Yes, I Am Still Object Writing

I’ll be posting a slew of updates momentarily.

Lots of writing.

Oh, I am excited: I was able to get my iPhone to act as a MIDI controller to interface with MainStage for live rigs. Now, I can control MIDI events on my iPhone while I’m playing my digital piano (a Yamaha P60) and interface with MainStage.

Thanks to this article for the tutorial.

And this app.

And as always, thanks for listening. ¶

March 21: Spring

Spring.

A new season begins to show itself through re-budding trees, rainy days, and warmer and brighter skies. This part of the world seems to wake up. It knows it’s time to get back to work. After a long hibernation, it opens its eyes and begins to take things to task. Blossoms turn to flowers. Birds begin to warm up their voices. Flowers begin to tantalize our noses. Even my own body seems to wake up. It begins to plan more, absorb more, and pay attention more. Waking up sneezing is a minor inconvenience that is quickly rectified by allergy medicine.

This part of the world begins to gain momentum. It starts to move a little faster, even though the days grow longer. The world seems to be self-aware when this season comes around; it seems to know what’s happening around it. How this world works is baffling to me, but I’m in a constant state of wonderment at the way the world functions. This is a season of asking new questions, seeking new or different answers. The world and I need to have coffee together before things get too hectic.

March 20: Room

Room.

It seems like sometimes that four walls shackle me to itself. Other times, it seems like the same four walls are a safe haven, free of outside stresses and the elements. A welcoming room gives a sense of security and familiarity.

Some rooms seem to expand beyond the horizon, others get right up in my face. Some rooms don’t have to be confrontational like that, and that’s usually how I like it. Some rooms cause sound bullets to ricochet off the walls; others are so greedy for stimuli that they swallow sound whole. Some have a distinct aroma or stench, some have none at all. The baggage we bring in from the world largely dictates the atmosphere of the room, even though the room is far removed from the outside.

I like rooms that bring a sense of comfort. When I walk into a room, I sense nearly instantly whether this room possesses comfort or tension. Four walls house so much. What we do within these four walls is a direct reflection of how we see the outside world.

March 19: Siren

Siren.

Red and blue lights blare their colors in every direction. They go whizzing past like a comet entranced by the sun’s grip. A sound, melodic yet hardly melodic, brings every sense to its peak. I look around to spot the genesis of these sounds. A very little amount of sounds trigger such a powerful emotional response: a feeling of instant panic, sadness, compassion, or terror.

In the comfort of the car, a slight muffling occurs. If I’m out in the open, my ears fall prey to the Banshee’s wailing. The sirens pass me by and move to the next unsuspecting victim, blaring its horribly obnoxious sound, announcing their presence to the world like an attention-starved child.

I am rendered nearly helpless, unable to speak or hear anything above it.

March 18: Chocolate

Chocolate.

As I pick the chocolate off of our cutting board, it might seem like I’m just going to gobble it up and not savor it. Truth is, I do. I start by feeling the smoothness of the chocolate like a smooth lacquer. Tasting it through my nose proves to be an invigorating exercise, sending my nose on a journey to discover the smells of the journey ahead. A soft crunch wakes my ears from their standby state. Subsequent crunches leave my mouth and ears hungry for more. Smooth, velvety, glossy textures leave no part of my mouth uncoated. Flavors open up like dams; everything from the richness of the cocoa to the bitterness of currant. It’s like a giant web of flavor, always unpredictable. Even the same block of chocolate produces a unique type of flavor. Feel-good hormones run a marathon in my brain while my belly slowly absorbs the warmth of the flavors.

Chocolate is a thorough vice, awakening all our senses in delightful ways.

March 23: Rain

Raindrops freefall from the sky, picking their targets arbitrarily and deliberately. Sometimes, the bullets are softer than feathers, other times, they are more forceful than slaps across the face. Clear drops make their way from the world of the heavens to ours, invading my space, but at the same time, rejuvenating the world around it. At the same time, it sounds like a gentle tapping across windows and a thundering motor on rooftops. Refreshingly so, rain stimulates my salivating glands as I open my mouth to receive this heavenly hydration. Sometimes, though, the rain can drive me nuts, inconveniencing the world by putting unforeseen obstacles in the way, slowing it down. I have always been fascinated by rain; how something could be so simple, yet so complex in how it falls. Sometimes it falls straight down, other times it comes in almost sideways. The rain doesn’t look like typical water drops; it looks like threads of a curtain falling wherever it wants to. Sometimes it comes down in isolated patches, other times the rain comes down in full-blown sheets. Rain is one of the many mysteries of life that is simple to understand, but continues to marvel.

March 17: Bowl

A versatile piece morphs into many uses. It holds a soup, it displays fruit, it houses bread, it is a home for a meandering fish, and so much more. So many shapes, so many designs. If you look really hard, you can make out the imperfections of the manufacturing process. Don’t worry, it just adds character. The smoothness of the bowl helps to accentuate the texture and give the contents extra life. There’s something comforting about eating out of a bowl not smooth or even fully refined. When we can see the pattern of the ware, it brings us more in touch with the earth.

Soft clanking of spoons and silverware meet the bowl at for their own symposium. The spoon helps lift the burden the bowl has to bear. The bowl is the anchor; it sets the stage for the food. It is the curator, enabling us to enjoy our food and experience it as fully as possible.

Bowls give us so much and ask for so little in return. Bowls help us appreciate the things in life that are important to us. Bowls bring us together—they remind us of our humanity each time we sit down with them to congregate.

March 16, 2015: Sand

Rolling hills of soft sand tumble down the horizon. Bare feet plunge into the sand as warmth coats my feet and ankles. After a cool dip in the ocean, the sand is a refreshing change of texture and temperature. Walking suddenly becomes more difficult, but in the sand, walking fast doesn’t isn’t a goal of mine.

As wind picks up, the smell of fish and kelp present themselves to my nose. They bring smells and tastes of faraway lands right to me like an explorer returning to their homeland. Coarse, yet smooth sand falls through my grip as I meander my hands around through it, aimlessly. Gulls screech, crabs snap their claws, and kelp wraps itself around my leg like a snake. Everything that makes contact with the sand is muffled in some way. The signature clop of shoes are muffled and turned into swishes.

The ocean and sand have so many stories to tell; all one has to do is look down to connect the dots. Sand dollars, plastic pails, kelp beds; all have a reason for congregating, yet all are on their own.

March 15: Ladybug

Tiny ladybug flies through the sky, drifting with the wind. It lands on a leaf and moves to its table for an aphid meal.

This ladybug we discovered a few years ago made a trip from Colorado to Utah in a package of basil. It was quite the surprising sight to see: a ladybug resting in the leaves. Fully alive and aware, it fought back the adversity of a frozen truck, countless packaging processes, and managed to end up in our kitchen. What an inspiring responsibility we had.

A few months later, Bella [our ladybug] lay comfortably in its terrarium. It lived a full life, and we knew it would come to this sooner or later, but it just doesn’t hit you fully. Such sadness. Cars moving in and out of the parking lot right outside our apartment, where she lies now comfortably, resting peacefully. I feel the earth in my hands as we put its shelter on top of where she is buried. My wife speaks her calm eulogy, singing it to sleep.

We accept death as a part of life, but it can’t help but prick us as we embrace it for ourselves or others.

Friday’s Object Writing: March 13 – Tree

Tree.

Nature reaches out to touch the heavens. Trees are nature’s arms, extending from the earth outward, giving us a glimpse at the rich ecosystem underneath. Some trees are no higher than me, others are higher than every man made structure. Nature reminds us that it reigns supreme; it can overturn our human creations with a simple lightning strike. Trees shield us, give us life, but they are double-edged swords. They can also be ruthless and unforgiving if they are used as weapons.

Trees give a sense of hope when the world around them is dead. Like a prophet speaking of new things to come, it stands there, silently giving us a message: “There is still life here.” Coarse bark, smooth leaves, flexible branches like an old sage, unwearied by the world around him.