So I finally decided to take the plunge and post my very own video on Youtube. This has been something I have wanted to do for a while now and whilst I know that the quality leaves a lot to be desired, it's a first, and hopefully the start of many more to come.
I decided to do Ingrid Jonker's "Bitterbessie Dagbreek", originally sung by Chris Chameleon with my own twist on it. The pianist in this video is Jeremy Quickfall.
You can play it here.
or watch it here:
Hope you like it... <3
Saturday, June 30, 2012
Monday, June 25, 2012
falling on the wind
“Anyone whose goal is 'something higher' must expect someday to suffer vertigo. What is vertigo? Fear of falling? No, Vertigo is something other than fear of falling. It is the voice of the emptiness below us which tempts and lures us, it is the desire to fall, against which, terrified, we defend ourselves.”
- Milan Kundera
Recently, I am plagued by memories of my childhood. In some bizarre dream sequence like a ‘50s home movie, I can see the frames rushing past the silver screen in my mind. I see myself running on open, evergreen lawns, climbing trees higher than my house, eating ice-cream and cookies until it hurts, sitting on my father’s lap, lying in my mother’s arms, going to school and learning something new each day, making new friends, fishing, riding a bike for the first time and seeing the world through rose-coloured glasses.
It’s all gone now.
That life, that time, that energy, that freedom.
Yes, it is an essential part of growing up that one sheds one’s childish ways and that one learns to embrace the new exciting world of adulthood, with all the pleasures and pains it brings.
But somehow, I feel like a parachute jumper, I have jumped into the abyss, and though I know there is now way I can go back into the plane, I still am not sure where I am going to land.
Below me I see a vast landscape, a myriad of different landscapes, plains, destinations and as I am slowly sinking and leisurely drifting on the wind, the idea of which wind current to catch seems a far-fetched idealistic dream. “As if we can just jump onto a current and go with it?!”
And we keep falling, and immersing ourselves in the ocean of choices below us. Which surface will be the softest to land on, which will be the most adventurous? Where can I land where resources are abundant or where is the most open plain where dangers are least likely to lurk?
And even with this smorgasbord of different options, always in the periphery remains the dark, blind spot. Always lurking and looming to be explored, always there, like an ominous reminder of the fate of the undecided. No-one really knows what lies in the dark place. They say it’s experienced differently by each individual.
And, God knows, sometimes, I want to steer directly into it.
Not because I don’t value my life or the things I have worked hard for. Not because I have an inherent need to end it all and sink into the abyss. Not because I have a darkened, damaged soul that needs to hurt itself because it knows nothing else.
Well, at least, I don’t think so.
But there is something to be said for the unknown pit of darkness.
In the dark, you can get away with things.
No one cares when you just sit around and accomplish nothing , no one judges who you like, what you say, what you read, who you follow, what you sound like, what you wear, who you kiss, who you sleep with, what you write, what you eat and what you look like.
It’s less risky, I suppose.
Because, God knows, once you land in the light, you are open. You are a moving target, a bulls-eye to the rest of the light-walkers, another predator stealing food from the rest of the herd.
You are open to be nit-picked, to be torn apart, to be flayed and whipped for who you are and what you want. The light is a merciless place, a hostile place where the rewards could be endless. The sun, the air and the hope that perhaps someday you won’t be the prey anymore, these are the things we hope for.
And still, the abyss calls.
And still the parachute falls, drifting slowly on the wind.
Maybe it’s worse, seeing the world from above like this, having the choice to choose where one will land. Because somehow, somewhere, in any and every decision that you make, there will be an ounce of regret, or remorse, for the decision made.
So why make a choice at all?
Why not let the current decide for us? That absolves us from any responsibility, any consequence, any regret.
Perhaps, it’s best to close our eyes and just fall.
And as the wind is blowing on our faces, and our hair spiralling across our faces, we can be reminded of a time when all was good and pure in the world, when ice-cream and fishing were immense pleasures and a stubbed toe, the greatest pain.
No matter where we land; darkness or light. Nothing will come close to the plane.
So does it really matter where we land when our best days are behind us?
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
full disclosure
I am becoming more and more acutely aware of something as I go through my daily life, experiencing the world, all its woes, its glories, its failures and its triumphs. And this thing that I am constantly being exposed to, constantly being reminded of, constantly seeing, feeling and experiencing is, in my framework, a bitter pill to not only have to swallow, but almost silently so. Now more than ever.
Now you might be asking what exactly it is that I am becoming aware of and after a whole paragraph of (hopefully) keeping you reading to get to the answer, I will finally and with a peculiar and almost unprecedented sense of pride, say:
I am not an African.
Yes, I can hear you all moaning and groaning, and I can almost hear in some familiar (and often familial) voices, the obvious comments, but the point that I am trying to make is slightly more profound, I can assure you.
I grew up and I have lived in various provinces in South Africa, almost every single province in South Africa, as someone dutifully pointed out to me just the other day. My father was a pastor and therefore we travelled around a lot. Most of these I can’t really remember, and it’s rather sad when you think that so much of your heritage and what has shaped you to be the person you are today, is lost beneath layers and layers of other information in the tiny vessel of memory we refer to as our brain. Remember this statement. It’s important for later.
This upbringing, this journey that has brought me to where I am now has often been a tough one. But in some small, insignificant way I have often comforted myself with the notion that I am a child of Africa. I have experienced the country side, I have experienced the cities. I played cricket on a dirt road outside my house, I have slept under the stars on a farm in the Free State. I went to an Afrikaans, mixed-race school, I went to a private English school. I studied at a liberal arts college and I finished high school at a proudly Afrikaans institution. Somewhere along the line I guess that I have seen myself as a ‘child of the new South Africa’. I was born in 1990, so therefore any memory I have left of my childhood would be post-1994 and, in my mind at least, that signifies my life being a part of our new democracy. Even though it’s not factually true, I have always considered myself to be as old as our democracy is. And that, that is the reason why I think I have such a deep respect and admiration for the people that have fought so hard to make this country the place it is today, with all the opportunities it can offer me.
I might also be stepping on some toes here, but really, what else is a blog for? I also didn’t think that I needed to be black to be an African. And I still don’t.
I am of the firm belief that being an African means being a child of the soil, growing up with the harsh African sun on your back, feeling the effects of drought on farmers, loving the great outdoors, protecting what is yours, fighting for what it is that you believe in. It means being patriotic, not being afraid to say where you were born and, of course, knowing the words (and the meaning) to ‘Nkosi Sikeleli Africa’. These are all things I know, things I have experienced, and journeys I have made. This is my country as much as it is anyone else’s.
And so now I ask you why today I don’t feel like an African.
My citizenship has not been revoked; my name is the same, my race, my skin-colour, all remains as it was and yet; something has changed.
Maybe it’s because I feel that after today; I don’t want to be an African.
And yes, maybe I am more melancholic today, but such is suited to the black garb that I have donned on this ‘Black Tuesday’.
For those of you not aware of the situation in my beloved South Africa, I suggest you Google ‘Black Tuesday’ or ‘SA Secrecy Bill’ to see what I am referring to. This blog is not going to be as informative as the many qualified sites out there will be.
Upon hearing that the bill was passed in the National Assembly today, I felt my heart sink and a stunted scream of pain escaped almost inaudibly from my lips. Not because the bill has yet been put in place, not because it has directly started affecting me. But like a teenager discovering for the first time that their parents aren’t flawless or like a parent discovering for the first time that their baby boy or girl had turned into someone they didn’t know, I felt a sudden mixture of rebellion and confusion. Somehow, and I’m not sure how just yet, but somehow the phrase: ‘’We stopped looking for monsters under our beds when we realized they were inside us.’’, fits in here so perfectly.
This fault, this flaw that I discovered today, this shaft that is hampering our progress as a young democracy, has somehow left me so detached from all that is this country and everything that Nelson Mandela, Oliver Tambo, Walter Sisulu and Steve Biko fought for to achieve that I started to wonder whether the sacrifices of these individuals were at all necessary. I started to see more and more flaws, my eyes opened up to a whole new world.
As an artist we often deal with politics and one can almost say that all art is political. However, I have always sort of detached myself from that aspect as I felt that one needs to tell one’s own story and there was never an opportunity for me to tell my story; had I told another’s I would have felt like a hypocrite. And as much as I have always tried to stay on top of current affairs and have some idea about what is happening in this country as a whole, I have never really felt the need to get involved in politics. As a white male in SA today, I have never felt I had enough say or much leverage to say it. Somehow I had always managed to stay out of heated political discussions, because in my experience these tended to lead to very little actually being done. When voting day came, I cast my ‘’Democratic Alliance’’ vote proudly, but I never felt an urgency to do more. Until today, that is.
As is often the case with these enlightening moments, I immediately wanted to know more, before I could write this blog, and, although I did find out quite a lot, there is a lot more that I still want to know.
Today I read Lindiwe Mazibuko’s moving speech to parliament in which she proclaimed that the DA will not stop fighting this secrecy bill. The power of her words as she, young, black South African woman, faced an entire parliament of people far beyond her years moved me. She confronted them with words that said: ‘What will you, the Members on that side of the House, tell your grandchildren one day? I know you will tell them that you fought for freedom. But will you also tell them you helped to destroy it?’’. I also read that she had confronted someone about their use of the word ‘darkies’ in parliament and that his rebuttal was to call her a ‘coconut’ (brown on the outside, white on the inside). This exemplary child of Africa, a young black girl with a past that resembles that of most in South Africa, a young black girl with dignity who has carved her own way in the Democratic Alliance in as little as four years. This woman who now, not much older than I am, is standing in front of hundreds of men who have fought for this freedom that she has and is confronting them about the bad decisions they are about to make. This takes strength, character, dignity, respect and a lot of hard work. This, this is what I thought meant being an African.
I read an interesting article today where a reporter who was due to interview Ms Mazibuko, wanted to get a clear sense of what the everyman (or woman, in this case) thought of her. The reporter showed a picture of Lindiwe to her domestic worker whose response was: ‘DA. Bad.’ I heard that Ms Mazibuko can speak 4 official South African languages and has lived in suburban and rural South Africa. And just because she dares to oppose, as the DA’s national spokesperson, a government so inbred with their own propagandas, their own pride and their own misguided sense of power she is labelled as not being a ‘true African’ or being one of the enemy.
Therefore I think it’s important to assess one thing: Who is more African? The corrupt? Those who steal from the people to fund their own pockets? Those who are quick to jump on the ‘race-train’ whenever they are being held accountable? Those who keep their affairs a secret, because they know that it is not within the best interests of those they govern? Or is it those who stand up for what they believe in? Those who are prepared to fight an uphill-battle? Those who stand in the face of adversity and keep their head held high, because even if they don’t know where they are going, at least they know where they have been?
I would argue the latter.
Our generation, my generation, we’re always saying how we haven’t had anything worth fighting for. Well, this is basically being handed to us on a silver platter. The time of posting protesting status updates and protesting tweets is over. I think it’s safe to say that the government couldn’t care less about your 140 characters. There is no point in wearing black clothing anymore unless you’re wearing it whilst toyi-toying. Silent protest is a thing of the past. I think it’s time that the youth of this country rally up with the same amount of force that they did in 1965. The time has come that we start marching through the streets again, holding our heads high. The time has come for us to go out there and do something. And say something!
I was scrolling through my friends’ status updates on Facebook today and the general consensus is that my generation - of all races, colours and creeds – is ready to start fighting for this country. And so am I.
Speak up, speak out, and march, march till your feet bleed, march till you faint under this glorious African sun. Because that’s how you change a country, that’s how you get a government to listen. ‘’Nothing will change if you change nothing’’.
That is what I call being an African. It has nothing to do with skin. It has nothing to do with who was here first, which language you speak or which tribe you belong to. It has to do with an inherent urge to fight for what it is you love.
I feel, at this point, that it’s an appropriate time for me to directly address the ANC:
I am not an African, purely because you all call yourselves Africans. And if you are the barometer to which I should measure my African heritage, I want nothing of it.
I want to be a South African. I want to be a South African like Nelson Mandela, like Lindiwe Mazibuko, like Helen Zille, Ingrid Jonker and Ferial Haffajee. I want you to remember my name. I want you to see my face and be haunted by it. Because in the very near future it will come parading down the streets, joined by thousands of young South Africans refusing to sit back and watch you destroy what our forefathers fought so hard to build. Because I have feet and I will march them. I will march them till I feel that my legacy has been left and felt. I will not tell my grandchildren one day that I stood by and watched our beautiful young democracy being destroyed by an authoritarian government who themselves have turned into the very monster they fought so hard to conquer many years before.*
I am 21 years old, a child of South Africa, and I am not afraid to fight for what I believe in. And that makes me more of a South African than any of you.
I have now fully disclosed.
ANC, your move.
*October 19, 1977. South Africa’s Apartheid Government bans several newspapers for publishing news articles about the beating and murder of Steve Biko at the hands of police. The ANC protested this violently.
November 22, 2011. The ANC passes the Protection of Information Bill allowing the incarceration and banning of any entity that publicizes any information about the corrupt nature or actions of members of government.
The nation must know.
Now you might be asking what exactly it is that I am becoming aware of and after a whole paragraph of (hopefully) keeping you reading to get to the answer, I will finally and with a peculiar and almost unprecedented sense of pride, say:
I am not an African.
Yes, I can hear you all moaning and groaning, and I can almost hear in some familiar (and often familial) voices, the obvious comments, but the point that I am trying to make is slightly more profound, I can assure you.
I grew up and I have lived in various provinces in South Africa, almost every single province in South Africa, as someone dutifully pointed out to me just the other day. My father was a pastor and therefore we travelled around a lot. Most of these I can’t really remember, and it’s rather sad when you think that so much of your heritage and what has shaped you to be the person you are today, is lost beneath layers and layers of other information in the tiny vessel of memory we refer to as our brain. Remember this statement. It’s important for later.
This upbringing, this journey that has brought me to where I am now has often been a tough one. But in some small, insignificant way I have often comforted myself with the notion that I am a child of Africa. I have experienced the country side, I have experienced the cities. I played cricket on a dirt road outside my house, I have slept under the stars on a farm in the Free State. I went to an Afrikaans, mixed-race school, I went to a private English school. I studied at a liberal arts college and I finished high school at a proudly Afrikaans institution. Somewhere along the line I guess that I have seen myself as a ‘child of the new South Africa’. I was born in 1990, so therefore any memory I have left of my childhood would be post-1994 and, in my mind at least, that signifies my life being a part of our new democracy. Even though it’s not factually true, I have always considered myself to be as old as our democracy is. And that, that is the reason why I think I have such a deep respect and admiration for the people that have fought so hard to make this country the place it is today, with all the opportunities it can offer me.
I might also be stepping on some toes here, but really, what else is a blog for? I also didn’t think that I needed to be black to be an African. And I still don’t.
I am of the firm belief that being an African means being a child of the soil, growing up with the harsh African sun on your back, feeling the effects of drought on farmers, loving the great outdoors, protecting what is yours, fighting for what it is that you believe in. It means being patriotic, not being afraid to say where you were born and, of course, knowing the words (and the meaning) to ‘Nkosi Sikeleli Africa’. These are all things I know, things I have experienced, and journeys I have made. This is my country as much as it is anyone else’s.
And so now I ask you why today I don’t feel like an African.
My citizenship has not been revoked; my name is the same, my race, my skin-colour, all remains as it was and yet; something has changed.
Maybe it’s because I feel that after today; I don’t want to be an African.
And yes, maybe I am more melancholic today, but such is suited to the black garb that I have donned on this ‘Black Tuesday’.
For those of you not aware of the situation in my beloved South Africa, I suggest you Google ‘Black Tuesday’ or ‘SA Secrecy Bill’ to see what I am referring to. This blog is not going to be as informative as the many qualified sites out there will be.
Upon hearing that the bill was passed in the National Assembly today, I felt my heart sink and a stunted scream of pain escaped almost inaudibly from my lips. Not because the bill has yet been put in place, not because it has directly started affecting me. But like a teenager discovering for the first time that their parents aren’t flawless or like a parent discovering for the first time that their baby boy or girl had turned into someone they didn’t know, I felt a sudden mixture of rebellion and confusion. Somehow, and I’m not sure how just yet, but somehow the phrase: ‘’We stopped looking for monsters under our beds when we realized they were inside us.’’, fits in here so perfectly.
This fault, this flaw that I discovered today, this shaft that is hampering our progress as a young democracy, has somehow left me so detached from all that is this country and everything that Nelson Mandela, Oliver Tambo, Walter Sisulu and Steve Biko fought for to achieve that I started to wonder whether the sacrifices of these individuals were at all necessary. I started to see more and more flaws, my eyes opened up to a whole new world.
As an artist we often deal with politics and one can almost say that all art is political. However, I have always sort of detached myself from that aspect as I felt that one needs to tell one’s own story and there was never an opportunity for me to tell my story; had I told another’s I would have felt like a hypocrite. And as much as I have always tried to stay on top of current affairs and have some idea about what is happening in this country as a whole, I have never really felt the need to get involved in politics. As a white male in SA today, I have never felt I had enough say or much leverage to say it. Somehow I had always managed to stay out of heated political discussions, because in my experience these tended to lead to very little actually being done. When voting day came, I cast my ‘’Democratic Alliance’’ vote proudly, but I never felt an urgency to do more. Until today, that is.
As is often the case with these enlightening moments, I immediately wanted to know more, before I could write this blog, and, although I did find out quite a lot, there is a lot more that I still want to know.
Today I read Lindiwe Mazibuko’s moving speech to parliament in which she proclaimed that the DA will not stop fighting this secrecy bill. The power of her words as she, young, black South African woman, faced an entire parliament of people far beyond her years moved me. She confronted them with words that said: ‘What will you, the Members on that side of the House, tell your grandchildren one day? I know you will tell them that you fought for freedom. But will you also tell them you helped to destroy it?’’. I also read that she had confronted someone about their use of the word ‘darkies’ in parliament and that his rebuttal was to call her a ‘coconut’ (brown on the outside, white on the inside). This exemplary child of Africa, a young black girl with a past that resembles that of most in South Africa, a young black girl with dignity who has carved her own way in the Democratic Alliance in as little as four years. This woman who now, not much older than I am, is standing in front of hundreds of men who have fought for this freedom that she has and is confronting them about the bad decisions they are about to make. This takes strength, character, dignity, respect and a lot of hard work. This, this is what I thought meant being an African.
I read an interesting article today where a reporter who was due to interview Ms Mazibuko, wanted to get a clear sense of what the everyman (or woman, in this case) thought of her. The reporter showed a picture of Lindiwe to her domestic worker whose response was: ‘DA. Bad.’ I heard that Ms Mazibuko can speak 4 official South African languages and has lived in suburban and rural South Africa. And just because she dares to oppose, as the DA’s national spokesperson, a government so inbred with their own propagandas, their own pride and their own misguided sense of power she is labelled as not being a ‘true African’ or being one of the enemy.
Therefore I think it’s important to assess one thing: Who is more African? The corrupt? Those who steal from the people to fund their own pockets? Those who are quick to jump on the ‘race-train’ whenever they are being held accountable? Those who keep their affairs a secret, because they know that it is not within the best interests of those they govern? Or is it those who stand up for what they believe in? Those who are prepared to fight an uphill-battle? Those who stand in the face of adversity and keep their head held high, because even if they don’t know where they are going, at least they know where they have been?
I would argue the latter.
Our generation, my generation, we’re always saying how we haven’t had anything worth fighting for. Well, this is basically being handed to us on a silver platter. The time of posting protesting status updates and protesting tweets is over. I think it’s safe to say that the government couldn’t care less about your 140 characters. There is no point in wearing black clothing anymore unless you’re wearing it whilst toyi-toying. Silent protest is a thing of the past. I think it’s time that the youth of this country rally up with the same amount of force that they did in 1965. The time has come that we start marching through the streets again, holding our heads high. The time has come for us to go out there and do something. And say something!
I was scrolling through my friends’ status updates on Facebook today and the general consensus is that my generation - of all races, colours and creeds – is ready to start fighting for this country. And so am I.
Speak up, speak out, and march, march till your feet bleed, march till you faint under this glorious African sun. Because that’s how you change a country, that’s how you get a government to listen. ‘’Nothing will change if you change nothing’’.
That is what I call being an African. It has nothing to do with skin. It has nothing to do with who was here first, which language you speak or which tribe you belong to. It has to do with an inherent urge to fight for what it is you love.
I feel, at this point, that it’s an appropriate time for me to directly address the ANC:
I am not an African, purely because you all call yourselves Africans. And if you are the barometer to which I should measure my African heritage, I want nothing of it.
I want to be a South African. I want to be a South African like Nelson Mandela, like Lindiwe Mazibuko, like Helen Zille, Ingrid Jonker and Ferial Haffajee. I want you to remember my name. I want you to see my face and be haunted by it. Because in the very near future it will come parading down the streets, joined by thousands of young South Africans refusing to sit back and watch you destroy what our forefathers fought so hard to build. Because I have feet and I will march them. I will march them till I feel that my legacy has been left and felt. I will not tell my grandchildren one day that I stood by and watched our beautiful young democracy being destroyed by an authoritarian government who themselves have turned into the very monster they fought so hard to conquer many years before.*
I am 21 years old, a child of South Africa, and I am not afraid to fight for what I believe in. And that makes me more of a South African than any of you.
I have now fully disclosed.
ANC, your move.
*October 19, 1977. South Africa’s Apartheid Government bans several newspapers for publishing news articles about the beating and murder of Steve Biko at the hands of police. The ANC protested this violently.
November 22, 2011. The ANC passes the Protection of Information Bill allowing the incarceration and banning of any entity that publicizes any information about the corrupt nature or actions of members of government.
The nation must know.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
love?
Just wanted to share.
I thought it was beautiful.
Wise words from 'Dr Meredith Grey' in Grey's Anatomy.
<3
Thursday, November 3, 2011
thought of you
This song is so beautiful, and I never thought that animation could drive me close to tears, but Ryan Woodward is obviously a genius.
To download the song, go here. It's called "World Spins Madly on" and it is by 'The Weepies'. (appropriate name, considering this song, methinks.)
I, being a drama major, love the symbolism used in this piece. The dancing is also exquisite, but mostly I love the attention to detail the artist has used to illustrate the muscular movements of the dancers.
Let me know what you think...
<3
To download the song, go here. It's called "World Spins Madly on" and it is by 'The Weepies'. (appropriate name, considering this song, methinks.)
I, being a drama major, love the symbolism used in this piece. The dancing is also exquisite, but mostly I love the attention to detail the artist has used to illustrate the muscular movements of the dancers.
Let me know what you think...
<3
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
polishing stars
In the profession I am in, I often get to shine. On stage, in the rehearsal room, in the music studio etc, and often one can forget that just because you are a bright star in the night sky, that you are not the only bright star. And often, in this profession, you find people who love to ramble on about all the things they are so great at, myself included occasionally (although I am trying to work on it). These people make it their mission to polish off their stars in front of the rest of the galaxy, so that it is their SHINE that illuminates the night sky.
There is, a very old myth about one of the biggest stars in the world, the Sun. Legend has it that the Sun was so full of himself and wanted so badly to shine brighter than any of the other stars that he eventually became the hot, molten ball of gas we know today. And even though the Sun has many great advantages to many life-forms, to this day, the Sun is the loneliest star in the whole heavenly realm. It shone so brightly that no other star could come near it ever again.
Now, as cool as it would be to be the Sun, metaphorically speaking, there is one specific star I would never want to have too far away.
It's my great privilege to introduce to you my dearest friend, Chloë Kiley. This girl is honestly one of the most talented people I have ever met and also my best friend in the whole world.
So, if there's one thing I can always say about myself, perhaps one good thing in a sea of flaws, is that when I love, I do love passionately. And when I am loyal, I am fiercely loyal. I once stopped going to lectures, because the lecturer had acted unjustly to a dear friend of mine. So yes, in that aspect, I am not too bad.
I decided to brag a little about my friend tonight, to polish off her star for her a bit, since I'm not sure she does it often enough. So this clip posted here in this blog is of my friend Chloë Kiley singing "The Wizard and I" from the musical 'Wicked'.
Please listen, share, comment and just enjoy.
Chlo, if you ever read this: I love you my "person".
The Wizard and I - Wicked by chloe.mairead
To hear more of Chloë's phenomenal voice, go to http://www.soundcloud.com/chloemairead
<3
There is, a very old myth about one of the biggest stars in the world, the Sun. Legend has it that the Sun was so full of himself and wanted so badly to shine brighter than any of the other stars that he eventually became the hot, molten ball of gas we know today. And even though the Sun has many great advantages to many life-forms, to this day, the Sun is the loneliest star in the whole heavenly realm. It shone so brightly that no other star could come near it ever again.
Now, as cool as it would be to be the Sun, metaphorically speaking, there is one specific star I would never want to have too far away.
It's my great privilege to introduce to you my dearest friend, Chloë Kiley. This girl is honestly one of the most talented people I have ever met and also my best friend in the whole world.
So, if there's one thing I can always say about myself, perhaps one good thing in a sea of flaws, is that when I love, I do love passionately. And when I am loyal, I am fiercely loyal. I once stopped going to lectures, because the lecturer had acted unjustly to a dear friend of mine. So yes, in that aspect, I am not too bad.
I decided to brag a little about my friend tonight, to polish off her star for her a bit, since I'm not sure she does it often enough. So this clip posted here in this blog is of my friend Chloë Kiley singing "The Wizard and I" from the musical 'Wicked'.
Please listen, share, comment and just enjoy.
Chlo, if you ever read this: I love you my "person".
The Wizard and I - Wicked by chloe.mairead
To hear more of Chloë's phenomenal voice, go to http://www.soundcloud.com/chloemairead
<3
Sunday, October 16, 2011
the inexpressible
"After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music."
Aldous Huxley
With each new post, this blog is becoming more about sharing and less introspective. I am not quite sure whether I like it. But, I suppose change is as good as a holiday.
Here are links to some songs that are on my playlist right now:
I will always love Ingrid Michaelson. Her music moves me.
This is "Keep Breathing".
And here is another: "Turn to Stone" also by her.
I also love Regina Spektor and this song "Eet" is weird and wonderful.
Lastly, as far as Regina Spektor goes: "Samson" is also beautiful.
Being a huge Grey's Anatomy Fan, I love http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sara_Ram%C3%ADrez and her version of this song, "The Story" is one of my all-time favourites.
Enjoy... <3
"It was my 16th birthday - my mom and dad gave me my Goya classical guitar that day. I sat down, wrote this song, and I just knew that that was the only thing I could ever really do - write songs and sing them to people."
Stevie Nicks
Aldous Huxley
With each new post, this blog is becoming more about sharing and less introspective. I am not quite sure whether I like it. But, I suppose change is as good as a holiday.
Here are links to some songs that are on my playlist right now:
I will always love Ingrid Michaelson. Her music moves me.
This is "Keep Breathing".
And here is another: "Turn to Stone" also by her.
I also love Regina Spektor and this song "Eet" is weird and wonderful.
Lastly, as far as Regina Spektor goes: "Samson" is also beautiful.
Being a huge Grey's Anatomy Fan, I love http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sara_Ram%C3%ADrez and her version of this song, "The Story" is one of my all-time favourites.
Enjoy... <3
"It was my 16th birthday - my mom and dad gave me my Goya classical guitar that day. I sat down, wrote this song, and I just knew that that was the only thing I could ever really do - write songs and sing them to people."
Stevie Nicks
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