By Indie Authors for Indie Authors.

Tag: music in books (Page 2 of 3)

A Story In Song (Part 6—Right Away, Great Captain!)

  1. A Story In Song (Part 1—Tom Waits)
  2. A Story In Song (Part 2—Kings of Leon)
  3. A Story In Song (Part 3—Ben Harper)
  4. A Story In Song (Part 4—Amos Lee)
  5. A Story In Song (Part 5—Blind Pilot)
  6. A Story In Song (Part 6—Right Away, Great Captain!)
  7. A Story In Song (Part 7—Amos Lee)
  8. A Story In Song (Part 8—Ray LaMontagne)
  9. A Story In Song (Part 9—Janis Joplin)
  10. A Story In Song (Part 10—Peter Bradley Adams)
  11. A Story In Song (The End)

 

I have a story in my book Pieces Like Pottery—”The Gravesite: The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery”—in which I experimented with a number of different literary devices. More and more readers have begun to notice one of the devices more regularly. 

In addition to breaking the story up into ten sections, each of which follows one of the themes from the fifth sorrowful mystery, each section in the story also has a song that is paired with it. Yes, you read that right. I paired a song with each section. Like a fine wine paired with a good meal, the song’s lyrics are intended not only to add another layer of meaning to the words, but can also be listened along with that section of the story.

While more and more readers have been picking up on this, it’s certainly not an easy task for the casual reader, especially not one reading the print version of the book. I’ve promised to do this for quite awhile, so here you go. In ten parts, here is “The Gravesite: The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery” paired with each song. Enjoy!

(For those of you that might be interested in how this section ties into the fifth sorrowful mystery, the fifth sorrowful mystery is The Crucifixion and the “spiritual fruit” is the Pardoning of Injuries. Part 6 reflects Jesus’ words, “I thirst.”)

 

If you missed Part 1 through Part 5, go back start from the beginning! Enjoy!

 

The Gravesite 

The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery

Part 6


 

Lisa and Mike began checking the site regularly. Since Chris’ apparent death, they had found themselves drifting away from each other. They found that the blog was the only thing that kept them connected, and they found they both dealt with sorrow completely different from the other. Mike focused his pain and sadness into his work. He wanted to remember his son and push on each day with the fervor that Chris would. He loved the gift the new blog posts brought him, but he didn’t believe for a moment that his son might not be dead. Lisa, though, had a much harder time. She fixated on a number of different conspiracy theories—the other American boy murdered Chris, or the other boy didn’t mean to but still caused it, or the Thai government caused it and covered a mistake of one of their own, or, one she seemed to become more fond of with each passing day, Chris wasn’t actually dead. Lisa never spoke these out loud at first, but over time she began to voice them.

At one point, Lisa asked her husband point blank, “Do you think Chris is still alive?”

Mike sighed; the pain of such an idea frustrated him. He wanted to move on, not to forget Chris, but to keep living. “No, honey. Chris died.”

“Yea…” Lisa said as her voice trailed off. She stared across the kitchen table not looking at Mike, not looking at anything at all. She stared into nothing. “It’s odd they never found his body though, right? It makes you think maybe he really isn’t dead.”

“No, Lisa. It doesn’t make me think that at all.”

“Well, why not? Not even a little bit? It’s possible that Chris is still alive. Maybe it’s a small possibility, but it’s possible.”

“No, it’s not,” Mike said matter-of-factly. He wasn’t responding coldly to his wife; he simply struggled to even entertain the idea. “He’s not alive, Lisa. He’s not mysteriously missing but still posting on his small blog somewhere. Why in the world would he do that? I know finding his body would bring some sort of closure, but we don’t need closure through seeing his body. We have the memories of Chris, the laughter he brought us, the frustration he caused always challenging common perceptions, the excitement he gave us. We’ll always have that from our son, and the peace of knowing that he was our son. We raised him. But he’s gone, Lisa.”

“Well I still have hope, however small it may be. I don’t get how you can let him go so quickly.”

“I haven’t let him go. I lay awake at night with an empty hole left in my life, in my soul. But I don’t want to forget the rest of my life. I want to put the pain I feel into each day. I’m trying to keep living, but I haven’t forgotten.”

“It feels like you might have. I wish I could live my life, but I just can’t. I carried him for nine months, gave birth to him, breastfed him, loved him. I simply can’t move on, especially if there’s a chance he might still be alive.”

“I love him too, but there’s not a chance he’s still alive. It pains me to say it, but there’s not.”

“Think what you want. There’s a chance.” Lisa’s voice was distant now. “Why do you think there’s been two more blogs? It makes no sense.”

These words trailed off looking for a home but drifting through the air without finding one. She slowly slipped from her chair and went to the computer in the next room. She found herself reading and re-reading Chris’ old posts every day. Lisa longed for another connection with him. She wanted a new post to be there. She was granted that gift when the webpage loaded. See, Lisa thought to herself, there’s a chance.

 

“I can see straight down your crooked teeth. You feel so dumb, mouth open large. You’ve got exactly what I’m drinking for.”

June 15th

He came out of nowhere and stunned me. A short statured Indian man popped out of a small alleyway the other day. He looked ragged, tired, hot. “Watah,” he exclaimed.

“Whoa. Excuse me?” I responded, surprised as much by the fact that he was speaking to me in English on the streets of Thailand as I was by his quick approach. The majority of the English I’ve spoken over the last few weeks has been either in my head or with a lot of gestures and pointing. I’ve heard even less spoken to me.

“Can I have some of your watah?” he clarified in very good English.

I looked down and noticed the Nalgene bottle hanging from a carabiner on my backpack. “Sure, I guess so.”

So I shared with him some water. He opened his hands out to me, as if suggesting I pour the water into his cupped fingers. I insisted he drink directly from the bottle. There’s something about traveling and living in dingy hostels that changes your disposition to grimy strangers, I guess. I’ve found that people are more willing to assist with someone else’s homeless people. For some reason, the man struggling on the street in your own hometown is easy to ignore, but find a man on the street halfway across the world, and we all become bleeding hearts. I found myself reacting the same way. Maybe I assume the homeless man in my own city has been afforded the same opportunities and options in life that I’ve had, but I don’t know what the man in a foreign land has been afforded. I’m not sure what it is. It’s a silly way to think, whatever it is, but I digress. Back to the man on the street in Thailand.

The man drank the smallest sip of my water, to which I encouraged him to drink more. He clearly needed it more than I. After a long gulp, he looked into my eyes and frowned. I patiently waited for him to say “Thank you,” but he didn’t speak a word. Finally, surprised that my supposed kindness was not being recognized or appreciated, I shrugged and said, “You’re welcome.”

I saw a smile creep across his face. He looked up at the sky, then to the ground at his feet, then directly into my eyes again and said in his Indian accent, “For what? For sharing with me what you have plenty and I have none? I’ll notify the authorities to throw you a parade.”

Once again, I stared at the man in amazement. It seems that’s all this man caused me to do—be stunned. He popped out of nowhere and startled me. He acted as if I would pour water into his fingers. He took the smallest sip possible for his first drink. Then after drinking nearly half the bottle, he mocked my desire for thanks. I was stunned. He didn’t say another word to me. He nodded politely and turned back down the alley. I stood for a moment unable to move. What just happened? I slowly walked away pondering the encounter in disbelief. It’s stuck with me since. I can’t seem to shake it for some reason. I would typically chalk the encounter up to him being rude and disgruntled. He wasn’t though. He was polite and unfailing. I, on the other hand, was startled and entitled. And, at that point, out of water.

 

Lisa smiled at the screen. “See,” she mumbled again to Mike, knowing full well that he couldn’t hear her.

Maybe it was the timing of the post, right after the argument with Mike about whether there was a chance Chris could still be alive. Maybe it was her inability to accept what everyone else was telling her. Whatever it was, Lisa became fixated on the possibility of Chris still being alive.

She began by calling the local police. An officer was sent to the house of the frantic woman explaining how her dead son might still be alive. The kind officer took notes about the death of their son in Thailand, but it was clear he’d drawn the short straw among all the officers down at the station. Lisa didn’t seem to notice, though, and pointed out blog post after blog post.

“I’m not saying he’s clearly alive,” Lisa acknowledged. “I’m just saying it’s a little odd isn’t it?”

“Maybe his account was hacked, ma’am,” the officer responded kindly. “Or maybe Chris has friends that wrote with him, and they are still writing. Maybe it’s their way of coping.”

“Chris would never let anyone write for him. It just doesn’t make sense. Maybe he’s kidnapped somewhere, but still has access to the blog.”

The officer nodded politely, wanting to point out that if her son was kidnapped but still posting blogs, it would probably make more sense for him to be posting messages of distress or cries for help. He opted to keep it to himself, realizing that reason had left this discussion long ago.

At one point, Mike looked at the officer as if to say, “Thanks for humoring us.” Lisa caught the glance and felt completely betrayed.

“Thanks a lot,” Lisa said and marched off upstairs. Both Mike and the officer stared at each other briefly, unclear what words should be exchanged next. After the pause, they exchanged niceties and shook hands.

“Tell your wife we’ll be in touch if anything comes up.”

“Thanks so much for your time,” Mike replied as he closed the door behind the police officer.

 

 

Check out Part 7 of “The Gravesite.”

 

Night Marry You (Lyrics)

Right Away, Great Captain!

 

Darling you have yet to hold me close
During the war, with your heart
I can see strait down your crooked teeth
You feel so dumb, mouth open large
You’ve got exactly what I’m drinking for

Darling you can bet to see my ghost
Up on the wall watching you eat
Yeah its true i dream about you two
Grinding my mouth losing my teeth
You are exactly what a night-mares for.
I’ll night marry you.

Skipper i can barely swab the deck,
Slipping around on fishes bones
Commonly i write more than i speak about our love with sticks and stones
I’ve seen you cast away this cast before
And your casting spells again

Doctor I’ve got bandages and bloods
Places underneath my minute gun
Finally the funeral unique
To all my sins, there all long long
They are exactly what this crying is for
They are exactly what this dying is for
You are exactly what I’m dying for

 

Find more writing and publishing tips at Nothing Any Good.

 

A Story In Song (Part 5—Blind Pilot)

  1. A Story In Song (Part 1—Tom Waits)
  2. A Story In Song (Part 2—Kings of Leon)
  3. A Story In Song (Part 3—Ben Harper)
  4. A Story In Song (Part 4—Amos Lee)
  5. A Story In Song (Part 5—Blind Pilot)
  6. A Story In Song (Part 6—Right Away, Great Captain!)
  7. A Story In Song (Part 7—Amos Lee)
  8. A Story In Song (Part 8—Ray LaMontagne)
  9. A Story In Song (Part 9—Janis Joplin)
  10. A Story In Song (Part 10—Peter Bradley Adams)
  11. A Story In Song (The End)

 

I have a story in my book Pieces Like Pottery—”The Gravesite: The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery”—in which I experimented with a number of different literary devices. More and more readers have begun to notice one of the devices more regularly. 

In addition to breaking the story up into ten sections, each of which follows one of the themes from the fifth sorrowful mystery, each section in the story also has a song that is paired with it. Yes, you read that right. I paired a song with each section. Like a fine wine paired with a good meal, the song’s lyrics are intended not only to add another layer of meaning to the words, but can also be listened along with that section of the story.

While more and more readers have been picking up on this, it’s certainly not an easy task for the casual reader, especially not one reading the print version of the book. I’ve promised to do this for quite awhile, so here you go. In ten parts, here is “The Gravesite: The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery” paired with each song. Enjoy!

(For those of you that might be interested in how this section ties into the fifth sorrowful mystery, the fifth sorrowful mystery is The Crucifixion and the “spiritual fruit” is the Pardoning of Injuries. Part 5 reflects Jesus’ words, “Woman, behold your Son. Son, behold your Mother.”)

 

If you missed Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, or Part 4, go back start from the beginning! Enjoy!

 

The Gravesite 

The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery

Part 5


 

Two days later, Lisa found another post. Well, in actuality, Mike discovered the new post this time. When Lisa first described their son’s new blog, Mike immediately dismissed it as grief-filled ramblings. It was a day later before he even checked back to the website. In his mind, he thought that if he visited the site with Lisa, they would find it unchanged from weeks ago, and her odd infatuation with a fake new post would be forced to subside. What he found, instead, he was not expecting. He was surprised to find she was right.

“See,” Lisa said without being smug.

“Oh my god,” was all Mike could muster. He kissed his wife and began to read through tear-filled eyes. He barely understood a single word on the screen before him. Thoughts of his son now rushed through his mind. Tears one at a time ran down his cheek, slowly but consistently. When he finished, he kissed his wife again and walked to the front porch of their old Victorian home. He spent the rest of the night there staring at the towering oak tree in their front yard. He loved this oak. Its branches alone were the size of tree trunks. The neighborhood grew around it over the years, but the oak always stood tall. Soon, within the next year, Mike would watch his beloved oak tumble to the ground, but now he sat thinking about his son, and aching from how much he missed him.

The next day, he checked back to re-read the mysterious post. To his surprise, another post had already refreshed on Chris’ website. The words radiated off the computer screen to Mike, simple and succinct.

“The only line that is true, is the line that you’re from.”

June 4th

Life oftentimes gets in the way of living. We take painstaking effort to make a living only to forget about our life. We get so caught up in the details of our life only to disregard the enjoyment we get in actually living it. Remember to enjoy your day today. Tell your friends you love them. Hug your family. Clichés are obnoxious and démodé, but they become clichés for a reason and it’s not because they’re untrue. Tell your loved ones you love them today. You don’t know when you’ll be afforded the opportunity again.

For me, I love my family. I hold onto them tightly. Keep being a model of a man, Dad. I emulate you.

Mom—You gave birth to me. You raised me. You loved me. You put up with my antics and constant questioning of authority, ever the idealistic juvenile. Yet you always loved me. Each day I behold the love you have for me. Why you love me so much, I’ll never know, but I love you for it more than you know.

 

Mike was honored by his son’s simple words. He found himself smiling without sorrow, not because he wasn’t sad, but because he was happy that he raised such a well-adjusted boy. Through no doing of my own, Mike thought.

 

Check out Part 6 of “The Gravesite.”

One Red Thread (Lyrics)

Blind Pilot

 

Oh from the first that the line got drawn
It was poisoning the land it was on
One red thread through the middle of a song
My only one, my only one

I can remember the age that I was
But not that story that pumped in my blood
When you were the savior
And I was the taker of
Oh where I was

Oh but man, oh man, you can do what you want
Oh man, oh man, you can do what you want
The only line that is true is the line you’re from

I have to say there was a mile or two
I had the itch to fly and I flew
Now at best we would make our dreams
With something used
With something used

From the minute that the line got drawn
I couldn’t see straight to you for nothing
Now me, I’m the poisoning one
Yeah I’m the one
I am the…

Oh but man, oh man, you can do what you want
Oh man, oh man, you can do what you want
The only line that is true is the line you’re-
Oh man, oh man, you can do what you want
Oh man, oh man, you can do what you want
The only line that is true is the line you’re from
The only line that is true is the line you’re from

 

 

Find more writing and publishing tips at Nothing Any Good.

A Story In Song (Part 4—Amos Lee)

  1. A Story In Song (Part 1—Tom Waits)
  2. A Story In Song (Part 2—Kings of Leon)
  3. A Story In Song (Part 3—Ben Harper)
  4. A Story In Song (Part 4—Amos Lee)
  5. A Story In Song (Part 5—Blind Pilot)
  6. A Story In Song (Part 6—Right Away, Great Captain!)
  7. A Story In Song (Part 7—Amos Lee)
  8. A Story In Song (Part 8—Ray LaMontagne)
  9. A Story In Song (Part 9—Janis Joplin)
  10. A Story In Song (Part 10—Peter Bradley Adams)
  11. A Story In Song (The End)

 

I have a story in my book Pieces Like Pottery—”The Gravesite: The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery”—in which I experimented with a number of different literary devices. More and more readers have begun to notice one of the devices more regularly. 

In addition to breaking the story up into ten sections, each of which follows one of the themes from the fifth sorrowful mystery, each section in the story also has a song that is paired with it. Yes, you read that right. I paired a song with each section. Like a fine wine paired with a good meal, the song’s lyrics are intended not only to add another layer of meaning to the words, but can also be listened along with that section of the story.

While more and more readers have been picking up on this, it’s certainly not an easy task for the casual reader, especially not one reading the print version of the book. I’ve promised to do this for quite awhile, so here you go. In ten parts, here is “The Gravesite: The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery” paired with each song. Enjoy!

(For those of you that might be interested in how this section ties into the fifth sorrowful mystery, the fifth sorrowful mystery is The Crucifixion and the “spiritual fruit” is the Pardoning of Injuries. Part 4 reflects the theme of the prayer, “Father, by the merits of the crucifixion and death of Jesus, have mercy on us and on the whole world.”)

If you missed Part 1,  Part 2, or Part 3. go start from the beginning! Enjoy!

 

The Gravesite 

The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery

Part 4

 


 

 

 

Mike reached out for Lisa’s hand. She reciprocated, and they squeezed each other tightly. As they stood staring at the gravestone, Lisa could sense how alone Mike felt. The sun was shining brightly, but it felt like it only poured a cold heat about them. Lisa’s eyes welled up again. Her tears never seemed to fade in the last year. There was a permanent quality to her sorrow that failed to grow weary.

The tears filled up to the point where Lisa’s eyes could no longer contain them anymore, and began to run down her cheek one by one.

“He was such a good boy,” Mike sighed.

“Such a good man,” Lisa corrected through wet eyes.

Her little Chris had ventured out into the world on his own. He had wanted to see the world and save everyone in it. Such a silly idea from a young boy, but as she looked at his grave, Lisa couldn’t help but think that he was more a man than she ever had given him credit for. She didn’t know if she now viewed his idealism as a profound truth that she should be trying to practice in her own life, or if she just wanted it to be so because he was no longer by her side.

“Such a good man,” Mike mirrored with an air of satisfaction.

A week after Chris took that flight to Thailand, he called his parents at home. He raved about the first week of the trip. He had already met so many interesting people. As his mother worried about him being all alone, Chris couldn’t stop expressing how excited he was to be out on his own. Things felt right. His father told him he was proud of his son, such independence and adventure in his heart. Then Chris cut the call short to head out with an acquaintance he’d just met for a hike into the jungle to see a waterfall. He was in Ko Pha Ngan. That was the last time they spoke to their son.

Authorities were unable to find his body. They said he must have slipped off a cliff ledge and fell into the river below. They suspected he’d died before he’d hit the water, bouncing off the jagged cliff walls that jutted out awkwardly. He was with another American boy who was on a post-high school tour around the world. Chris met him at the hotel bar the night before and introduced the boy to his favorite drink—an Arnold Palmer. The other boy was about fifty yards ahead when Chris fell, and he only heard a short yell before there was silence. Authorities questioned the boy with fervor, suspecting foul play, but the motive was never there, and they eventually let the devastated young man leave the country.

When Mike and Lisa received the call, Mike crumbled in a heap on the ground. Lisa could see the news in his eyes. She began screaming at the air for answers and details. Few would come, but not for lack of trying. They both flew to Thailand and spent a week searching for more information, but to no avail. They even flew to Spain where they met up with the young American boy, who only brought them condolences and more sadness—but nothing by way of answers.

As was her habit, Lisa continued to check on Chris’ blog. She had an unfounded hope that Chris might still be alive and missing, but mostly she checked back out of habit and disbelief. He was here just a week ago, she thought.

A day after Mike and Lisa landed back in the states, Lisa found herself stunned sitting in front of her computer. A brand new post was staring back at her. Fresh words glowed on her computer display. Could it be? New words from her son? There it was, calling out for her.

 

“Freedom is seldom found by beating someone to the ground, telling them how everything is gonna be now.”

June 2nd

I can’t quite describe the frustration I encounter when faced with evangelical religious-types. I find their position on the way the world works considerably obtuse. The other day I was approached by a middle aged Brit spending time “saving the world” in Thailand. He wore a fake smile on his face and patronized me by calling me brother when he approached.

“How are you today, brother. Have you accepted Jesus into your heart?”

It was clear that there was tremendous pain behind his eyes. Pain he was hiding and running from. The smile couldn’t hide the pain. And he called me brother… I wouldn’t be bothered by this mangled toothed gentleman’s reference to me as his brother, if it felt real. I can accept, or at least respect, the thought that we’re all experiencing the same joys and pains in this life, and we are all interconnected on this crazy journey, but the “brother” just seemed forced. Oddly, the O’Jays rang in my head as I smiled back at him—How can you call me brother when you ain’t even searching for the truth? What he meant to say, in my estimation, was, “Hello there. Do you believe the same thing as I? If you do, we are brothers. If you don’t, then I cannot accept you as my brother, other than insofar as you may some day change to be more like me and then we can be brothers.” It’s laughable to me.

Despite my better judgment, I entertained this man’s approach on this particular day. As we talked more, he began to speak quite horribly about homosexuality, adulterers and an entire slate of things. At one point, I became so embarrassed by what he was saying that I began looking over my shoulder for fear of being directly associated with this man. I asked him why he was convinced homosexuality was a sin, to which he provided oft quoted and incorrectly cited passages of scripture clearly taken out of context. Despite “judge lest you be judge” and “let he without sin throw the first stone,” this man and so many like him seemed to hide behind the farce that they are not the ones judging, God is. They are simply the messengers of God’s judgment. And so we hate, fight, spit, spew bigotry, murder, torture…all in the name of something good and holy. Every religion. Every era. I don’t see an end in sight.

It’s not the idea that he believes a man died for him and all of humanity over 2,000 years ago, and he finds peace and solace in this. I have no issue with that. Religion and faith are full of abnormalities and paradoxes. Faith is to be respected, maybe the most respected. It’s the idea, though, that I need to conform to see the world the way he sees it in order to really live life. I can’t wrap my head around how small-minded this is. It’s the idea that he needs to convince me to “convert” to his way of life, and causing pain and suffering is acceptable for this end. He needs to beat it into me. I prefer to believe in a world that is much bigger than one size fits all. I simply can’t see how violence and death in an effort to push the agenda of any particular religion, is the answer. There’s no truth in that. If there is a God, if there are merits of this man’s crucifixion, may the world realize this and by some mercy, let us stop fighting.

 

Lisa stared blankly. The harsh white light from the internet page glared on her face. There’s a new post, she thought, confused with hope. She sat not comprehending a single word she had just read. Then, without notice, the tears poured out. She began to sob uncontrollably. She reached out and touched the screen. She reached out in agony, in attempt to touch her son before her. She felt the warm buzzing screen, the warmth of the display.

 

 

Check out Part 5 of “The Gravesite.”

 

Freedom (Lyrics)

Amos Lee

Don’t wanna be a martyr in this war
Don’t wanna hear the same excuses anymore
That everything’s a threat
And it’s only gonna get worse if we let it

Don’t wanna blame the rich for what they got
Don’t point a finger at the poor for what they have not
Though the politician and the priest
Live in the belly of the beast because we fed it

Freedom is seldom found
By beating someone to the ground
Telling them how everything is gonna be now, yeah

Now if the tables were turned tell me how you would feel
Somebody busted up into your house telling you to stay still
While the leaders will deny defeat
Innocents they testify by dying in the street

Freedom is seldom found
By beating someone to the ground
Telling them how everything is gonna be now

Freedom is seldom found
By beating someone to the ground
Telling them how everything is gonna be now

 

Find more writing and publishing tips at Nothing Any Good.

 

A Story In Song (Part 3—Ben Harper)

  1. A Story In Song (Part 1—Tom Waits)
  2. A Story In Song (Part 2—Kings of Leon)
  3. A Story In Song (Part 3—Ben Harper)
  4. A Story In Song (Part 4—Amos Lee)
  5. A Story In Song (Part 5—Blind Pilot)
  6. A Story In Song (Part 6—Right Away, Great Captain!)
  7. A Story In Song (Part 7—Amos Lee)
  8. A Story In Song (Part 8—Ray LaMontagne)
  9. A Story In Song (Part 9—Janis Joplin)
  10. A Story In Song (Part 10—Peter Bradley Adams)
  11. A Story In Song (The End)

 

I have a story in my book Pieces Like Pottery—”The Gravesite: The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery”—in which I experimented with a number of different literary devices. More and more readers have begun to notice one of the devices more regularly. 

In addition to breaking the story up into ten sections, each of which follows one of the themes from the fifth sorrowful mystery, each section in the story also has a song that is paired with it. Yes, you read that right. I paired a song with each section. Like a fine wine paired with a good meal, the song’s lyrics are intended not only to add another layer of meaning to the words, but can also be listened along with that section of the story.

While more and more readers have been picking up on this, it’s certainly not an easy task for the casual reader, especially not one reading the print version of the book. I’ve promised to do this for quite awhile, so here you go. In ten parts, here is “The Gravesite: The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery” paired with each song. Enjoy!

(For those of you that might be interested in how this section ties into the fifth sorrowful mystery, the fifth sorrowful mystery is The Crucifixion and the “spiritual fruit” is the Pardoning of Injuries. Part 3 reflects the theme of when the side of Jesus is pierced with a lance, his body is taken down from the cross, and then placed into the arms of His Mother.)

If you missed Part 1 and Part 2, go start from the beginning! Enjoy!

 

The Gravesite 

The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery

Part 3

 


 

Lisa was more than just a proud mom when it came to Chris’ writing. She found his words inspirational. They made her reflect on her own disposition in life. She often sat and wondered about the meaning of each blog post, marveling at the innocent wisdom of her own son. She could have done without the quotes that opened each blog entry, but it was his artistic choice, she figured.

“Why don’t you credit where you’re taking the quote from?” she asked him once.

“The beauty’s in the words, Mom, and in the search,” she remembered him saying. Then, as if pausing with levity, he continued, “Besides, you can just look it up on the google machine anyway.”

She laughed at him calling the internet “the google machine.” It seemed funny to her that if someone of her generation had called it the google machine, the term would have been viewed as ridiculous. She would have been laughed at for being too old and unhip, and she would have been told that she just didn’t get technology. Since it was spouted by youth, however, it was somehow acceptable and adopted. This affectation amused her at the time.

Despite not appreciating the quotes that began his blog posts, Lisa always searched. His last reference on May 19th, she learned, was from someone named Caleb Fallowill. She had never heard of him and didn’t particularly like the despair in the quote. She sometimes failed to grasp why Chris provided the quotes he did. They oftentimes didn’t seem relevant. On the other hand, she loved the many references Chris always had throughout his writing. He was so smart and well-read that she always loved finding out what the references meant. The reference to This Is Water was one of those she found fascinating after she researched it more.

Why couldn’t she have said this when they drove to the airport? Why couldn’t she have told him one last time how wonderful of a son he was?

The night after dropping Chris at the airport, she was not yet concerned with these thoughts. She went about her night like a parent always does, trying to ignore irrational fears that continually arise and hoping her son is happy. She also eagerly awaited Chris’ next post.

The following morning she checked his site over her morning cup of coffee. A new entry was there. She smiled and sipped her warm drink.

 

“Unspoken rules of solitude wound without a trace. A lifetime of dreams roll down your face. All that we can’t say is all we need to hear. When you close your eyes does the world disappear? There’s something in everyone only they know.”

May 20th

We never lose the biases that are intertwined in our lives. How we think and who we become are tightly wound up within our experiences and origins. As Michael Sandel argues, it is impossible to efface past experiences or family of origin from our thought processes. The moments that they have pierced me in the past, color my thinking in the present. I became a product of my mother the moment I was first placed into her arms. I am my father’s son. We must first understand that these experiences, these biases, exist, before we can truly understand what is right.

 

Lisa scratched her head and stared at the screen. Sometimes she was unsure if her son was a lot smarter than her, and spoke far above her ability to comprehend him, or if he was merely spouting gibberish to be combative. She enjoyed it nonetheless. She envisioned his plane landing thousands of miles away as she sipped her coffee.

 

Check out Part 4 of “The Gravesite.”

Never Leave Lonely Alone (Lyrics)

Ben Harper

Like an old man
Sitting alone at a lunch counter
Like a small town girl
A big city devours
Some of us laugh
Even in our darkest hour

Never leave lonely alone

Unspoken rules of solitude
Wound without a trace
A lifetime of dreams roll down your face
All that we can’t say
Is all we need to hear
When you close your eyes
Does the world disappear

There’s something in everyone
Only they know
It moves in the hidden ways
Of joy and sorrow

Never leave lonely alone

 

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