TCLEFT
09-29-08, 07:33 PM
I'm the luckiest man on the planet. Printer was out of paper. I, um, got some from work. Purely for printing out projects during telecommutes. Ok, you got me. This was in the que. I repeat, I'm the luckiest man on the planet.
Christopher deRaismes
9/27/08
Block c
Sunday mornings
Sunday morning is an interesting and maybe the most memorable time during the weekend. You wake up early, walk down the steps, and look out the windows watching the sun rise over the surrounding trees. The grass reflecting the morning light, a glassy mirror. The aroma of brewing coffee fills the room and the dogs lay at your feet asleep. As you sit, a certain calm just drenches you.
Music composition takes many forms during these moments. It reveals itself in the air, under the sofa, in the first sip of coffee, or in the first few strummed chords. Then those fragments of music become words, then they become sentences, until the story becomes a song or a dream that only dogs dream about. Whether the story is sad, or happy, or even lonely depends on the listeners interpretation . Sometimes the story is unclear in the beginning, but like every Sunday morning when the light finally floods in, a picture is painted in front of our eyes. That moment is locked in our thoughts until it is time for it to be expressed.
Life is a lost and sometimes confusing place. Set goals can seem so distant, and the paths you follow will not be the same the next day. When your mind is clouded and obscured by too many thoughts, Sunday morning in the living room soothes the pressures, giving a moment of peace to relax.
The last few years have slipped by so quickly. Giving insight to how time can change you. Once innocent to troubles, now encompass your every movement, and every choice. These stories remain in your songs to help memories become calmer, like the stillness after a storm.
Sunday mornings in the living room is a place of many memories. Some are distant, barely remembered, while others have a lasting effect. From when we moved in when it was bare to the bone, until it flourished in color, and in life. It holds all moments in every corner, in every painting, and under every sofa. This is home base when all other places are far away.
One particular Sunday morning in the recent past stands out clearly. Everyone was asleep and the first few rays of light from my bedside window woke me up. Peering through my eyelashes, sleep slowly faded from my body, until I rose from my bed. I creeped down the steps toward the kitchen in hopes of brewing some coffee. Aware of my wakefulness my two dogs barreled down the steps to greet knocking over everything in sight.
When everything was placed back in their original position, I headed
back to the living room and sat. reflecting on how tired I was and those noisy dogs now fast asleep at my feet. I sat there for awhile half dreaming, staring off into space. When slow footsteps started up the stairs. My father looked at me with tired eyes and sat down on the sofa. He took out his guitar and he put the capo on the third fret, and caught a song from the wind. He started playing and a song revealed itself. Inspired I took out my guitar and produced a counter melody. It was strangely peaceful taking something and adding to it. It was a simple moment in my history but lasting . Out of all the memories I have I cherish this one the most. There is so many bad memories but I want to remember the good ones. Only the good ones.
From me to all of you, "Only the Good Ones".
Much Love,
Mark
Christopher deRaismes
9/27/08
Block c
Sunday mornings
Sunday morning is an interesting and maybe the most memorable time during the weekend. You wake up early, walk down the steps, and look out the windows watching the sun rise over the surrounding trees. The grass reflecting the morning light, a glassy mirror. The aroma of brewing coffee fills the room and the dogs lay at your feet asleep. As you sit, a certain calm just drenches you.
Music composition takes many forms during these moments. It reveals itself in the air, under the sofa, in the first sip of coffee, or in the first few strummed chords. Then those fragments of music become words, then they become sentences, until the story becomes a song or a dream that only dogs dream about. Whether the story is sad, or happy, or even lonely depends on the listeners interpretation . Sometimes the story is unclear in the beginning, but like every Sunday morning when the light finally floods in, a picture is painted in front of our eyes. That moment is locked in our thoughts until it is time for it to be expressed.
Life is a lost and sometimes confusing place. Set goals can seem so distant, and the paths you follow will not be the same the next day. When your mind is clouded and obscured by too many thoughts, Sunday morning in the living room soothes the pressures, giving a moment of peace to relax.
The last few years have slipped by so quickly. Giving insight to how time can change you. Once innocent to troubles, now encompass your every movement, and every choice. These stories remain in your songs to help memories become calmer, like the stillness after a storm.
Sunday mornings in the living room is a place of many memories. Some are distant, barely remembered, while others have a lasting effect. From when we moved in when it was bare to the bone, until it flourished in color, and in life. It holds all moments in every corner, in every painting, and under every sofa. This is home base when all other places are far away.
One particular Sunday morning in the recent past stands out clearly. Everyone was asleep and the first few rays of light from my bedside window woke me up. Peering through my eyelashes, sleep slowly faded from my body, until I rose from my bed. I creeped down the steps toward the kitchen in hopes of brewing some coffee. Aware of my wakefulness my two dogs barreled down the steps to greet knocking over everything in sight.
When everything was placed back in their original position, I headed
back to the living room and sat. reflecting on how tired I was and those noisy dogs now fast asleep at my feet. I sat there for awhile half dreaming, staring off into space. When slow footsteps started up the stairs. My father looked at me with tired eyes and sat down on the sofa. He took out his guitar and he put the capo on the third fret, and caught a song from the wind. He started playing and a song revealed itself. Inspired I took out my guitar and produced a counter melody. It was strangely peaceful taking something and adding to it. It was a simple moment in my history but lasting . Out of all the memories I have I cherish this one the most. There is so many bad memories but I want to remember the good ones. Only the good ones.
From me to all of you, "Only the Good Ones".
Much Love,
Mark