Post a Week

I've always been kind of a sporadic writer, only allowing myself to do it when I felt like I had the time or topic. Well, WordPress is doing this really cool thing for all of its members where it gives them the option of joining one of two campaigns. The first campaign, which, by the nature of this blog would be nigh impossible, is Post a Day. That would mean that I am pestering all of you every single day, forcing myself amid a slammed schedule to write something worth your time and sacrificing quality for quantity. I'm not about that.

However, the second option is a little more doable, and one that I am going to try to commit to. So for a year, I will be joining a community of people who are striving for the same thing: to post at least once a week. This means that you have a responsibility as well.

Communication.

63 different people read yesterday's post from the time I went to bed to the time I woke up this morning, so the odds of one of you having questions or arguments or disagreements is great. For any old reason, any old time, whenever you want, just email me (hjbarber@gmail.com) and we'll figure it out. Topics, ideas, poems, essays, it is all welcome. If there is anything that I want it is to inspire thought in YOU.

Share with friends things that you think are good. Send nasty emails for things you think aren't. Click the little "thumbs up" button below this if you like something and the little "tweet" button to share if you feel so inclined.

This is a group effort; I cannot carry it by myself. I think we can make this happen!

Let's incite a revolution of thought. Let's change the world.

xx

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.

New Beginnings, In A Sense

As one whose name is writ in water, I thank you for the time you give to reading these thoughts: the somewhat monotone ramblings of a kid working his way through the exact same stuff you are. It is not the writer that makes a point hit home, but rather the reader and his ability to comprehend, interpret, and apply it to himself. "In every work of genius we recognize our own rejected thoughts: they come back to us with a certain alienated majesty." Although a blog (and particularly MY blog) is by no means a work of genius, what Mr. Emerson has to say about it is valid in every situation, and is not just limited to what he calls "genius". Just because you didn't write something doesn't mean you were incapable of doing so. There is nothing somebody can tell you that you haven't, in some fashion, thought about before. By reading, you validate the writer, making YOU the important party. I am here solely because I love words and I love using them to figure things out. Without you, I speak to a void. Let's do this together.

I know I have a slight propensity to wax philosophical, become preachy, wordy, unintelligible, or meander you through the river of my mind as though you cared, but it's all in love. If you have questions, I'd like you to ask. If you're struggling through something, odds are I am too and I'd love to exchange thoughts on the matter. I don't have answers to everything, nor will I find them, but at the very least we can learn something along the way.

In other words, I'll keep doing my thing and you keep doing yours - because it's my job to write a dumb blog on the internet and it's your job to change the world.

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.

>An Appeal To Everybody

>My dear, dear readers,

How are you? I hope these words find you in a place of joy and peace and relative hopefulness (even though I realize that it is exam time and those words usually don't appear in such juxtaposition in an hour such as this).

I will not make this very long at all, but I just wanted to extend an invitation I gave to my Facebook and Twitter friends to you guys. As I get more traffic, I get more excited and, being me, I want to know each one of you... and I would like you to get to know me as well. So, whether I know you personally or not, I would like to write you a letter. I quite enjoy letter-writing (although I don't practice it nearly enough) and would like to share that joy with anybody who will let me.

So here's the dealio. We don't live in an age of addresses except to punch into a GPS or Google Maps, so I don't know very many people's off the top of my head. What is going on is this: you e-mail me, message me (if you follow me on Twitter or are my friend on Facebook) or text me (if we're apparently really good friends haha) your address. Include your name if I don't know it and, if we are not personal, face to face friends, one sentence (minimum) about yourself so that I can know a little bit about the person to whom I am writing. Do you want it written entirely in Haiku? In a Spenserian Sonnet? Backwards? Left-Handed? In Pig Latin? With red ink? Blue ink? Glitter ink? About philosophy? About which Spice Girl is the best? The possibilities are endless, and if you would like a particular subject or stipulation to your letter, let me know. Otherwise it will very closely resemble the stream-of-consciousness ramblings of the borderline insane.

Basically, I am tired of this voiceless, impersonal void of the internet. I know that I have readers stationed over many states and, in some cases, countries, so your silence will not suffice. Don't be shy just because this is about y-o-u... Let me write to you!

Much love and I hope to hear from you very soon,
Hamilton

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.

>Ok so perhaps my logic is flawed, along with a note to readers

>I was floating around the halls of Facebook the other day in the midst of one of these weekly fits of insomnia in hopes that the dull monotony of seeing the same pages over and over would lull my brain into a few hours of rest before rising for a busy day. It.was.so.hot. in my room, despite the fact that the AC had just been turned on after not having touched it hardly at all since Ryan moved out. I lay on top of this concoction of covers draped over my bed, my face still wet from my having doused it with freezing cold tap water, and I figured that the quickest way for me to lose all will to remain awake was this tactic of boring myself to tears. I would force my eyes to want to close.

I am positive that you relate. Jumping straight to the point, I had visited the profiles of literally every one of the people dotting my friends list when some words caught my attention. One person I knew posted a lyric from this old hymn that is just timeless in its beauty. As a brief side note, do not for a second assume that I am one of these reckless youth who despise all things Organ and choir just because I happen to play the electric guitar and I appreciate music some people affectionately call "noise." I am a firm believer that at heart I was born in the wrong generation. People have forgotten how to be eloquent and all traces of civil talk have turned into what I admit is an appalling sort of vernacular. I prefer to read authors who are dead simply because I think that the language is far more powerful than what is published today (not to author's faults... it is simply that there is a diminishing appreciation for things that were once considered beautiful).

That said, I went on to read what some people had commented on this lyric. There was lament on the diminishing use of Organ in church music, and though it had a tinge of personal attack on my church, I could have let it slide in conversation. People are entitled to the things that they love and it is valid for them to be sad to see them leave. I know that if music turned entirely to synthesizers and drum loops I would certainly be sad to see guitar being used less and less, and so I have no problem with this particular person wanting to see it return. What came next, however, made me read it again, just to make sure that I had the entire message. I searched it for sarcasm or irony or tongue-in-cheek, but unfortunately there was none to be found. This is the part that caught me off guard: "So sad that the church is going the way of the world with its music. How can they justify it?"


Excuse me?


I couldn't help myself by chime in, because it was an opportunity too great to let my sarcasm rest. I have an enormous problem with calling music "worldly," because music itself is not a thing of this world. It transcends language and experience in a way that nothing of this earth possibly could. I have heard compositions in foreign tongues and immediately been of one mind with the writer, whereas had he written a book or made a speech all I would see is stagnant ink on a page and all I would hear is a series of repetitive but nonsensical consonants. If try you tell me that music is a worldly thing, I will submit that you know nothing of heaven. I have heard more beautiful sounds coming from two guys with sticks and buckets than I have in any elaborate and glorious building ever constructed by man. I guarantee you that David, the most famous worship leader ever, did not have an organ or a piano, but a harp (which had strings, by the way, and probably sounded a little like a guitar). He was all about joyful noises, drums, clanging cymbals, and even dancing naked, so do not even try to tell me that stoic, stuffy men in suits who mouth words printed on a yellowing page are more holy than a crowd of people literally losing their minds, being enveloped by "noise" so loud and a spirit so overpowering that there is no room for distraction from the focus of the night. I plan on spending the rest of my eternity in a pit of people throbbing, kneeling, bowing, dancing wildly and singing so loudly before the Throne of God that, were I in my earthly body, it would collapse from exhaustion.


I will repeat myself, which I do not do often. If you try to tell me that music is of this world, I will tell you that you know nothing of heaven.


I'm not sure what the point of this one was. I will save this pent-up rant on tradition worshippers for another day when it isn't quite so pretty outside. Perhaps I was just looking for an outlet for this small amount of frustration. But you should tell me what you think about all of this!


On another side note, there has been a significant jump in readers over the past month or so, and I am tired of just writing about these little rabbit trails in my head. I would be more than happy to explore submitted topics or questions or musings that you guys have, whether it be if Left 4 Dead 2 better or worse than the first, who would win in a battle between Chuck Norris and Himself, why Mary Shelley is awesome, why I can't wait to get Xbox live back, etc. I am an open book. You can email me (hjbarber@gmail.com), comment, text me, whatever. I'd like to hear from you! Ok. Go outside. It's far too pretty to be trapped within walls like I am today.

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.