>I pause in the middle of writing a critical essay on a Joyce Carol Oates short story to take a momentary return to something not school related. When I say "in the middle of writing" I mean I've been sitting here trying to write it and have been highly unsuccessful and am therefore going out to get coffee after this. And Krystals.

I wanted to write about some of the big things that have recently been going on. Things with echoes farther reaching than I can fathom. God things that I love. Funk things that I hate. But I couldn't really do it quite yet, because it's all still so new and so in the moment and so over my head and overwhelming that I haven't processed it enough to make it coherent to anybody except for me. And the moment you start understanding me in my moments of babbling incoherency you should get yourself checked out, because you have surely been drug into the grips of insanity.

Speaking of insanity, I now have 4 (well, 3 and a half) songs written for the project I hinted at like 4 months ago. My projects seem to last a really really long time.

It's tricky, their layering, because they are poetry disguised as music. They are music disguised as poetry. It's poetry in the Romantic sense of it, for it is grasping at something sublime which I, myself am unable to express.

That being said, the video posted below is the song beginning the project. It's just me and an acoustic guitar, which means that there is so much more to come in the final recording that this is really just a preview. The finished product may bear only slight resemblances to the skeleton laid out, but it is a skeleton indeed. And you, dear internet, are my poor man's publisher, editor and most apt critic.

The song is called Nightingales. It deals this concept of a God struggle, the "fear and trembling" Paul talked about in Philippians. Even if none of this ever takes off the ground, it is at least therapeutic for me and about the only way I know how to say it. Words aren't enough. Music isn't enough. Together they really aren't enough either, but I don't really know how to do anything else.

So bear with me through the roughness and perhaps it will be polished come the end.


Rest for the weary, burdened, and alone
Open arms awaiting your return.
If only you’d return

Rising together, we guillotined the king,
Erased the promulgation that destroyed who we have been.
Now we’ll be who we have been.

Our freedom: inspiration, (though) from our outstretched, broken arms
Bereaved by the deceased who made his home among the stars.
But Your eyes were in the stars

We’re nightingales in daylight, we’re sheep in wolven skin
And still we wait in hiding to draw the hunters in.

I fell inside, I felt alive, I fell in love all over again
I felt this side of feeling alive and I fell in love all over again
My inhibition fell aside and I fell in love all over again
I fell inside, I felt alive, I fell in love…

But the shadows creeping down the hall,
My purloined bravery’s defeat,
The way I saw them climb the walls
Forced me to retreat

Face down, under cover, where I’ve seen this all before
The monsters stretch their claws from within our wretched souls

*Edit: Youtube was being extraordinarily difficult to deal with, so click here to see the same video, just in a different location.

*double Edit (I never do this): I recently posted a slightly more produced version here

Hamilton Barber

The subject of this page is an introverted writer/musician/lunatic from Chattanooga, TN who dabbles in lexical dexterity, unorthodox thoughts on prosperity, and being overwhelmingly undeserving of the privilege of waking up every day. He hopes that everybody who reads these words takes them to heart and leaps higher than he ever could. He reads, thinks, and speaks too much; he listens, works, and loves too little; and he says “I” entirely too often. The words on these pages are not his: they are the words that were given to him.