Anything You Have Experienced In A Regular Singing Lesson, Can Ignite An Amazing New Singing Ability Within You?

Cheerios packaging sold in the U.K.

Cheerios packaging sold in the U.K. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Jamon-WhiteIf you have ever taken singing lessons, or even online singing lessons, you have probably been exposed to singing scales. But have you ever wondered why singing training traditionally always involves singing scales? Would you also be curious enough to know why this process holds you back tremendously?

Most people who have taken singing lessons, or have read about how to sing better on the Internet, are encountered with the standard advice that you need to learn how to “breathe correctly” or use “stomach support”. You may have been told you need to “stand with good posture”, or that you should “place the larynx” in a certain position. Perhaps you have even been given instructions to “sing from your mask” or “feel as if you are yawning”.

Unfortunately, this well-meaning advice becomes exceptionally limiting – even destructive – for the majority of people trying to improve their singing voices. The reason will become abundantly clear when you watch the FREE VIDEO that you get on this page.

On the other hand, when you engage in a process – a process that you are about to learn here – through which you develop an extraordinary awareness of your body and mind, you can immediately FEEL the restriction your body and mind have unconsciously been holding on to. The beauty is that you also discover how to RELEASE these restrictions.

You FEEL how muscles that used to become engaged in the attempt to produce sound, can now let go. As a result, you can rather immediately sing with more power but with far less effort. Your voice becomes more flexible and your range increases rapidly.

Most importantly, you FEEL good!

Yes, it feels good to sing – just as it should. You also notice that when it feels good it also sounds good, simply because the sound isn’t restricted. And you SING ON KEY with much greater accuracy.

You now not only sound better than ever before, you can now sing with greater passion, in the style you want to sing. And with this newfound confidence and freedom you can truly bond with the audienceNow you become a singer who is attractive and captivating. Now the audience LOVES you.

… in your local choir or band… or when you sing by yourself for your own enjoyment.
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I found these video’s helpful; there are many out there to suited to our personal  interests . As an artist {painter}, as  noted in these  videos, in  expectation  of an  implied  talent.  people often say to me “how do you do that”… No, the  acclimation that talent is innate  may have been be overblown. There is  a lot of  practice, training via self or by an  expert. Admitting to myself to trust and let go, to not be a  champion,  at  will.. Sounds easy?  I have  found ; If   I make  mud out of all  my beautiful  paints–I make mud. Trust yourself. Love mud. Then do something  with  it-step back:  take a trip to the museum and look around  at  all  the mistakes, other  greats   that  you  admire.. Then start asking questions. Just like a child– it is the “why why why”. Looking is a great tool. Feelingly is a  great  tool. Creativity is a  great  tool. Hearing is a great tool.  Although  not equal, we all  possess  these  innately. Even a disability , pronounces itself in another voice. To one extent every gift  vacillates  over on other and each  “endeavor” over another over an other. Trying to do our best and not to be critical is one of  the  tools– I’ve  have had one of the greatest  wrestling matches with. Trying NOT to out think my ‘ intuition’  { what I  think I already know verse what I  don’t know}. What I don’t know is; one of my  greatest  assets { a learning device that  sounds like it has  ricochshaded  to the thousandths}. So  trusting myself when I am ready, when is it time is positive verse putative – the how the “why” can be intra- gated  after the self  interrogation…

…even if sounds like a ‘ learning  element’ that has been consecrated and impounded . Creativity, that has and is a questionable;  thoughtfulness, that keeps re-occurring  {as long as is cognoscente  and it is in an adverbially perspective}.  Feedback,  though  is quite astute in  our  memories.  Regenerate  from others, even with the best of intent, can be difficult and gestational. Perspectives help us sift  through our own filter’s and try to understand other’s.  No small challenge.  I would rather  eat  the  breakfast of  champanions. Cheerios‘s is  Cheerios. Therefore forcing us to value  to what we think or question, commits us to be makers or un -makers of our own  inviability  or the  spinnability of our audience.

Whether is  thought  or action is  congregational,  throughout  yourself,  myself  albeit  friends, a painting, a  memory, a song , a new attempt  of  bringing a  part of  history  albeit  politically antithetic, or a slight kinesthetic action such as shaking someone’s hand- is worth while.

For growth, impairment of even the greatest of our own attributes, is one of our greatest  strengths.

Singing is indeed for everybody

as  writing

as   fashion

as are political speeches.

as are  interpersonal  relationships.

and so forth…

So goes for creativeness.

and  love.

 

Write your first draft with your heart. Re-write with your head.

.

Singing Imageis joyful.

Snow Tiger by YUSEF KOMUNYAKAABY

th - Copy - Copy

Ghost sun half
hidden, where did you go?
There’s always a mother
of some other creature
born to fight for her young.
But crawl out of your hide,
walk upright like a man,
& you may ask if hunger is the only passion
as you again lose yourself
in a white field’s point of view.
In this glacial quiet
nothing moves except—
then a flash of eyes & nerves.
If cornered in your head by cries from a cave
in another season, you can’t forget
in this landscape a pretty horse
translates into a man holding a gun.

Source: Poetry (April 2012).


BIOGRAPHY

In his poetry, Yusef Komunyakaa weaves together the elements of his own life in short lines of vernacular to create complex images of life in his native Louisiana and the jungles of Vietnam. From his humble beginnings as the son of a carpenter, Komunyakaa has traveled far to become a scholar, professor, and prize-winning poet. In 1994, he claimed the Pulitzer Prize and the $50,000 Kingsley Tufts Poetry Award for his Neon . . .

“Love’s Last Adieu” – George (Lord) Byron

 

george-gordon-byron

The roses of Love glad the garden of life,
Though nurtur’d ‘mid weeds dropping pestilent dew,
Till Time crops the leaves with unmerciful knife,
Or prunes them for ever, in Love’s last adieu!

In vain, with endearments, we soothe the sad heart,
In vain do we vow for an age to be true;
The chance of an hour may command us to part,
Or Death disunite us, in Love’s last adieu!

Still Hope, breathing peace, through the grief-swollen breast,
Will whisper, ?Our meeting we yet may renew:?
With this dream of deceit, half our sorrow’s represt,
Nor taste we the poison, of Love’s last adieu!

Oh! mark you yon pair, in the sunshine of youth,
Love twin’d round their childhood his flow’rs as they grew;
They flourish awhile, in the season of truth,
Till chill’d by the winter of Love’s last adieu!

Sweet lady! why thus doth a tear steal its way,
Down a cheek which outrivals thy bosom in hue?
Yet why do I ask?—to distraction a prey,
Thy reason has perish’d, with Love’s last adieu!

Oh! who is yon Misanthrope, shunning mankind?
From cities to caves of the forest he flew:
There, raving, he howls his complaint to the wind;
The mountains reverberate Love’s last adieu!

Now Hate rules a heart which in Love’s easy chains,
Once Passion’s tumultuous blandishments knew;
Despair now inflames the dark tide of his veins,
He ponders, in frenzy, on Love’s last adieu!

How he envies the wretch, with a soul wrapt in steel!
His pleasures are scarce, yet his troubles are few,
Who laughs at the pang that he never can feel,
And dreads not the anguish of Love’s last adieu!

Youth flies, life decays, even hope is o’ercast;
No more, with Love’s former devotion, we sue:
He spreads his young wing, he retires with the blast;
The shroud of affection is Love’s last adieu!

In this life of probation, for rapture divine,
Astrea declares that some penance is due;
From him, who has worshipp’d at Love’s gentle shrine,
The atonement is ample, in Love’s last adieu!

Who kneels to the God, on his altar of light
Must myrtle and cypress alternately strew:
His myrtle, an emblem of purest delight,
His cypress, the garland of Love’s last adieu!

 

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright: Poem By William Blake

The artist and poet William Blake, who lived i...

The artist and poet William Blake, who lived in Hercules Road — a portrait by Thomas Phillips (1807). (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

June 28, 2012

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright

The Tyger

By William Blake

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright

The Tyger

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies

Burnt the fire of thine eyes?

On what wings dare he aspire?

What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art,

Could twist the sinews of thy heart?

And when thy heart began to beat,

What dread hand? and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?

In what furnace was thy brain?

What the anvil? what dread grasp

Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,

And watered heaven with their tears,

Did he smile his work to see?

Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye,

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

For more go to:

http://awildernesswithin.wordpress.com/2012/06/28/tyger-tyger-burning-bright/

“Mark My Words” – Poem By: Heather Whitley Gibson 11/7/2012

mark my words
mark my words.
with red
or a cross.
however you can
mark my words
with time, a
calendar, a voice
scar it. rip it away.
mark my words
call it out lies.
dismember it’s ties.
just mark it. my words
spit on the ink;
let it run
down, let it
bleed out. drain,
my pen, just marked
my words

“The Word Prayer” – Poem By: Heather Whitley Gibson

a love everlasting
until death arrives
at your answering
a phone call
the taste of coffee
changes
minutes ago
at peace
vibrates like
a cliche quote
it hits your skin
like an advertisement
writing a song
a poem
suddenly, easily stated
the word prayer
sounds like a cheap wig
my grandmother
can not speak
her words are understood
moving lips
at nothing
honest forms in words
death kills
letters open hearts

 

JOHN LENNON – “GIMME SOME TRUTH”

“Casey At The Bat” – Poem By: Ernest Lawrence Thayer

 

 

The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day,
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play.

And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair.
The rest clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast.
They thought, “if only Casey could but get a whack at that.
We’d put up even money now, with Casey at the bat.”

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake;
and the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake.

So upon that stricken multitude, grim melancholy sat;
for there seemed but little chance of Casey getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all.
And Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball.

And when the dust had lifted,
and men saw what had occurred,
there was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
it rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;

it pounded through on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat;
for Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey’s manner as he stepped into his place,
there was pride in Casey’s bearing and a smile lit Casey’s face.

And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
no stranger in the crowd could doubt t’was Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt.
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.

Then, while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
defiance flashed in Casey’s eye, a sneer curled Casey’s lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
and Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.

Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped –
“That ain’t my style,” said Casey.

“Strike one!” the umpire said.
From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
like the beating of the storm waves on a stern and distant shore.

“Kill him! Kill the umpire!” shouted someone on the stand,
and it’s likely they’d have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity, great Casey’s visage shone,
he stilled the rising tumult, he bade the game go on.

He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew,
but Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, “Strike two!”

“Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered “Fraud!”
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.

They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
and they knew that Casey wouldn’t let that ball go by again.

The sneer has fled from Casey’s lip, the teeth are clenched in hate.
He pounds, with cruel violence, his bat upon the plate.

And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
and now the air is shattered by the force of Casey’s blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright.
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light.
And, somewhere men are laughing, and little children shout,

but there is no joy in Mudville
mighty Casey has struck out.

 

“Books In Barrels” – Poem By: Ronnie Gibson

dark man dances
fallen faces, cocked eyes
upside down, sideways
brick road, crumbles
entrails swing, swaying
ice blocks – melting sun
lips suck, fluid
freely flowing blood
dripping on pedals, flowers
I came, I left, right
books in barrels
overflow of words
four lettered, smut
greased flour molds
breaded spines, discs
our feet hold candles
light the forest, bright site
books in barrels
reading one, burning
no words allowed
whale oil burns
to read books in barrels

“In The Middle Of A Flower” – Poem By: Heather Whitley Gibson

 

an argument
in the middle of a flower
pouring cold – water Onto
something that grows
clearing up that glass
none less the
dangles on none
and lines, cheekbones
trying to see
hooking, polishing
new leaves backwards
pretty outside – inside
dis-guarding
it’s dying parts
windows bought
then leaned against
the pier
honing in the, clarity
from forms fired from
readjusting prescriptions
just struggling to organize
it’s growth
against bones bent
crawls and bends
threw holes and ties
creating, making it’s stoplights
comfortably thwarts beautification
with worms that crawl
threw stitching underneath soil
muddying things
seeing unknown things
redundant
overseen in photos (so synthetic)
lovely things overheard
adjusting redundant things
in growth
like the neck of a vase
the center of the flower
stares in it’s own way
with you, as
tymes narrow under sunlight
an argument
in the middle of a flower