Monday, September 05, 2005
It's only words...
I don’t claim to have much credentials on this, but from the short period I’ve been playing blues, one of the most important lessons I’ve ever learnt is to play the right note at the right time. Listening to what’s happening and phrasing your musical ideas carefully will give much better results than throwing out all you have plus the kitchen sink at the first chance. Feeling the music and playing with the passion of the moment are important, but putting it across with finesse requires some amount of self-control.
This lesson applies to my personal life as well, in regards to my speech. I used to shoot wildly from my hips, my mouth often firing off without any thought for the circumstance or consequence. It was pretty much like leaving a loaded machine gun in a cage with monkeys. One incident, however, left a deep impression and serves as a constant reminder to always put my words through my brain before letting them out of my mouth.
It was back in junior college (probably the equivalent of 11th and 12th grade of high school), and all of us were required to perform a certain minimum number of hours of community service (The validity of that policy is not the subject of this discussion, and will remain as such). Back then I was a budding guitarist, playing too much and not studying enough. Along came the opportunity to clock enough hours to fulfil what I needed for the rest of the year, and that was to strum along to a couple of songs at a performance for mentally and physically handicapped children at a home for the disabled.
The perfect confluence of my needs and wants was not lost on me, so I eagerly jumped at that chance. There was this really cute girl too, though I don’t quite remember right now what her name was or even what she looked like.
Anyway, there we were sitting on some rows of chairs in the hall while waiting for the audience to trickle in slowly. Some of them were wheeled in, while among those who could walk, some limped laboriously on crutches. Others needed guidance and chaperoning. As would be expected of a whole bunch of bored students, we started chattering about trivialities. The subject was lame radio advertisements, and one of us eagerly pointed out this advertisement for a charity campaign called Adopt-A-Duck, which featured a really cheesy, high-pitched voice going “Adopt a duck!” at regular intervals while someone else was talking about the campaign. It was amusing at first, but through intensive repetition it soon became annoying, then irritating, and now it was the subject of our ridicule.
Upon mention of said advertisement, everyone started groaning and going on about how silly it was. Being prone to casting pearls of dubious wisdom at high volumes, I was quick to exclaim loudly, “Yeah, that one was so SPASTIC!”
A deathly silence ensued.
It took me a few seconds to register what I had just said in the presence of mentally handicapped children. When I finally realized it, a sickening, terrible sinking feeling in my chest took my breath away, like a hand was reaching out from inside my stomach and pulling my heart down. The horrified look on the others’ faces did nothing to ease that, and at that point of time I was beyond humiliation or shame. The feeling of a million eyes staring at me was worse than actually seeing the stares. I buried my face in my hands, not daring to look around.
The details of subsequent events are hazy, and I was to learn that there wasn’t much impact outside of the little circle we were huddled in. Still, it made for an extremely humbling experience, and I vowed from that day onwards that I would never use such terms in that context. It’s a vow I have kept till today.
That lesson taught me the value of choosing my words carefully, just as I choose my notes when I’m playing guitar. I’m still far from being perfectly tactful, and will probably never represent my country in UN as a negotiator, but at least I now know the impact of my words. Gentle reminders in the past from well-meaning people didn’t go down well with me, but this time I learnt it the hard way, through a bad mistake of my own doing.
This is a lesson I hope to share, both in terms of personal speech and music.
This lesson applies to my personal life as well, in regards to my speech. I used to shoot wildly from my hips, my mouth often firing off without any thought for the circumstance or consequence. It was pretty much like leaving a loaded machine gun in a cage with monkeys. One incident, however, left a deep impression and serves as a constant reminder to always put my words through my brain before letting them out of my mouth.
It was back in junior college (probably the equivalent of 11th and 12th grade of high school), and all of us were required to perform a certain minimum number of hours of community service (The validity of that policy is not the subject of this discussion, and will remain as such). Back then I was a budding guitarist, playing too much and not studying enough. Along came the opportunity to clock enough hours to fulfil what I needed for the rest of the year, and that was to strum along to a couple of songs at a performance for mentally and physically handicapped children at a home for the disabled.
The perfect confluence of my needs and wants was not lost on me, so I eagerly jumped at that chance. There was this really cute girl too, though I don’t quite remember right now what her name was or even what she looked like.
Anyway, there we were sitting on some rows of chairs in the hall while waiting for the audience to trickle in slowly. Some of them were wheeled in, while among those who could walk, some limped laboriously on crutches. Others needed guidance and chaperoning. As would be expected of a whole bunch of bored students, we started chattering about trivialities. The subject was lame radio advertisements, and one of us eagerly pointed out this advertisement for a charity campaign called Adopt-A-Duck, which featured a really cheesy, high-pitched voice going “Adopt a duck!” at regular intervals while someone else was talking about the campaign. It was amusing at first, but through intensive repetition it soon became annoying, then irritating, and now it was the subject of our ridicule.
Upon mention of said advertisement, everyone started groaning and going on about how silly it was. Being prone to casting pearls of dubious wisdom at high volumes, I was quick to exclaim loudly, “Yeah, that one was so SPASTIC!”
A deathly silence ensued.
It took me a few seconds to register what I had just said in the presence of mentally handicapped children. When I finally realized it, a sickening, terrible sinking feeling in my chest took my breath away, like a hand was reaching out from inside my stomach and pulling my heart down. The horrified look on the others’ faces did nothing to ease that, and at that point of time I was beyond humiliation or shame. The feeling of a million eyes staring at me was worse than actually seeing the stares. I buried my face in my hands, not daring to look around.
The details of subsequent events are hazy, and I was to learn that there wasn’t much impact outside of the little circle we were huddled in. Still, it made for an extremely humbling experience, and I vowed from that day onwards that I would never use such terms in that context. It’s a vow I have kept till today.
That lesson taught me the value of choosing my words carefully, just as I choose my notes when I’m playing guitar. I’m still far from being perfectly tactful, and will probably never represent my country in UN as a negotiator, but at least I now know the impact of my words. Gentle reminders in the past from well-meaning people didn’t go down well with me, but this time I learnt it the hard way, through a bad mistake of my own doing.
This is a lesson I hope to share, both in terms of personal speech and music.
# posted by BloozeGit @ 8:32 am 
