Insights of a Worship Leader, Part 1

For those of you who don't know, I am a Worship Leader. I sing lead at the church I attend and am in charge of musical direction. Besides it being an awesome spiritual privilege, there's a few specific things I like.

Microphones

I'm a wireless microphone kind of guy! I love and prefer to sing with a wireless. I don't mean to sound like a diva but I don't like mics with cords. This doesn't mean I'd throw a tantrum if a wireless was out of my reach,  it wouldn't be big deal, it's just a preference. Here's a few reasons why:

Reason #1: Cords get tangled

I am somebody who likes to be lively when I lead Worship. That mean I will dance, jump, spin, clap. I love getting into the music because its fun and energetic and I think stiff singers can be kind of boring. Cords can get in the way of that.

I was recently in California, leading Worship at El Rio de Dios in Inglewood (FYI, I attend a Hispanic church and most of my singing is in Spanish), and there was this contagious song where I started doing a spinning motion. Needless to say, this was out of town and I didn't have my dandy, Shure wireless mic, so I used one with a cord, which was fine. Anyway, as I started slowly spinning, the cord started wrapping itself around me and I stopped before I was mummified and casually untangled myself while smiling at one of the singers to the side.

Reason #2: Cords can be stepped on

One time, I was speaking (more like shouting) in between songs and I stepped on the cord as I walked forward. The cord snapped off the mic, leaving me mute and with the unplugged microphone in hand. Jeez! Also, I feel bad stepping on cords, like I'm choking the life out of this piece of equipment meant to help me.

Reason #2.5: Cords can trip people!

This has never happened to me personally (thank God!) but after so many cords on the floor getting jumbled up, tangled up, all sorts of messed up, they start to rise on the floor like vengeful jungle vines ready to attack (that'd be a scary death though, probably like something out of The Ruins but with musical equipment). One of the ladies who sings with me sometimes actually tripped once. We were putting stuff away after a service and amongst the cord ruckus (because back then we didn't use wireless mics) her heel got caught between some cords and she fell down. Luckily, she fell like she was sitting down on the ground but still!

Reason #3: I don't like headset microphones

I don't know why but I just don't. Maybe it's because I feel like an actual diva or maybe I'm used to having something in my hand when I sing but I don't like it.

Reason #4: Microphone Smooching

Okay, this is more of a reason as to why I like my own microphone but I'm throwing it in! When I am really giving myself to a song I tend to make out with my mic. I've noticed it before and my lips and spit are all over that thing. It's a good thing I always put on chapstick before singing (partly so my lips won't stick and partly for the luminous dazzle).

As much as I talk about (and smooch, apparently) my beloved microphone, I feel it should have a name. Maybe the aptly named "Mike", or "Michael" to be more sophisticated.

Tune in next time for more Worship Leader insights!

I'm a Pretty Little Girl

Alright, this week and last week I've been a big girl. Yes, the sex-change process is, no doubt, coming soon.

Just kidding.

About the sex-change process, that is.

Reason #1 as to why I'm a pretty little girl at the moment:

"Pretty Little Liars"

Or should I say I'm a pretty-little-liar-girl? In a plaid pencil skirt, black patterned tights, and stiletto heels, no less!

Yes, I am now officially a fan of the ABC Family show for teens (mostly teen girls). I was just on  Thanksgiving break from school and, in the nick of time, I received a notification from the library over the weekend that an item I had placed on hold way back in early August was ready for me to pick up. Lo and behold, it was the first season of "Pretty Little Liars". Usually I don't bother picking up entire seasons of TV shows during school because I just don't have time to watch them during the busy semester but as fate would have it (or maybe it's been perfectly plotted by A, hmm...), the DVD dropped in my lap the one week I have no school. I was worried that I might not finish all the episodes by the time classes resumed on Monday but I watched the entire season and with time to spare. Can't wait to watch season 2!

The show first caught my attention a few years ago when I heard the Young Adult series by Sara Shepard was getting picked up for television. It's worked for "Gossip Girl" and "The Vampire Diaries" (Vampire Diaries is also on my list of shows to watch, FYI) and it even worked for "Roswell" back in the 90's (I love Roswell!) and it's working for "Pretty Little Liars" just as well. When I heard ABC Family was picking up the show I wondered why the heck a show like this would be handed over to the network that usually has lame teen shows and watered down material but I've been pleasantly surprised. The closest teen show ABC Family has had to this was probably "The Secret Life of the American Teenager", and I didn't care enough to know what that secret was, but even that show seemed like it had an after-school-special vibe to it. The pilot alone on this show shocked me when one of the protagonists (Aria!) was sitting at a pub where a guy approached her and then they're making out in the bathroom! The guy, we find out later in the episode, is Aria's new English teacher (snap!). Then one of the other girls, (Spencer) is kissing her older sister's fiancee (Wren), while Emily is doubting her sexuality with the new neighbor Maya, Hanna is shop lifting and struggling with her image, Ashley (Hanna's mom) is sleeping with a police man to make Hanna's charges disappear and keep their image intact, Jenna's blind but there might be a malicious reason why, and Aria's burdened with knowing her father (also a teacher) was cheating on her mom the previous year with a student! All this, on top of the mystery of Alison's disappearance. Basically, that's what the show's about: A clique of pretty girls drift apart when their leader goes missing. The girl's body is found a year later but the rest keep receiving mysterious messages from somebody named A who knows all their tantalizing secrets and what really happened to Alison.

It's got drama, suspense, an interesting storyline, some cool music, and an amazing eye for detail. When I say detail, I mean there's stylish clothes to admire, lavish wallpapers to pull you in, beautiful houses and art pieces to gawk at, alluring colors, and attractive people to keep your attention. Well done, ABC Family!

Mean Girls meets I Know What You Did Last Summer with great fashion sense and an air for the dramatic. Love it!

Reason #2:

Breaking Dawn: Part 2

Alas, the Twilight Saga has come to an end!

I own all four books by Stephanie Meyer.

And all the movies. *looks behind shoulder*

It's all over though! It was sad when I finished reading Breaking Dawn but it's even sadder now that the films are over. This one an extra long end credits sequence that had me a little misty-eyed. Frankly, Breaking Dawn was my least favorite book (because there's not as much action and I wasn't a fan of the whole Jacob imprinting on Reneesmee, or Reneesmee herself for that matter) but the movies have been well done. I also got a bit teary and sighed dreamily during Bella and Edward's wedding scene in Part 1. These books and movies will definitely be missed.

Here, the Cullens and a bunch of other vamps from around the globe, along with Jacob and his wolfy friends, prepare to fight the Volturi after Irina informs them Bella and Edward are harboring an immortal child (something severely prohibited). Bella must prove to the Volturi that Renesmee is, in fact, a real girl (she's no pinocchio) before they tear them all to shreds. A nice perk in here is that different vampires with different powers are shown. For a split second, I almost expected to see Rogue and Wolverine fighting alongside Bella (who has an interesting power of her own now that she's one of the cold ones).

To part is such sweet sorrow!

Reason #3:

To Selena, With Love

Being a Latino, I've grown up around Selena Quintanilla Perez. I was 5 years old when she was murdered but I still remember the time vividly. I also remember the aftermath of Selena's death and the impact it left on the Hispanic community. There's been statues erected in her honor, the posthumous album Dreaming of You (the title song and "I Could Fall in Love" are still tear-jerkers), annual compilation cds, annual TV specials, the acclaimed film which catapulted Jennifer Lopez into stardom, a museum in Corpus Christi (her hometown), look-alike contests, Selena drag shows, commemorative mailing stamps, and other constant tributes that remind everyone how beloved she was. Earlier this year, her former husband, Chris Perez, released a book called To Selena, With Love where he recounts their love story, the days leading up to Selena's tragic death, and coping with the loss of his wife. Of course, this book is sad! Watching the film Selena always leaves me bummed and reading Perez's story was no different. Selena's death was so tragic and she had such a bright future ahead of her. After reading this book I could only shake my head and wish things had turned out differently.

Bidi Bidi Bom Bom! Cheer up, I don't want to end this on a sad note.

Poor attempt to cheer up:

Why did the chicken cross the playground?

To get to the other slide!

Wow, that joke was lame. But there you have it.

These have been the three feminine reasons why my Y chromosome might no longer be in existence. Snap!

O Fiction Voice, Where Art Thou?

I feel like I'm in a box.

As far as my writing voice goes. Fiction writing, to be more specific.

I've realized I like non-fiction because I feel like I have a good handle on it. I actually like reading over the creative non-fiction pieces I've written in the past. You want to know why? Because it's ME! I can hear my voice, I can read my humor, I can see myself walking through the cobblestone roads in Antigua, Guatemala, or hear the bustling, underground metro system in Washington DC. I wrote a culture piece last semester on the horror genre fan base and I had so much fun with it because I knew what the heck I was talking about (Soon to be posted, by the way).

But when it comes to fiction, I can almost physically feel myself walking into a box where certain rules and structures apply. I noticed this when I turned in a fiction story earlier this week into my Fiction Writing Workshop class and, after reading over what I handed in, I didn't like what I was seeing. I know I can do better, and I have, so why am I putting myself into this box for a plot I can actually see myself writing (A very latino plot involving La Llorona)?

I realize this isn't much of a post but I needed somewhere to whine about my current writing frustration. I guess I have to let go and just be me in fiction. How? Hmm, I guess I'll have to see.

Random Writing-Related Side Note: One night, I was walking in downtown Denver, just exploring the city on foot, and I was looking at a map to see what was interesting nearby. Among restaurants and shops, I noticed there was a place called "Writer Square". I got so excited because I imagined a square just for writers right here in Denver, what a find! I imagined I would enter this magical place where fellow writers would high-five me as I walked in and where shops dedicated exclusively for stationery, different colored inks, and moleskine journals dotted the streets. Perhaps there was a cafe with open mic sessions where poets could read out loud and I would sit down and be breathtaken by someone's delectable words. In addition, there was probably a Writing Workshop I could sign up for and countless resources offered to aspiring writers. I walked to Writer Square excitedly, taking in the city lights and enjoying the crisp night air. I finally got there, only to be majorly disappointed when I saw Writer Square was just another shopping and dining destination around the 16th Street Mall. Nice? Yes. Alluring? Yep. Trendy and fun? Most likely. A writer's destination? A big fat NO. It's just a place that happens to have the word "writer" in its name. I don't know what I was thinking.

Alright, to make this post worth the time of anybody who's not me and/or a writer, I'll leave you with a funny picture.

Kills me every time!

"For the Last Time We'll Pray"

Who said horror music can't be beautiful?

This is probably my favorite track from the soundtrack of one of my favorite horror movies, Carrie (1976).

Carrie by Stephen King (Can you tell I'm an English major with my properly formatted titles?) is an awesome book but the Brian DePalma movie in itself is a gem. I am not exaggerating when I say Carrie is one of the horror genre's best films.

Random Horror Trivia: One of characters in the film who bullies Carrie is named Norma Watson, played by actress PJ Soles, who would later appear in Halloween (1978). In one of Halloween's later sequels, Halloween H2O: 20 Years Later (1998), actress Janet Leigh (who is a horror icon along with her daughter, Jamie Lee Curtis [Scream Queen!]) played a character named Norma Watson to give a nod to Carrie.

Forget Me Not!

Dear Codex Blog,

Don't worry, I have not abandoned you. It's just that it's hard to find time to write down musings during the school semester. The fall semester feels especially busy with preparations for Hallelujah Night (an awesome Worship event), as the final weeks leading up to the event usually include a combination of very little sleep, long rehearsals, wrapping up details, and just being busy. As for school, a year from now, I'll be preparing to graduate and I will actually have time on my hands for everything. I'm so glad to be almost done with college. In fact, I just registered for my second-to-last semester. Scary, exciting, and relieving!

We shall not let this rift get between us, I will try to visit you every once in a while.

Love,
Hector.

Or Aaron (my middle name which, strangely, gets used more than my first name).

Or Codex Blog guy, whatever you want to call me.

PS: Yes, I am in the middle of homework. Ugh!

PPS: Travel writing seems like an awesome profession. Must look more into that.

PPPS(Is there such a thing?): A picture from Hallelujah Night 2012. Yes, that is me singing in the top left corner.

Thoughts about Janis and Jesus

I've been listening to a lot of Janis Joplin this summer. There's something about the energy in her performances, her soulful and throaty vocals, and her unique appearance (complete with long, dangling necklaces, an assortment of bracelets, and pink, green, and purple feather boas in her wild hair) that have me entranced. She was a woman who could wail the heck out of a blues song and whose raw emotion captivated listeners. Of course, Janis was no stranger to suffering and the pain in her lyrics is evident upon listening to some of her songs. Considered an unattractive female, the ugly girl, she was ridiculed and once voted "Ugliest Man On Campus" during her attendance at the University of Texas at Austin. She was mocked for her appearance when she was younger, which is baffling to me because one look at Janis' wardrobe and I instantly wanted to get to know the girl behind the red-lensed glasses with the scarves and feathers. What was probably an accumulation of low self-esteem and a need for affection led Janis to have sex with whoever was willing to have her. Drinking heavily would be one of Janis' escapes but a battle with drugs would be her ultimate downfall. On October 4th, 1970, Janis Joplin was found dead from a heroin overdose in her room at the Landmark Hotel in Hollywood, California. She was only 27 years old.

One of my favorite Joplin songs is "Maybe" (a cover of the song by The Chantels), which is simultaneously beautiful and melancholic because she brought it to life with such intensity that the lyrics flowed from her microphone stand soaked in angst. Watching Janis pour her heart out makes me wonder about the human soul. Shedding light on the term "tortured artist", Janis had a beautiful talent but behind the melodies there was an empty woman who tried to find solace in all the wrong places. I have to wonder about my own soul, the extreme I could go to to feel wanted, to fill the emptiness within me that only God can fill. I think about the number of females out there who give up their bodies easily in exchange for affection. I think of the men and women alike who try to find an escape at the bottom of a bottle or wait for the next high. Reading about Janis' death sends a familiar pain through my chest and I wish things had gone differently. The pain is familiar because many other tortured souls have had similar endings.

I've had my own share of crushing depression, of days when suicide seemed like a nice break. My way out of that awful gloom was finding Jesus. The light of Jesus Christ can pierce even the thickest darkness. When someone told me there was a man who loved me and died for every single thing I'm ashamed of, every stain on my soul, just so He could be with me, well, it changed my life in every way possible. I wish Janis had found a way out of her own darkness, that someone had said "Hey Janis, Jesus loves you and He wants to get to know you". It seems so unconventional for Janis Joplin to be a Christian but anything's possible.

I leave you with a video of the song I mentioned above, "Maybe". Rest in peace, Janis.

In light of the recent tragedy in my state

In memory of all those who lost their lives.

Tomato Sauce

Here is a Literary Memoir piece (a sub-genre from the Creative Non-Fiction bag of goodies). Read on for childhood memories of my dad trying to (emphasis on trying) to whip up a meal while mom's away...

Tomato Sauce

            Whenever the aroma of my mom’s cooking filled our house, I knew I was in for a treat. She would cook meals weekly to make us have a family dinner at the table. My dad could cook too (sometimes) but there’s something special about the way a mother prepares a meal for her family. Maybe it’s because my mom puts the same love in her food that she has when she’s taking care of us. It’s the same way a mother bird feeds her new babies or the way a mother bear protects her cubs. There’s really nothing like a mom’s love for her children.

“When you grow up, be sure to find a wife who can cook.” Mom would say, as she was cooking. “Not one of those lazy girls who can only cook ramen noodles.”

“Okay, Mommy.” I would say obediently. I was ten years old at the time, not even thinking about girls.

“Here you go, hon.” She’d say, handing me a plate of one of the recipes taught to her by her own mother, my grandmother from Guatemala.

“Yum! Thanks, Mommy.” I would say, and she would kiss my forehead.

My mom has always repeated the comment about finding a girl who can cook. It sounds old-fashioned, but good cooking is seen as a good quality in a girl. That being said, my mom didn’t believe that a woman’s place was only in the kitchen either. She’s never believed that a woman couldn’t work. My parents would take turns working, so as to not leave my brother and me at home alone when we were kids. Even when she was gone she usually left something to eat, whether it was green chile enchiladas, large quesadillas bubbling with melted cheese, or just plain black beans (and if there wasn’t any food, then there was money left for Pizza Hut).

One morning when my mom had gone to work,

my dad was fumbling around in the tidy kitchen, wondering what to make for lunch.

During this time, I had developed a large craving

for anything pasta, and my mom, always paying

attention to detail had left cooked pasta shells,

ready for dad to just cook the tomato sauce

and pour it on top.                                                                                                                                                                             

“Mom left pasta.” I told dad, pointing to a silver pot on the stove. He picked up an unopened can of Del Monte tomato sauce sitting on the white counter.

            “Oh, so I just have to put the sauce on it.” He said, more to himself than anyone else.

            “Yep!” I said, eager for the upcoming pasta.

            Dad opened a kitchen drawer and pulled out a green can opener. He opened the top of the can and reminded me that the lid was very sharp and dangerous.

            “Always grab it like this.” He said, holding the now-detached can lid with his thumb and index finger in the center of it.

            I nodded but all I could think about was how the pasta was almost ready. I imagined that heaven must be made of pasta with some rooms made out of pepperoni pizza. I pulled a black chair out at the sparkling-clean table and sat down in anticipation. My dad held the open can in his hand and looked around, confused. After a few seconds of silence, he smiled at me and then poured the can of sauce onto the pasta. I could hear the squirt and plop of the red chunks as they left the can and landed on the shells. Dad grabbed a wooden spoon from a white container filled with other kitchen utensils and stirred the pot. Then he pulled out a few white plates from a beige cabinet and poured some pasta on each of them.

            “Here.” Dad said, handing me one of the plates.

            I looked at my plate-full with glee, although I did notice something looked different about the sauce and pasta shells (the sauce just looked so boring and lifeless, like it needed help hanging on to the shells and the color wasn’t as dark), but I was too hungry to care. I stabbed several shells with my fork and opened my mouth to receive the food of the gods. I chomped down with delight, but then I stopped in mid-chew because something tasted mushy and icy. I grabbed more bites, but it just didn’t taste the same because the sauce was cold, and it wasn’t all over the shells like usual. I wasn’t enjoying this nearly as much as I hoped I would.

            “Dad, this tastes weird.” 

            “What do you mean?” He looked down at his plate.

            “It tastes cold…and gross.”

            “What?”

            He took a few bites off his own plate and realized what I was talking about. It was the tomato sauce; I remembered how he had just poured it mercilessly onto the unsuspecting pasta shells. I guess mom always cooked it and added her own ingredients before pouring it on. I put my plate in the microwave, hoping to salvage what I could. The black microwave hummed and lit up.

             “Oops, I guess I had to cook the sauce before I used it.” He said, still chewing a few of the shells.

            “I guess so.”

            The ding of the microwave announced it had done what it could with a tampered dish. I took my plate out and continued digging in, but it was of no use because it just didn’t taste the same. Now it tasted like thawed mushy sauce and some of it had completely dried onto the shells. I was so excited about this pasta and now it was just ruined. I went to the fridge to get some orange juice and that’s when I saw my mom’s note on the fridge. It stood in the middle of the freezer door like a buoy in the sea, hoping to be seen in time.

“Don’t forget to cook the tomato sauce before you use it.” She had written in red sharpie. I pointed it out to my dad.

“Hmm.” He said. “Well, now I know what to do for next time.”

“Oh Dad.” I said, shaking my head. I could picture my mom shaking her head in the same way when she would arrive after work to see what had happened.

“Sorry!” He said, and chuckled.

We abandoned the pasta and ate microwave chimichangas instead.

The Obligatory Introductory Post...

Hello there! My name is Hector and this is my blog for creative non-fiction. I'm sure some of my entries will simply be musings on daily life but part of the objective with my creative non-fiction pieces is to capture some of those musings and implement my voice and writing style to create something that's pretty freaking awesome. :)

I'm also in the process of creating another blog for my love of horror movies. I watch new horror movies on a weekly basis and I'm dedicating said blog to reviewing and discussing these films. I'm a big horror film fan (horrorista, horror whore, horror hound, whatever you want to call it) and I think exploring the genre in depth will not only help my writing but also my analysis of films, my writing habit, and it'll be fun! Not to mention I'd like to show how there are devout Christians out there (Yay Jesus!) who also love the thrills and chills of horror cinema.

Until next time!

-Hector