Jessica McFarland

Here’s a bit more new music. (Now with #11, ’cause sometimes I like to Jobim it up.)

Parallel Lines

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There is a writer named Julia Cameron whose books about creativity I wholeheartedly adore. I’m sure there will be more about her later, but in the mean time you can check her out here.

Something she wrote has lit a fire in me recently. That is, how important it is to finish things. Not just start things, but actually finish something so that it’s done (or at least, done-ish and stop working on it and move on).

I have never really considered myself a procrastinator, but when I (re)read this, I realised that I have a computer full of half-finished musical projects that I have not finished. This is possibly a result of an over-developed sense of perfectionism, with just a smidgen of laziness thrown in to keep it interesting.

So I’m spending the next few months or more finishing things. When they are done they’ll be here. And then I can move on, instead of whining inwardly about how I never get anything done and being plagued by a vague sense of incompetence.

Soooo, this is a song I started in January and have finally finished. It is an arrangement of a song for voice and the orchestra I keep in my bedroom.

(Lyrics below.)
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For those of you who may not know me, and for those who do but would like to know more, I’ve assembled a list of little-known facts about myself, in lieu of an ‘About the Author’ page (which I really couldn’t be bothered with).

• The first CDs I ever owned (as I began to phase out cassette tapes, if you can remember those) were: The Saturday Night Fever Soundtrack, The Andrew Lloyd Weber Premiere Collection, and a collection of America (the band)’s greatest hits.
• I need glasses to see anything further than about 8 inches away from my nose. I lost interest in contacts and have never had any interest in non-life-saving surgery, so there ya go. Glasses.
• Early childhood fears include the moon, digital clocks with the time on the hour (double zeros), and the state of California. (This last one is the combined fault of The Eagles and the kid at school who swore up and down that there was a hotel in California that they wouldn’t let you leave.)
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This evening, I couldn’t get inspired. I stared at the blank TextEdit window, and nothing came. Words, music, ideas-all eluded me. All the meaning and glory of the universe drifted aimlessly through the air, past me, on its way to a trendier post code. So I…

…started cleaning. I didn’t want to. I had been putting it off for days. But I put on my 80s playlist and went to it. I vacuumed the hair (I shed like a cat) and grit off of the hardwood floors. I ironed my skirts (I can do this without mishap now). I put the bath mats in the laundry. I put my Oyster card and house keys next to the door to avoid morning panic. (more…)

Now, I’m not throwing that out there as a blanket statement. I love words. Of course I do; that’s why I write so many of them. In fact, I would never have been able to come up with a sentiment like that on my own, so I stole it from Depeche Mode.

But it’s late, very late at night, after a long, long day. And just now I went into a room, alone, and I heard it. The silence. And it was sooooo nice.

The reason I needed it so badly was because of things that are all lovely on their own: music, people, even a bit of television. It’s been great but…to layer these things on top of each other, with no break between them…I didn’t realise how tiring it was until it all stopped just now. And then it was like, aaaaah. I’ve missed you, and I didn’t even know.

I need to be able to listen to my thoughts. I need a bit of space. Or I go a bit…not right.

But what does this have to do with dolphins? Well, I’ll tell you. Noise pollution. From ships and sonar and the like. It’s bad for them. It confuses them, and they end up on the 10 o’clock news.

It probably makes it difficult for them to write, as well. In fact, were it not for oceanic noise pollution, perhaps dolphins would be writing plays and stories and symphonies, and building venues in which to perform them, and changing the world with the beauty of their oceanic perspective. Humans would travel underwater to cetacean universities to learn their advanced art forms. It would be the foundation of a new, trans-taxonomic-order Renaissance.

But now, every time the first few strands of melody or the opening lines of a poem begin to assemble themselves, they are interrupted by a shipping container full of ipods, never to to be found again.

Dolphins, I feel for you.