Making My Connection with Nature

Grab your sunglasses.

Grab your IPod.

Grab your Robecks.

Grab your car keys, and let’s drive!

Getting behind the wheel of a car takes to me to a place where no road can. It’s the best time to think, to sing, to admire nature, and realize your freedom. There are several car rides that I remember that have impacted my life: Driving with friends to Misquamicut, RI, driving to the Christmas Tree Shops, driving to Six Flags, Driving to Jersey to find Sarah, driving to Robecks with Kayla, driving to the mall with Rose, driving to Fairfield for the first time, and driving around Fairfield in a summer rain. It is these times that I bond with my best friends, singing songs, and talking about life.

When you talk about life, it’s hard to establish a starting point. You can talk about your day, future plans, and news. What is hard to talk about is where you are going. I never know. Life’s an interesting journey that I could ride all day long. What makes it interesting is the people with whom you share it with.

I have something special that I share and cherish with my closest friends: Bonding Time. It’s that true quality time that you spend with someone special that brings you closer in heart and mind. Knowing that the other person is right there with you, literally “along for the ride”, is something that people easily overlook. Never overlook anything – study all the dots that make up a Monet painting; study the dots that make up the cartoons in the comics; study the freckles on your best friend’s face. Notice every detail about them – know and understand what they mean to you and appreciate them being there with you.

I am blessed to have many friends; it is something that I lacked many years before for several reasons that I altered before I came to college. My weight was one of them. I was the quiet, sensitive kid who sat in the back who hoped to slip under the radar everyday and not be ridiculed. I am, in all honesty, an extremely sensitive person. As much as I would like to change it, I cannot. But it is something that few people know. I keep it hidden and portray the rubber attitude, where everything bounces right off of me. It’s becoming a new attitude with me, and I have been utilizing it since I left for college.

What is important here, is knowing who you are. Take out a piece of  paper and draw a circle. Fill it with as many things that make up who you are. The size of the words delineate the percentage of how big they are in you, which is very important. I have learned through countless experiences that this is something everyone in their lives should do at least once. You have to make the circle as you want it, because that is who you are, and that is all that needs to be. Changing yourself for the sake of someone else is a violation of your personal integrity, and should not nor ever be tampered with. This is something I told one of my closest and best friends. You are yourself; that is all that you need to know. What is important about this is in reflection, thought, and prayer, you are able to fully know how the pipelines of your lifeblood flow, and any tampering with the plumbing system will result in guaranteed leaks and pipe bursts.

Here’s something to think about: I wrote this to one of my best friends…

Well, Connecticut may not be as sunny as California, but your second family is here. You’ve got so many wonderful attributes; don’t sell yourself short by failing to mentally write pages and pages of what makes you You.

Think of what you are searching for something like this: Life is like a river:

You are it’s lifeblood. The interesting thing about rivers is that it needs something that keeps is flowing, from one higher elevation to a lower; with the same force that keeps our feet planted to the earth.

Rivers may have tight banks, some may overflow, some may seem dry and barren at times, it may flow fast like rapids, or it may flow so calmly that it may seem like a placid gentle stream.

What else causes a river to exist? It flows from one large body of water to another grandiose body of water. You are the connection between the two, constantly moving from the past to the future, with no stopping along the way. It’s always moving. We cannot understand how big the water is that which we came, nor can we fathom how great that body of water is when we reach the delta.

There may be people who boat in your river; they come and go at different points. Very rarely do we have someone who joins us for the entire duration of a boat ride down the river. If they do, they know the banks and the speeds at which it travels as you know it well. They know where is has been, but like you, they also do not know where it is going to take them. They are there for your journey, and they maneuver with you. I’ve been paddling with you for quite some time now, and I don’t plan on anchoring my boat anytime soon.

There may be severe twists and turns that the river takes, but it keeps on flowing. When someone puts up a dam in you way – damn it. Break it loose, flow on with full force, and don’t let anyone who tries to generate electricity from their dam keep the momentum of your river from flowing. It’s not going to stop, no matter how many times you may want it to. There is no way to step in the same river twice; know and embrace the feel at which you dipped your feet, or whole body in at that cool moment.

Rivers may be warm, or cold, or change temperature because of the area its in. But like I said, it never fails to keep on flowing.

If anyone wants to dam that river – flood them. If anyone wants to take a drink of water from that freshwater stream, let them drink. If fish want to swim in it, let them, and give them the means to start a family. Your river is your means of travel, on its own, never a easy way of getting there – you must hang on, and flow with it for the entire duration that the stream endures.

That’s my thought for this evening.

My Tag:

RULES IF YOU’RE TAGGED:

1. Your name/blog
2. Lefty or righty?
3. Letters of the alphabet you like to write
4. Letters you HATE to write
5. Write: The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.
6. Write in CAPS: CRAB, HUMOR, KALEIDOSCOPE, PAJAMAS, GAZILLION
7. Favorite song lyrics
8. Tag 7 people
9. Any drawing or miscellaneous note.

Here’s Mine:

Kudos to my Blogbuddies!

The Organ That Keeps the Flag Waving

What does it take for music to have a significant impact on our patriotism as Americans? Not much, but because the lasting effects are so long lasting and intense, we need to start making connections between patriotic music and in what forms they manifest in our own time.

This past weekend, I covered as usual at the Basilica. There has always been something special about the first annual weekend I cover every summer: Memorial Day Weekend. I plan the music reflecting both the Patriotism and Faith of Americans in God, so I pick the same songs for this very special weekend. The Organ Prelude is a medley of “God of Our Fathers”, “Onward Christian Soldiers”, and “America the Beautiful” (God is mentioned in all three hymns). The processional hymn is the majestic “Battle Hymn of the Republic”. What is special about this prelude is that at the 9:45 Mass on that Sunday, the veterans process with the Knights of Columbus, the Clergy, and the wives of the deceased veterans. It’s an emotional time, and along with half of the choir, I tear up. Then, for the offertory hymn, I have chosen “Amazing Grace”. I selected this song for several reasons. The song is universal among American Christians, and states that unity. Second, everyone knows the song, with is pretty harmonies and delicate, yet profound lyrics make the emotional connection run deep within the veins of both the organist and the listener. Third (my favorite reason), there is an Oboe stop on the Organ, that when coupled with the stopped flute, it eerily resembles a bag pipe. I play the solo melody in the right hand, with accompanying chordal support of soft flutes and strings in the left hand. I’ll never use any other registration for “Amazing Grace”.

For Communion, I sing Franz Schubert’s ever-haunting “Ave Maria”. I don’t know what power that song has over me; it’s as if my heart and mind are pulled to another existence in a place that thrives on love and holy, eternal bliss. I started singing this song in the Eighth Grade for grandparent’s day mass, and I say my Noni crying when I sang it. I have a profound emotional connection to this hymn, for it does something to me that no other song does. The melody is emotionally stirring, the harmonics are haunting  in that they swell and recess with the melody line, from a cry for help to a soft, inward turning reflection on the gentleness of Mary. This song does something to everyone; in my opinion, it is utterly impossible for this song not to evoke any kind of emotion in you, or make you feel instantly at peace.

Post Communion, I play softly to quiet the mood. Then, when mass has ended, I pull out all the stops on the organ and play a grand celebration of the National Anthem. Once that has played, and the veterans and the wives of deceased veterans recess out, I play an organ rendition of “God Bless America” That song should be the second national anthem; the “Star Spangled Banner” is actually lyrics by Francis Scott Key set to the tune of an English drinking song. Irving Berlin wrote this hymn that led us through World War II. It was written for that purpose; the “Star Spangled Banner” was not. If anyone wants to counter my thinking, I also encourage them to also try and remove “God” from the Constitution, the Pledge of Allegiance, Coinage, All money, and anything other that is a key part to American Christian culture. I also encourage them to leave the country. France will welcome them.

In conclusion, as a patriotic “Live free or die” Christian American, I believe it is important to celebrate patriotic holidays in Church at Mass. If soldiers are out on the battlegrounds praying to God to not let them get shot, praying that they make it safe back home, and put all their faith in the Almighty, then it is our duty as Americans to reflect the fact that they are patriotic, faith-driven soldiers who are not going to let anyone screw with America, with God as their ammunition. Lee Greenwood presented America with “God Bless the U.S.A”. Personally, I loathe this song. The lyrics are disconnected with one’s emotions, and it fails to represent any faith in the Almighty. For musicians, they will know that this song is a knockoff combination of John Lennon’s “Imagine” and Irving Berlin’s “God Bless America”. Look to the great sources that this cheeky song came from. It is there that you will find emotional connections that “God Bless the U.S.A” lacks completely.

Here is a video of Kate Smith, introducing “God Bless America” to the American public; it is that song that became her signature song, and will forever be remembered in that way.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=09Gj7mJbPPc

It is a visual element to show how this song immediately affected Americans.

This is my thought for this evening. God Bless and keep America safe, through the night with the light from above.

That is my thought for this evening

A Night With the Famiglia: Setback

My family is one of the most interesting group of nutballs you will ever meet. I love them, and are proud to call them my family. Whenever something happens, it’s a “Quante Mosse” (guanda moss), meaning a big “to-do”. But, the best time is when we are playing Setback. My family has been playing the card game Setback ever since I can remember. Our great-grandparents play it. I’m pretty sure  it’s a Connecticut thing,  since all my Connecticut friends know it or play it.

L to R: My Father, My Grandpa, My cousin Danny

R to L: Me, My aunt Betty [unseen], My uncle Andy, My Noni, My Father, My cousin Danny, a knife, Art, and Lucy.

L to R: Aunt Betty, Uncle Andy, Noni

L to R: My cousin Danny, his grandfather Art, and grandmother Lucy

When we play Setback, you definitely see the heavy-duty Italian attitudes surface. We separate: the boys against the girls. The attitudes basically go like this: my grandmother against my grandfather, my mother against my father, my aunt against me, Lucy against Art, Art against my father, my aunt against my father, me against my father, and my father versus everyone else. The comedy never fails to make its way to the table. But, that’s only the attitudes. Here’s the gestures:

Art cheats off of Lucy’s hand, we call him out on it, and he bites hit fist. The men make their bid, and Lucy gives us the finger on both hands. When my father makes his bid, he sticks his finger in Lucy’s face and she actually attempts to bite it off. My grandfather trumps my grandmother, and she slaps him. Art busts my grandmother, and she gives him the “Italian Salute”, sticks out her tongue, or gives him the old thumb-to-nose-waving-fingers gesture. He slides his fist from under his chin towards her general direction.  I lose my bid, and I wave my fist. My father trumps my mother’s ace, and she practically grabs for the knife we used to cut the lemon meringue pie. Someone throws the wrong card, Art yells “you fool, we could have made it damn it!!”  My grandfather, the detective, sits there and does nothing, or the occasional “Fatta Caga Sotto” (Take a shit in your pants).  My father begins cursing in Italian, and a rounding uproar of “State Zitto” (Shut Up) hits him. When my Aunt Betty plays, the F-bomb is dropped more times than in the movie “Goodfellas”. When my uncle Andy plays, he tells screams “Vaffanculo a tutt’…menaggia alla cazz’!!” (Too raunchy to translate). When my father overtrumps my mother’s deuce, she slaps him and says, “Thanks a lot, asshole!!” Other times,  my father yells, “What the hell did you throw that?!” Then my mother yells, “Oh well, screw you!”  Lucy will yell to Art or my father: “Bitch!”, or the occasional chant: “Liar, Liar, Stick your Head in Fire! Liar, Liar!”. Then Art yells: “What in Hell you doing Lu?” or to me, “You could have bid you Jerk!” My grandmother forbids me to swear – in English. Then once the game ends, and we are once again a big, loving family.

My father, when he plays, has to comment on everything. When he bids, he stalls for time with his stupid, child talk, uttering “Okay…should I pick this one or this one?” I scream across the table: “Oh Maddon’ da Mi Dad! It took Eisenhower less time to plan D-Day!” He seems to be the blunt of jokes, but it’s all in loving, Italian verbal attacks. When he stalls, my mother yells: “For Christ’s sake Ralph, BID!”  If you didn’t know us or the context of the situation, you’d think we were at each other’s throats. We really are. There is the alternate kind of love that only Italians are familiar with: the yell. It lasts for a brief moment, but it’s all in fun. We always have a lot of laughs, sip coffee, and tell stories when we play cards. It is truly something that I miss when I’m at college, and once I get home, the family is called, and we play a game of Setback. It’s a great way to express our love for each other, and have a good time doing so.

You honestly don’t get bonding time like this.

That’s my thought for this evening. Buona Sera!

Ending Long-Term Aggression and Execration: A Memoir of Going to Hell and Back

I was talking with one of my best friends Drew early this morning. During the course of our Facebook Chatting, he asked me why I had not been an English major. I was actually talking with my mother about this the night before, and it really made me think about my life in a way I hadn’t considered prior to this conversation. There is a reason why I did not major in English. It’s a story that still pokes at the throbbing wounds of my heart, but It’s time that I share the story, with the encouragement of Drew.

Drew, this is for you kid.

I had the choice to go to a private high school in my area, or a public school with an accelerated academia program, called S.O.A.R. (Kennedy S.O.A.R. School of Academic Renown) I chose  In high school, I was active in many clubs: Proud and Spirited Seniors (PASS), Key Club (Community Service), The Italian Club, SEARCH (Water Treatment and Maintenance Club), National Honor Society…hell, I was even the president of the Math Club my junior and senior years of high school. I could do algebraic and calculus equations with my eyes closed. There was one problem – I was 5’4″ entering my freshman year at 190 lbs.

I had an enjoyable first year. But, my second year was another story. On my schedule, I was to have a certain teacher, who shall remain nameless, who was known as having THE worst reputation in the school. A hard grader, who was known for lambasting any student who stepped so much as a quarter inch out of line. I wasn’t going to let this teacher scrape me like a cheese grater. I did well in her class, and actually grew to like her. Let us, for argument’s sake, call her “M”.

Fast forward to junior year: I had another teacher, whom I will call “C”. C seemed very lovely and professional, but was so orthodox, her alleged perkiness became sickening after a few months. She ran the school newspaper, and ran it like the New York Times. She was very snooty, and downright insulting to those who did not see her way with things. Over the summer, I worked with her and several other students getting ready for the next year’s issues. I got more issues than I bargained for. I became severely stressed over a volunteer position, and she would demand something and expect you to respond to it immediately, not caring how much work you had to do for other teachers. I left the school newspaper relieved, and with a slight bitter taste in her mouth of me. It’s not my nature to do that, but I alleviated myself from dealing with much unneeded stress. Then came the first day of my senior year.

I received my schedule and saw that I had her again for class. I nearly shit a brick. I figured I was screwed, because I thought that this teacher would let her personal opinion of you dictate your grades, no matter how much effort you put into your work or how well your writing was. This was AP English 12. The only other teacher that taught it in conjunction with her was teacher M. I switched teachers within hours.

This was a smart decision, or so I thought.  Teacher M was not the teacher I once knew. She was stubborn, demeaning, and down-right cruel. She had me on the top of her “To Kill All Means of Self-Esteem” List. I thought leaving the school newspaper I was leaving behind unwritten issues. As it turned out, I was in deep trouble. The teacher singled me out every day, by using her method of mental torture that she knew would work best on me. She knew I was  extremely sensitive, and used that to bury my hopes and dreams of becoming something of an intelligent being. The method to her very real madness was telling me every day how wrong I was. I would participate as best as I could, and I would still be incorrect, or as she called it “disjointed thinking”. Even open-ended questions she would tell me that they were wrong, or something that had a specific, elementary answer would be wrong. To explain this with a very real example, she could ask the question “what color is the sky?” I would answer: “The sky is blue”. She would then retort, “No. That’s incorrect.” Then, one of her favorites would answer, “The sky is blue”. She would then reply, “That’s correct!” Half of my class would then say to her, “He just said that the sky was blue!” She was silent. Not even looking up, she moved on to another subject that would ensure my failure to understand the concept, as she liked it. My class could attest to this slow method of her Chinese Water Torture. Everything was always wrong, even if it could be proven correct. Was this her revenge plan for me leaving the newspaper? I still think that this has a very viable solution to what mental agony I was enduring.  I was slowly going into a very real madness that literally made my stomach turn when I walked through the door to her classroom.

At this point, life was miserable. I was a senior awaiting my one-way ticket out of there, and this heinous woman found it her life’s mission to keep me waiting in the terminal, telling me that she was sure my ticket would not scan because of my failure to buy it properly at the desk instead of using Expedia.com. I could see my plane; all my friends were getting on it, and I have this ill-mannered stewardess telling me that my ticket was not good enough for her means to scan it. I knew that being patient with this and having the burden of a cheeky woman, with a double agenda, to make sure I felt her wrath. I never understood why she had selected me, the one who never missed a class, always completed my assignments in full and on-time to be the target for her flaming arrows. Every one else’s work was genius; mine was not worth her time. She told me that how dare I insult her by sending her revision after revision without striking the point dead-on. I said it many different ways, but none seemed to work. At one point, I had one of my friends in her class, a favorite, write my small introductory paragraph to be submitted. My friend always got perfect scores on all of them, always on the first try. So, we tried this experiment. I got mine back with a big “RE-DO” on the front of the half piece of looseleaf in big, red, bold, writing. In the meantime, as an exchange, I helped my friend with her paragraph. She got a perfect score once again. Now, my theory had been proven. There was an unprofessional interloping between her personal relationship and academic relationship with me. What happened if I confronted her with what I found? She would have failed me for it, and leave her favorite’s grade untouched without any thoughts that would cause her to do anything that wasn’t normal for this girl’s grades. I was up to my neck in quicksand. My weight was now at 230 lbs. How could things get any worse? Oh, they did. Much, much worse.

AP English was in third period. After that, psychology. My psychology teacher was kind to me, and comforted me when I’d enter her room in tears.  My senior year I cried every day about something that was not under my control, and it was an injustice to my role as a good student, and my grades were going to reflect her personal opinion of me. What had I ever done to this woman? I prayed to God every night to let me pass, wondering what I had ever done in life that was so abhorrent that I would have to serve this as my penance? I felt at this point that I wasn’t intelligent about anything, that all the things that I knew and could work well with were suddenly shaded by this one teacher. I felt like a failure. I thought myself to be ignorant, and unworthy of learning anything because of my remedial level of understanding.

This is what my psychology teacher saw, that I was going through an unjust punishment and she was getting sick and tired of seeing me being bothersome when I was looking for an adult for help. I didn’t know where to begin. I placed my trust in her, not knowing it was going to set everything aflame. Here is what caused me greater pain than being slowly crushed by a steamroller.

In psychology, we had to create a CD based on our life experiences. I needed to humor myself, and those in my class a little. The project was private. Under the track list, you have to write what event or idea the song signifies, and why you like it. Mine read:

Track 4 “Cruella DeVil”

Significance:

3rd Period AP English. No need for explanation.

Everyone laughed, even the teacher, and she told me that I got a one-hundred on the project. Come to find out, to alleviate herself of her promise to listen to me, and be there for me as a friend, she found my English teacher and informed her of my doings. This coming from the woman who told me how much she didn’t like her herself, and how unfair it was to me that I must endure such a wretched hardship. I found out from my now favorite teacher in the school that the psychology teacher did it. She explained that the psychology teacher was two-faced, eager to gain everyone’s approval, and really did not care about the well-beings of her student. She explained that the principal stepped in against both of them on my behalf, because it was not a hate crime, nor was any off-color language used. It was meant to be a joke, where the Psychology teacher was feeding me her own medicine, just to stir things up, for she lived for drama and seeing people crumble. To this day, I will not speak to her. She used my own trust against me, and basically assured me to walk on the floor after she had greased it to guarantee my fall.

This is the hardest part that I still have immense trouble talking about: the confrontation that my English teacher had with me the next day. She called me into the hallway, left the door open so everyone could hear what she was going to say, and the whole hall heard the worst confrontation that the building has housed in a long time. She told me that I was now dead to her, that I should have been honored to have her correct such deplorable work. She told me that she was seeing me in a “whole new light” now, and that her opinion of me has severely changed. How dare I say that about her? This was a personal attack on her and must be brought to the attention to a higher authority. According to her assertion, I did the most despicable thing someone could do to a teacher, and I was never to be forgiving for such a profoundly cruel act. She then refused to help me with anything, and she told me that I was no longer worth her time.

I shuddered. I teared. I couldn’t udder a word. First of all, a teacher whom I trusted who told me that she understood my dilemma and pain stabbed me in the back, and the most despicable teacher now verbalized her wrath on me for me dubbing her “Cruella DeVil” was the now the most horrible thing I could ever do to a person. I’m sure this overpowered greatly the mental torture that left me second thinking every basic act I knew as a human. How was this comparable to what she had done to me? I had lost all my self-esteem and confidence as a student; I had managed to lose all confidence in all of my other work; I felt inhuman and alone. I was suddenly the worst person on earth in existence, and I was to know that every day until the day I graduated, if I graduated, I thought. I had lost my will to live. I wanted to crawl into a corner and die.

She brought it to the attention of our principal. He called me in once she had left, and laughed. He thought it was funny, and knowing what she was putting me through, he dismissed her case completely, because he knew how she was, an over-reactive psychopath who longed to acquire company in her misery. She became even more bitter when she found out her boss and 75% of the faculty voiced their opinion on my behalf, and refused to speak to her because of it. “M” was known for turning mole hills into mountains, and they knew that I was in mental trouble. I began loosing weight rapidly. I had been trying to diet and exercise to lose the weight, but this stressful dietary supplement accelerated my weight loss. Teachers asked me every day if I was doing well. I ended up using her anguish as an impetus to shrink myself down and graduate high school with a bang.  And so I did. I dropped 52 lbs over the course of five months, and made it a personal accomplishment. I shrunk down to 175 lbs., my current weight. My teachers and Principals were proud of my efforts. I dropped the weight to regain my confidence that was almost completely crushed, and in doing so, I once again found love, happiness, and a newfound level of self-esteem that I would never let anyone touch it again, because for the first time in my life, I had made something my own.

When I came to college, I was nervous for my first English class. I ended up having the most wonderful teacher who told me how well I could write, and that I had a voice that must be heard. To make a long story short, I gained back the confidence as a writer and student. I found my voice again, and have put it to the best use that I know and love. My love for literature and writing had once again resurfaced, and now I have never felt such a strong connection to it.

In reflection, I must advocate four things. First and foremost, never let anyone tell you that you are not worth something, because it is undoubtedly always a self-reflection on their lack of maturity and understanding. They have not reached that level of self-confidence, no matter what the age, and they will see to it that you share in their misery. Second, understand the profound effect that words have on people. By telling someone that they are worthless, you can kill them as a person. This occurs more easily than one may think. Third, be careful who you trust. Sometimes teachers are just as malicious as students can be, if not worse. Lastly, know and embrace your family and friends. They are the ones who get you thorough the most difficult times of your life. When the times are tough, they step out in your behalf, and help you find yourself again.

This experience was one of the worst things that I have ever endured, and voicing it now helps me to come to terms with my feelings towards it. My failure to let things go has now become a healed injury in the past. My love for writing, like I had mentioned, has now resurfaced, and I’m taking if for a ride in my speedboat.

My love and appreciation for my family and friends: you mean more to me than you will ever know.

This is my thought for this evening.

My Other Home: The Basilica of the Immaculate Conception

I have many places to which I call home: My Grandparent’s house in which I lived in before my family moved into the house that which I live in now, My house, and Fairfield University.

But one of the most blessed places I call home is the Basilica of the Immaculate Conception.

Basilica of the Immaculate Conception

I call it a miniature “St. Peter’s”. There are so many sights and sounds with this church: the beautiful stained glass windows, the chandeliers, the paintings, the altars, and the marble floors and pillars. The Basilica houses an Austin Organ, complete with a three manual console, 37 ranks, and over 1,200 pipes. It’s console consists of string and flute stops, colorful diapasons, and a selection of reed stops: Trumpet 8′, Oboe 8′ Clarinet 8′, Tuba 8′, and Tuba Profunda 16′. To those who are not familiar with the organ, these “stops” are the different sounds an organ makes. Here’s a picture of the Console that I play at the Basilica:

The Organ at the Basilica. I always have my Dunkin Donuts coffee with me.

It is with this monster that I fill the basilica with sound. It looks like a mess of confusing buttons to push, knobs to pull, pedals to press, keys to play, pistons to register…ugh! But it’s a fun nightmare and I’m still trying to get it all under control. It’s completely worth it.

It is here in this church that, when home, every Thursday night, I get together with my fellow choir members and sing along while the house organist, Claudette, accompanies us. She has taught me many things when it comes to playing the organ. I must also acknowledge my other mentor, my primary mentor, Mary Gabriele, who has taught me music since the first grade. She and I have remained very close right up through today. There is no woman like her, with a voice that can match no other, and the humble personality to match. She always taught me that if you have a gift, use it to praise God. That’s how I pray, through music. Mary taught me Schubert’s “Ave Maria”, the song that I hold closest to my heart, and I will forevermore. She has truly brought out the musician in me, taught me how to be a professional liturgical planner, and has taught me the skills that I am still working on to be a great organist. It’s not only knowing how to play the organ, but developing a style in which you play it. That makes it a personal prayer when one plays. This is something that I never will forget.

It is very interesting when the organ is lofted high above the main of the Church; you get to see so many things! You get to see the artwork of the stained glass windows up close, the craftsmanship of the chandeliers, the ornate ceiling, who has the screaming baby during prayers,  and those in the lower congregation are picking their noses throughout mass. I have to laugh.

The nice thing about this Basilica is the placement of the organ. It is high above everyone, and you can move about getting music, and you do not distract everyone. Also, I get to hide behind the organ when I play. I hate having people stare at me when I play. I love playing “Phantom Organist”…I can slip in, play a mass with lively, grand music, and slip out unnoticed. I hate the saying “if you’ve got it, flaunt it.” I’d rather flaunt it and remain unnoticed. It’s like a double-life that I have. I’ve seen virtuosos who long for the bravado that comes after a performance, and they glory in it.  A MASS IS NOT A SHOW OR PERFORMANCE!!!. When you do so, you are taking away from the sanctity of the Mass, and forget whom you are there for in the first place. If the Almighty gave you a gift, it is expected that you use it as best as you can to praise him with it. I’m not saying listen to music off of the Jesus CD’s that you see on those infomercials, but for me, I have a profound spiritual, not religious, connection with God.

That’s my thought for this evening.

What Goes Through the Head of an Alpha-Reader: A Tribute to Rose

What goes through the head of an Alpha-Reader? Fear. A total “Holy Shit” moment.

When I first received the draft for Rose’s Becoming Mrs. Kennedy, I didn’t know what to do. So I sat down, printed it all out, and stapled the chapters together. I needed to formulate a plan of attack; well, not so much attacking the draft as to pointing out the good and the things that do not work.

But I digress.

I found my method of revision: humor. My default to everything is humor. I figured if I could make someone laugh while they read my critiques, things would go over smoothly. As I grew to love Rose more, I wanted to make her laugh the entire time, hence the funny comments and quips. I knew she would want the criticism, for when it comes to making something better, pointing out the things that do not work is more effective than sugarcoating it. As it turned out, my method worked well.

In regards to the other responsibilities of an Alpha-Reader, I came to know and understand that it is vital to understand the characters as the author does. You need to get inside their heads, focus on their consequential actions, and the connections. The connections are key to being an effective Alpha-Reader, as I learned, because in dictation of the first chapter I learned that with the combining efforts of syntax, word choice, and overall dialogue, the characters are formulated in such a way that it is a perfect embodiment within the text. To connect with these characters, the Alpha-Reader must focus and extrapolate the five connections of a main character: the relationship between the main character and authority, the main character and another specific character, the main character and themselves, but most important ones are the final two: the connection between the main character and the reader, and the connection between the main character and the author. It’s not just a case of scratching the surface …it’s time to dig down deep into character analysis and figure out what in hell is going on in their heads. If the author has taken the time to get to know their characters and move them in such a way that develops these relationships, it is an insult to that author if the reader does not do the same.

A humorous look into what this concept entails

Why is it so important for the reader to try and disclose what is going on the heads of the characters? There would be no purpose in reading the work. I’m not saying that we need to start reading Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment with the current updated copy of the DSM ready to psychologically diagnose Raskolnikov as to why he killed the woman, for it it delineated in the readings. That’s the whole purpose of Crime and Punishment…he commits the murder early in the novel and we journey with him through his mental torture. The concept of “Punishment” here is not the jurisdiction upheld in a court of law, but the mental agony that Raskolnikov endures. That is what 98% of the reading in Crime and Punishment covers. But here is the exception…this example is what an Alpha-Reader must do on his or her own. We have to be able to make the connection by first putting ourselves in context, and formulating our personal resolution to the dilemma. We then have to compare our own thoughts to what actually happens and make the connections. Again, as I must rehash this very important concept, making the connections is vital to understanding what is happening to the characters. This is not done for the sole purpose of predicting what is going to happen to the character (which in itself is very important), but as to understanding why the author has chosen the sequence of events to occur in which way they did. The author has to give us the necessary elements to combine our own personal chemical mixture to achieve what they set us out to do: understanding why they did what they did, and how do we respond to that, whether it coincides with our own predictions or thoughts, or not.  Finding these connections and trying to understand the mode of thought the author has is one of the most important key roles that the Alpha-Reader has.

In addition to making suggestions to the alterations of certain syntaxes, including sentence placement and grammatical errors or mis usage contained therein, it is important to focus on the details on the words, as to why the author has chose them. This, in certain cases, allows the reader to catch a glimpse or solidify the understanding that a certain character has clandestine intentions, or that this is a key phrase that is going to end up in the “Important Quotes” section in Sparknotes. But why take the easy route in getting there? It is the fun and interesting part of the Alpha-Reader’s job in getting us there. Not always an easy task, but it allows us to better understand the whole concept of what is going on.

In conclusion, there is something special about being an Alpha-Reader. It is with the utmost confidence and respect that an author has for the person they have deemed their Alpha-Reader. This means that they are going to take all of your suggestions into account, decide whether to use them or not, and they trust your judgement. They place their faith in you to give a candid response to their writing, and they are taking a grave risk. The risk is equally reciprocated by the role of the Alpha-Reader, to make those connections and explain them well to their author, who has respectfully chosen them to be their Alpha-Reader. In helping them to understand your train of thought and response, as they have given you the outline in getting there, is the role of the relationship between the Author and their Alpha-Reader. With utmost respect and kudos to the Author who has chosen you to be their Alpha-Reader, it is both an honor and a privilege in being able to make that connection, in heart, mind, and writing , because they have given you the opportunity to respond to their hard work and dedication. Being that someone whose every response is profoundly affecting their author’s work is something that only comes out of love and highest respect for each other, which both know and understand.

To Rosemary O’Connor: I love you beyond all earthly means of explanation.