Songs From The Inside, Volume One: Soothed

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A song about God, a woman, compulsions or perhaps my anima. 

soothed

everything's the same

but everything has changed

 i see you standing there

i'm calling out your name

but the words won't come

 no the words won't come

 no the words won't come

soothed by the sound of your voice

soothed by the sound of your name

obsessed i made the wrong choice

i used your sweet name in vain

everything has changed

but everything's the same

you see me sitting here

you're calling out my name

but the words won't come

no the words won't come

no the words won't come

soothed by the sound of your voice

soothed by the sound of your name

possessed i make the wrong choice

i use your good name in vain

and as the days turn into years

your face softens in the glow

of long forgotten tears

over things you will never know

soothed by the sound of your voice

soothed by the sound of your name

obsessed i made the wrong choice

my unfinished symphony of pain

jeff grant

2007

Excerpt from The Art of Surviving Prison  Copyright 2013, all rights reserved Jeff Grant, Progressive Prison Project jgrant3074@icloud.com 15 E. Putnam Ave. #370
Greenwich, Connecticut 06830 (203) 339-5887 

Songs From The Inside, Volume One: I Call Again

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A song about God, a woman, compulsions or perhaps my anima. 

i call again
 

i try to get close, you push me away
i can't say i blame you but i want you to stay
that's all there is to it

i wander around, living day by day
with unanswered questions and endless delays
why can't we get through it?

i call up to see you, you always say yes
but when's the next time its anybody's guess
how much longer can i do it?

yet, 

i call again, i always call again
i do
i call again, i always call again
even though we both know
its the wrong thing
to do

we go to the mall, i wash your clothes
when you have a cold i blow your nose
its a crying shame

you spend your life, searching for the perfect match
and here i sit waiting for your scraps
its a sad sad game

the truth of it all, is that you can't see
no matter what i do this is me, this is me
it remains the same

yet,
i call again, i always call again
i do
i call again, i always call again
even though we both know
its the wrong thing
to do

 

i call again, i always call again
i do
i call again, i always call again
even though we both know
its the wrong thing
to do

jeff grant 

2007

Excerpt from The Art of Surviving Prison 
Copyright 2013, all rights reserved
Jeff Grant, Progressive Prison Project
jgrant3074@icloud.com
15 E. Putnam Ave. #370
Greenwich, Connecticut 06830
(203) 339-5887

Mourning My Father Part Two: The French Chairs

Progressive Prison Project

Greenwich, Connecticut

This originally appeared as one of my Practically Religion columns in Greenwich, Connecticut.

Mourning My Father Part Two: The French Chairs
by Jeff Grant

I prayed this morning.  I got up early but instead of my usual early morning ritual of pot o’ coffee and a couple of hours of writing, I went to church.  The chapel at the Second Congregational Church here in Greenwich is glorious, especially in the wee hours as daybreak first streams in.  It reminds me that it is a holy place.  Since my father died this past December, I feel lost.  It is a strange and uncomfortable sensation, especially since my father and I were not especially close.  The legacy he left is only first beginning to emerge.  This morning I prayed for guidance and for healing; healing for me and for my family.  I received a reply.

_________________________

About twenty years ago, my ex and I were in Paris shopping in the flea market at Clignancourt when we happened upon the most beautiful chairs, in such interesting shapes and sizes.   They were bent wood, art deco, and definitely not for everybody.  They had been designed for a hotel in Barbados that had gone out of business.  The dealer in Paris bought up the entire inventory of the hotel and shipped it back to be sold off piece by piece.  My ex spotted one of her interior designer heroes, Rose Tarlow, and her entourage making a beeline for the chairs.  Rose knew exactly what she wanted and ordered four of the chairs on the spot.  I guess that was the tipping point for us because as soon as Rose completed her transaction, we bought two of the French Chairs and had them shipped to us back in the States.

The French Chairs were beautiful but were very uncomfortable, and we really never knew what to do with them.  In truth, they were more like objets d’ art, or maybe huge doorstops, that we lugged around from home to home.  When my ex and I split up, I guess it wasn’t much of a surprise that I got the French Chairs; after all in our baseball-card game of need it/got it… they came in close to last.  Yet, even after I remarried and Lynn and I made a home here in Greenwich, the French Chairs sat majestically in our living room: a tribute to days and dreams gone by (and probably our inability to see the madness of dedicating thirty percent of our living space to chairs that we couldn’t possibly sit in).  Nonetheless, they were a part of the family.

My daughter and her husband are presently selling their house in Greenwich, and are making their way up to the hinterlands of Fairfield.  I called my daughter and told her that our time as custodians of the French Chairs was thus drawing to a close.   Upon hearing about the availability of her beloved French Chairs, she waxed poetic and drove right over to pick them up.  After all, to her these were way more than chairs; they contained the memories of her childhood and were markers of those nostalgic times (even if those times had to be spent on the floor in front of the chairs and not on the chairs themselves). 

After the French Chairs had been safely passed on to the next generation, Lynn and I wasted no time in filling the void with a pair of Crate & Barrel upholstered chairs that we bought used at Consign It on Mason Street.  It was nice to be able to finally use that side of our living room; we found out that we actually have a sliver-view of the Sound.  

________________________________

Today I am emailing a copy of this column to my entire family along an invitation to join me for dinner at my favorite restaurant on Thursday evening at 6pm.  There are only two things on the agenda (although I admit these things usually take on a life of their own).  The first is to pay tribute to my father, Stanley Grant.  The second is to celebrate our family, in whatever shape and size, no matter how beautiful or uncomfortable, despite how much space we take up, no matter where we reside, or how much it makes us think about our yesterdays or our tomorrows.   To sit and get to know each other as we are.  To mend fences, make amends, and cherish the little time we have left together on this planet.  To tell stories, laugh, shout, sing and listen to our hearts.
I miss my Dad and I wish he could be at dinner to join us.  I waited too long to invite him.  I won’t make the same mistake again.

Jeff Grant, JD, M Div

Progressive Prison Project

Assoc. Minister / Director of Prison Ministries  

The First Baptist Church of Bridgeport

126 Washington Avenue

Bridgeport, Connecticut 06604 

jgrant3074@icloud.com

203.339.5887