Category: music

Categories
art montreal music work

When a straight beats a flush

I came across this interesting link, somewhat circuitously today. It involves the Pacific Northwest, and this particular story is about Neah Bay and the Makah Tribe. My step-dad is Makah, and very active in Makah traditional and cultural life. He particularly does a lot of really beautiful copper-work, cut and painted to represent traditional and familial spirit and animal figures. The Makah are most known, recently, for the controversy revolving around their whaling, particularly their recent hunt in 1999. There are some beautiful pictures of Pacific coastline and local rainforest worth checking out. Washington State is chock-full of natural beauty. Go us.

Of other note, geographically, is this short article from The Boston Globe on Montreal, with focus on their pop music scene and its success in the U.S. (Whether that’s a recommendation or not, I don’t know — I’m not particularly fond of “popular” American music.) But it’s a neat, short blurb that ends in saying, “Montreal is an artist’s town.” Go them. (Still, the thought of being surrounded by three million people is a bit daunting to a country-grown boy like myself.) For further stories of Montreal interest…

–

The phone rang yesterday, and I, crotchety hermit that I am, let it ring through because I didn’t recognize the caller id number (that and I’m a lazy bastard; we really don’t get that many “courtesy calls” these days). It turned out to be the Public Library downtown, calling me about a “Library Aide” position for 15 hours a week. I’ve got to call them back when I get off work today, but this surely means an interview at least (because they send letters if they reject you; I’ve been collecting them), and hopefully a job of some sort for low pay and lost evenings. But hey! I can stop living off my damned credit card! Go me.

Time is short. Looking at the moment; it passes.
A quote to encourage ye, adventurers.

Make your choice, adventurous Stranger;
Strike the bell, and bide the danger,
Or wonder, till it drives you mad,
What would have followed if you had.

The Magician’s Nephew, C.S. Lewis

Categories
music

Like children cavort under chairs

Don’t fret the whimsicality of strangers;
songs hummed below the breath
are songs waiting to be sung.

It’s irresponsible to be scared to fall in love.

That’s my random italicization of the day, for what it’s worth. A lot of undercurrent in my brainwaves lately, thoughts below the thoughts I know I’m thinking and I’ve got to dig …. A cough has welled up in my throat, and today my stomach and chest are tired from exertion. If I hold the cough in, my lungs start to spasm, as though there might really be a frog in there, hopping against the inside of my neck. Now that my workweek has begun, I’ve little patience for being sick. Curse our fragile shells. Sometimes the saddest I get is when I think of human frailty. The image that springs to mind is Marianne, with her birdlike arms that will not straighten, bones light as feathers; but who has a spiritual and mental framework equivalent to a mountain of steel girders: immovable. Much as a seer loses eyes and gains a whole new sight, she lost her body (which she had cherished, being a dancer) and gained a new structure to live in.

–

Ain’t no feather like a feather feather feather ’cause the feather feather feather don’t stop.

Ahhh, Webley. As far as musicians go, he’s the perfect madman for our age, strung out on music and stories and intrinsically imbued with some sort of positive glow so you can’t help but feel like you know him, and might somehow be related to him. Saturday was his last concert of the year, in which he goes through a death process (which changes every year). This time around, we strolled from the Town Hall (where the concert was held) to the park a block down. In a four-stage process (Balloon, Feather, Boat, Tomato), he was divested of his hat, his accordian, his clothes, and finally his hair. The whole ceremony involved a lot of walking in a crowd of about a thousand people, in a park in Seattle at midnight, and occasionally stopping to watch the next spectacle (his accordian was sawed in half by a giant feather with a knife on the end and hung from a tree; his hat was attached to a small hot-air balloon and let loose to roam the Seattle sky; his clothes were burned in a fairly large, paper boat; and his hair was cut by the four maidens, one of which attended him for each stage of the process). It was a moving process. After his clothes and hair and hat and accordian were all gone, he was ushered into a little car and drove off with his four death-maidens. Later, they drove by again; legs sticking out the windows and at least one, probably two, of the maidens on top of Jason Webley in what looked like a very passionate attempt to remind him he wasn’t really dead.

The world needs more madmen.

Vote for me for President and I promise that I’ll do my best to make the United States of America at least 13% less sane. Oh, and free tacos for everyone. Mmmmmm, tacos….

Categories
love music personal

The soundtrack to my life goes like …

Well I hope that I don’t fall in love with you
‘Cause falling in love just makes me blue,
Well the music plays and you display
your heart for me to see,
I had a beer and now I hear you
calling out for me
And I hope that I don’t fall in love with you.

Well the room is crowded, people everywhere
And I wonder, should I offer you a chair?
Well if you sit down with this old clown,
take that frown and break it,
Before the evening’s gone away,
I think that we could make it,
And I hope that I don’t fall in love with you.

Well the night does funny things inside a man
These old tom-cat feelings you don’t understand,
Well I turn around to look at you,
you light a cigarette,
I wish I had the guts to bum one,
but we’ve never met,
And I hope that I don’t fall in love with you.

I can see that you are lonesome just like me,
and it being late, you’d like some some company,
Well I turn around to look at you,
and you look back at me,
The guy you’re with has up and split,
the chair next to you’s free,
And I hope that you don’t fall in love with me.

Now it’s closing time, the music’s fading out
Last call for drinks, I’ll have another stout.
Well I turn around to look at you,
you’re nowhere to be found,
I search the place for your lost face,
guess I’ll have another round
And I think that I just fell in love with you.

–

Connecting with Tom Waits now like a brother,
and just looking for people who understand me;
sometimes they seem so few. It’s a lot to ask,
as seldom as I understand myself, but I’m tired of
feeling adrift. This life has a rudder, which until now
has been but another ornament. Do I have the courage
to allow it to be the instrument I use to guide my life?

I believe in compromise, though I try hard not to be
compromised by it. Sometimes everyone can come out ahead,
but more often life’s a matter of give and take,
the balance between is a razor’s edge in a relationship.
Often I’m too willing to give myself away,
but that always leads to destruction in the end.

Last night I spoke with Emily on the phone, and though
the conversation could be considered somewhat mundane
(though we had a good if brief talk on relationships)
I had something of an “oh yeah” sort of moment;
that this is what it felt like to talk to someone
I identified with, who I understood and who understood me,
how could relate and who cared. I won’t gush,
but it was a nice feeling. [thank you]

I’m feeling sentimental and easily swayed,
rocking like a buoy in the breakers,
waiting to capsize.

One day I’ll remember:
buoys can’t capsize.

And then what?

Categories
book love music personal poetic

City of Familiar Light

This one’s for Alexis; you know, because
I think she’s neat. *warning: sap content*

–

We sit untouching
but for the hairs on our arms
brushing together,
and this is bliss.
Kissing follicles, sensual molecules,
our skin flaunts what lips miss.

You shift,
lift your palm to your smile,
yawn a while,
limbs stretched, reaching
for stars in the nile-black sky.
You lean back, sigh,
high as the moon and
I’m just so high on your high
I could cry.
And I’d die right now,
content, because every moment
underwent a thousand smiles spent,
and each smile sent my heart
a thousand skipped beats.

–

I may lengthen it one day.
It ends rather abruptly, I think.

So, I’ve decided to take part,
for what it’s worth, in both NaNoWriMo
and NaNoBlogMo; so I’ll be doing my best,
in the month of November, to blog a novel.
The title is “City of Familiar Light”, and it’s
a quasi-existential (of course) sci-fi story.
I’m trying to set up the blog for it,
but Blogger’s giving me problems; hopefully
I can get those resolved soon.
[edit: is resolved, novel blog is here ] So …
who all else is going to take part in this madness?

Yesterday: coffee and trying to read
(still finishing “Winter’s Tale”, sadly)
overtaken by helping Alexis study for her
Western Civ exam today, which meant a slow and
mostly incomprehensible journey (for me) through
19 pages of her notes. Not enough coffee and some
hours later, we finished said “studying”, and took
a brain-break to watch “Crybaby“.
If you’ve not seen it, it’s a must, particularly
if you enjoy Johnny Depp (and that includes everyone!).

Post-movie we forced friends to make us tacos
(mmmmmmmmm, tacos), and hung out at their place for
an hour or so. They tried to rope us into staying for
“Settlers of Cattan”, but we had places to be,
namely at a concert including Romanteek, a duo of
drum and keyboard, with female vocals. They were
awesome, and made us all dance! I get nervous dancing
in public (swing-dancing doesn’t count), but definately
had a good time, anyway. Alexis looked very comfortable,
but later admitted she’s only danced in public three times,
and was incredibly nervous also. Go figure.

Natural progression: coffee –> homework –> movie –>
tacos! –> dancing –> ice cream! –> sleep. Food items
get exclamation because I’m hungry right now.

So, life’s good and the nerves have calmed.
There’s yet a butterfly or two, but they’re just
fluttering about now, rather than chewing holes
in my stomach, so I suppose that’s acceptable.

Tonight’s poker night!

Categories
music personal

Against the night

Against the Night
(c)1999 by Jason Webley

Hold on to these words,
I’d like to think that they may offer
Some protection,
Against the night.

Against the night,
Your life can feel transparent,
A reflection,
A trick of light.

So when sleep just won’t come,
And you’ve got no occupation,
But nibbling at the fruit
Of the melancholy tree,
Just hold on to these words,
Hold on to me.

Just hold on to these words,
They’re the best I’ve got to offer
At the moment,
As a lullaby.

As a lullaby,
You can lay down by the tracks
And feel the world
Slip by.

–

Eighty people, give or take, sitting knee to knee,
shoulder to shoulder as one man woos us with
his melodies; voice changing from gravel to choral
between heartbeats. He sits just in front of us,
raised up so all can see him but within arm’s reach,
nonetheless. He’s got long, wild hair, a beard;
looks like a true mountain man, the pure kind.

He starts with a happy song, and continues,
until asking, he realizes how many of us have never
seen him before. He asks us to forget it all, start over;
puts on a crazy mask and sings a wild song, dancing about,
seeking to impress upon us his audacity. With this
initiation, we are taken into the fold,
and the concert begins. He picks songs randomly,
asks the audience what they want to hear, begins to play
Michael Jackson’s Thriller, stopping halfway
to ask if we’d like to hear a ghost story;
or perhaps a story about russians, or his worst gig ever.
Setting down his accordian, he raises his seat,
abandons his microphone, and begins to speak. His story
lasts a good ten minutes, if not longer, but none of
us bore. He’s got a stage-presence that transfixes, onstage
he’s a giant, impossible to ignore. But he’s humble,
fun, quiet about it; you can’t stop watching him simply
because he may be the most interesting man you’ve ever met.

He finishes his story, begins to play music again.
He makes us dance, makes us sing along, plays a Russian
birthday song for the two people with birthdays
(who’ll admit to it) in the audience, and makes them skip
through the crowd. As the evening winds down, he asks us
all to lay, each with our head on someone else’s stomach
(it doesn’t matter if you know them), and relax, eyes closed.
He plays us two quiet, sleepy songs; slightly melancholy,
slightly happy, as we, an ocean of weary strangers, are
carried way by melodies, lulled by the rise and fall of
the breath of whomever happens to be our pillow.

He rouses us with laughter, lightens our loads and then
tell us The Story of Blixie Bimber and the Power of the
Gold Buckskin Wincher. He holds the book that includes
the story, a relic of the 1920s, but he rarely refers to it,
having memorized the 20-minute story eons ago. Having read
the story, we asked what a “wincher” is, he replies “Yes.”
and moves on, leaving us forever to wonder.

He ends with a rousing drinking song and a happy song,
demanding we sing along, loudly, and sway side to side,
trapped in long lines of arm-locked strangers,
transformed to friends through a night of singing.

After the show’s finished, we stumble out into the night,
all a bit aglow, ready to preach the gospel of
a kick-ass man named Jason Webley.

I’ve already bought tickets to see the last show
of his tour up in Seattle on the 30th. If you’re
in the area, don’t miss it.

Categories
love music personal poetic work

Devil be good

New music to wake up to: Jason Webley
and Tom Waits. Men of steeled voices that
rasp the sun behind the clouds and make the rain come.
Gotta fuckin’ love em. I’m gonna see Jason Webley live
tonight at the Backstage, and it’ll kick ass.

Last night was a CD release party at Last Word Books
for Jorah LaFleur, a totally awesome local spoken-word
artist. There was a lot of other amazing literary talent
there that read before Jorah, including some friends of mine,
and all in all it was a grand and inspiring event.
I need to bust out some rhymes!

After the event, my friend Alexis and I went to an
all-night diner for some coffee (at 1 in the morning!?),
which may have been a ridiculously bad idea,
but it was fun, anyway. We made little pirate ships out of
french fries, toothpicks, bits of tuna, creamer lids (for sails)
and a small piece of pickle. It was a thing of beauty.
Then we hung out at my place ’til about four,
tried to pass out because I had to get up early for work,
and both got at most a fitful couple hours of sleep.
We had a really great time, though,
so I’ve no regrets. I’m just sleepy as hell.

–

I purchased myself a guitar tuner, cord, and a kapo;
grace à Emily, who told me not to spend it all on bills.
At the music store, I asked about lessons. They’re a bit cheaper
than I’d thought, so a definate possibility in the near-future,
once I get a second job somewhere, or one full-time position.
I applied for the absolutely, most-ideal job for me in the world
right now, though sadly I think I stand a snowman’s chance
in Cancun of getting it. It’s an assistant supervisor position,
for which I have no more than a couple years basic library
experience; but you’ve got to get experience sometime, right?
I can’t even begin to explain how much it would rock if I got
this job. My application’s in, so now I play the waiting game,
and try to rock the interview (should I get one) as I never have
before. And then, back to my original point, guitar lessons!
I’ve been playing guitar for like 10 years, but I’ve never
had any training, and I’m lazy; so I still suck at it.
I’ve procrastinated too long, it’s fucking time to get good!

Some guitarists / singers / songwriters that rock me:

Jack Johnson
Sam Beam [Iron & Wine]
Doug Martsch
Chan Marshall [Cat Power]
Robyn Hitchcock

I could probably think of a thousand more,
but these are the notable artists off the top of my head;
oh, and Tom Waits and Jason Webley, of course.

Categories
game music personal webcomics work

Morning sounds

In the mornings, I invariably make coffee,
strong, strong coffee; and listen to Diana
Krall sing some great jazz in DTS.
The music really fills the house, and it’s
a great way to start a day. I got a Norah
Jones SACD, but I can’t get any volume out
of it. Saddest thing ever.

So we picked up Burnout 3 yesterday, thanks
to the rave reviews of Tycho at Penny Arcade,
and I’d just like to take this opportunity to curse
him for being right. This game has everything a good
racing game should have, including the wanton destruction
of, well, everything, including your opponents,
and vast hordes of rush hour traffic.
Theo, at least, had the good sense to go out
on a date, have some dinner, see Arts Walk.
All things I had certainly planned on doing,
once, long before Burnout took me in its clutches
and forced me to play it all freakin’ day.
I feel so used; good thing I have to work today.

Work: the anti-crack.

Categories
love music personal poetic

The freckles in our eyes

There was a lot of music at last night’s
poetry reading / open mike; local talent,
guitar-slinging vigilantes with stories to tell.
Most of it was good, but then, I’m a sucker for
a live venue and an acoustic guitar. I need
to start playing more; yet another one of my
hobbies that gets shelved too often.

Tutoring french, briefly, last night, made me
recall years past of Tuesday and Thursday evenings
spent trying to help Americans speak a language
that would never be natural to them. I don’t
speak french very well, but it does feel natural to me;
like dancing, singing: things I’ve done for a long time now.
Last night I read my translation of Rimbaud’s Le Bateau Ivre;
a one-hundred line poem that was a precursor to surrealism;
and nearly managed to put everyone to sleep.
I was disappointed, though I understand that even though
I put months and months of work into that translation,
that doesn’t mean that anyone’s going to appreciate it.
This is why in every instance I try to do things
for myself as opposed to others; I’m my only critic whose
reaction is fairly guaranteed. I’ll stick to shorter,
more beat-driven prose for future readings; play it safe.

I’m beginning to get tired of meeting new people but
not really getting to know anyone. The world is filling
up with familiar strangers, people I can say “Hi” to in
the street but with whom I’ve never really conversed with.
Perhaps this is a symptom of a general disdain for small-talk
(though I do it fairly well these days), or a subconscious
desire to remain mysterious (oooh, the allure), or just a
basic lack of time and resources to spend all day hanging out
in the cafe (much as I’d like to). I’m in the familiar
situation of working with people that I like but with whom
I never speak outside of work; even after Tami and Mike broke
that trend for me in Ohio, though fairly late in the game.

It’s things like this that make me miss college: the
constant accessibility of a semi-interesting group of
peers that probably at least share a few interests with you
in the name of your common generation. Of course, I’m
surrounded by college students now too, and still don’t feel
like I have a whole lot in common with them; but then,
there are vast differences between my college experience
(Evergreen) and what the kids are like here. The two colleges
act like competitors, simply because they’re geographically
close, but in reality they couldn’t be any different from
each other. I’m still waiting for them to figure out that
I’m an agnostic existentialist and lynch me.

And as I’d sit upon my pyre, waiting to burn for my heathen
ways, I’d look down and see that it’s the sorority girls
standing before me with their packs of matches, turning my
cremation into a pledge ritual for their trendy, blonde rushes.
And as the lit match fell they’d turn to each other and say,
“Math is hard, let’s go shopping!”

Nothing scares me more than sorority girls.

Categories
music personal

… like no-one’s watching.

Sometimes, I dance like nobody’s watching;
but only when nobody’s watching.

On the big speakers: Paris Combo

Thursday night I went up to a little restaurant
in Seattle called the New Orleans. There was a fun,
live band there playing jazz and swing, mostly
older stuff. The bass player actually used to
play with Count Basie! Anyhow, I met some of the
really good swing dancers of Seattle, and was completely
in awe of their hep skills. However, I’ve decided not
to pursue swing dancing as such a … career option.
For me, it’s a fun hobby, and having about a thousand
fun hobbies, I don’t particularly want to devote more
time to this one than any of the others. I like
all my hobbies. Having decided that takes a big weight
off my shoulders; swing shouldn’t be work. Even so,
I’ll surely be dancing every Tuesday, and I want to learn
how to Balboa, and I might even go up to Seattle
every so often, so by no means is swing out of my life.

The La Casa Comics site is
looking a tiny bit better, which is to say that now it
has a very cool banner up top thanks to Tim, and as
my temporary position entering data has ended, I should
have more time to get it swinging before another job lands
in my lap. That may not be too far off, however.
I’ve been applying for jobs like it’s going out of style.

In other news, I found my swing shoes! Yeay!
Also, Daniel has finally started updating his blog, which is
worth checking out, if only ’cause he’s a complete loon,
and in China.

Categories
love music personal

Like string cheese with rhythm

Most mornings I feel fine, even like I
might actually be a “morning person”.
Today I feel like I was dreaming of Prometheus;
tied to a rock all night as birds ate my
precious internal organs. Okay, so my innards
feel fine; I’m just dead tired.

The girl I’d been hoping to see last night
never showed. Strike number three of the week,
and affirmation of my lesson for the week:
I’ve no control over aught but myself;
let the world do as it will and enjoy it.
And in that vein, something interesting that
did happen: I was invited to join a swing team.
Now, I’m not a bad dancer, but the people on this
team make me look like Charlie Brown trying to
kick a football; so I’m a little intimidated.
Still, this is my chance to become really, really,
really ridiculously good at dancing, and to really
devote myself to something; and with my lesson of the
week, I don’t know if I could possibly pass it up.
Alternately, it’s a good excuse to quit smoking and
start getting in shape: two things I NEED to do.

As with all things in my life right now,
I will try to keep my expectations low;
or actually, I’ll try not to have any.
But, I think this could go all the way.
You know, whatever that means.

–

Tonight is pay-what-you-can night at the State Theater
to see Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead. Theo and
I are gonna hop down and see what it’s all about.

Guil: (understanding) Game. (Flips a coin) The law of averages, if I have got this right, means that if six monkeys were thrown up in the air for long enough they would land on their tails about as often as they would land on their–

Ros: Heads. (He picks up the coin)

Guil: Which even at first glance does not strike one as a particularly rewarding speculation, in either sense, even without the monkeys.

Hell, in my opinion, if it involves monkeys,
it’s pure genius.
Okay, so that’s just a dumb flash game …
but this is cool.

Categories
book music personal work

Spin records like Capone

I’m convinced that were he alive today,
Al Capone would be a fabulous DJ.

Theo should have gotten his paycheck by Tuesday,
as I did; but as yet it hasn’t arrived.
And we need to pay rent today;
he’s floating some checks with fingers crossed,
while payroll says their hands are tied.

Reading the religion and politics forum on
The Crossroads, I often came across the idea
that the reason people don’t have money is because
they aren’t working for it. To them I say,
“Go read Nickel and Dimed.” These are stories
of people that work their asses off, 40+ hours a week,
and still can’t afford to pay a month’s worth of rent.

People are poor because minimum wage is low,
because server wages drop as low or lower than $1.50 an hour,
because breaking a limb can cripple you financially,
because cars and housing are unaffordable and
mass transit is unavailable, slow or unreliable.

Don’t get me wrong, I think that if people are
unhappy with their lot, they can do something to
change it. However, I think the system, also, needs
to change; and I strongly disagree that poverty is
necessarily a sympton of laziness. My radical, liberal
thought says: “Stop bombing, start fixing things at home.”
But hey, that’s just me. My true colors show.

–

So, with one gmail invite left;
I leave it here for the first interested
party to acquire. Enjoy.

Categories
book cinema music

Sisyphus seeks employment…

… skills: pushing boulders up mountains; having boulders fall down mountains; pushing boulders up mountains, again – cursed by gods to do this for eternity. References: Albert Camus – Camus says, “We must imagine Sisyphus happy.”

On the big speakers: Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Reading: The Tale of Despereaux; Kate DiCamillo

I meant to say this awhile ago,
but I forgot, so I’ll say it now.
Anyone who has not yet watched,
“FAHRENHEIT 9/11″ –
GO WATCH IT NOW!
Go ahead, I’ll wait.
Seriously. Whether or not you agree
with Michael Moore,
this film deserves to be seen.

Anyone who stops by here more often that occasionally may have noticed that I’ve included links and such on the sidebar. I’m also thinking about a complete template overhaul in the near future. Too much black at the moment. Anyway, if anyone knows of any particularly fantastic links/webcomics/blogs I should know about, please do tell.

Categories
book cinema music personal

No such word as “cipitate”

Today, the sky precipitates cipitation.
It’s as if a mist hasn’t exactly fallen,
but risen from the ground up –
invisible and damp and thick.
My lungs feel like sponges,
tarred and viscid;
my heart beats double-time to keep up.

We have, tentatively, a house in Olympia.
A nice 4-bedroom westside mansion,
except much, much smaller than a mansion,
and it needs some yard-work.
Still, can’t beat the rent.

On the big speakers: Joss Stone
Reading: Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World;
Haruki Murakami

Last night I cleaned some,
made some phone calls,
and watched Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.

Things to do in Olympia when I’m dead:
Swing-Dance: no idea how active the swing scene is now.
French: tutor, speak, translate, read – rediscover.
Madden: kick some butt.
Write: I’ve got some good ideas brewing.
Laser-tag: ’cause Evergreen is the best damned battleground.
Poetry: there should still be an open mike or two around.
Guitar: actual, real lessons, so I don’t play like an ass.
Aikido: if I can swing it, financially.

The hypotenuse of an hypothesis is
the shortest distance between two ideas.
Or the longest.
I just felt like saying that.

Categories
music

Prozac Minority

Crack of dawn the rooster moans
Wake up boy you’re far from home
Serpentine the tracks in flames
Longest path the devil laid
Led you straight aboard this rusty train

Lift your head cuz you can’t sleep
Bite your lip cuz you can’t eat
Darkest den the devil made
Jesus weeps but he’s been paid
Not to ride inside this rusty train

Buzzard’s breath the rooster moans
Stow it boy you’re far from home
Stow your sorrows stow your fear
What’d you do to end up here
End up on the devil’s rusty train

-Iron & Wine, The Rooster Moans

And I say “Good morning” to the world.
But I’m lying.

Categories
love music personal

“Love and some verses”

“Love is a dress that you made
Long to hide your knees
Love to say this to your face
I love you only
For your days and excitement
What will you keep for to wear?
Someday drawing you different
May I be weaved in your hair

Love and some verses you hear
Say what you can say
Love to say this in your ear
I’ll love you that way
From your changing contentment
What will you choose for to share?
Someday drawing you different
May I be weaved in your hair”

– Iron & Wine, “Love and some verses”

A quiet night – no thunder over my lawn,
mini-lightning strikes feel soft,
like pillows to rest my thoughts.
I’d lie in bed,
curved at the stomach and
hungry, but
I know I will go unsoothed.

Instead, I sit out on the deck,
watch lightning strike –
like it once did.

Categories
music

Beastie love

“All you spazzes and you freaks
Go and do your thing ’cause you’re unique
If it don’t hurt nobody else then
Don’t be afraid to be yourself and
Special dedication and so on
To all lifestyles, sizes, shapes and forms”

-Beastie Boys, All Lifestyles
To the 5 Boroughs

Categories
love music personal poetic

Remembering to breathe

If my life right now was an album title it would be:

Remembering to Breathe –

You can’t count moments of pain without
comparing them to moments of joy. Neither the world
nor us was ever entirely composed of pain.
In fact, it was only the smallest amount.

Pain accruing? It comes, goes, disperses,
as does joy. Don’t give it too much credence.
Don’t lend it too much support. Don’t encourage it.

What about joy accruing? You’d think that
after all this love, we’d have a surplus.
Why do I feel like that has been
so discounted. Why do I feel like now
that means nothing to you?

Not all beauty is convulsive. I agree.
Nor is all joy simply a mask over something darker,
nor is love just a blanket that hides you from the world.

It all depends where you put your focus, I guess.
If you want to look for pain,
there is plenty there to see.
The same is true of joy and beauty and love.

I’m sorry if this is mean.
I’m sorry if this isn’t fair.
I’m sorry for mentioning a guillotine and
I’m sorry for everything, absolutely everything,
except loving you.

Categories
libraries music personal school

Our kitty may be bulemic

Hey look, it’s March! Not even just March, but March 3!
How many days I have missed, living and not writing! Fah.

Well, lesse – I submitted my application to Kent online, for the MLIS offered through the local community college. Now I just have to: get three letters of recommendation, submit my career goals, a urine and sperm sample, a pint of blood, a lock of hair, and my firstborn child. And that’s just to be considered! I think I may try to pass off Crookshanx as my child, but I kind of doubt they’ll go for it. He really has the mentality of a 2nd, or even 3rd-born child. (like me!)

Emily is nearly finished paying off her credit cards. My dad offered to pay off the loan on my car. That will just leave my college loans, which may grow soon as well, but are well worth it, anyway. It’s pretty neat to think about being out of debt, even though I know it will still take a while.

The most exciting thing right now: a new guitar. I asked my dad for one for my birthday, coming up. His friend, Paul, is a guitar genius — so I think he’s gonna have Paul get one for me. Lately, I really miss playing. This time, maybe I’ll actually even work on learning how!

On a brief side note, I think our kitty may be bulemic.
I’ll leave you with that disturbing thought. Ta!

Categories
love music personal

A strength in weakness

There is a strength in weakness. Fortitude, in allowing yourself vulnerability. We are weak when we lean, but in this fashion a peak is made – two sides leaning, weak, and make something strong. That’s why relationships can be hard, people don’t like to make themselves vulnerable – and then if one side disappears, you’re left with a leaning line, who may have forgotten how to stand up straight. For some reason, illness makes me feel strong. I feel a surge of vigor when I experience my own frail humanity. This structure I live in may topple and fall – though no time soon, I think – there is something inside that is not collapsible, that will not break. It’s as if when the outside material wears thin, I can see through it, ponder the gears and pulleys, the drive-shafts of my mind and the hamster-wheel of my soul.

Can someone explain to me inertia? Can someone tell me the differences between vigilance and paranoia, decadence and excess? What about language and expression? Sometimes, I think I could draw something interesting, if I only had a bigger piece of paper. I could be an artist, if somehow all the right materials were placed in front of me. The days of feeling like a child genius have passed. Left behind is a fragile body, housing a mind still guilty over past megalomanias and a spirit that alternates its weekends between pure selfishness and pure charity. After everything, I’m still not sure if I believe in an unselfish act. Not even that!

Rimbaud channeled devils, demons, angels – innocence and madness! I would be content to channel Rimbaud. But no, I would not want his life, nor his agony. Self-crucifiction is the pinnacle of vanity.

On the loud-speaker: Clem Snide, Iron & Wine, and Death Cab for Cutie. Emily today called it “music to slit your wrists by”. Somehow, I don’t know what could be more uplifting. I’d rather live in Sartre’s plays then Chernyschevsky’s utopias. Strange fact: I’ve never attended a funeral.

I don’t remember now why I started this. Emily is gone for days (though so far, only hours) and there’s an emptiness already. Looking at it, I actually only feel happy – I’m lucky, because this emptiness is temporary, a ghost. There is a fullness that takes its place. Not completion – I am not incomplete alone. A sense that the world is so much more beautiful when it can be shared. Camus talks about art, and the multiplication of experience. It’s the banal part of his essay, where he sells out absurdity. Not that I don’t agree with him. But I can’t think of a better way of multiplying experience than by sharing: the world, ideas, perspectives –

– a mirror, a blanket, affirmation and warmth and the voice of reason in madness and the voice of passion against reason.

Thank you so much for all these things.