When Choir Practice Ends

My Oh My

I put the bow on a piece about my gripes with the political process last night and published it. More pointedly, I wrote concerning my complete repulsion at what passes as dialogue or debate any longer. Not by the talking heads who are paid to be pot-stirring imbeciles, mind you, but by our free-of-charge peers. The you’s and me’s out there.

I pick on Trump a solid 85–90% of the time because he’s extra inflammatory and thus extra easy as far as targets go. Further, preaching to the choir waxes dull almost as quickly as Trump spits out new stupidities (or falsehoods, which I learned earlier today is at an even more alarming rate than I’d realized). Hardly anyone in my circle or circle’s circles would dare to lean left. While most aren’t quite so virulent, there are some who certainly want to “Trump that bitch” and the likes.

That being the case, what’s the point in my adding to the rabble? My life is pretty busy at present so I’ve figured the most efficient route is to phone-in my political banter and go for the low hanging fruit. In this case a ripe, juicy orange, of course.

When I do bother to crack jokes at the expense of Ms. Clinton, as I did a day or two, it’s simply amazing to see the difference in response. How quickly semi-trolls become whole-hearted comrades! Those formerly found mute are suddenly springing to (social media) life. Hell, it’s a new and very effective way to find out your friends with people you had long forgotten existed.

And to think I’d been so wounded at the thought of them having all unfollowed me long ago for daring to put a finger on items of concern relating to Mr. Trump. Lo and behold! I simply needed to turn and preach to our aforementioned choir.

Scream-o

All jabs aside, it’s a fairly sad case we’re in. Don’t get me wrong, I like the empty and hollow social validation of a ‘Like’ just as much as the next person, but damn if we aren’t a bunch of tribespeople. And seemingly nothing more anymore.

Instead of being a choir with beautiful melody lines and moving harmonies, surprising and delighting listeners with counterpoints and even, at times, dissonance that leads to resolution, we’re just a scream-o band. A piss poor one at that.

Perhaps this is hypocritical of me considering I had a huge scream-o phase late high school and early college. I still love heavy music, in fact. But I primarily love heavy music that masterfully blends the disgust of a vocal cord being ripped to shreds alongside, and in juxtaposition to, the beauty of great melodic phrasing.

Two-Part > Unison

This idea is possibly a fair way to extend the analogy, too. Maybe we’ll get there. Maybe we’ll go from being nothing but screamers to some blend of scream and melodies. Maybe we’ll figure out how to harmonize with one another. Maybe we’ll learn that counterpoint and dissonance aren’t the end of the line, that they aren’t necessarily counterproductive. Maybe we’ll see that beauty can still be had in those moments of seeming chaos or dissonance and that resolution is right there begging to be had if we’ll but move a little way in some direction or another.

I guess my point in its most distilled form is this: we don’t have to be singing unison to have a song worth singing. Come to think of it, those are usually the most boring ones out there.

So keep singing. Go on screaming at the appropriate times even. But never do either of those things without the grand scheme in mind. While we don’t have to be doing the same exact things at the same exact time to make our song work, we do have to do everything together and with an ear towards one another.

Sing on.