you're fighting for is some person's right to sell shirts with swastikas on them, maybe you should reprioritize a bit. Free speech is a great thing to fight for. Hate speech? Notsomuch. No matter what that vendor thought they were accomplishing, they were acting with ignorance and privilege. And when those shortcomings were called out, they chose to continue doing what they were doing. And that's a big problem.
If you are part of any privileged group, and someone from a marginalized group says that they have been hurt by your words or actions, you don't just get to ~decide~ that you didn't do anything wrong. You need to take a step back and learn why what you did might be problematic. And if it doesn't affect your way of life, you should stop. Use a different word. Call someone by the correct pronouns.
Sell almost any other *#!&$@*! shirt.
I've seen pictures of the shirt. I don't know the vendor personally, but based on the images, it seems like the vendor was attempting to shed some light on the history of the symbol, and to condemn those who have used it to spread hate. Which is, like, nice, I guess? But ultimately irrelevant.
A USC student who posted about an emotional response to the shirt was immediately assaulted with an onslaught of comments from people calling her an oversensitive snowflake, mocking her for being triggered, and making a lot of anti-Semitic remarks in general. There were even more people who jumped in to play devil's advocate, to explain that the symbol is *supposed* to be peaceful, to denounce Nazism but to defend free speech and the right of the individual to sell the shirt.
Here's my thing.
I'm a black Jew who has never felt particularly welcomed by the Jewish community. So it goes--I'm not really religious anyway, so it was always more of an inconvenience to have my heritage questioned than a real point of offense. Nonetheless, I have ancestors that were persecuted in the Holocaust, and my white, Jewish mother is just as integral to my identity as my black, non-Jewish father. So seeing swastikas for me is always kind of painful. Even if other Jews don't usually recognize me as one of their own, some part of me still feels tied to that community. The experience is sort of like (though not identical to) when I hear people say the n-word. Even though it's not (usually) directed at me, and even though its usage does not directly subjugate me, I can feel the weight of its historical significance. I know that I'm only a couple generations removed from people whose lives were made absolutely unlivable by that word, and that symbol. (Also, black people were murdered during the Holocaust. As were gays, and the disabled, and a whole bunch of other marginalized groups. I digress).
But even if you AREN'T descended from people who were historically persecuted, you should have a problem with the swastika. It's not what it used to be. I know the "swastikas have seen better days" argument sounds silly when I phrase it that way, but they have. The only reason that any words or symbols have meaning is because we have assigned meaning to them. And when a meaning--particularly a violent one--becomes widely accepted and installed into the historical canon, it is imperative that we keep that in mind as time passes. I don't know if humanity will ever be able to "reclaim" the swastika, or the Confederate flag, or any other symbol that has once stood for hate, without facing repercussions.
Also--why are people (specifically straight/cisgender/white/Christian/male people) so obsessed with playing devil's advocate? Do you hear yourself? The devil doesn't need any more advocates! (And yes, I did order a shirt from Customink that has that very saying emblazoned across the chest). I get that you have been brought up to look at controversial issues from all sides, and to look at the facts. But I read a great quote somewhere about politics that essentially says: don't bring facts to a feelings party, and don't bring feelings to a facts party. When it comes to the swastika, you're in feelings territory. Climate change? Facts party. It exists. Economics? Facts party. Unemployment is a quantifiable statistic. Hate speech? Big ol' feelings party. It doesn't REALLY matter, in my opinion, that the swastika has peaceful origins, because those origins were perverted by the Nazi party. And that symbol has brought a lot of people a lot of pain. Your facts will crumble in the face of the trauma that millions of people experienced during the Holocaust, and that even more people experienced in the subsequent decades as a result of the genocide.
My final point, I suppose, is that you have to really think about what you're getting worked up about. If your Big Cause that you're fighting for is some person's right to sell shirts with swastikas on them, maybe you should reprioritize a bit. Free speech is a great thing to fight for. Hate speech? Notsomuch. No matter what that vendor thought they were accomplishing, they were acting with ignorance and privilege. And when those shortcomings were called out, they chose to continue doing what they were doing. And that's a big problem.
If you are part of any privileged group, and someone from a marginalized group says that they have been hurt by your words or actions, you don't just get to ~decide~ that you didn't do anything wrong. You need to take a step back and learn why what you did might be problematic. And if it doesn't affect your way of life, you should stop. Use a different word. Call someone by the correct pronouns.
Sell almost any other *#!&$@*! shirt.
Monday, February 13, 2017
Chance's Life Matters | Pop Lives Matter
Chance the Rapper's "Best New Artist" win was one of a few bright spots in an almost ominous 59th Grammy Awards.
He nailed performance as well. Bruno Mars was another highlight, both in his performance of his own material and his breathtaking, spot-on salute to the late, great, Prince (the purple suit, the outrageous guitar solo, the DANCING). Lady Gaga was also one of my favorites--she was so unbelievably badass and she owned that stage. I didn't catch Beyoncé's performance but heard rave reviews.
The Bee Gees tribute was, to me, underwhelming. Maren Morris and Alicia Keys felt like two simultaneous performances that were at odds with each other, and in my opinion, sharing the stage with Keys is a move that few artists should endeavor to make. I was stoked to hear Morris mention GRAMMY Camp in her acceptance speech for Best Country Solo Performance, but her lack of enthusiasm, both at her win and at her performance opportunity with Keys, turned me off.
And Adele. Her rendition of her own song, "Hello," felt half-hearted, and while her flub during the George Michael tribute was endearing, the performance wound up feeling out-of-touch and almost selfish when compared to Mars' pitch-perfect Prince homage. Then there's her sweep of awards. Adele is a talented artist. Her first two albums, 19 and 21, are triumphs--they are sonically cohesive, vocally bold, and emotionally raw. She's charming and authentic in interviews and has built up a reputation for consummate professionalism in her live performances. But 25 isn't even the best Adele album, let alone the best album of this past eligibility season. I appreciated her comments about how Lemonade was HER album of the year, but she still walked away with the Big Three at the end of the night.
Adele was the safe, predictable (W-H-I-T-E) choice. The Academy would rather hand Beyoncé a nod for Best Urban Contemporary Album than admit that an album by a black woman--with themes that refuse to ignore the realities of blackness and womanhood and the intersection therein--defined a calendar year for everyone, including the whitewashed mainstream. While I'm not a Beyoncé apologist, and I think that Beyoncé herself has done better work (at least musically and lyrically speaking) than the content on her most recent release, I think Lemonade beats 25 across the board. Without even addressing the work that was overlooked in this category and others (looking at you, RiRi), it becomes clear that there is a systemic problem with the infrastructure of the Grammy Awards.
So what of Chance? What of the indie artist who had to petition the Academy to be nominated, the black hip-hop wunderkind (he's only 4 years older than me, which I'm trying not to think about) who triumphed in a way that reassures us, despite all the times that Kanye and Kendrick and Frank were snubbed?
There's hope for the future.
In all likelihood, me and my classmates in the pop program will be shaping the Grammys in a few years' time. Many of us will be the instrumentalists that tour, play award shows, and do session work tirelessly. Some of us will be writing the music that gets honored with tributes and shiny hardware. A few of us may even clinch nominations. And Chance the Rapper, however elevated his current status, is part of our generation. We're all just '90s babies with a love of the craft and the talent to communicate our stories. My classmates are some of the most diverse and gifted musicians I've ever heard. Some of us are ethnic or religious minorities. Some of us are queer. Some of us are immigrants or first-generation college students. We come from a wide range of socioeconomic backgrounds. And we represent an even wider range of musical identities. Adele is great. But the future of music not a homogeneous landscape peopled with white balladeers. Based on just the few dozen pop majors currently enrolled at Thornton, the future of music is a loud, bright, proud outburst of color and sound.
We are all Chance the Rapper, the unsigned underdog who is so good that they can't be ignored for long.
Chance's life matters.
He nailed performance as well. Bruno Mars was another highlight, both in his performance of his own material and his breathtaking, spot-on salute to the late, great, Prince (the purple suit, the outrageous guitar solo, the DANCING). Lady Gaga was also one of my favorites--she was so unbelievably badass and she owned that stage. I didn't catch Beyoncé's performance but heard rave reviews.
The Bee Gees tribute was, to me, underwhelming. Maren Morris and Alicia Keys felt like two simultaneous performances that were at odds with each other, and in my opinion, sharing the stage with Keys is a move that few artists should endeavor to make. I was stoked to hear Morris mention GRAMMY Camp in her acceptance speech for Best Country Solo Performance, but her lack of enthusiasm, both at her win and at her performance opportunity with Keys, turned me off.
And Adele. Her rendition of her own song, "Hello," felt half-hearted, and while her flub during the George Michael tribute was endearing, the performance wound up feeling out-of-touch and almost selfish when compared to Mars' pitch-perfect Prince homage. Then there's her sweep of awards. Adele is a talented artist. Her first two albums, 19 and 21, are triumphs--they are sonically cohesive, vocally bold, and emotionally raw. She's charming and authentic in interviews and has built up a reputation for consummate professionalism in her live performances. But 25 isn't even the best Adele album, let alone the best album of this past eligibility season. I appreciated her comments about how Lemonade was HER album of the year, but she still walked away with the Big Three at the end of the night.
Adele was the safe, predictable (W-H-I-T-E) choice. The Academy would rather hand Beyoncé a nod for Best Urban Contemporary Album than admit that an album by a black woman--with themes that refuse to ignore the realities of blackness and womanhood and the intersection therein--defined a calendar year for everyone, including the whitewashed mainstream. While I'm not a Beyoncé apologist, and I think that Beyoncé herself has done better work (at least musically and lyrically speaking) than the content on her most recent release, I think Lemonade beats 25 across the board. Without even addressing the work that was overlooked in this category and others (looking at you, RiRi), it becomes clear that there is a systemic problem with the infrastructure of the Grammy Awards.
So what of Chance? What of the indie artist who had to petition the Academy to be nominated, the black hip-hop wunderkind (he's only 4 years older than me, which I'm trying not to think about) who triumphed in a way that reassures us, despite all the times that Kanye and Kendrick and Frank were snubbed?
There's hope for the future.
In all likelihood, me and my classmates in the pop program will be shaping the Grammys in a few years' time. Many of us will be the instrumentalists that tour, play award shows, and do session work tirelessly. Some of us will be writing the music that gets honored with tributes and shiny hardware. A few of us may even clinch nominations. And Chance the Rapper, however elevated his current status, is part of our generation. We're all just '90s babies with a love of the craft and the talent to communicate our stories. My classmates are some of the most diverse and gifted musicians I've ever heard. Some of us are ethnic or religious minorities. Some of us are queer. Some of us are immigrants or first-generation college students. We come from a wide range of socioeconomic backgrounds. And we represent an even wider range of musical identities. Adele is great. But the future of music not a homogeneous landscape peopled with white balladeers. Based on just the few dozen pop majors currently enrolled at Thornton, the future of music is a loud, bright, proud outburst of color and sound.
We are all Chance the Rapper, the unsigned underdog who is so good that they can't be ignored for long.
Chance's life matters.
Sunday, February 5, 2017
FOOTBALL IS A METAPHOR (Or Is It?)
Hi there. I don't normally do posts like this. This blog has sort of devolved into me posting whenever I feel like it with whatever's on my mind, with a few posts about the pop program thrown in for good measure, but I thought I would whip this one up real quick, post Super Bowl.
I'm already seeing a lot of people online talking about how this game felt like a metaphor for the 2016 election. The diverse metropolis in the South that's being lovingly sent up by Donald Glover in a hit show about music and race and humanity is battling it out against a controversial but widely loved team from the cold, white North. I don't know a lot about football, but I've heard the word "deflategate" a lot, and I know that the Pats have won a lot of Bowls. Also, Gaga is a metaphor for Bernie. Somehow. I think.
I have never once in my life cared about football. But as I watched the game wind to a close with Atlanta in the lead, I got excited. It felt like if the Falcons won, then maybe there was hope for this fractured, deeply wounded nation in 2017. And then somehow it got tied up. And then somehow the Patriots won. And it was over, and I don't know any of the players' names besides Tom Brady, and life continues as normal, I guess.
It's not a perfect metaphor. The Patriots are a talented team, a proven winner with the experience and the skill to take the ring. I don't actually know anything about the Falcons. But I couldn't help but feel like overtime was the brief, final window of hope. The minutes before they called Pennsylvania and I went home from my friends' would-be celebration party, crying in my Uber.
In the wake of this particularly nail-biting Super Bowl and an even more nail-biting presidency, I'd like to give everyone some Sunday night, crunch time motivation to get through this week, and the next one, and the next one.
1. Work out. I hate me, too. But I started working out on New Year's Day, at least 5 days a week every week, and it has helped me a lot. Exercise is by no means a cure for your afflictions, but it is an effective treatment that can lessen whatever symptoms ail you. Would recommend giving it a go, even if it's just walking around your neighborhood (or on a treadmill) for 20 minutes a day.
2. Sit by a window if you can't go inside. I know in most of the country, the weather is too abysmal to contemplate going outside more than is necessary. Even LA is going to be hit by some more rain this week. So, if going outside and soaking up the fresh air and sunlight isn't an option, sit by windows. It sounds crazy, but while you're going about your daily tasks, if you can move closer to a window and stare out at nature, it might just lift your spirits a bit. Especially if it's raining or snowing--ya can't beat the view of Mother Nature giving it all she's got while you're inside, hopefully a bit warmer and drier.
3. Stop procrastinating that thing you've been procrastinating. If possible, do it right now. If it's not possible, do it first thing tomorrow. Seriously. Just do the thing. Do it fast and then if you didn't do a good job, set it down and go back and fix it later. Just make a really strong first attempt so you can feel less like a human pile of garbage.
4. Go to bed before midnight tonight. Regardless of when you need to be up tomorrow, try to get in bed by 11 or 11:30pm at the latest. Burning the midnight oil isn't always the most effective strategy, especially if you've made a habit of it recently.
5. Drink some tea. Your favorite kind. Maybe add a little lemon and/or honey if you're feeling particularly adventurous. Hell, it's still the weekend, have a cookie with your warm drink! NOW you're getting it!
6. Write in a journal. Even if you're not a big diarist, find a notebook, journal, or even some blank copy paper and write down your thoughts. Write for 20-30 minutes about whatever comes to mind. If possible, work through some of the personal and/or professional problems that have been nagging at you for a while. Don't worry about grammar or spelling or cohesion of thought, just write stream-of-consciousness about what's bothering you. If, afterward, you'd like to throw it out or set it on fire, go for it (but be safe!). Or, better yet, pick it up as a hobby that you return to every week, or even every day.
7. Watch one (1) funny YouTube video. Don't fall down the rabbit hole. But watch one video clip that you know is gonna make you laugh--might I recommend the official SNL channel, perhaps with the clip of Melissa McCarthy as White House Press Secretary Sean Spicer--and then tackle your next challenge.
8. Clean something. Even if it's just washing a couple of dishes or taking out the trash, the sense of accomplishment you'll feel will motivate you to do something a bit bigger (or maybe stopping for the day because hey, you got something done).
9. Text/call someone you miss right now. Let 'em know you're thinking of them. You'll both be glad you did.
10. Get excited for this week. Go over your schedule, look at what you have to do, what you get to do, and just get amped! Yeah, you've got work, deadlines to meet, emails to send, papers to write, but every day you're getting closer to the life you want to lead. And yes, our country is more politically and socially turbulent than it's been in years, but it's also more politically and socially engaged than it's been in years. When was the last time you had this many conversations about politics--thoughtful or otherwise--with friends, family, AND strangers? I can't recall it. Yes, we're coming together to work through hard topics because we have an unpopular and possibly dangerous leader, but hey. We're coming together.
To real, diehard Atlanta fans: I'm sorry. To the Patriots: you won. But we don't have to like it.
#BernieGaga2020
I'm already seeing a lot of people online talking about how this game felt like a metaphor for the 2016 election. The diverse metropolis in the South that's being lovingly sent up by Donald Glover in a hit show about music and race and humanity is battling it out against a controversial but widely loved team from the cold, white North. I don't know a lot about football, but I've heard the word "deflategate" a lot, and I know that the Pats have won a lot of Bowls. Also, Gaga is a metaphor for Bernie. Somehow. I think.
I have never once in my life cared about football. But as I watched the game wind to a close with Atlanta in the lead, I got excited. It felt like if the Falcons won, then maybe there was hope for this fractured, deeply wounded nation in 2017. And then somehow it got tied up. And then somehow the Patriots won. And it was over, and I don't know any of the players' names besides Tom Brady, and life continues as normal, I guess.
It's not a perfect metaphor. The Patriots are a talented team, a proven winner with the experience and the skill to take the ring. I don't actually know anything about the Falcons. But I couldn't help but feel like overtime was the brief, final window of hope. The minutes before they called Pennsylvania and I went home from my friends' would-be celebration party, crying in my Uber.
In the wake of this particularly nail-biting Super Bowl and an even more nail-biting presidency, I'd like to give everyone some Sunday night, crunch time motivation to get through this week, and the next one, and the next one.
1. Work out. I hate me, too. But I started working out on New Year's Day, at least 5 days a week every week, and it has helped me a lot. Exercise is by no means a cure for your afflictions, but it is an effective treatment that can lessen whatever symptoms ail you. Would recommend giving it a go, even if it's just walking around your neighborhood (or on a treadmill) for 20 minutes a day.
2. Sit by a window if you can't go inside. I know in most of the country, the weather is too abysmal to contemplate going outside more than is necessary. Even LA is going to be hit by some more rain this week. So, if going outside and soaking up the fresh air and sunlight isn't an option, sit by windows. It sounds crazy, but while you're going about your daily tasks, if you can move closer to a window and stare out at nature, it might just lift your spirits a bit. Especially if it's raining or snowing--ya can't beat the view of Mother Nature giving it all she's got while you're inside, hopefully a bit warmer and drier.
3. Stop procrastinating that thing you've been procrastinating. If possible, do it right now. If it's not possible, do it first thing tomorrow. Seriously. Just do the thing. Do it fast and then if you didn't do a good job, set it down and go back and fix it later. Just make a really strong first attempt so you can feel less like a human pile of garbage.
4. Go to bed before midnight tonight. Regardless of when you need to be up tomorrow, try to get in bed by 11 or 11:30pm at the latest. Burning the midnight oil isn't always the most effective strategy, especially if you've made a habit of it recently.
5. Drink some tea. Your favorite kind. Maybe add a little lemon and/or honey if you're feeling particularly adventurous. Hell, it's still the weekend, have a cookie with your warm drink! NOW you're getting it!
6. Write in a journal. Even if you're not a big diarist, find a notebook, journal, or even some blank copy paper and write down your thoughts. Write for 20-30 minutes about whatever comes to mind. If possible, work through some of the personal and/or professional problems that have been nagging at you for a while. Don't worry about grammar or spelling or cohesion of thought, just write stream-of-consciousness about what's bothering you. If, afterward, you'd like to throw it out or set it on fire, go for it (but be safe!). Or, better yet, pick it up as a hobby that you return to every week, or even every day.
7. Watch one (1) funny YouTube video. Don't fall down the rabbit hole. But watch one video clip that you know is gonna make you laugh--might I recommend the official SNL channel, perhaps with the clip of Melissa McCarthy as White House Press Secretary Sean Spicer--and then tackle your next challenge.
8. Clean something. Even if it's just washing a couple of dishes or taking out the trash, the sense of accomplishment you'll feel will motivate you to do something a bit bigger (or maybe stopping for the day because hey, you got something done).
9. Text/call someone you miss right now. Let 'em know you're thinking of them. You'll both be glad you did.
10. Get excited for this week. Go over your schedule, look at what you have to do, what you get to do, and just get amped! Yeah, you've got work, deadlines to meet, emails to send, papers to write, but every day you're getting closer to the life you want to lead. And yes, our country is more politically and socially turbulent than it's been in years, but it's also more politically and socially engaged than it's been in years. When was the last time you had this many conversations about politics--thoughtful or otherwise--with friends, family, AND strangers? I can't recall it. Yes, we're coming together to work through hard topics because we have an unpopular and possibly dangerous leader, but hey. We're coming together.
To real, diehard Atlanta fans: I'm sorry. To the Patriots: you won. But we don't have to like it.
#BernieGaga2020
Sunday, January 22, 2017
Love The People Who Love You & Don't Worry About The Rest
Recently, I've been feeling a bit alone.
A friend I've had since childhood has all but disappeared from my life. Neither of us did anything wrong, he just stopped answering my messages and I stopped trying to salvage a relationship he didn't want to keep. He's not a bad person. Nobody knows how to gracefully end a friendship. I'm sure he just couldn't see a way out of what he thought what was a dead end without hurting me.
(I was hurt anyway. So it goes.)
A friend I made last year that I thought was going to be one of the most important people in my life never wants to hang out anymore. I haven't fully let go of it yet, but I'm less adamant about us hanging out. I text less, come around less. He never texts or comes around at all. I suppose he, too, saw that the friendship had run its course before I did. Not once did he speak badly of me or try to hurt me.
(I was hurt anyway. So it goes.)
A boy I briefly and painfully liked sent me perhaps the most brief and painful of all mixed signals, then abruptly dropped off the face of my earth. He gave me a lot of reasons why we wouldn't work. He stopped acting like my friend and treated me like a jilted lover though we never even really got close. He got back together with his ex. He stopped answering my messages. He never spread rumors about me, never said anything cruel to my face, went about excising me from his life in the kindest way possible.
(I was hurt anyway. So it...you get the point.)
These kinds of personal inconveniences are, I'm sure, the kinds of things that every human being goes through on a regular basis. Especially in college, where relationships are forged and forgotten quicker than any other time in our lives, it's normal for love or companionship to flare out just as suddenly as it first sparked. But to be honest, it's not just personal rejection that I've been experiencing.
Professionally speaking, while I've been having some really cool opportunities lately as a writer, I've not been having the same luck as a performer. I'm coming to terms with the fact that making money as a performer may not be in the cards for me. Hell, I don't even know if I'll make money as a writer, but as of right now it seems possible. I know I'm only 19, and that I can't close the book on myself yet, but symbols and signs from the universe seem to be coming out of the woodwork to tell me to get offstage. And while performing gives me anxiety, it's more than a little disheartening to feel like I'm not good at something I always thought I was good at. To feel like I am surrounded by people who are better than me, to feel like I don't have the intangible "it" factor that my friends and classmates seem to have in spades. It's probably for the best--I'm more comfortable in the studio cowriting songs, at my desk drafting blog posts and poetry and scripts and novels, sending my work out into the world from the comfort of my bedroom and not having to face anyone in the immediate aftermath. But it still hurts to feel shut out, to feel like I'm not good enough, to feel like people would rather Irish goodbye out of my life than to stay or at least give me a reason why they're going.
This all paints a grim picture. But I have experienced great comfort almost simultaneously with these grievances. A few close friends have pulled me in closer, held me tighter, made me feel like a real girl. They've let me be myself wholeheartedly. They've let me cry and they've let me make awful jokes and they've started the conversation and they've invited me over. They answer my texts. They keep coming around.
The transitions I've experienced have been rough. I don't bond with a lot of people, so to lose someone I have a genuine connection with is painful. It's humiliating to feel unwanted, to feel shunned, to see the doors of another person's mouth closing as they speak. But it happens. People move on from you. Jobs pass you over. You find out that those dreams you had as a kid aren't going to pan out, or they're going to take a different shape. But then you meet different people. And you find another job. And you get a new dream. And you stop panicking that you're not on the path you expected to be on and look out the window for a second and realize that it's raining, it's raining in Los Angeles and we've been in a drought, and your umbrella keeps turning outside out and you can't get a ride and your socks are soaked through but there is a river of floodwater running through campus and you just know if you had a block or board long enough you could sail that thing all the way home.
Love the people who love you. Don't force it but don't you dare stop it. Love is nothing to be ashamed of. If something lets you in, stay awhile. And if it gets quiet and checks its phone and looks anxiously at the door every few minutes, take the hint and leave. Love the people who love you and don't worry about the rest. Put out all the huge, embarrassing, childish love you've got into the universe and reel in everything that bites. Keep getting hurt and keep accepting it. Kiss frogs and frat boys and French horn players. Don't take it too personally when they go back to the swamp.
What I'm trying to say is that it's going to be okay. That it already kind of is.
A friend I've had since childhood has all but disappeared from my life. Neither of us did anything wrong, he just stopped answering my messages and I stopped trying to salvage a relationship he didn't want to keep. He's not a bad person. Nobody knows how to gracefully end a friendship. I'm sure he just couldn't see a way out of what he thought what was a dead end without hurting me.
(I was hurt anyway. So it goes.)
A friend I made last year that I thought was going to be one of the most important people in my life never wants to hang out anymore. I haven't fully let go of it yet, but I'm less adamant about us hanging out. I text less, come around less. He never texts or comes around at all. I suppose he, too, saw that the friendship had run its course before I did. Not once did he speak badly of me or try to hurt me.
(I was hurt anyway. So it goes.)
A boy I briefly and painfully liked sent me perhaps the most brief and painful of all mixed signals, then abruptly dropped off the face of my earth. He gave me a lot of reasons why we wouldn't work. He stopped acting like my friend and treated me like a jilted lover though we never even really got close. He got back together with his ex. He stopped answering my messages. He never spread rumors about me, never said anything cruel to my face, went about excising me from his life in the kindest way possible.
(I was hurt anyway. So it...you get the point.)
These kinds of personal inconveniences are, I'm sure, the kinds of things that every human being goes through on a regular basis. Especially in college, where relationships are forged and forgotten quicker than any other time in our lives, it's normal for love or companionship to flare out just as suddenly as it first sparked. But to be honest, it's not just personal rejection that I've been experiencing.
Professionally speaking, while I've been having some really cool opportunities lately as a writer, I've not been having the same luck as a performer. I'm coming to terms with the fact that making money as a performer may not be in the cards for me. Hell, I don't even know if I'll make money as a writer, but as of right now it seems possible. I know I'm only 19, and that I can't close the book on myself yet, but symbols and signs from the universe seem to be coming out of the woodwork to tell me to get offstage. And while performing gives me anxiety, it's more than a little disheartening to feel like I'm not good at something I always thought I was good at. To feel like I am surrounded by people who are better than me, to feel like I don't have the intangible "it" factor that my friends and classmates seem to have in spades. It's probably for the best--I'm more comfortable in the studio cowriting songs, at my desk drafting blog posts and poetry and scripts and novels, sending my work out into the world from the comfort of my bedroom and not having to face anyone in the immediate aftermath. But it still hurts to feel shut out, to feel like I'm not good enough, to feel like people would rather Irish goodbye out of my life than to stay or at least give me a reason why they're going.
This all paints a grim picture. But I have experienced great comfort almost simultaneously with these grievances. A few close friends have pulled me in closer, held me tighter, made me feel like a real girl. They've let me be myself wholeheartedly. They've let me cry and they've let me make awful jokes and they've started the conversation and they've invited me over. They answer my texts. They keep coming around.
The transitions I've experienced have been rough. I don't bond with a lot of people, so to lose someone I have a genuine connection with is painful. It's humiliating to feel unwanted, to feel shunned, to see the doors of another person's mouth closing as they speak. But it happens. People move on from you. Jobs pass you over. You find out that those dreams you had as a kid aren't going to pan out, or they're going to take a different shape. But then you meet different people. And you find another job. And you get a new dream. And you stop panicking that you're not on the path you expected to be on and look out the window for a second and realize that it's raining, it's raining in Los Angeles and we've been in a drought, and your umbrella keeps turning outside out and you can't get a ride and your socks are soaked through but there is a river of floodwater running through campus and you just know if you had a block or board long enough you could sail that thing all the way home.
Love the people who love you. Don't force it but don't you dare stop it. Love is nothing to be ashamed of. If something lets you in, stay awhile. And if it gets quiet and checks its phone and looks anxiously at the door every few minutes, take the hint and leave. Love the people who love you and don't worry about the rest. Put out all the huge, embarrassing, childish love you've got into the universe and reel in everything that bites. Keep getting hurt and keep accepting it. Kiss frogs and frat boys and French horn players. Don't take it too personally when they go back to the swamp.
What I'm trying to say is that it's going to be okay. That it already kind of is.
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