Singing at church every Sunday among my father and mother. I remember trying to focus on service but at the same time being pulled left and right by the other choir members to stand beside them and sing louder when all I wanted was a front row seat to the Qurbana service. I remember fellowship, teamwork and perseverance.
The choir sang in the background as he silently stalked his prey. She sat in the fourth row, same as always, but this time she was in the middle. Normally she’d sit on the edge, it allowed her to leave more easily. This time, however, she chose the middle. Maybe she knew her time was coming to an end and she wanted to remain attached to her location for as long as she could.
It was like yelling, but prettier. Nobody liked hearing him yell but they loved hearing him sing. Since he was always angry about something, yelling was his natural response. Then his mom decided to sign him up for choir, to hopefully get him away from the yelling habit.
A noun on the tongue means the essence of mind meditating on emotion, juxtapositional expressions. Now it’s one until it is none. The loss of contraction. Have you been real, you must be, because it’s all in the thumbs. Now evolve and expand. Bring will to words on command, this choir of thoughts encased in atoms made flesh, let loose to digitally demand as directed from a platform of sand.
Matching robes and a uniform musk among them. Glenda never cared for the church choir look. Such pageantry was more appropriate for worship of the revival flavor; hardly needed for a community church of modest, perfunctory means. And yet, it was Christmas, and it was only right for her to attempt a spectacle.
When I think of choirs I think of singing. A harmony of voices dedicated to one beautiful end. Singing is a robust and bueaitful gift. It is exhilirating, mediating, and can be excrusciating. I am not good at singing myself, and I can’t say I even have an ear for it, but I can appreicate it for what it is, in theory.
FIrst one word is choir. When I was a child, I loved singing in the choirs at our school. The feeling of making music in a group was exhiilarating, expectially when we finally hit our correct harmonies (less beautiful until then, but still an intoxicating feeling of possibility as we strove to make that mark.
I have never participated or seen a choir in person. For me, it is not something that is of interest. I do not take away from the talent or pleasure the participants get, however it is not something that interests me.
The chords lined up. The harmonies were perfect. All eyes were on the conductor. Except her’s. Her eyes flitted around the room to the faces of the assemble listeners, observing the quiet polite smiles with a disdain she usually reserved for small talk. They didn’t really want to be here, listening to Faure’s Requiem. She didn’t really want to be here singing it. Why were they all pretending?
I would never join the choir!!! I have more to offer than that! The whole world is out there and you want me to do that? I am not saying there is anythying wrong with it, I just think I have more to offer.
Brandon could sing this carol in his sleep without any guidance; they’d practiced it a hundred times. But as the choir stood on stage before St. Michael’s elderly congregation, he kept his eyes on the choir director. It was very important not to watch his best friend,Tyler, sing the solo like an earthbound angel, lest Brandon’s deepest sin be revealed.
Oh that I could sing in a choir. What joy it would bring. I often wonder why people that can sing don’t sing all the time. I would. I know right now i can’t sing and nobody would want to hear me sing.
Hark the herald angels sing: Santa Claus is coming to town. For weeks after christmas, the carols, they stuck in my head. Joining the choir was fun, but the cost! For a blissful day, I’d had Adele singing her one son round and round in my head, but the carols, they came back and took her place. I needed something to dislodge the melodies from my mind.
From the street you could hear them practicing, and imagine the thin, emaciated director flailing away in front of them, trying to organize this chaos, the pitch issues.
i loved being in a choir, harmonising with the voices. that was until the day of the incident. i found my fellow singer in the piano room kissing the singing teacher. they were pressed up aganist each other and i saw a lot of leg. i squealed, shut the door and ran away. i had to tell someone. i called Amy, my best friend.”you will never guess what the hell i just saw!”
The choir moved me to consider going to church again. Not necessarily for the rhetoric, but for the ability to sit in the pews and practice music again with the company of the choir.
I used to be a participant in a choir in college. It was interesting because I was a baritone, but the choir needed tenors. So I sang tenor, and constantly lost my voice. Yet, if I could have learned to be a tenor I might have been famous. Oh well, maybe another life. :-)
I hated and loved being in choir. There was a certain loveliness about singing with a group of people that never expected you to stand out in anyway. And then I got better and wanted to be recognized… that’s when it changed. I didn’t want to hide in the background.
There is a choir that practices every Sunday, at 10:32 am, sharp. They practice across the street, in the mission-style church that is at least 100 years old. And every Sunday, I sit in my living room and pretend that I don’t know they’re there.
The bells chimed behind the large organ pipes. Red robed men and women, heads bowed, hummed their chant. The stained glass seemed to reverberate with the very buzz of their chanting. They were powerful.
As the last few embers of the christmas frenzy die down, it’s nice to not have to listen to obnoxious choir songs on the radio praising jesus, though I prefer them to modern pop pablum.
I don’t have to be anything. I don’t have to be perfect, I don’t have to be brilliant. I leave my bag on the floor, I take a deep breath and swallow down the knot in my throat. And I open up my mouth, I open up my mind, I open up my heart, and I let it free.
When I was in elementary school, I loved to sing. In the car, in the shower, in the store… everywhere we went, I was singing. Finally, in third grade, I decided to join the school choir. It was the best decision I have ever made. I learned so much about singing, and even got to sing a few solos throughout the year!
Singing is fun, if you don’t have a complex and aren’t afraid of being humiliated (or if you have a nice voice).
I knew a girl once, she had a great voice. She sang in the choir and it was amazing to watch her. I took a turn next and what happened would stay with me for the rest of my life. I’m sixty now, and in poor health, and this goes to show you how the little things shape a life.
But before we start there, let me give you some background on me. I was born in Nigeria to a Somalian family.
LALALALALALALLALALALALAALA i was just talking about how i wish I could sing. or play guitar or both but i GUESS IM supposed to write right yeah thats right and about preaching to the choir telling a writer he needs to write are you in your right mind>?????Ldlkfdngais;hjfkosnDVL;SDN i was never in a choir. I never sang any carols. my grandmothers name is Carolyn.
The choir sang, “Hallelujah!” and the walls came tumbling down. I watched the bricks fall one by one in red and brownish dust, the gray plumes rising like the ashes of my ancestors. I saw the whole church crumble around us, until we had nothing but the outside trees, the chilly air, and the intact wooden pews holding us up with the smoke still billowing across the pages of our leather psalm books. And my mother kept singing.
Singing at church every Sunday among my father and mother. I remember trying to focus on service but at the same time being pulled left and right by the other choir members to stand beside them and sing louder when all I wanted was a front row seat to the Qurbana service. I remember fellowship, teamwork and perseverance.
The choir sang in the background as he silently stalked his prey. She sat in the fourth row, same as always, but this time she was in the middle. Normally she’d sit on the edge, it allowed her to leave more easily. This time, however, she chose the middle. Maybe she knew her time was coming to an end and she wanted to remain attached to her location for as long as she could.
Michael loved being in the school choir.
It was like yelling, but prettier. Nobody liked hearing him yell but they loved hearing him sing. Since he was always angry about something, yelling was his natural response. Then his mom decided to sign him up for choir, to hopefully get him away from the yelling habit.
A noun on the tongue means the essence of mind meditating on emotion, juxtapositional expressions. Now it’s one until it is none. The loss of contraction. Have you been real, you must be, because it’s all in the thumbs. Now evolve and expand. Bring will to words on command, this choir of thoughts encased in atoms made flesh, let loose to digitally demand as directed from a platform of sand.
Choir, choir, choir? What do I even write about this? Don’t break, just go. Go gogpgogogoggogoggog. Gotta go faster gotta wire about this th
Matching robes and a uniform musk among them. Glenda never cared for the church choir look. Such pageantry was more appropriate for worship of the revival flavor; hardly needed for a community church of modest, perfunctory means. And yet, it was Christmas, and it was only right for her to attempt a spectacle.
When I think of choirs I think of singing. A harmony of voices dedicated to one beautiful end. Singing is a robust and bueaitful gift. It is exhilirating, mediating, and can be excrusciating. I am not good at singing myself, and I can’t say I even have an ear for it, but I can appreicate it for what it is, in theory.
FIrst one word is choir. When I was a child, I loved singing in the choirs at our school. The feeling of making music in a group was exhiilarating, expectially when we finally hit our correct harmonies (less beautiful until then, but still an intoxicating feeling of possibility as we strove to make that mark.
I have never participated or seen a choir in person. For me, it is not something that is of interest. I do not take away from the talent or pleasure the participants get, however it is not something that interests me.
The chords lined up. The harmonies were perfect. All eyes were on the conductor. Except her’s. Her eyes flitted around the room to the faces of the assemble listeners, observing the quiet polite smiles with a disdain she usually reserved for small talk. They didn’t really want to be here, listening to Faure’s Requiem. She didn’t really want to be here singing it. Why were they all pretending?
I would never join the choir!!! I have more to offer than that! The whole world is out there and you want me to do that? I am not saying there is anythying wrong with it, I just think I have more to offer.
Brandon could sing this carol in his sleep without any guidance; they’d practiced it a hundred times. But as the choir stood on stage before St. Michael’s elderly congregation, he kept his eyes on the choir director. It was very important not to watch his best friend,Tyler, sing the solo like an earthbound angel, lest Brandon’s deepest sin be revealed.
Oh that I could sing in a choir. What joy it would bring. I often wonder why people that can sing don’t sing all the time. I would. I know right now i can’t sing and nobody would want to hear me sing.
Worship unto the lord. Team. Unity. Love.
Hark the herald angels sing: Santa Claus is coming to town. For weeks after christmas, the carols, they stuck in my head. Joining the choir was fun, but the cost! For a blissful day, I’d had Adele singing her one son round and round in my head, but the carols, they came back and took her place. I needed something to dislodge the melodies from my mind.
From the street you could hear them practicing, and imagine the thin, emaciated director flailing away in front of them, trying to organize this chaos, the pitch issues.
singing, and church. Voices in harmony. Music that is arranged with voices. A group of singers united.
i loved being in a choir, harmonising with the voices. that was until the day of the incident. i found my fellow singer in the piano room kissing the singing teacher. they were pressed up aganist each other and i saw a lot of leg. i squealed, shut the door and ran away. i had to tell someone. i called Amy, my best friend.”you will never guess what the hell i just saw!”
The choir moved me to consider going to church again. Not necessarily for the rhetoric, but for the ability to sit in the pews and practice music again with the company of the choir.
I used to be a participant in a choir in college. It was interesting because I was a baritone, but the choir needed tenors. So I sang tenor, and constantly lost my voice. Yet, if I could have learned to be a tenor I might have been famous. Oh well, maybe another life. :-)
I hated and loved being in choir. There was a certain loveliness about singing with a group of people that never expected you to stand out in anyway. And then I got better and wanted to be recognized… that’s when it changed. I didn’t want to hide in the background.
I told them to hurry up –
they didn’t want to be late
to chorus practice.
They cocked their lip to
meet their cheek
to squint one
disgusted
eye at me.
“It’s…Choir Rehearsal.
Chorus practice is for
the little kids who
can’t even hold
a note.”
There is a choir that practices every Sunday, at 10:32 am, sharp. They practice across the street, in the mission-style church that is at least 100 years old. And every Sunday, I sit in my living room and pretend that I don’t know they’re there.
The bells chimed behind the large organ pipes. Red robed men and women, heads bowed, hummed their chant. The stained glass seemed to reverberate with the very buzz of their chanting. They were powerful.
As the last few embers of the christmas frenzy die down, it’s nice to not have to listen to obnoxious choir songs on the radio praising jesus, though I prefer them to modern pop pablum.
I don’t have to be anything. I don’t have to be perfect, I don’t have to be brilliant. I leave my bag on the floor, I take a deep breath and swallow down the knot in my throat. And I open up my mouth, I open up my mind, I open up my heart, and I let it free.
The choir sang beautifully last night. I sat and listened to every note, every word they sang. The show was well worth the money.
When I was in elementary school, I loved to sing. In the car, in the shower, in the store… everywhere we went, I was singing. Finally, in third grade, I decided to join the school choir. It was the best decision I have ever made. I learned so much about singing, and even got to sing a few solos throughout the year!
Singing is fun, if you don’t have a complex and aren’t afraid of being humiliated (or if you have a nice voice).
I knew a girl once, she had a great voice. She sang in the choir and it was amazing to watch her. I took a turn next and what happened would stay with me for the rest of my life. I’m sixty now, and in poor health, and this goes to show you how the little things shape a life.
But before we start there, let me give you some background on me. I was born in Nigeria to a Somalian family.
LALALALALALALLALALALALAALA i was just talking about how i wish I could sing. or play guitar or both but i GUESS IM supposed to write right yeah thats right and about preaching to the choir telling a writer he needs to write are you in your right mind>?????Ldlkfdngais;hjfkosnDVL;SDN i was never in a choir. I never sang any carols. my grandmothers name is Carolyn.
music pleasure listening what a great afternoon! fantastica cristal so wonderful like! I want more beauty end
The choir sang, “Hallelujah!” and the walls came tumbling down. I watched the bricks fall one by one in red and brownish dust, the gray plumes rising like the ashes of my ancestors. I saw the whole church crumble around us, until we had nothing but the outside trees, the chilly air, and the intact wooden pews holding us up with the smoke still billowing across the pages of our leather psalm books. And my mother kept singing.
singing hymns for saints. lost ideas of forgotten idols. beauty, children, horrendous organ.