Jeff Buckley - Morning Theft
I haven't been writing much this month. Or, rather, I've been selective in my words to the point where I rewrite the same word many times every day. I've been considering foregoing this whole blog thing. We'll see. For now it stays, if tenuously.
I've seen several deaths in the past couple weeks. Not anyone I've known bodily but those I've known affectionately. More than one. One much younger than me and for seemingly no reason (though any death is seemingly without reason I suppose, even those of age). It's been paralyzing.
I've written two songs. Might not sound like much but lately it's been a lot. I've even learned a song by Philip Glass and am mastering it in the hours I have.
Tomorrow I work 15 hours. I wake at 8, work at 10, break at 6, work at 8, done at 3, home at 5 and sleep. I feel like I should be preparing but what's to prepare for? I'll wake and I'll go. I suppose the only frightening thing of it all is all the hours spent in waves other than affection, skin and tenderness.
I saw Corey today and we had a big talk. It was beautiful. I love that man very much.
The weight of living is difficult. Beautifully.
And I dream so vivid it sometimes pains.
Okay. Sleep. See you all soon. I fly to New Brunswick later this month and I'm glad for the break. I'll come back fresh.
(I don't know why but the last half of this song has captured me to tears lately, it's been mine. From "What am I still to you..." and on. It's it.)
Friday, December 10, 2010
Monday, December 6, 2010
December 6, 2010: Bing Crosby & David Bowie - Little Drummer Boy
Bing Crosby & David Bowie - Little Drummer Boy
I was 18 and had to get my grad pictures taken. It was a tradition I didn't want to be involved in but the appointment was made and paid for and everyone else was doing it and I didn't know how to deny this process. So I was made to go to a man's house where I waited in the basement for him to take my picture in a graduation gown. When I walked in there was a woman there waiting.
"Hi there. My daughter is getting her pictures taken in the next room. Who are your parents?" I told her who my parents are. "Oh, you're a Casey? Did you know you're related to Bing Crosby?" I thought her a little crazy. I humoured her. Oh, I didn't know that. She sat there and told me all about Bing Crosby having family in Miramichi and how the Caseys are related to him but she never went into too much detail. Or, if she did I didn't really pay attention. Then her daughter came out and they left. And then a man took my picture.
When I got home I looked right away for my Dad. I saw him through the window, in the backyard working on his pool, getting ready for summer. "Hey Dad, do you know who Bing Crosby is?"
"Yup. We're related to him."
I still don't know how. Apparently it's a distant relation, barely conceivable but there. It's all nothing to remark over, really, but that it was an interesting moment between my father and I. He answered like he had heard my whole day.
I was 18 and had to get my grad pictures taken. It was a tradition I didn't want to be involved in but the appointment was made and paid for and everyone else was doing it and I didn't know how to deny this process. So I was made to go to a man's house where I waited in the basement for him to take my picture in a graduation gown. When I walked in there was a woman there waiting.
"Hi there. My daughter is getting her pictures taken in the next room. Who are your parents?" I told her who my parents are. "Oh, you're a Casey? Did you know you're related to Bing Crosby?" I thought her a little crazy. I humoured her. Oh, I didn't know that. She sat there and told me all about Bing Crosby having family in Miramichi and how the Caseys are related to him but she never went into too much detail. Or, if she did I didn't really pay attention. Then her daughter came out and they left. And then a man took my picture.
When I got home I looked right away for my Dad. I saw him through the window, in the backyard working on his pool, getting ready for summer. "Hey Dad, do you know who Bing Crosby is?"
"Yup. We're related to him."
I still don't know how. Apparently it's a distant relation, barely conceivable but there. It's all nothing to remark over, really, but that it was an interesting moment between my father and I. He answered like he had heard my whole day.
Friday, December 3, 2010
December 3, 2010: Third Eye Blind - Motorcycle Drive By
Third Eye Blind - Motorcycle Drive By
I remember Andrew's mother driving us back home from a soccer tournament in Bathurst. I was in the front seat, Andrew and Simon in the back. It was beginning dark in streetlights and I was tired and didn't feel like talking. I put my headphones on and listened to Third Eye Blind. I was 14 at the time I think. I didn't know about revolution then, only what was presented to me. And I remember watching out the window and being filled with some kind of longing during that hour of driving.
I've listened back to some of the music I listened to in teenage lost and most of it is shit, turns out. (Ever re-listen to "Zombie" by The Cranberries?) Somehow, though, despite how much I want to dislike that first album by Third Eye Blind I can't. It's in me forever. I found something in it in my middle teenage years when I longed for escape and love and adventure and it won't let me go. When I could have run away but landed on patience reluctant. When I didn't know anything about PJ Harvey. I listen back to it and see it's terrible and unlistenable flaws but fall into it like water. There's a romance somewhere in there that still holds me.
I haven't seen Andrew's mother in years, nor Andrew nor Simon. I remember them well, though.
I remember Andrew's mother driving us back home from a soccer tournament in Bathurst. I was in the front seat, Andrew and Simon in the back. It was beginning dark in streetlights and I was tired and didn't feel like talking. I put my headphones on and listened to Third Eye Blind. I was 14 at the time I think. I didn't know about revolution then, only what was presented to me. And I remember watching out the window and being filled with some kind of longing during that hour of driving.
I've listened back to some of the music I listened to in teenage lost and most of it is shit, turns out. (Ever re-listen to "Zombie" by The Cranberries?) Somehow, though, despite how much I want to dislike that first album by Third Eye Blind I can't. It's in me forever. I found something in it in my middle teenage years when I longed for escape and love and adventure and it won't let me go. When I could have run away but landed on patience reluctant. When I didn't know anything about PJ Harvey. I listen back to it and see it's terrible and unlistenable flaws but fall into it like water. There's a romance somewhere in there that still holds me.
I haven't seen Andrew's mother in years, nor Andrew nor Simon. I remember them well, though.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
November 30, 2010: Philip Glass - Metamorphosis 1
Philip Glass - Metamorphosis 1
There's something about the piano that terrifies and excites me. They're full of some strange power that compels my every sense, they're full of mystery and make me breathe differently, strange.
My aunt Jeannie had one in her living room. I remember my cousin feigning to learn it but I don't remember anyone ever actually playing it. I know there were songs but I can't recall them and I don't think it was played well or with any force. I remember sitting under it and hitting its keys and wanting it to make sense instead of just noise. I wanted to speak with it, for it to speak with me. I wanted to be at a piano. I remember others in the room speaking but I didn't care for their words, I wanted the words of this thing.
I learned some basics on a chord organ when I lived by myself. It sat against the wall next to the bathroom and was barely ever turned on. It was loud so I would learn its scales late at night with no sound, finding the tones in my head and making memory in my muscles. I gravitated more toward the minor keys. And I never really learned it but found words.
I don't know that I ever want to learn it though. I fear it would lose its mystery. I have to detune my guitar and find alternate tunings to remember its appeal, I don't want that for pianos. They're too holy in my body for such things. The wood, the colour, the sound, the cities inside them. They're the most pure of instrument.
There's something about the piano that terrifies and excites me. They're full of some strange power that compels my every sense, they're full of mystery and make me breathe differently, strange.
My aunt Jeannie had one in her living room. I remember my cousin feigning to learn it but I don't remember anyone ever actually playing it. I know there were songs but I can't recall them and I don't think it was played well or with any force. I remember sitting under it and hitting its keys and wanting it to make sense instead of just noise. I wanted to speak with it, for it to speak with me. I wanted to be at a piano. I remember others in the room speaking but I didn't care for their words, I wanted the words of this thing.
I learned some basics on a chord organ when I lived by myself. It sat against the wall next to the bathroom and was barely ever turned on. It was loud so I would learn its scales late at night with no sound, finding the tones in my head and making memory in my muscles. I gravitated more toward the minor keys. And I never really learned it but found words.
I don't know that I ever want to learn it though. I fear it would lose its mystery. I have to detune my guitar and find alternate tunings to remember its appeal, I don't want that for pianos. They're too holy in my body for such things. The wood, the colour, the sound, the cities inside them. They're the most pure of instrument.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
November 29, 2010: Charles Spearin - Mrs. Morris
Charles Spearin - Mrs. Morris
In rehearsal. Sunday.
Mike mentioned that he could only stay ten more minutes. One asked why. Said he had to go to a memorial service. I asked who died.
"You remember Michael Smoughton?" I didn't. "You know, played the No Age show with us a couple weeks ago, British guy." I did. "He and his wife died in a tragic car accident a couple days ago."
And my body sunk.
I walked into the memorial service just minutes after. I first felt impostor; I didn't know Michael well, I didn't even know his last name. I'd never met his wife. I didn't know all but a handful in the room. The week before he'd died he'd told me he was leaving Toronto soon to go back to England, I'd been full of disappointment as he was kind and compelling and we barely had the time to connect. We were playing in a band together and he first approached me and broke my quiet. We had a handful of rehearsals, some shows to meet and discuss Canada and Christopher Hitchens and marvel at the getting away with playing inconsequentially simple instruments with well trained musicians, among. I'd last seen him the day before he left Toronto, wishing him as sincerely I could manage good luck in his travels. The time between was daily.
And I felt impostor. I knew his dearest friend would have told me otherwise (and a man named Pete did express such sentiment) but I was allowed to feel somewhat impostor surrounded by those who knew his body well. And the room was so full of sorrow that it overcame and the faces filled me. Speechless, I observed and considered my own paper body, the ones surrounding me. I met small forms of beauty.
Some people got up in front of the crowd and spoke, told stories. No story surprised me, they all told of the transparency of kindness that Michael had emitted. One man used the word "elegance" and it seemed most fitting.
And then we sat, eight of us, and spoke of other things. The sadness of the room had lifted and we simply told stories. Sudden the death was in background of our words and the faces seemed more welcome.
In leaving I was with a sense of thanks, fragile and full of love.
I can't help but hope that with all I speak one knows every word stands before backgrounds of affection. Every statement is in appreciation of form. Of being.
In rehearsal. Sunday.
Mike mentioned that he could only stay ten more minutes. One asked why. Said he had to go to a memorial service. I asked who died.
"You remember Michael Smoughton?" I didn't. "You know, played the No Age show with us a couple weeks ago, British guy." I did. "He and his wife died in a tragic car accident a couple days ago."
And my body sunk.
I walked into the memorial service just minutes after. I first felt impostor; I didn't know Michael well, I didn't even know his last name. I'd never met his wife. I didn't know all but a handful in the room. The week before he'd died he'd told me he was leaving Toronto soon to go back to England, I'd been full of disappointment as he was kind and compelling and we barely had the time to connect. We were playing in a band together and he first approached me and broke my quiet. We had a handful of rehearsals, some shows to meet and discuss Canada and Christopher Hitchens and marvel at the getting away with playing inconsequentially simple instruments with well trained musicians, among. I'd last seen him the day before he left Toronto, wishing him as sincerely I could manage good luck in his travels. The time between was daily.
And I felt impostor. I knew his dearest friend would have told me otherwise (and a man named Pete did express such sentiment) but I was allowed to feel somewhat impostor surrounded by those who knew his body well. And the room was so full of sorrow that it overcame and the faces filled me. Speechless, I observed and considered my own paper body, the ones surrounding me. I met small forms of beauty.
Some people got up in front of the crowd and spoke, told stories. No story surprised me, they all told of the transparency of kindness that Michael had emitted. One man used the word "elegance" and it seemed most fitting.
And then we sat, eight of us, and spoke of other things. The sadness of the room had lifted and we simply told stories. Sudden the death was in background of our words and the faces seemed more welcome.
In leaving I was with a sense of thanks, fragile and full of love.
I can't help but hope that with all I speak one knows every word stands before backgrounds of affection. Every statement is in appreciation of form. Of being.
November 28, 2010: The National - England
The National - England
Cari used to get kicked out of restaurants for laughing too hard. She had asthma so when she really got laughing she would run out of breath, it would come out like a quack. And loud. There was a pressure built up in her body. Her tiny frame came from a birth four months premature, she was not expected to live. She'd been handed a death sentence on her first breath where the rest of us feign forms of immortality. So she lived.
I first met her through a friend. She stood alone doing the dishes of idiot men as they sat in the living room talking about football, pussy. Then she came into the room and told them how dumb they were while they wanted for her words against and laughed. We didn't know each other for months but to stop and say hello. And when she told me of England, her coming solo trip and her want for companionship I said yes. She was going to see some mutual friends, I had never been outside Canada and I wanted for her words.
London came and we slept on the floor of our friends flat, made cereal in the kitchen. We bought some beer and went out dancing, met drunk old racist men and attractive women who loved our voices. We celebrated in the streets with a 3 story high bonfire, fireworks, young men from Brighton who saw us as shining alien. We sang on the subway and spit beer.
Edinburgh was the place, though. We wandered, climbed a volcano. We got a bottle of whiskey and shared it in the basement of the hostel. We sat at a table and shared stories, she stroked her long black hair with her hand as she talked and I was sure I fell in love with her that night only. Next day was friend. We laughed how the couple who shared our room thought us a couple too as I made a pack of cards from found pen and paper.
Halifax came again. We slowly lost contact. I would see Cari in the street, would visit now and again. The last time I saw Cari I lamented, she'll one day be a great mother and I'll have to see her only in passing.
So much beauty passing by unrecognized.
Cari used to get kicked out of restaurants for laughing too hard. She had asthma so when she really got laughing she would run out of breath, it would come out like a quack. And loud. There was a pressure built up in her body. Her tiny frame came from a birth four months premature, she was not expected to live. She'd been handed a death sentence on her first breath where the rest of us feign forms of immortality. So she lived.
I first met her through a friend. She stood alone doing the dishes of idiot men as they sat in the living room talking about football, pussy. Then she came into the room and told them how dumb they were while they wanted for her words against and laughed. We didn't know each other for months but to stop and say hello. And when she told me of England, her coming solo trip and her want for companionship I said yes. She was going to see some mutual friends, I had never been outside Canada and I wanted for her words.
London came and we slept on the floor of our friends flat, made cereal in the kitchen. We bought some beer and went out dancing, met drunk old racist men and attractive women who loved our voices. We celebrated in the streets with a 3 story high bonfire, fireworks, young men from Brighton who saw us as shining alien. We sang on the subway and spit beer.
Edinburgh was the place, though. We wandered, climbed a volcano. We got a bottle of whiskey and shared it in the basement of the hostel. We sat at a table and shared stories, she stroked her long black hair with her hand as she talked and I was sure I fell in love with her that night only. Next day was friend. We laughed how the couple who shared our room thought us a couple too as I made a pack of cards from found pen and paper.
Halifax came again. We slowly lost contact. I would see Cari in the street, would visit now and again. The last time I saw Cari I lamented, she'll one day be a great mother and I'll have to see her only in passing.
So much beauty passing by unrecognized.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
November 27, 2010: Dethklok - Coffee Jingle
Dethklok - Coffee Jingle
I like to sit and coffee and read and look at the faces. It's a form of meditation. Coffee is a holy drink and shouldn't always be used as a force for waking. It is a conversationalist, let it sit and it will tell you marvelous things. It will let its heat rise and play with the air around you. It will bring calm and beautiful strangers to your side. Give it attention and it will hum quietly beneath the din of the room.
Daily I do this. It is beyond routine, has passed into a ceremony. Daily I sit at coffee and speak with a friend, converse with a book, manipulate words, watch strangers pass. It brings me into myself and focuses my body.
I've become such a presence at some coffee shops that I get free cups often. It's a little embarrassing.
I like to sit and coffee and read and look at the faces. It's a form of meditation. Coffee is a holy drink and shouldn't always be used as a force for waking. It is a conversationalist, let it sit and it will tell you marvelous things. It will let its heat rise and play with the air around you. It will bring calm and beautiful strangers to your side. Give it attention and it will hum quietly beneath the din of the room.
Daily I do this. It is beyond routine, has passed into a ceremony. Daily I sit at coffee and speak with a friend, converse with a book, manipulate words, watch strangers pass. It brings me into myself and focuses my body.
I've become such a presence at some coffee shops that I get free cups often. It's a little embarrassing.
Friday, November 26, 2010
November 26, 2010: Jeff Buckley - I Never Asked to Be Your Mountain
Jeff Buckley - I Never Asked to Be Your Mountain
A friend said to me, yesterday, "I'm scared that he doesn't love me because my family is so normal." I couldn't help but sympathize.
When I first moved to Toronto I had to stop asking people about their parents and their families because I found more and more that parents had died, divorced, that people were adopted or their siblings were estranged, that they ran away from home when they were teenagers or else abused. I couldn't assume that people had "regular" families; a mother, a father and brothers and/or sisters. I found forms of families otherwise regarded as deviant or irregular which functioned as families fully. And I found them exciting and new and intimidating and felt insecure in the stories they told.
I come from a "regular" family. They're normal. We're normal. I have a mother and a father who are still married and very loving and supportive. I have two brothers who have jobs and children and significant others, a house and a car and a cat, one owns a business and the other is a website developer.
Boring.
But there's nothing wrong with this. It's strange that I can feel so insecure about a loving and supportive family that gets along. I guess it makes one feel themselves normal; average. There is nothing special or unusual or remarkable about being average, it's a form of gray. But then there is the family on paper vs the family in reality, the self on paper vs the self in reality. Different forms. Completely.
Katie was one of the most beautiful, kind I'd yet met and she brought me to her parents Toronto home. They were lawyers. They owned a home and had built a pond in back filled with goldfish. They had a modest art collection. I spoke with her father about The United Nations as he leaned on his breakfast nook, his pale blue dress shirt tucked into his slacks. We drank wine on their back patio. It was a few days since they had installed lights on the CN Tower and you could see it in the distance, bringing my brimmed wonder to spill.
A friend said to me, yesterday, "I'm scared that he doesn't love me because my family is so normal." I couldn't help but sympathize.
When I first moved to Toronto I had to stop asking people about their parents and their families because I found more and more that parents had died, divorced, that people were adopted or their siblings were estranged, that they ran away from home when they were teenagers or else abused. I couldn't assume that people had "regular" families; a mother, a father and brothers and/or sisters. I found forms of families otherwise regarded as deviant or irregular which functioned as families fully. And I found them exciting and new and intimidating and felt insecure in the stories they told.
I come from a "regular" family. They're normal. We're normal. I have a mother and a father who are still married and very loving and supportive. I have two brothers who have jobs and children and significant others, a house and a car and a cat, one owns a business and the other is a website developer.
Boring.
But there's nothing wrong with this. It's strange that I can feel so insecure about a loving and supportive family that gets along. I guess it makes one feel themselves normal; average. There is nothing special or unusual or remarkable about being average, it's a form of gray. But then there is the family on paper vs the family in reality, the self on paper vs the self in reality. Different forms. Completely.
Katie was one of the most beautiful, kind I'd yet met and she brought me to her parents Toronto home. They were lawyers. They owned a home and had built a pond in back filled with goldfish. They had a modest art collection. I spoke with her father about The United Nations as he leaned on his breakfast nook, his pale blue dress shirt tucked into his slacks. We drank wine on their back patio. It was a few days since they had installed lights on the CN Tower and you could see it in the distance, bringing my brimmed wonder to spill.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
November 25, 2010: The Ramones - Pet Cemetery
The Ramones - Pet Cemetery
I remember the room. I remember the woman, frail with glasses, standing in front of us and kind speaking of God. I remember a picture on the wall of a man holding Jesus above the water, cradled. I remember someone asking the woman if animals go to Heaven.
"No," she said, "animals don't have souls like people have so they don't go to Heaven."
I went home and hugged my dog, Susie. She had been roaming the house, waiting for me when I was away for as long remembered and I loved her, she sat next to me when I was picked on by my brothers, when my parents fought, when my friend couldn't play. She loved and anticipated love. I was young and she was the closest thing to humanity I knew.
A friend asked me today, "How many books do you read a year?" and I did the math and figure it around a hundred. I've read Dostoevsky and Henry Miller, immersed myself in Shakespeare and the brothers Grimm, have known the words of Emily Dickinson and Sylvia Plath, Garcia Marquez and Garcia Lorca. I think I've had enough of a foundation laid that I can finally read the Bible and not tell young children that their most holy of loved family will not join them in the magical made-up land they can look forward to when they die.
I've begun. It is the corner stone of our form of literature and I've begun.
I remember the room. I remember the woman, frail with glasses, standing in front of us and kind speaking of God. I remember a picture on the wall of a man holding Jesus above the water, cradled. I remember someone asking the woman if animals go to Heaven.
"No," she said, "animals don't have souls like people have so they don't go to Heaven."
I went home and hugged my dog, Susie. She had been roaming the house, waiting for me when I was away for as long remembered and I loved her, she sat next to me when I was picked on by my brothers, when my parents fought, when my friend couldn't play. She loved and anticipated love. I was young and she was the closest thing to humanity I knew.
A friend asked me today, "How many books do you read a year?" and I did the math and figure it around a hundred. I've read Dostoevsky and Henry Miller, immersed myself in Shakespeare and the brothers Grimm, have known the words of Emily Dickinson and Sylvia Plath, Garcia Marquez and Garcia Lorca. I think I've had enough of a foundation laid that I can finally read the Bible and not tell young children that their most holy of loved family will not join them in the magical made-up land they can look forward to when they die.
I've begun. It is the corner stone of our form of literature and I've begun.
Monday, November 22, 2010
November 22, 2010: Neko Case - I'm an Animal
Neko Case - I'm an Animal
Sitting with Laura behind her bar in the day, boxed in by four buildings and the sun overhead a thing rarely seen and seemed new though I saw that space in the night twice a week at least. She was reading horoscopes and telling me about witches, about astrology, about the stars.
At one point I mentioned how this thing of beauty, whatever it was, "broke my heart." Laura felt sympathy for me but no, it was good, it was a glorious breaking that I wanted for for it was in beauty. She didn't understand.
I remember an immense admiration for John Keats when I was introduced to his work. Same with Nick Drake. I tend towards those who, it seems, have their names writ on water. Perhaps it's something inherent in my body, I tend toward sadness and think under any circumstance my body would react in this same wanton way. These is a beauty there, everywhere, and it kills me slowly with sorrowfully bowed strings.
And this song kills me. There's a humour there too, if you want.
Sitting with Laura behind her bar in the day, boxed in by four buildings and the sun overhead a thing rarely seen and seemed new though I saw that space in the night twice a week at least. She was reading horoscopes and telling me about witches, about astrology, about the stars.
At one point I mentioned how this thing of beauty, whatever it was, "broke my heart." Laura felt sympathy for me but no, it was good, it was a glorious breaking that I wanted for for it was in beauty. She didn't understand.
I remember an immense admiration for John Keats when I was introduced to his work. Same with Nick Drake. I tend towards those who, it seems, have their names writ on water. Perhaps it's something inherent in my body, I tend toward sadness and think under any circumstance my body would react in this same wanton way. These is a beauty there, everywhere, and it kills me slowly with sorrowfully bowed strings.
And this song kills me. There's a humour there too, if you want.
Friday, November 19, 2010
November 19, 2010: Daft Punk - Da Funk
Daft Punk - Da Funk
Been in a funk lately. Have moved beyond after past night.
Played in a show that felt good, was a part with many wonderful people I respect and admire. Met many more who were charming and kind. Shared a cigarette with a girl who has been provoking my silences. Drank whiskey from a flask. Heard some beautiful ear splitting music. Brought myself to the floor, it was shaking and I was flung into a restless sea of arms and bodies. No judgment, no sex, just bodies into each other. After, two young girls walked me home full of flirt, to my door.
It was most what the city has been meant to bring me. Or, how I perceive. It was refreshing and I've spent today wandering, listening to music, working, was up at 8:00. New. Can't hear right, though.
Ready for the coming months. I know I stare down the most difficult days.
Been in a funk lately. Have moved beyond after past night.
Played in a show that felt good, was a part with many wonderful people I respect and admire. Met many more who were charming and kind. Shared a cigarette with a girl who has been provoking my silences. Drank whiskey from a flask. Heard some beautiful ear splitting music. Brought myself to the floor, it was shaking and I was flung into a restless sea of arms and bodies. No judgment, no sex, just bodies into each other. After, two young girls walked me home full of flirt, to my door.
It was most what the city has been meant to bring me. Or, how I perceive. It was refreshing and I've spent today wandering, listening to music, working, was up at 8:00. New. Can't hear right, though.
Ready for the coming months. I know I stare down the most difficult days.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
November 18, 2010: No Age - Losing Feeling
No Age - Losing Feeling
There's something holy in music that transcends popular forms.
I know that's a strange thing to admit a third of your way into life but at least it has resonated and fully.
I looked down into the crowd that had converged over this man who manipulated sounds to fill the room and waves. And lights around him were being mirrored onto the ceiling. And some covered their bodies. Most were to the side and casual and barely took note but it seemed like the whole room had become family.
And then another band played and the room filled and I could barely hear and some strange white noise penetrated the background and slightly hurt. And I watched in awe for until the balcony cleared and then went into it all, every body converging onto each other. The first thing I loved was the floor in a shaking. I stood still and all my body moved.
I still can't hear quite right just now and my body is tired and alive.
There's something holy in music that transcends popular forms.
I know that's a strange thing to admit a third of your way into life but at least it has resonated and fully.
I looked down into the crowd that had converged over this man who manipulated sounds to fill the room and waves. And lights around him were being mirrored onto the ceiling. And some covered their bodies. Most were to the side and casual and barely took note but it seemed like the whole room had become family.
And then another band played and the room filled and I could barely hear and some strange white noise penetrated the background and slightly hurt. And I watched in awe for until the balcony cleared and then went into it all, every body converging onto each other. The first thing I loved was the floor in a shaking. I stood still and all my body moved.
I still can't hear quite right just now and my body is tired and alive.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
November 17, 2010 - Townes Van Zandt - Nothin'
Townes Van Zandt - Nothin'
Lately time passes without a word. Barely a whisper. Every day seems like the last and every outcome predictable. I wake, shower, breakfast. Coffee, reading, writing. Home, food, writing. Then comes either a drink with friends, a show with whatever band will have me, a movie alone or more writing, more reading. In between I contact people to help me press an album. I meet pretty faces and attempt a flirt but just say words and walk away. My phone rings and I hope it that girl I met, a dear friend who wants my company, but it becomes someone from work wanting to switch a shift.
It's not a bad life. But there are times when the line of thought becomes so tedious and all the actions so predictable that I long for some surprise, something pleasant to just fall. Or, better, to rise.
The black, the red I love so much is becoming some vague form of grey. And it's more frustrating than most anything I've known.
Lately time passes without a word. Barely a whisper. Every day seems like the last and every outcome predictable. I wake, shower, breakfast. Coffee, reading, writing. Home, food, writing. Then comes either a drink with friends, a show with whatever band will have me, a movie alone or more writing, more reading. In between I contact people to help me press an album. I meet pretty faces and attempt a flirt but just say words and walk away. My phone rings and I hope it that girl I met, a dear friend who wants my company, but it becomes someone from work wanting to switch a shift.
It's not a bad life. But there are times when the line of thought becomes so tedious and all the actions so predictable that I long for some surprise, something pleasant to just fall. Or, better, to rise.
The black, the red I love so much is becoming some vague form of grey. And it's more frustrating than most anything I've known.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
November 16, 2010: Bon Iver - Woods
Bon Iver - Woods: youtube.com/watch?v=tZYVJlhnqxQ
I used to listen to Radiohead's OK Computer every night while I was sleeping. It would play on my stereo above my head and play me to sleep, haunt my dreams. I would often skip "Fitter Happier" if I was still awake because it scared me out of myself.
Then Kid A came out. I remember driving my Dad's half-ton truck to the mall and buying it, putting it in the CD player as I drove home in the dark, hearing it for the first time. I remember the street lights in the gloaming. I listened to twenty seconds of a song and skiped it, the next song wouldn't be any good and I'd fast forward, skipped every song all the way to the end. I took it out before I even got home, disappointed. I hated it. It wasn't what I expected and it was slow and monotonous and I hated it. I put it aside, didn't listen to it for months. I can't recall why I gave it a second chance but I did and thankfully.
And now I can't help but stop and swell up every time I hear Kid A. It's brilliant.
I've seen things which at first I hate to a retching become those things I love most. I don't understand my physiognomy at times and I'm sure, more and more, that I know myself less and less. And these loves are the most intense loves, perhaps because they fought to win me over.
I used to listen to Radiohead's OK Computer every night while I was sleeping. It would play on my stereo above my head and play me to sleep, haunt my dreams. I would often skip "Fitter Happier" if I was still awake because it scared me out of myself.
Then Kid A came out. I remember driving my Dad's half-ton truck to the mall and buying it, putting it in the CD player as I drove home in the dark, hearing it for the first time. I remember the street lights in the gloaming. I listened to twenty seconds of a song and skiped it, the next song wouldn't be any good and I'd fast forward, skipped every song all the way to the end. I took it out before I even got home, disappointed. I hated it. It wasn't what I expected and it was slow and monotonous and I hated it. I put it aside, didn't listen to it for months. I can't recall why I gave it a second chance but I did and thankfully.
And now I can't help but stop and swell up every time I hear Kid A. It's brilliant.
I've seen things which at first I hate to a retching become those things I love most. I don't understand my physiognomy at times and I'm sure, more and more, that I know myself less and less. And these loves are the most intense loves, perhaps because they fought to win me over.
Monday, November 15, 2010
November 15, 2010: Vic Chessnut - Flirted With You All My Life
Vic Chessnut - Flirted With You All My Life: youtube.com/watch?v=V4Z-kjr4BLs
There was a period in my life where I was so depressed that I considered suicide. There isn't much to get into there, it wasn't one thing or another merely the basic difficulties of being a teenager, living in a small town. I often felt paralyzed and out of focus, building toward something good but unable to see it ahead, not even sure if it was there. It's strange to look back on that time and see myself shrouded by this darkness that I couldn't explain, unable to reach out to anyone for help, spiraling thoughts of terrible being. I think the only thing that kept me alive was the fact that my death would have killed my family in turn.
I had a friend who killed himself when he was fifteen, I was sixteen. I didn't know him so well but I admired him immensely. I was just on the verge of stepping out of my depression when I met him proper, was still somewhat shunned and made the fool by those I considered friends and he said friendly words toward me. I felt comfortable talking to him, called him a brother, he was charming and handsome and funny. Then, as briefly as we had spoken he disappeared. He stopped going to school because of an injury and I saw him just a handful of times again before he put a gun in his mouth. His death was shocking and I didn't know how to understand it, I remember holding onto it like gossip at first because the concept was so foreign and immense I couldn't grasp. It wasn't felt truly until I saw his body, shook his mothers hand and she told me he'd mentioned my name before, kindly.
The most difficult thing in life for me at this point is to show those I love how much I truly love them. I'm so full of gratitude and honour for those I've so far met and who have stated kind words of me, to me, that the feeling sometimes rises to burst and I want to lie myself prostrate at their feet. Even those I meet in passing, those beautiful faces that fill my dreams and pass into their own forms of beauty. It's too much.
And the eyes that regard with familiarity are the hardest to bare, lovingly.
There was a period in my life where I was so depressed that I considered suicide. There isn't much to get into there, it wasn't one thing or another merely the basic difficulties of being a teenager, living in a small town. I often felt paralyzed and out of focus, building toward something good but unable to see it ahead, not even sure if it was there. It's strange to look back on that time and see myself shrouded by this darkness that I couldn't explain, unable to reach out to anyone for help, spiraling thoughts of terrible being. I think the only thing that kept me alive was the fact that my death would have killed my family in turn.
I had a friend who killed himself when he was fifteen, I was sixteen. I didn't know him so well but I admired him immensely. I was just on the verge of stepping out of my depression when I met him proper, was still somewhat shunned and made the fool by those I considered friends and he said friendly words toward me. I felt comfortable talking to him, called him a brother, he was charming and handsome and funny. Then, as briefly as we had spoken he disappeared. He stopped going to school because of an injury and I saw him just a handful of times again before he put a gun in his mouth. His death was shocking and I didn't know how to understand it, I remember holding onto it like gossip at first because the concept was so foreign and immense I couldn't grasp. It wasn't felt truly until I saw his body, shook his mothers hand and she told me he'd mentioned my name before, kindly.
The most difficult thing in life for me at this point is to show those I love how much I truly love them. I'm so full of gratitude and honour for those I've so far met and who have stated kind words of me, to me, that the feeling sometimes rises to burst and I want to lie myself prostrate at their feet. Even those I meet in passing, those beautiful faces that fill my dreams and pass into their own forms of beauty. It's too much.
And the eyes that regard with familiarity are the hardest to bare, lovingly.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
November 14, 2010: Bob Dylan - The Man in Me
Bob Dylan - The Man in Me: metacafe.com/watch/4343906/bob_dylan_the_man_in_me/
My first night in Toronto. I was to stay the night with a friend, Brooklyn, downtown before moving into a room in my cousins Brampton house. Brooklyn was having a birthday party that night and invited me to meet her there, in a bar in Kensington. I wandered then went early, nothing to do, drank by myself and was hit on by charming and aggressive men as I waited. I was here. I was ready.
I found myself in the night at a table with two beautiful girls and an acquaintance, I gravitated toward the acquaintance for I stupidly assumed these two beautiful girls, being beautiful, were likely dull and uninterested in such an alien. Then, being left alone against my wishes with these two beautiful girls I feigned to make conversation for it was all I knew. One of them, Hannah, told me that she was an actress. She had studied classical theatre, she had been an Iago and she had been a Juliet.
And I was transfixed. We talked for an hour untouched by any other drunken body in the room. She told me her histories and of Israel and of her Father. She told me of her home and of her friends, of the theatre, asked me of the East and my visions of Toronto. I was empty of experience at her side, had nothing to offer and so when she left I let her without a word.
It was some weeks before I was able to find a home in Toronto, a means of survival, somewhere to lay my head and myself. And I found her somehow. And I asked her to meet me and she agreed. And we met. And I was bold and she showed me many varied forms of beauty. She told me I was trouble. She was something I'd never known and she let me.
It wasn't long, though, before she put it all to some form of rest. She called me and said she couldn't, I said I could and she agreed to meet me once more and then alone, the next day. An infinity can occur between seconds, I found. As I walked toward her there was a newspaper headline of the frequency of breakups at this particular time of year. I knew what I was walking into. And I wondered, when we finally met and she cried and she told me it was over and Bob Dylan's "The Man in Me" played above me on the coffee shop speakers, her figure far behind her as an Iago and a Juliet, is my life a some form of tragedy or comedy?
My first night in Toronto. I was to stay the night with a friend, Brooklyn, downtown before moving into a room in my cousins Brampton house. Brooklyn was having a birthday party that night and invited me to meet her there, in a bar in Kensington. I wandered then went early, nothing to do, drank by myself and was hit on by charming and aggressive men as I waited. I was here. I was ready.
I found myself in the night at a table with two beautiful girls and an acquaintance, I gravitated toward the acquaintance for I stupidly assumed these two beautiful girls, being beautiful, were likely dull and uninterested in such an alien. Then, being left alone against my wishes with these two beautiful girls I feigned to make conversation for it was all I knew. One of them, Hannah, told me that she was an actress. She had studied classical theatre, she had been an Iago and she had been a Juliet.
And I was transfixed. We talked for an hour untouched by any other drunken body in the room. She told me her histories and of Israel and of her Father. She told me of her home and of her friends, of the theatre, asked me of the East and my visions of Toronto. I was empty of experience at her side, had nothing to offer and so when she left I let her without a word.
It was some weeks before I was able to find a home in Toronto, a means of survival, somewhere to lay my head and myself. And I found her somehow. And I asked her to meet me and she agreed. And we met. And I was bold and she showed me many varied forms of beauty. She told me I was trouble. She was something I'd never known and she let me.
It wasn't long, though, before she put it all to some form of rest. She called me and said she couldn't, I said I could and she agreed to meet me once more and then alone, the next day. An infinity can occur between seconds, I found. As I walked toward her there was a newspaper headline of the frequency of breakups at this particular time of year. I knew what I was walking into. And I wondered, when we finally met and she cried and she told me it was over and Bob Dylan's "The Man in Me" played above me on the coffee shop speakers, her figure far behind her as an Iago and a Juliet, is my life a some form of tragedy or comedy?
Friday, November 12, 2010
November 12, 2010: RUN DMC - My Adidas
RUN DMC - My Adidas: youtube.com/watch?v=dA8DsUN6g_k
I've been waging a personal debate of style vs substance, it's remained for years with no proper conclusion. It seems they're indispensable and conjoined.
Style alone cannot be trusted. It is ultimately vapid and meaningless, just a shiny piece of emptiness that attracts the eye. Style is a way of expression; when there is no connection to anything which bears weight the expression becomes that of nothing.
Substance alone cannot be trusted. If a piece of work is without style than it is detracting all attention from itself. It is disagreeable and full of animus. Something substantial would be overly challenging and, though worthy of praise, incapable of connection.
The perfect piece blends style and substance seamlessly. The substantial elements are accentuated and made agreeable by the stylistic elements. They do not have to face away from each other though they be opposite and seemingly incapable of blend.
I bring this up because I've found myself interested in clothing and fashion.
I've always felt that fashion is somewhat of an irrelevance. I remember seeing a designer on TV once asked, "If wearing sandals in winter were considered fashionable, even if it meant freezing your feet all the time, would you wear sandals in winter?" to which he replied a confident "Yes." I remember thinking this was incredibly vain and full of foolish. I now, though, sympathize with his answer; it's not so much that one would wear a piece of clothing that would be counter to common sense, it's more so that individual expression comes first. And if you're expressing yourself through clothing then you're likely to wear clothes that may not agree with your surroundings.
There is a difference between clothing and fashion: Clothing is more the utilitarian which protects you from your physical environment (substance) where fashion is what attracts others and yourself to a certain article (style). And clothing creates such an intimate statement. The things you wear are an extension of your body, they are up against your flesh and dance with it as you move, your body is embraced by fabrics and colour and shape. It all becomes part of you and against you and makes you move differently depending on its intimacy, its understanding.
I tend to move in dichotomies and so the things I am drawn to are often archetype masculine or feminine. There isn't much middle ground and it all tends to make some men uncomfortable.
I've been waging a personal debate of style vs substance, it's remained for years with no proper conclusion. It seems they're indispensable and conjoined.
Style alone cannot be trusted. It is ultimately vapid and meaningless, just a shiny piece of emptiness that attracts the eye. Style is a way of expression; when there is no connection to anything which bears weight the expression becomes that of nothing.
Substance alone cannot be trusted. If a piece of work is without style than it is detracting all attention from itself. It is disagreeable and full of animus. Something substantial would be overly challenging and, though worthy of praise, incapable of connection.
The perfect piece blends style and substance seamlessly. The substantial elements are accentuated and made agreeable by the stylistic elements. They do not have to face away from each other though they be opposite and seemingly incapable of blend.
I bring this up because I've found myself interested in clothing and fashion.
I've always felt that fashion is somewhat of an irrelevance. I remember seeing a designer on TV once asked, "If wearing sandals in winter were considered fashionable, even if it meant freezing your feet all the time, would you wear sandals in winter?" to which he replied a confident "Yes." I remember thinking this was incredibly vain and full of foolish. I now, though, sympathize with his answer; it's not so much that one would wear a piece of clothing that would be counter to common sense, it's more so that individual expression comes first. And if you're expressing yourself through clothing then you're likely to wear clothes that may not agree with your surroundings.
There is a difference between clothing and fashion: Clothing is more the utilitarian which protects you from your physical environment (substance) where fashion is what attracts others and yourself to a certain article (style). And clothing creates such an intimate statement. The things you wear are an extension of your body, they are up against your flesh and dance with it as you move, your body is embraced by fabrics and colour and shape. It all becomes part of you and against you and makes you move differently depending on its intimacy, its understanding.
I tend to move in dichotomies and so the things I am drawn to are often archetype masculine or feminine. There isn't much middle ground and it all tends to make some men uncomfortable.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
November 9, 2010: The Band - This Wheel's On Fire
The Band - This Wheel's On Fire: youtube.com/watch?v=reiwGA7FR7s
Yesterday I ran into Jeremy. I hadn't seen him in three years, have barely thought of him since we last saw to such an extent that I briefly forgot his name. He acted like he wasn't surprised, I asked him how long he'd be in town.
"I'm leaving tomorrow, going to South America."
He once let me stay at his house, thankfully. I was on a winter tour and was staying with a friend in her bachelor apartment until she brought a date home at 3am and I let them be. Went outside to the winter, shook my way to an overpriced hotel, woke up that day alone and full of sadness. When I told Jeremy about the hotel the next day he insisted I stay in his apartment for my last night in Halifax.
That night was no celebration. I'd driven so far to play to a few people who were mostly friends, quiet and supportive and went home early. I had to drive to Ottawa the next day and so said my thanks to Brian for having me in his bar, packed my things and left. I don't even remember if I said goodbye to Jeremy that day.
"I'm tired of cars, of people and money, I need to get away from it all. Do you know what I mean?"
I did. I spent a week this year without a phone, no computer, no communication but to faces, spent no money, slept on the ground. There were cars where I'd been but they weren't used in utilitarian ways, rather as spectacle and took second to feet, bikes. It was incredible and I want it back often. It was freedom.
"Well, I don't know when I'll see you again. Bye!" and he walked off. I wanted to tell him that he's beautiful but was still so struck by the moment that I lost my chance.
Yesterday I ran into Jeremy. I hadn't seen him in three years, have barely thought of him since we last saw to such an extent that I briefly forgot his name. He acted like he wasn't surprised, I asked him how long he'd be in town.
"I'm leaving tomorrow, going to South America."
He once let me stay at his house, thankfully. I was on a winter tour and was staying with a friend in her bachelor apartment until she brought a date home at 3am and I let them be. Went outside to the winter, shook my way to an overpriced hotel, woke up that day alone and full of sadness. When I told Jeremy about the hotel the next day he insisted I stay in his apartment for my last night in Halifax.
That night was no celebration. I'd driven so far to play to a few people who were mostly friends, quiet and supportive and went home early. I had to drive to Ottawa the next day and so said my thanks to Brian for having me in his bar, packed my things and left. I don't even remember if I said goodbye to Jeremy that day.
"I'm tired of cars, of people and money, I need to get away from it all. Do you know what I mean?"
I did. I spent a week this year without a phone, no computer, no communication but to faces, spent no money, slept on the ground. There were cars where I'd been but they weren't used in utilitarian ways, rather as spectacle and took second to feet, bikes. It was incredible and I want it back often. It was freedom.
"Well, I don't know when I'll see you again. Bye!" and he walked off. I wanted to tell him that he's beautiful but was still so struck by the moment that I lost my chance.
Monday, November 8, 2010
November 8, 2010: Serge Gainsbourg - Requiem pour un con
Serge Gainsbourg - Requiem pour un con: youtube.com/watch?v=07O7GTk3hKQ&feature=related
There are some things you just can't escape.
I had been going to see a friend regularly at his work. He was becoming a mentor of sorts, telling me about his touring days, advising and sharing admiration for the sounds we both heard though separate. He mentioned Joanna Newsom every time I saw him and in the papers sometimes.
"This song has the best drum sound I've ever heard. Do you know anyone making a hip-hop album? Because they should sample this." I didn't. It was one of the last times I'd see him.
In months, Katie sat next to me in the library. She lightly played with her pen, between her fingers, as I told her about a song. She leaned back against the wall.
"You speak French right? What is he saying?" I told her what I could understand. There was a lot I couldn't catch, though, for I'm out of practice and it all seemed like such simple and ridiculous language for such a sophisticated and cool song. Later that day Katie drew a picture for me, something simple, and I kept it with me for years. It was herself, a line swirling forward from her face and to the right.
Toronto. Julia asked me if she could make me a mixed CD. I said of course, of course. "There's a couple of our songs I want you to hear." And it was on there. It was the seventh song in the list of twenty among so much Pavement, Vashti Bunyan and her own bands songs. It stood out strangely, unappealing.
But only ever in this context.
There are some things you just can't escape.
I had been going to see a friend regularly at his work. He was becoming a mentor of sorts, telling me about his touring days, advising and sharing admiration for the sounds we both heard though separate. He mentioned Joanna Newsom every time I saw him and in the papers sometimes.
"This song has the best drum sound I've ever heard. Do you know anyone making a hip-hop album? Because they should sample this." I didn't. It was one of the last times I'd see him.
In months, Katie sat next to me in the library. She lightly played with her pen, between her fingers, as I told her about a song. She leaned back against the wall.
"You speak French right? What is he saying?" I told her what I could understand. There was a lot I couldn't catch, though, for I'm out of practice and it all seemed like such simple and ridiculous language for such a sophisticated and cool song. Later that day Katie drew a picture for me, something simple, and I kept it with me for years. It was herself, a line swirling forward from her face and to the right.
Toronto. Julia asked me if she could make me a mixed CD. I said of course, of course. "There's a couple of our songs I want you to hear." And it was on there. It was the seventh song in the list of twenty among so much Pavement, Vashti Bunyan and her own bands songs. It stood out strangely, unappealing.
But only ever in this context.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
November 7, 2010: PJ Harvey - Man-Sized
PJ Harvey - Man-Sized: youtube.com/watch?v=E8ZE6XK89YA
"Artistic creation is by definition a denial of death. Therefore it is optimistic, even if in an ultimate sense the artist is tragic. And so there can never be optimistic artists and pessimistic artists."
There is a school of thought which dictates that one must feel pain, go through trials in order to create great art; one should know the deepest depths of human emotion before one can even venture to breach the skin. This isn't untrue. For joy only exists as to oppose misery. But it's not a necessity.
My favorite artist right now is Shary Boyle. I went to see her exhibition lately and it almost brought me to tears. Her work embodies something that attracts me most, is something akin to "terrible beauty." It approaches the horrific or repulsive but is done in a way that is compelling full of beauty. You can see this technique used strongly in the Brothers Grimm fairy tales (to which I've been indebted), the blood and death red with wonder. And I heard Shary Boyle lecture lately and she talked of her methods which are mostly practical. It's refreshing to hear an artist talk about being in the studio, searching out teachers of her particular art forms, all while this great moaning body of work looms behind her. She not once spoke of misery or ecstasy. Never did she speak of struggle. It was her work.
Not to say those tragedies and joys didn't necessarily play into her work, but their importance was downplayed to nil.
"Artistic creation is by definition a denial of death. Therefore it is optimistic, even if in an ultimate sense the artist is tragic. And so there can never be optimistic artists and pessimistic artists."
There is a school of thought which dictates that one must feel pain, go through trials in order to create great art; one should know the deepest depths of human emotion before one can even venture to breach the skin. This isn't untrue. For joy only exists as to oppose misery. But it's not a necessity.
My favorite artist right now is Shary Boyle. I went to see her exhibition lately and it almost brought me to tears. Her work embodies something that attracts me most, is something akin to "terrible beauty." It approaches the horrific or repulsive but is done in a way that is compelling full of beauty. You can see this technique used strongly in the Brothers Grimm fairy tales (to which I've been indebted), the blood and death red with wonder. And I heard Shary Boyle lecture lately and she talked of her methods which are mostly practical. It's refreshing to hear an artist talk about being in the studio, searching out teachers of her particular art forms, all while this great moaning body of work looms behind her. She not once spoke of misery or ecstasy. Never did she speak of struggle. It was her work.
Not to say those tragedies and joys didn't necessarily play into her work, but their importance was downplayed to nil.
November 6, 2010: Garth Brooks - The River
Garth Brooks - The River: youtube.com/watch?v=VL893RIp3gg
This was the first song to which I slow danced with a girl. I was 14. All my friends had danced with girls at 13, had kissed them or put their hands down their pants and I was jealous, it took until I was 14 just to ask a girl to dance.
I realized lately that I'm still just about as scared of girls now as I was then. I'm 26.
It's strange that I'm still as much the same person I was when I was 14. Then I had braces, pimples, was chubby, got good grades and was kind. Of course I was picked on, my kindness was taken as weakness. And any girl I liked generally laughed at me. Literally laughed. I asked a girl out once and her and her friends laughed for the whole lunch period, 20 minutes, even pointed. Pointed! Who points and laughs at a person?
And I'm at least ten years beyond all that but still so terrified of rejection, of getting hurt, of women. Some have taken a chance on me, some loved immensely, one I would have married had she let me. But still, despite all the goodness and charity I can't call myself a hunter. I can't think of taking a step sometimes without the portraits on my walls reminding me.
Granted, I have fashioned it all this way.
I've wanted, recently, to pick a fight with a friend of mine. I wouldn't do it of course, but I'm curious to see if he would stand up for himself. He doesn't seem the type and I want to force him to stand up for himself, to show him how important it is. I realize this is a tactic my brothers used on me.
This was the first song to which I slow danced with a girl. I was 14. All my friends had danced with girls at 13, had kissed them or put their hands down their pants and I was jealous, it took until I was 14 just to ask a girl to dance.
I realized lately that I'm still just about as scared of girls now as I was then. I'm 26.
It's strange that I'm still as much the same person I was when I was 14. Then I had braces, pimples, was chubby, got good grades and was kind. Of course I was picked on, my kindness was taken as weakness. And any girl I liked generally laughed at me. Literally laughed. I asked a girl out once and her and her friends laughed for the whole lunch period, 20 minutes, even pointed. Pointed! Who points and laughs at a person?
And I'm at least ten years beyond all that but still so terrified of rejection, of getting hurt, of women. Some have taken a chance on me, some loved immensely, one I would have married had she let me. But still, despite all the goodness and charity I can't call myself a hunter. I can't think of taking a step sometimes without the portraits on my walls reminding me.
Granted, I have fashioned it all this way.
I've wanted, recently, to pick a fight with a friend of mine. I wouldn't do it of course, but I'm curious to see if he would stand up for himself. He doesn't seem the type and I want to force him to stand up for himself, to show him how important it is. I realize this is a tactic my brothers used on me.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
November 4, 2010: The Dandy Warhols - Bohemian Like You
The Dandy Warhols - Bohemian Like You: youtube.com/watch?v=vK5MC8pa_cY
I went to university for 5 years and studied English literature. As I started there was no question that this was something I wanted to do for I had to discover the joys of reading, how to be a writer. Two years in I saw that I wasn't learning to be a writer at all but learning to be critical and form an argument. I was learning to write essays. I was learning how to shit on any writing that wasn't canonized. I was learning from hack writers, closed into tight cold rooms with people who generally didn't want to be there. After three years I had a moment where I had to get out: I was reading On the Road in the library, boxed in and silent, living through this book and not truly living this book. I had to move, I couldn't learn living through this form of death.
But I stayed in university despite this. I had been developing a tendency to quit before finishing and had to see it through. There was a reason I originally wanted to be there and I had to remember it. In ways I'm glad I stayed for my final year found amazing books and projects and a brief mentor of sorts.
And through university, when I told people I was in English Literature, they would ask me the same question always: "So you're going to be a teacher?" At first I would say, "Maybe" just to humour them but then, growing tired, would challenge. "You can be a lot more than a teacher with an English degree." "I'm not going to university to get a job." Or, "Nope. Never."
I'm often faced with a problem when asked, "What do you do?" I find most to be ill-defined by a single title. I work in bars for money. I write. I write and perform music. I study books and records. I drink. I am neither a bartender, a writer, a musician, a student, nor am I a drunk. Not singularly, anyway. So how does one title oneself? And why? I often cater the answer to who I speak with but find myself more often challenging that question. It can be a problem for the questioner.
When I was a teenager I wanted to move to Toronto. "What are you going to do?" my brother asked me. "I'll be a bohemian." I think that's the best answer I've ever given. But how pretentious is that? And the self-awareness of such a statement is a bit of a turn off. And today I may identify as bohemian but what of tomorrow? I suppose for the present I fit certain criteria; poor, concerned with art and culture, without any significant ties, prone to move.
I used to like this song, by the way, but now find it a bit of a turn off. I think it's the snide sort of irony they apply. It degrades a lifestyle to a style.
I went to university for 5 years and studied English literature. As I started there was no question that this was something I wanted to do for I had to discover the joys of reading, how to be a writer. Two years in I saw that I wasn't learning to be a writer at all but learning to be critical and form an argument. I was learning to write essays. I was learning how to shit on any writing that wasn't canonized. I was learning from hack writers, closed into tight cold rooms with people who generally didn't want to be there. After three years I had a moment where I had to get out: I was reading On the Road in the library, boxed in and silent, living through this book and not truly living this book. I had to move, I couldn't learn living through this form of death.
But I stayed in university despite this. I had been developing a tendency to quit before finishing and had to see it through. There was a reason I originally wanted to be there and I had to remember it. In ways I'm glad I stayed for my final year found amazing books and projects and a brief mentor of sorts.
And through university, when I told people I was in English Literature, they would ask me the same question always: "So you're going to be a teacher?" At first I would say, "Maybe" just to humour them but then, growing tired, would challenge. "You can be a lot more than a teacher with an English degree." "I'm not going to university to get a job." Or, "Nope. Never."
I'm often faced with a problem when asked, "What do you do?" I find most to be ill-defined by a single title. I work in bars for money. I write. I write and perform music. I study books and records. I drink. I am neither a bartender, a writer, a musician, a student, nor am I a drunk. Not singularly, anyway. So how does one title oneself? And why? I often cater the answer to who I speak with but find myself more often challenging that question. It can be a problem for the questioner.
When I was a teenager I wanted to move to Toronto. "What are you going to do?" my brother asked me. "I'll be a bohemian." I think that's the best answer I've ever given. But how pretentious is that? And the self-awareness of such a statement is a bit of a turn off. And today I may identify as bohemian but what of tomorrow? I suppose for the present I fit certain criteria; poor, concerned with art and culture, without any significant ties, prone to move.
I used to like this song, by the way, but now find it a bit of a turn off. I think it's the snide sort of irony they apply. It degrades a lifestyle to a style.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
November 3, 2010: Wolf Parade - Modern World
Wolf Parade - Modern World: youtube.com/watch?v=1nMHGyR_i8g&feature=related
As much wonder and beauty I find around me most I'm not enthralled with the way my society runs, it's forms of communication, it's objects of attraction. I don't like the fact that I have a cell phone. I don't like the fact that I'm on facebook. I don't like that my bedroom has become an office. But these things exist and I must live with them. I'd eschew them all but that they prove to be useful tools to acquire those things I want for.
But I think things could be better. I went a week this year without a phone or computer, no communication but face to face and it felt liberating. I'm used to being able to pick up and contact anyone at any time and have become indifferent for it. I need to get used to the brief contacts, the beautiful moments where you share with one quickly and gone, never to see that one again most likely. I hold closer and more respectfully those whose presence is the most difficult to grasp. There is an urgency to it all.
For the time being I have to keep my phone and computer at bay for I've chosen a certain life that entails their existence. But in time I'll move it to the side. I recall one of my favorite artists say that he moved to Greece to get away from the telephone wires but they followed him there. Maybe there is no escaping this modern world fully but it must exist.
And we've lost our sense of protest. We can do anything from our homes now and so the streets seem empty or lightly moving when they should be stormed. I remember seeing people in the park where I grew up where now it's just the addicts who frequent its fountain. Can't we convene for no reason? Just to say hello? To put out our laundry and wave to the neighbor? Did that world ever actually exist? Wasn't that our protest?
As much wonder and beauty I find around me most I'm not enthralled with the way my society runs, it's forms of communication, it's objects of attraction. I don't like the fact that I have a cell phone. I don't like the fact that I'm on facebook. I don't like that my bedroom has become an office. But these things exist and I must live with them. I'd eschew them all but that they prove to be useful tools to acquire those things I want for.
But I think things could be better. I went a week this year without a phone or computer, no communication but face to face and it felt liberating. I'm used to being able to pick up and contact anyone at any time and have become indifferent for it. I need to get used to the brief contacts, the beautiful moments where you share with one quickly and gone, never to see that one again most likely. I hold closer and more respectfully those whose presence is the most difficult to grasp. There is an urgency to it all.
For the time being I have to keep my phone and computer at bay for I've chosen a certain life that entails their existence. But in time I'll move it to the side. I recall one of my favorite artists say that he moved to Greece to get away from the telephone wires but they followed him there. Maybe there is no escaping this modern world fully but it must exist.
And we've lost our sense of protest. We can do anything from our homes now and so the streets seem empty or lightly moving when they should be stormed. I remember seeing people in the park where I grew up where now it's just the addicts who frequent its fountain. Can't we convene for no reason? Just to say hello? To put out our laundry and wave to the neighbor? Did that world ever actually exist? Wasn't that our protest?
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
November 2, 2010: Neil Young - Don't Let It Bring You Down
Neil Young - Don't Let It Bring You Down: youtube.com/watch?v=ilbgvmoF0VA
I bought the new Neil Young album tonight. I didn't even know it had been released. And one of my favorite local musicians sold it to me, someone I admire.
There have been a lot of changes in my life in the past year, amazing gratitude pours through me for it. I had reached a point where I was creatively stifled, unhappy, alone and looking at a future unfulfilled, unable to hold anything worth weight, its lightness. I remember being a kid and wishing there was some way to just go to sleep and wake up with years passed and adult and full to confidence. Then at my worst a year ago I just wanted to be able to get out of bed.
I've deconstructed that line so many times: "It's only castles burning."
It's terrifying and feels like more a series of misadventures than anything I've known. I admire most the people I meet who lay themselves bare and barely close their eyes to resting. The ones who pursue some sort of storming, unbelied of stillness but electric. My friend who needs of nothing and smiles. I heard two people speak the other day of an unfortunate incident, both in agreement to it's nature, one expressed shock and concern where the other said, "It's wonderful, isn't it?" As if acknowledged catastrophe can fill you with beauty.
And I've found insomnia to a degree. But still, when I sleep, I dream. And I love my dreaming to find more sleep.
I bought the new Neil Young album tonight. I didn't even know it had been released. And one of my favorite local musicians sold it to me, someone I admire.
There have been a lot of changes in my life in the past year, amazing gratitude pours through me for it. I had reached a point where I was creatively stifled, unhappy, alone and looking at a future unfulfilled, unable to hold anything worth weight, its lightness. I remember being a kid and wishing there was some way to just go to sleep and wake up with years passed and adult and full to confidence. Then at my worst a year ago I just wanted to be able to get out of bed.
I've deconstructed that line so many times: "It's only castles burning."
It's terrifying and feels like more a series of misadventures than anything I've known. I admire most the people I meet who lay themselves bare and barely close their eyes to resting. The ones who pursue some sort of storming, unbelied of stillness but electric. My friend who needs of nothing and smiles. I heard two people speak the other day of an unfortunate incident, both in agreement to it's nature, one expressed shock and concern where the other said, "It's wonderful, isn't it?" As if acknowledged catastrophe can fill you with beauty.
And I've found insomnia to a degree. But still, when I sleep, I dream. And I love my dreaming to find more sleep.
Monday, November 1, 2010
November 1, 2010: The North American Halloween Prevention Initiative - Do They Know It's Halloween?
The North American Halloween Prevention Initiative - Do They Know It's Halloween?: youtube.com/watch?v=jVc11TB8_9g
The place I grew up was once famous for a serial killer. He was called the "Monster of Miramichi" by the press. He killed and raped, was loose through our community for close to a year. When he was caught and tried they used DNA fingerprinting to convict him, one of the first successful uses of this technique in a crime case.
I was very young when this all happened. My parents consciously never talked about it at home, I only heard mentions of this mans name at school. His existence wasn't a part of my young life and I don't think I would have been able to conceive of his actions had I known. The only thing I remember from that period in Miramichi was that the town canceled Halloween.
When I was about 17 I was working in a shoe store and my coworker, who had grown up in Ontario, asked me about the serial killer. He said he'd heard about it when he was growing up, wanted to know what it had been like here as it was all happening. I had no answers for him and in fact had to look up this man and what he did because I'd only ever known his name as mentioned in conversation and that he had been a serial killer. I knew nothing else and had had no personal connection to the events though I had been there.
I suppose I'm glad I was sheltered from that fear. I remember young girls telling me about sleep overs they had and being terrified at night together, mentioning his name as if he actually was some sort of monster, some creature that isn't a man. I wouldn't have wanted that looming.
By no means do I mean to forward some philosophy of ignorance or shelter, I think one should be able to acknowledge a fear and simply overcome it. But what would a child think exposed to such inhumanity? Can that be overcome at such a young age? I wonder how I would have developed knowing of that monster.
The place I grew up was once famous for a serial killer. He was called the "Monster of Miramichi" by the press. He killed and raped, was loose through our community for close to a year. When he was caught and tried they used DNA fingerprinting to convict him, one of the first successful uses of this technique in a crime case.
I was very young when this all happened. My parents consciously never talked about it at home, I only heard mentions of this mans name at school. His existence wasn't a part of my young life and I don't think I would have been able to conceive of his actions had I known. The only thing I remember from that period in Miramichi was that the town canceled Halloween.
When I was about 17 I was working in a shoe store and my coworker, who had grown up in Ontario, asked me about the serial killer. He said he'd heard about it when he was growing up, wanted to know what it had been like here as it was all happening. I had no answers for him and in fact had to look up this man and what he did because I'd only ever known his name as mentioned in conversation and that he had been a serial killer. I knew nothing else and had had no personal connection to the events though I had been there.
I suppose I'm glad I was sheltered from that fear. I remember young girls telling me about sleep overs they had and being terrified at night together, mentioning his name as if he actually was some sort of monster, some creature that isn't a man. I wouldn't have wanted that looming.
By no means do I mean to forward some philosophy of ignorance or shelter, I think one should be able to acknowledge a fear and simply overcome it. But what would a child think exposed to such inhumanity? Can that be overcome at such a young age? I wonder how I would have developed knowing of that monster.
Friday, October 29, 2010
October 29, 2010: Rufus Wainwright - Going to a Town
Rufus Wainwright - Going to a Town: youtube.com/watch?v=CtVyl402W5s
The worst kinds of people are straight, white people. The worst.
I suppose I only think so because I'm one of them and feel comfortable throwing judgement (for though I slander a whole faction of people I can count myself among them and am therefore judging myself). But from what I've seen, they/we are the worst of people. I doubt I could formulate any lucidly compelling argument for this conclusion I've drawn but to voice some frustrations.
"White privilege" is something I've seen and experienced first hand. You know when someone doesn't get things their way and they whine about it, as if it's something they deserve? I work in service and, daily, I see (predominantly) white people complaining about the meals that were made for them and brought to them without them having to do a thing but voice their desire for it. And it is, predominately, the white people who look like they have the most money who complain the most.
And I remember being on a small plane, so full of joy, and surrounded by white people in business suits, none of whom smiled.
And I've been to wedding lately where it seemed like the bride and groom didn't even love each other. And it didn't seem like they even knew the people they invited to their wedding. It seemed like they just threw an event because they could. And aren't these the same kind of people who tell homosexual couples (who probably actually love each other) that they're excluded from this all? What is wrong with straight people that they fear anything that brings the queer community on par?
We, being white and straight, have nothing to struggle for so we seem to struggle against. We seem to struggle against things that are good and wholesome and place evil titles on these things, opposite titles, because we are scared of losing our privileges. And we dictate the others should and should not live because we feel some sort of superiority. And this is what makes us the worst of people.
Or maybe I just hate my job. And weddings.
The worst kinds of people are straight, white people. The worst.
I suppose I only think so because I'm one of them and feel comfortable throwing judgement (for though I slander a whole faction of people I can count myself among them and am therefore judging myself). But from what I've seen, they/we are the worst of people. I doubt I could formulate any lucidly compelling argument for this conclusion I've drawn but to voice some frustrations.
"White privilege" is something I've seen and experienced first hand. You know when someone doesn't get things their way and they whine about it, as if it's something they deserve? I work in service and, daily, I see (predominantly) white people complaining about the meals that were made for them and brought to them without them having to do a thing but voice their desire for it. And it is, predominately, the white people who look like they have the most money who complain the most.
And I remember being on a small plane, so full of joy, and surrounded by white people in business suits, none of whom smiled.
And I've been to wedding lately where it seemed like the bride and groom didn't even love each other. And it didn't seem like they even knew the people they invited to their wedding. It seemed like they just threw an event because they could. And aren't these the same kind of people who tell homosexual couples (who probably actually love each other) that they're excluded from this all? What is wrong with straight people that they fear anything that brings the queer community on par?
We, being white and straight, have nothing to struggle for so we seem to struggle against. We seem to struggle against things that are good and wholesome and place evil titles on these things, opposite titles, because we are scared of losing our privileges. And we dictate the others should and should not live because we feel some sort of superiority. And this is what makes us the worst of people.
Or maybe I just hate my job. And weddings.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
October 27, 2010: Louis Armstrong - What a Wonderful World
Louis Armstrong - What a Wonderful World: youtube.com/watch?v=bqOwLwhHUqo
I think that regardless of the time, this song will be regarded as one of the most beautiful songs ever recorded.
It still gets me to stop when I hear it.
I wrote something down in a notebook today, a quote that quickly struck me. It went:
"Artistic creation is by definition a denial of death. Therefore it is optimistic, even if in an ultimate sense the artist is tragic. And so there can never be optimistic artists and pessimistic artists. There can only be talent and mediocrity." - Andrei Tarkovski
And I don't disagree with this. There are aspects I think can be expounded upon or made more lucid but for the most part I find it accurate.
And especially concerning this song for it is ultimately a tragic song. The narrator is foretelling his own death through each verse. And even the chord pattern descends. Yet it's all so beautiful.
This world will continue. Your children will fall in love. Your friends. Their children will do the same. You will once pass and your love will live on in their every movement. It's all so terrifyingly wonderful.
I think that regardless of the time, this song will be regarded as one of the most beautiful songs ever recorded.
It still gets me to stop when I hear it.
I wrote something down in a notebook today, a quote that quickly struck me. It went:
"Artistic creation is by definition a denial of death. Therefore it is optimistic, even if in an ultimate sense the artist is tragic. And so there can never be optimistic artists and pessimistic artists. There can only be talent and mediocrity." - Andrei Tarkovski
And I don't disagree with this. There are aspects I think can be expounded upon or made more lucid but for the most part I find it accurate.
And especially concerning this song for it is ultimately a tragic song. The narrator is foretelling his own death through each verse. And even the chord pattern descends. Yet it's all so beautiful.
This world will continue. Your children will fall in love. Your friends. Their children will do the same. You will once pass and your love will live on in their every movement. It's all so terrifyingly wonderful.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
October 26, 2010: Ani DiFranco - Hello Birmingham
Ani DiFranco - Hello Birmingham: youtube.com/watch?v=3zWNUq5v_v4
Yesterday I went to city hall to vote. I was told to go there by the election website. Arriving, I was told I couldn't do anything there, I had to go East to the neighborhood in which it was last recorded that I lived. I don't live there anymore but it didn't matter to them, that was where I was to vote. So I biked half an hour to get to a church where there was construction out front, I had to maneuver my way around and into the church where my name wasn't recorded for voting. I had to fill in a form (or, rather, I was shown a form and a man filled it in for me without my consent, I had to make a fuss and get it from him, fill out a new one myself) and then I could finally cast my vote. Then I biked half an hour back into the city to home, where I sat down and read before work.
And I voted for someone who I didn't want in power and who lost anyway, making way for someone I feel if I were to meet in person his presence would be sickening.
So now Toronto stands on a mayor who doesn't represent me. And did anyone represent me in the first place?
I remain a voter simply because I'd rather vote for a loser and have him/her lose than not vote at all. It's a guilt thing, I suppose. I think of every election I've ever taken part I've only voted for one winner.
We will have this figurehead "run" Toronto from here out, he will say ridiculous things and ridiculous people will feel justified in their ridiculous actions. But he won't destroy me and he won't destroy the city. He'll just make things ridiculous. A friend said to me today that it will be a "4-year SNL skit," which, in citing an American establishment of entertainment, evokes so much of the further uselessness of Canadian politics.
I remember hearing this Ani DiFranco song years ago and not quite knowing what it was about. I've since surmised that she's referring specifically to the killing of an abortion clinic doctor, and quite graphically so, as well as the bombings of various abortion clinics, her own uselessness while standing in an election booth following. As if voting for an elected power will stop such madness.
Yesterday I went to city hall to vote. I was told to go there by the election website. Arriving, I was told I couldn't do anything there, I had to go East to the neighborhood in which it was last recorded that I lived. I don't live there anymore but it didn't matter to them, that was where I was to vote. So I biked half an hour to get to a church where there was construction out front, I had to maneuver my way around and into the church where my name wasn't recorded for voting. I had to fill in a form (or, rather, I was shown a form and a man filled it in for me without my consent, I had to make a fuss and get it from him, fill out a new one myself) and then I could finally cast my vote. Then I biked half an hour back into the city to home, where I sat down and read before work.
And I voted for someone who I didn't want in power and who lost anyway, making way for someone I feel if I were to meet in person his presence would be sickening.
So now Toronto stands on a mayor who doesn't represent me. And did anyone represent me in the first place?
I remain a voter simply because I'd rather vote for a loser and have him/her lose than not vote at all. It's a guilt thing, I suppose. I think of every election I've ever taken part I've only voted for one winner.
We will have this figurehead "run" Toronto from here out, he will say ridiculous things and ridiculous people will feel justified in their ridiculous actions. But he won't destroy me and he won't destroy the city. He'll just make things ridiculous. A friend said to me today that it will be a "4-year SNL skit," which, in citing an American establishment of entertainment, evokes so much of the further uselessness of Canadian politics.
I remember hearing this Ani DiFranco song years ago and not quite knowing what it was about. I've since surmised that she's referring specifically to the killing of an abortion clinic doctor, and quite graphically so, as well as the bombings of various abortion clinics, her own uselessness while standing in an election booth following. As if voting for an elected power will stop such madness.
Monday, October 25, 2010
October 25, 2010: Blondie - Hanging on the Telephone
Blondie - Hanging on the Telephone: youtube.com/watch?v=Lnh_U5BXZiY
I've been reading up on cell phones and their radioactive properties. I've been watching news pieces too. I've been told, through this research, that cell phones emit small amounts of radiation which, if you use your cell phone too much, can increase your chances of developing brain cancer.
Cancer. In your brain.
And the radiation emitted from your phone is the reason why your face gets hot if you talk on your phone for extended periods of time. That is your face absorbing radiation.
Anyway, I had a bit of a freak out yesterday that made me shake. I was at the grocery store and I suddenly realized that my leg was hot. Then I thought about how I keep my phone in my pocket. Then I made the connection. Then I thought about the radiation entering my leg, right next to my testicles. And I freaked out a little.
I don't know what to do with my phone now. I can't keep it in my pocket with everything I've been told. Have you ever read Oryx and Crake by Margaret Atwood? One of the main characters in the novel has this experience where he walks through a chicken processing lab and they're genetically engineering chickens so that they have no bones and no beaks, basically no "waste," just living blobs, and they sell these chickens to a chicken fast food restaurant. It's a truly disgusting scene. And the main character goes on eating the chicken from this fast food restaurant for the rest of the novel, despite what he knows about it.
And I remember feeling like that character was pathetic. How could one continue supporting the most disgusting of human endeavors, knowing the full extent of it's horror? And so casually too?
So I am having a problem with my cell phone. I would like to keep using it because it's a useful tool that has standardized our way of communication. But I refuse to wantonly increase the chances of getting cancer in my leg, in my testicles, or in my brain. The best I can do for now, I suppose, is just to keep it out of my pocket and minimize my phone use. Granted, I don't use it very often because I'm on a pay as you go plan and that can get costly; I generally keep phone conversations to a minimum and rely on text. But that's the best I can do for now.
Am I as pathetic as that character?
I've been reading up on cell phones and their radioactive properties. I've been watching news pieces too. I've been told, through this research, that cell phones emit small amounts of radiation which, if you use your cell phone too much, can increase your chances of developing brain cancer.
Cancer. In your brain.
And the radiation emitted from your phone is the reason why your face gets hot if you talk on your phone for extended periods of time. That is your face absorbing radiation.
Anyway, I had a bit of a freak out yesterday that made me shake. I was at the grocery store and I suddenly realized that my leg was hot. Then I thought about how I keep my phone in my pocket. Then I made the connection. Then I thought about the radiation entering my leg, right next to my testicles. And I freaked out a little.
I don't know what to do with my phone now. I can't keep it in my pocket with everything I've been told. Have you ever read Oryx and Crake by Margaret Atwood? One of the main characters in the novel has this experience where he walks through a chicken processing lab and they're genetically engineering chickens so that they have no bones and no beaks, basically no "waste," just living blobs, and they sell these chickens to a chicken fast food restaurant. It's a truly disgusting scene. And the main character goes on eating the chicken from this fast food restaurant for the rest of the novel, despite what he knows about it.
And I remember feeling like that character was pathetic. How could one continue supporting the most disgusting of human endeavors, knowing the full extent of it's horror? And so casually too?
So I am having a problem with my cell phone. I would like to keep using it because it's a useful tool that has standardized our way of communication. But I refuse to wantonly increase the chances of getting cancer in my leg, in my testicles, or in my brain. The best I can do for now, I suppose, is just to keep it out of my pocket and minimize my phone use. Granted, I don't use it very often because I'm on a pay as you go plan and that can get costly; I generally keep phone conversations to a minimum and rely on text. But that's the best I can do for now.
Am I as pathetic as that character?
Sunday, October 24, 2010
October 24, 2010: The Tragically Hip - Poets
October 24, 2010: The Tragically Hip - Poets: youtube.com/watch?v=fBNGfFqaFu8
I will never be the poet. Though I write in poetic forms I will never be the poet. Poetry does not flow through me and I move far too slowly for it's world.
My first conceptions of the word were in poetic forms as music came Sunday mornings from my Father's basement (and it was my Father's basement though we all lived there, it was his room entire) and songwriters were revered as the poets of our time. This is where I learned my early literature, from Bob Dylan songs and Neil Young. And though it be my first love, though I still strive toward it (and, to a certain degree, have embodied) I think I knew early that I would never be the poet. Writer, yes.
And where would one find oneself as a poet writing in Canada? The Canadian poet is without any weight set against the American, the Russian, the French. If I have to read one more "poem" about winter by a Canadian "poet" I might tear the whole thing apart. There is no vibrancy and strength like the American. No despair like the Russian. No tragedy, no pain like the French. The Canadian poet has some neutral time to observe and neutrally comment among waves of grey. Granted, some poets from Canada are magnificent, but they are not Canadian poets generally, they've moved beyond. Leonard Cohen had to go to Greece and America and Cuba to find his words and move past his mentor, the Canadian poet Irving Layton.
I will write, I will write poems, but I'll never be the poet. The poet should be the painter of the writing spheres. Solitude and the bending of perceptions are important, the movement and experience. Never read your poems aloud. Write a pile of words from the floor to the ceiling before even considering a small collection. Pass out your words to others, but forget what had been said always.
My favorite story of one who could conceivably be considered the poet found him in a bar showing off his work to the people within. When the door opened all the paper flew out with the wind, fell into a stream of water on the ground and was swept away to the sewer. And he stood and watched, calm.
I will never be the poet. Though I write in poetic forms I will never be the poet. Poetry does not flow through me and I move far too slowly for it's world.
My first conceptions of the word were in poetic forms as music came Sunday mornings from my Father's basement (and it was my Father's basement though we all lived there, it was his room entire) and songwriters were revered as the poets of our time. This is where I learned my early literature, from Bob Dylan songs and Neil Young. And though it be my first love, though I still strive toward it (and, to a certain degree, have embodied) I think I knew early that I would never be the poet. Writer, yes.
And where would one find oneself as a poet writing in Canada? The Canadian poet is without any weight set against the American, the Russian, the French. If I have to read one more "poem" about winter by a Canadian "poet" I might tear the whole thing apart. There is no vibrancy and strength like the American. No despair like the Russian. No tragedy, no pain like the French. The Canadian poet has some neutral time to observe and neutrally comment among waves of grey. Granted, some poets from Canada are magnificent, but they are not Canadian poets generally, they've moved beyond. Leonard Cohen had to go to Greece and America and Cuba to find his words and move past his mentor, the Canadian poet Irving Layton.
I will write, I will write poems, but I'll never be the poet. The poet should be the painter of the writing spheres. Solitude and the bending of perceptions are important, the movement and experience. Never read your poems aloud. Write a pile of words from the floor to the ceiling before even considering a small collection. Pass out your words to others, but forget what had been said always.
My favorite story of one who could conceivably be considered the poet found him in a bar showing off his work to the people within. When the door opened all the paper flew out with the wind, fell into a stream of water on the ground and was swept away to the sewer. And he stood and watched, calm.
Friday, October 22, 2010
October 22, 2010: Simon and Garfunkel - The 59th Street Bridge Song (Feelin Groovy)
Simon and Garfunkel - The 59th Street Bridge Song (Feelin Groovy): youtube.com/watch?v=4KZi-aV0VTk
Simon and Garfunkel's Greatest Hits album was the first album I ever fell in love with.
In retrospect I'm glad for such a thing. It's mostly well written songs, good production, easily accessible. Even when it's corny I can't help but agree with it. Feelin Groovy? Bit outdated, but yes, I am now.
I feel lately that the city is making me rush every day. When I'm not running around I'm planning things that will make me run around. It's a life I've chosen and it's the perfect city for running around and doing in a hurry.
But I might need to slow down. A friend commented lately on how I have a "southern swagger" about me, which I found both endearing and concerning. Where I come from, growing up, people tended to have a bad American South complex; cars, "hick" accents (you can find this accent anywhere you go, it's not specific to anywhere in North America but tends to draw from the American South), country music, NASCAR, etc. This was the worst of it, of course it wasn't everywhere, but those whose American South complex showed were extravagant. Big cars, loud mouthed, tried and true hicks and proud. I had a problem with this because we were not Americans, we were not Southerners, we were in a small town and bored. It's something to relate to, I think, but not adopt.
But I do like the concept of the southern swagger. And granted I do wear cowboy boots. And I like cars and country music.
I'm a product of my environment and I do my best with it.
Simon and Garfunkel's Greatest Hits album was the first album I ever fell in love with.
In retrospect I'm glad for such a thing. It's mostly well written songs, good production, easily accessible. Even when it's corny I can't help but agree with it. Feelin Groovy? Bit outdated, but yes, I am now.
I feel lately that the city is making me rush every day. When I'm not running around I'm planning things that will make me run around. It's a life I've chosen and it's the perfect city for running around and doing in a hurry.
But I might need to slow down. A friend commented lately on how I have a "southern swagger" about me, which I found both endearing and concerning. Where I come from, growing up, people tended to have a bad American South complex; cars, "hick" accents (you can find this accent anywhere you go, it's not specific to anywhere in North America but tends to draw from the American South), country music, NASCAR, etc. This was the worst of it, of course it wasn't everywhere, but those whose American South complex showed were extravagant. Big cars, loud mouthed, tried and true hicks and proud. I had a problem with this because we were not Americans, we were not Southerners, we were in a small town and bored. It's something to relate to, I think, but not adopt.
But I do like the concept of the southern swagger. And granted I do wear cowboy boots. And I like cars and country music.
I'm a product of my environment and I do my best with it.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
October 20, 2010: The Rolling Stones - Play With Fire
The Rolling Stones - Play With Fire: youtube.com/watch?v=u5vn6OqnD_Q
I've been meaning to learn this song. It makes me excited.
I have taken to asking a question of friends: If you could be 17 again and had the option of seeing The Beatles in their prime or The Rolling Stones in their prime, who would you see?
And that said, who would you want to see at your current age?
I feel that underlying this question is really a style vs substance argument. The Rolling Stones were rebellious and dangerous where The Beatles were compositionally superior and somewhat safe (as far as conservative tastes go). There wasn't much sex in The Beatles, or, relatively more in The Rolling Stones. And so I think The Stones answer reveals more a lean to style, The Beatles answer more to substance.
And this question is relative, of course. There was substance in what The Stones did and there was style in what The Beatles did. And both strongly. But for the sake of comparison, neglecting any other music that was ever made, I feel the argument holds.
Personally I think I would have, at 17, gone to see the Beatles but I'd like to say the Rolling Stones. And now, at 26, I would see the Rolling Stones in their prime over the Beatles in their prime. I don't know what that says about me.
I've been meaning to learn this song. It makes me excited.
I have taken to asking a question of friends: If you could be 17 again and had the option of seeing The Beatles in their prime or The Rolling Stones in their prime, who would you see?
And that said, who would you want to see at your current age?
I feel that underlying this question is really a style vs substance argument. The Rolling Stones were rebellious and dangerous where The Beatles were compositionally superior and somewhat safe (as far as conservative tastes go). There wasn't much sex in The Beatles, or, relatively more in The Rolling Stones. And so I think The Stones answer reveals more a lean to style, The Beatles answer more to substance.
And this question is relative, of course. There was substance in what The Stones did and there was style in what The Beatles did. And both strongly. But for the sake of comparison, neglecting any other music that was ever made, I feel the argument holds.
Personally I think I would have, at 17, gone to see the Beatles but I'd like to say the Rolling Stones. And now, at 26, I would see the Rolling Stones in their prime over the Beatles in their prime. I don't know what that says about me.
October 19, 2010: Weezer - Only in Dreams
Weezer - Only in Dreams: youtube.com/watch?v=4spkVX8z-vs
Today I talked with my brother and he told me a story about his 9 year old daughter, my 9 year old niece, and how she had a nightmare the other night. It broke my heart.
He told me that she woke up at about 2am crying. He went to comfort her, she told him of her nightmare and she kept saying things such as "If I go back to sleep I'll die," he had to explain to her the nature of dreams. He said he tried to remember, at the time, what it must have been like to be a child and have a nightmare, to not quite comprehend what he comprehends now, how it seemed so much more real then.
It's rare that I have nightmares. I dream a lot, rarely is it that I have nightmares if even bad dreams. I've never been one to have nightmares. There was a point last year, during arguably the worst point in my life, where I had nightmares for some weeks and they were so intense that I couldn't sleep. I was seeing troublesome ghosts and waking in a panic, turning on all the lights and forcing myself back to bed. I don't know that nightmares were more troublesome in youth than in adulthood, when I've learned of the nature of dreams and indebted myself to philosophies of the subconscious. With this knowledge they seem almost more terrifying.
One of the first dreams I remember having occurred while I was still sleeping in a crib. My family passed down a large, stuffed clown doll to me that hung on the wall in front of my crib. There is still a picture somewhere of my infant body posed next to it and it still makes me shake. I recall laying in my crib, seeing the clown doll hanging on the wall in front of me, it reaching up and pulling itself off its hook and sliding under my bed. It was underneath me. I screamed. I remember my mother coming into the room and picking me up and nothing else.
Today I talked with my brother and he told me a story about his 9 year old daughter, my 9 year old niece, and how she had a nightmare the other night. It broke my heart.
He told me that she woke up at about 2am crying. He went to comfort her, she told him of her nightmare and she kept saying things such as "If I go back to sleep I'll die," he had to explain to her the nature of dreams. He said he tried to remember, at the time, what it must have been like to be a child and have a nightmare, to not quite comprehend what he comprehends now, how it seemed so much more real then.
It's rare that I have nightmares. I dream a lot, rarely is it that I have nightmares if even bad dreams. I've never been one to have nightmares. There was a point last year, during arguably the worst point in my life, where I had nightmares for some weeks and they were so intense that I couldn't sleep. I was seeing troublesome ghosts and waking in a panic, turning on all the lights and forcing myself back to bed. I don't know that nightmares were more troublesome in youth than in adulthood, when I've learned of the nature of dreams and indebted myself to philosophies of the subconscious. With this knowledge they seem almost more terrifying.
One of the first dreams I remember having occurred while I was still sleeping in a crib. My family passed down a large, stuffed clown doll to me that hung on the wall in front of my crib. There is still a picture somewhere of my infant body posed next to it and it still makes me shake. I recall laying in my crib, seeing the clown doll hanging on the wall in front of me, it reaching up and pulling itself off its hook and sliding under my bed. It was underneath me. I screamed. I remember my mother coming into the room and picking me up and nothing else.
Monday, October 18, 2010
October 17, 2010: The Ramones - I Don't Want to Grow Up
The Ramones - I Don't Want to Grow Up: youtube.com/watch?v=inpKD4vXxZ4
Some of my friends are visibly getting older. It's odd. They're choosing partners they will probably marry within the next 3 years where before they would have had a fling. They're getting better paying jobs that they'll likely pursue and develop into careers. They're joining book clubs. (Note: I am also in a book club. And I recently joined a gym. It's all so against myself.)
A friend told me that as one gets older they tend to rebel against what they once had been, what they had been in their years perceived as "youth." I guess this is a certain kind of truth. As a youth I did well in school, was terrified of authority, was scared of people to a strong degree, was scared of allowing myself to appear vulnerable. Now I strive to be more open, to rebel against those I see as tyrannical (in a more active way), I'm not scared of people. I love going to art openings and seeing all the typical OCAD kids smoking and wearing black and taking pictures on film cameras with bright flashes because it makes me feel alive. I still love going to shows by myself. I strive for less responsibility and more freedom. I feel younger now than I had before.
And I think I planned this. I wasn't ready for the risks of youth when I was young. Now that I've read books that built our society and it's perceptions, have grown to understand aspects of humanity I never could grasp before, have studied physics and met addicts and paid my own rent I feel I can risk it all for there is a point now.
But perhaps I'm not being quite as coherent as I'd like. It is almost 4am and I have to get up to work in 5 hours. I appreciate most, lately, something Christopher Hitchens said about burning the candle at both ends, how it emits a beautiful light.
Some of my friends are visibly getting older. It's odd. They're choosing partners they will probably marry within the next 3 years where before they would have had a fling. They're getting better paying jobs that they'll likely pursue and develop into careers. They're joining book clubs. (Note: I am also in a book club. And I recently joined a gym. It's all so against myself.)
A friend told me that as one gets older they tend to rebel against what they once had been, what they had been in their years perceived as "youth." I guess this is a certain kind of truth. As a youth I did well in school, was terrified of authority, was scared of people to a strong degree, was scared of allowing myself to appear vulnerable. Now I strive to be more open, to rebel against those I see as tyrannical (in a more active way), I'm not scared of people. I love going to art openings and seeing all the typical OCAD kids smoking and wearing black and taking pictures on film cameras with bright flashes because it makes me feel alive. I still love going to shows by myself. I strive for less responsibility and more freedom. I feel younger now than I had before.
And I think I planned this. I wasn't ready for the risks of youth when I was young. Now that I've read books that built our society and it's perceptions, have grown to understand aspects of humanity I never could grasp before, have studied physics and met addicts and paid my own rent I feel I can risk it all for there is a point now.
But perhaps I'm not being quite as coherent as I'd like. It is almost 4am and I have to get up to work in 5 hours. I appreciate most, lately, something Christopher Hitchens said about burning the candle at both ends, how it emits a beautiful light.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
October 16, 2010: Charles Spearin - Vanessa
Charles Spearin - Vanessa: youtube.com/watch?v=mhJkN1FMusU
I remember telling a friend once that my greatest fear was to go deaf, that it would be the greatest irony, to my life, for me to go deaf. I feel sound is so important to my being that if I was denied that sense it would be my end.
Yet somehow, at this point, I feel that is an exaggeration. Maybe not an exaggeration, it would still be a tragedy, but it would be something I could move beyond. It would move me to sorrow, surely, but it would simply be a new conception of sound for my body that would move me to enjoy different sorts of sounds, different movements. I would feel differently, as physically as one can feel, is all.
And I feel that one should be greater than their passions. One should never live for a thing but for people, should dedicate their lives to making better the lives of others. Maybe this isn't a philosophy that would work for all, as no philosophy works for all, but God knows I still need help at points and I hope there would be someone there for me to help. So I make myself available, for my own sake if anything.
I would miss sound so very much, if it was denied me. Somehow, though, I would love to be close to another who was deaf, if only to get an idea of how such a sensation would be, to be surrounded by another whose priorities were so different from my own. To learn to move beyond.
I remember telling a friend once that my greatest fear was to go deaf, that it would be the greatest irony, to my life, for me to go deaf. I feel sound is so important to my being that if I was denied that sense it would be my end.
Yet somehow, at this point, I feel that is an exaggeration. Maybe not an exaggeration, it would still be a tragedy, but it would be something I could move beyond. It would move me to sorrow, surely, but it would simply be a new conception of sound for my body that would move me to enjoy different sorts of sounds, different movements. I would feel differently, as physically as one can feel, is all.
And I feel that one should be greater than their passions. One should never live for a thing but for people, should dedicate their lives to making better the lives of others. Maybe this isn't a philosophy that would work for all, as no philosophy works for all, but God knows I still need help at points and I hope there would be someone there for me to help. So I make myself available, for my own sake if anything.
I would miss sound so very much, if it was denied me. Somehow, though, I would love to be close to another who was deaf, if only to get an idea of how such a sensation would be, to be surrounded by another whose priorities were so different from my own. To learn to move beyond.
Friday, October 15, 2010
October 15, 2010: Motley Crue - Girls Girls Girls
Motley Crue - Girls Girls Girls: youtube.com/watch?v=vOarH4X7SN0
The other day I read a scathing opinion piece regarding the downfall of American Apparel. I think it might have been titled something like "American Apparel to File for Bankruptcy. Thank God." or "American Apparel to Close, Finally" or something along those lines. You didn't even have to read the article, it was all in the title. And I hear, also, a lot of criticism regarding their ad campaigns, their owner and how sleazy he is and such, how disgusting their hiring practices are, how it's just a home base for the worst of hipsters. All negative.
I've never bought anything at American Apparel. I went into a couple stores when they first opened because I'd heard good things about their sweat-shop free factories and I tried on some clothes but none of them fit, felt, right. All said, I'm neither for nor against the stores. I just think it's ridiculous that they've received so much negative criticism, the ridiculousness being in the conservative ways in which this continent seems to be bound.
Aren't they still sweat shop free? How would the downfall of Nike be received? Would there be articles in the paper saying "Thank God Nike will be dead. What will dumb jocks do now?" I doubt it. Why are other companies who cater to a certain crowd, who have worse business practice, whose owners probably do sleazier stuff in private, immune to this sort of venom? Why are "hipsters" (a term I think is ridiculous and overused and overly simplistic; this article will say better than I: http://streetbonersandtvcarnage.com/blog/hating-hipsters/) worse than any other made up institution of being? (As a side note, I hate when people say things like "At least I have a job" when referring to the negative of the "hipster," as if that makes them a better person, inherently, or as if all "hipsters" are unemployed.)
And the ads. The American Apparel ads are all over the back pages of weeklies, in Vice magazine, billboards, etc. They're sometimes shocking in their straight forward, abrasive, aggressive sexuality. Mostly, though, they're just grainy pictures of attractive women in slight clothes. Yet a common conception in our society is that "Sex sells." What makes American Apparel ads worse than Victoria's Secret? Or Revlon? What I liked about American Apparel ads in the first place were that they used employees, not models. These were "regular people." I've heard they use models now. Regardless, the pictures aren't airbrushed to a point where the women look unreal, monstrously attractive. They use very aggressive poses, sometimes shocking, which is incredible, isn't it? We're allowed to do these things in the open, now. They're different, they're challenging aren't they? Isn't that a good thing?
And the ads being sleazy? How many of these critics have sex? Watch porn? Masturbate? You know when a homophobe hates homosexuals because they are secretly attracted to them but don't want to admit? How many of these critics are actually turned on by these ads? but hate them for this?
Perhaps I don't make the best argument. I feel I question more, assume, theorize but have little concrete to hold onto. But I think these are things to think about before condemning a company that employs thousands of people and pays them fair wages, is fairly transparent in its business dealings. Perhaps they portray an ugly side of our society, one we don't want to move toward, but I've never felt threatened or offended in a negative way by anything they've ever done. And I think the negative criticisms are unwarranted, entirely. Not to say they deserve a lot of praise either.
I did, though, once walk past an American Apparel on Queen St. Two employees were sitting outside on a bench. One said to the other, "Is it Hungary or Hungaria?" The other said, "It's Hungary." The first thought for a second, said, "Oh. Then what's Hungaria?"
That was bad.
The other day I read a scathing opinion piece regarding the downfall of American Apparel. I think it might have been titled something like "American Apparel to File for Bankruptcy. Thank God." or "American Apparel to Close, Finally" or something along those lines. You didn't even have to read the article, it was all in the title. And I hear, also, a lot of criticism regarding their ad campaigns, their owner and how sleazy he is and such, how disgusting their hiring practices are, how it's just a home base for the worst of hipsters. All negative.
I've never bought anything at American Apparel. I went into a couple stores when they first opened because I'd heard good things about their sweat-shop free factories and I tried on some clothes but none of them fit, felt, right. All said, I'm neither for nor against the stores. I just think it's ridiculous that they've received so much negative criticism, the ridiculousness being in the conservative ways in which this continent seems to be bound.
Aren't they still sweat shop free? How would the downfall of Nike be received? Would there be articles in the paper saying "Thank God Nike will be dead. What will dumb jocks do now?" I doubt it. Why are other companies who cater to a certain crowd, who have worse business practice, whose owners probably do sleazier stuff in private, immune to this sort of venom? Why are "hipsters" (a term I think is ridiculous and overused and overly simplistic; this article will say better than I: http://streetbonersandtvcarnage.com/blog/hating-hipsters/) worse than any other made up institution of being? (As a side note, I hate when people say things like "At least I have a job" when referring to the negative of the "hipster," as if that makes them a better person, inherently, or as if all "hipsters" are unemployed.)
And the ads. The American Apparel ads are all over the back pages of weeklies, in Vice magazine, billboards, etc. They're sometimes shocking in their straight forward, abrasive, aggressive sexuality. Mostly, though, they're just grainy pictures of attractive women in slight clothes. Yet a common conception in our society is that "Sex sells." What makes American Apparel ads worse than Victoria's Secret? Or Revlon? What I liked about American Apparel ads in the first place were that they used employees, not models. These were "regular people." I've heard they use models now. Regardless, the pictures aren't airbrushed to a point where the women look unreal, monstrously attractive. They use very aggressive poses, sometimes shocking, which is incredible, isn't it? We're allowed to do these things in the open, now. They're different, they're challenging aren't they? Isn't that a good thing?
And the ads being sleazy? How many of these critics have sex? Watch porn? Masturbate? You know when a homophobe hates homosexuals because they are secretly attracted to them but don't want to admit? How many of these critics are actually turned on by these ads? but hate them for this?
Perhaps I don't make the best argument. I feel I question more, assume, theorize but have little concrete to hold onto. But I think these are things to think about before condemning a company that employs thousands of people and pays them fair wages, is fairly transparent in its business dealings. Perhaps they portray an ugly side of our society, one we don't want to move toward, but I've never felt threatened or offended in a negative way by anything they've ever done. And I think the negative criticisms are unwarranted, entirely. Not to say they deserve a lot of praise either.
I did, though, once walk past an American Apparel on Queen St. Two employees were sitting outside on a bench. One said to the other, "Is it Hungary or Hungaria?" The other said, "It's Hungary." The first thought for a second, said, "Oh. Then what's Hungaria?"
That was bad.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
October 14, 2010: Bruce Springsteen - Saint in the City
Bruce Springsteen - Saint in the City: youtube.com/watch?v=1fwaS01Zg5k
It's hard to keep up these days. But it's wonderful isn't it? There are several projects coming to a head and I just don't have time to even read the book I need to read for my book club. That's right, I'm a nerd and I'm in a book club.
Regardless, some projects get to be put back a little now and then as other projects get put ahead. Like I just finished binding a book. And the masters for the album are coming, I need artwork, been doing research for that and research for pressing. On top of organizing shows, working 2 jobs, playing in 3 bands...
Anyway, my point today is that I've been neglecting this project and have to, today, cop out and simply post a song that I relate to, these days.
So here goes. Let the song speak for itself, for today.
It's hard to keep up these days. But it's wonderful isn't it? There are several projects coming to a head and I just don't have time to even read the book I need to read for my book club. That's right, I'm a nerd and I'm in a book club.
Regardless, some projects get to be put back a little now and then as other projects get put ahead. Like I just finished binding a book. And the masters for the album are coming, I need artwork, been doing research for that and research for pressing. On top of organizing shows, working 2 jobs, playing in 3 bands...
Anyway, my point today is that I've been neglecting this project and have to, today, cop out and simply post a song that I relate to, these days.
So here goes. Let the song speak for itself, for today.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
October 12, 2010: Matthew Good Band - The Future is X-Rated
Matthew Good Band - The Future is X-Rated: youtube.com/watch?v=vVxmWYN-D0A
I don't particularly like my online presence. I realize the irony of this statement, being stated over a blog, a venue openly viewable by anyone adding greatly to my online presence. It's like saying that you have no vanity as you drunkenly muss your hair in the mirror at a bar. An online presence isn't necessary in any way, nor is it all that interesting or relevant or even accurate. It's just a unique venue, easily manipulated.
When facebook started to catch on I had some friends tell me that I had to sign up, even going so far as to threaten to create a profile for me. I remember asking some of these friends, one night, how many of them had been asked out on a date by a stranger over facebook and they all raised their hands. That made me uncomfortable. I saw it all as a means to avoid real interaction and real relationships and I was socially awkward enough as it was. And I relented for a long time. It took the moving away of some beautiful and loved friends to get me to join, for they refused to use most other means of communication to stay in contact. And I wanted their contact, even if it was as part of a venue I didn't agree with.
And I'll be honest, I've asked people out on dates over facebook.
I read a terrible telling of the future the other day where the author stated that some day you'll look back on your online persona and either a) not recognize that person or b) hate that person. And I've looked at old pictures of myself that are online and don't hate that person. Sometimes he looks remarkably different, yes, and I sometimes wonder what has happened to him. And the same applies to my friends; they all look so different now. But hate never factors in, really.
I understand his underlying point, though (or rather what I would consider to be the underlying point, however much the author may have been conscious of it). We are 3 dimensional, emotionally complex, intellectually fragile creatures who cannot be defined by one picture, one profile or even an amassed online persona. But we create these things for ourselves though we are constantly changing and evolving and becoming greater than even our own perceptions of ourselves. It's natural to see old pictures of yourself and feel uncomfortable for we are no longer those people; our bodies change, our opinions change, our perceptions change to the point where you are physically, emotionally and intellectually not that person anymore.
Have you ever looked at the facebook profile of a person who has died? Doesn't it feel strangely perverse? These people are gone and cannot take down that picture of themselves that was taken of them drunkenly mussing their hair in a mirror of a bar. Do you think they want to be remembered that way? One cannot be remembered but for each living persons individual remaining memories.
I don't particularly like my online presence. I realize the irony of this statement, being stated over a blog, a venue openly viewable by anyone adding greatly to my online presence. It's like saying that you have no vanity as you drunkenly muss your hair in the mirror at a bar. An online presence isn't necessary in any way, nor is it all that interesting or relevant or even accurate. It's just a unique venue, easily manipulated.
When facebook started to catch on I had some friends tell me that I had to sign up, even going so far as to threaten to create a profile for me. I remember asking some of these friends, one night, how many of them had been asked out on a date by a stranger over facebook and they all raised their hands. That made me uncomfortable. I saw it all as a means to avoid real interaction and real relationships and I was socially awkward enough as it was. And I relented for a long time. It took the moving away of some beautiful and loved friends to get me to join, for they refused to use most other means of communication to stay in contact. And I wanted their contact, even if it was as part of a venue I didn't agree with.
And I'll be honest, I've asked people out on dates over facebook.
I read a terrible telling of the future the other day where the author stated that some day you'll look back on your online persona and either a) not recognize that person or b) hate that person. And I've looked at old pictures of myself that are online and don't hate that person. Sometimes he looks remarkably different, yes, and I sometimes wonder what has happened to him. And the same applies to my friends; they all look so different now. But hate never factors in, really.
I understand his underlying point, though (or rather what I would consider to be the underlying point, however much the author may have been conscious of it). We are 3 dimensional, emotionally complex, intellectually fragile creatures who cannot be defined by one picture, one profile or even an amassed online persona. But we create these things for ourselves though we are constantly changing and evolving and becoming greater than even our own perceptions of ourselves. It's natural to see old pictures of yourself and feel uncomfortable for we are no longer those people; our bodies change, our opinions change, our perceptions change to the point where you are physically, emotionally and intellectually not that person anymore.
Have you ever looked at the facebook profile of a person who has died? Doesn't it feel strangely perverse? These people are gone and cannot take down that picture of themselves that was taken of them drunkenly mussing their hair in a mirror of a bar. Do you think they want to be remembered that way? One cannot be remembered but for each living persons individual remaining memories.
Monday, October 11, 2010
October 11, 2010: Wintersleep - Weighty Ghost
Wintersleep - Weighty Ghost: youtube.com/watch?v=cAu1U-LscUk
There is something I've noticed about Toronto that makes me a little uncomfortable: There are no graveyards. None. There is no room for death in Toronto.
One thing I should state before I defend point is that most places I've lived have been fairly similar, especially in the geographic sense, save Toronto. Everywhere I've lived has had a body of water that separates one part of town from another part of town, and there seems to be some sort of rivalry between these two parts of town because of that specific geographic difference. I chose Toronto over any other city that I've longed to be a part of because there is no body of water that divides; it's all concrete together.
But most everywhere I've lived has also had prominent graveyards and everywhere. The town I grew up in had large and small graveyards near every church (of which there were also many). Halifax had beautiful, ancient graveyards with stones that dated over 200 years. To read their epitaphs was a humbling and reflective experience. I recall reading some, faded strong, that told the shortest stories of those dying young, those families buried together, spouses, even some for infants. I remember they were usually open, empty. And I recall walking through one in the town where I grew up, late at night, early into my twenties, and feeling like someone would come to make me leave; their emptiness made them feel exclusive or private.
A friend told me, when I was very young, that his greatest fear was to have to spend a night alone in a graveyard. I told him that that was where I would feel most comfortable. There would be no one there to harm, no one to threaten, and most are so terrified of death that they would stay away from it's sight. One could sleep undisturbed.
And Toronto has no graveyards. I found one, once, a large one fairly north of downtown. I had to take a subway to get there and there were advertisements at the gates (gates!) with prices for plots and services. It was disgusting. A price on death. Anyway, I walked through it and it was nice, well kept, but too much so. It wasn't so much a place of death as much as a place of business. This city is so full of life that come the concept of death and dying it gets everything so tragically wrong and I long for a graveyard to bike past as I go to work, a friends house, home, where the dead could remind me of my eventual death, to love and be loved.
I had to go to a service in that same graveyard in Toronto, once, for a friend. I've been blessed with so much love and life around me, it was so foreign to have to deal with a real death. I wasn't ready for it, and won't be.
There is something I've noticed about Toronto that makes me a little uncomfortable: There are no graveyards. None. There is no room for death in Toronto.
One thing I should state before I defend point is that most places I've lived have been fairly similar, especially in the geographic sense, save Toronto. Everywhere I've lived has had a body of water that separates one part of town from another part of town, and there seems to be some sort of rivalry between these two parts of town because of that specific geographic difference. I chose Toronto over any other city that I've longed to be a part of because there is no body of water that divides; it's all concrete together.
But most everywhere I've lived has also had prominent graveyards and everywhere. The town I grew up in had large and small graveyards near every church (of which there were also many). Halifax had beautiful, ancient graveyards with stones that dated over 200 years. To read their epitaphs was a humbling and reflective experience. I recall reading some, faded strong, that told the shortest stories of those dying young, those families buried together, spouses, even some for infants. I remember they were usually open, empty. And I recall walking through one in the town where I grew up, late at night, early into my twenties, and feeling like someone would come to make me leave; their emptiness made them feel exclusive or private.
A friend told me, when I was very young, that his greatest fear was to have to spend a night alone in a graveyard. I told him that that was where I would feel most comfortable. There would be no one there to harm, no one to threaten, and most are so terrified of death that they would stay away from it's sight. One could sleep undisturbed.
And Toronto has no graveyards. I found one, once, a large one fairly north of downtown. I had to take a subway to get there and there were advertisements at the gates (gates!) with prices for plots and services. It was disgusting. A price on death. Anyway, I walked through it and it was nice, well kept, but too much so. It wasn't so much a place of death as much as a place of business. This city is so full of life that come the concept of death and dying it gets everything so tragically wrong and I long for a graveyard to bike past as I go to work, a friends house, home, where the dead could remind me of my eventual death, to love and be loved.
I had to go to a service in that same graveyard in Toronto, once, for a friend. I've been blessed with so much love and life around me, it was so foreign to have to deal with a real death. I wasn't ready for it, and won't be.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
October 10, 2010: Nina Simone - Don't Smoke in Bed
Nina Simone - Don't Smoke in Bed: youtube.com/watch?v=mfpwaq9R40c
I once had a painter friend who passed on to me a philosophy regarding her work in painting. When she was working on a piece she would eventually reach a point where the work would feel done or else she would get stuck and wouldn't know what to do next, where to go. At that point she would walk away, go have a cigarette, come back to the work and look at it fresh. And this philosophy works in theory, and often in practice, but it depends on the application of the practice. Sometimes one can walk away for too long and lose everything. It's careful to know where your priorities, where your allegiances, lay.
And I heard Nick Cave impart a similar philosophy regarding his work; when he releases an album, goes on tour, he will come back feeling burnt out from the music. So he will write a book. Or he'll write a screenplay. This other form of work will allow his musical passions to sit and stir, to keep from going stagnant. It all comes back eventually and if it doesn't there's still this whole other body of work, of passions.
I've been working jobs a lot lately. It's difficult. It's not difficult because of the work for it's easy work and I have no passions in it, it's just for the money. Which is what makes it difficult; the lack of passions in my jobs can drain the passions for my work. I cannot make money through artistic endeavors though they fill my actions always. So, in order to eat and to have a room to sleep in, to write in, to study in, I must have money to provide these means. It's a problem to which I will likely never find a solution; I'll always be a certain kind of poor. But I come from a hard working family and I get through it. When I'm not at my job I'm working. And as much as I love my life, I sometimes feel a need to walk away, have a cigarette and come back to it.
Some people call this "vacation." But I don't vacation. Even the trips I've taken that were viewed as a sort of vacation have been full of research, work, experience, a collection of faces for to write, for composition. I can't vacation.
I could always take up smoking.
I once had a painter friend who passed on to me a philosophy regarding her work in painting. When she was working on a piece she would eventually reach a point where the work would feel done or else she would get stuck and wouldn't know what to do next, where to go. At that point she would walk away, go have a cigarette, come back to the work and look at it fresh. And this philosophy works in theory, and often in practice, but it depends on the application of the practice. Sometimes one can walk away for too long and lose everything. It's careful to know where your priorities, where your allegiances, lay.
And I heard Nick Cave impart a similar philosophy regarding his work; when he releases an album, goes on tour, he will come back feeling burnt out from the music. So he will write a book. Or he'll write a screenplay. This other form of work will allow his musical passions to sit and stir, to keep from going stagnant. It all comes back eventually and if it doesn't there's still this whole other body of work, of passions.
I've been working jobs a lot lately. It's difficult. It's not difficult because of the work for it's easy work and I have no passions in it, it's just for the money. Which is what makes it difficult; the lack of passions in my jobs can drain the passions for my work. I cannot make money through artistic endeavors though they fill my actions always. So, in order to eat and to have a room to sleep in, to write in, to study in, I must have money to provide these means. It's a problem to which I will likely never find a solution; I'll always be a certain kind of poor. But I come from a hard working family and I get through it. When I'm not at my job I'm working. And as much as I love my life, I sometimes feel a need to walk away, have a cigarette and come back to it.
Some people call this "vacation." But I don't vacation. Even the trips I've taken that were viewed as a sort of vacation have been full of research, work, experience, a collection of faces for to write, for composition. I can't vacation.
I could always take up smoking.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
October 6, 2010: Nick Cave - Into My Arms
Nick Cave - Into My Arms: youtube.com/watch?v=MS4gRmvvDsU
I'm surprised that I don't know more Nick Cave. I mean, he sings the saddest songs in the saddest way, he duets with PJ Harvey and plays with The Dirty Three, he's theatric and he knows how to let the devil roar through him. He's written novels and done lectures on the duende and sings about God and religion and women. And he cleans up real nice, too.
I think if anything about Nick Cave it's simply that he doesn't have much of a humour. Or, rather, it just doesn't come out in his work so well or strongly. Maybe? I can't figure it out exactly. It could be his delivery. Not his voice but his delivery...it's like he's drunk and doesn't really care, but not in a good Tom Waits way but in a bad oh shit my uncle is drunk and trying to play songs on the piano again at Christmas kind of way. Maybe? I'm not sure. Maybe I just haven't had the proper introduction, the right album. I feel somewhat the same way about Patti Smith...
I want to like Nick Cave. I really do.
I'm surprised that I don't know more Nick Cave. I mean, he sings the saddest songs in the saddest way, he duets with PJ Harvey and plays with The Dirty Three, he's theatric and he knows how to let the devil roar through him. He's written novels and done lectures on the duende and sings about God and religion and women. And he cleans up real nice, too.
I think if anything about Nick Cave it's simply that he doesn't have much of a humour. Or, rather, it just doesn't come out in his work so well or strongly. Maybe? I can't figure it out exactly. It could be his delivery. Not his voice but his delivery...it's like he's drunk and doesn't really care, but not in a good Tom Waits way but in a bad oh shit my uncle is drunk and trying to play songs on the piano again at Christmas kind of way. Maybe? I'm not sure. Maybe I just haven't had the proper introduction, the right album. I feel somewhat the same way about Patti Smith...
I want to like Nick Cave. I really do.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
October 5, 2010: Nina Simone - Plain Gold Ring
Nina Simone - Plain Gold Ring: youtube.com/watch?v=PuzkYOBtEWY
I read an interview with PJ Harvey, once, where she said that she used to go to the library and sit in the listening room listening to Harry Smith's Anthology of Folk Music, compulsively. Or at least I think I read this. I know I heard Natalie Merchant claim this activity hers, though; she would go to the library and do the same, same album, same compulsiveness. So, in my fourth year at university I took advantage of my student library card and holed myself into a cubicle on the top floor of the library with Harry Smith's Anthology of American Folk Music, for my favorites shared this secret and I needed it to be mine. I'd listen to songs and try to write out the lyrics as they came, would listen to songs over again writing them out by hand, would stare into the middle distance as I listened.
Then I moved to Toronto and found another library. I moved on from Harry Smith and would get Nina Simone albums, Tom Waits, Bruce Springsteen. The only time I listened to Nebraska was at a library in Toronto, sitting in a cubicle with headphones and the lyrics sheet in front of me. It was all so simple and beautiful.
It's a practice I've unfortunately lost in the past few years. And I miss it, in ways. It was nice to just spend a day by myself every so often, go to the biggest library I could find in a far off part of town and immerse myself in a history of modern popular music, not worry about relations and work and the worries of the default world. It was just music, words, story, all.
Of all those songs I heard, I think this is one of my favorites. It's delicate and wonderful and it surprised me with every new musical introduction, my eyes closed and head moving slow. And I don't listen to it so often, maybe because it is best in my mind from that one day.
I read an interview with PJ Harvey, once, where she said that she used to go to the library and sit in the listening room listening to Harry Smith's Anthology of Folk Music, compulsively. Or at least I think I read this. I know I heard Natalie Merchant claim this activity hers, though; she would go to the library and do the same, same album, same compulsiveness. So, in my fourth year at university I took advantage of my student library card and holed myself into a cubicle on the top floor of the library with Harry Smith's Anthology of American Folk Music, for my favorites shared this secret and I needed it to be mine. I'd listen to songs and try to write out the lyrics as they came, would listen to songs over again writing them out by hand, would stare into the middle distance as I listened.
Then I moved to Toronto and found another library. I moved on from Harry Smith and would get Nina Simone albums, Tom Waits, Bruce Springsteen. The only time I listened to Nebraska was at a library in Toronto, sitting in a cubicle with headphones and the lyrics sheet in front of me. It was all so simple and beautiful.
It's a practice I've unfortunately lost in the past few years. And I miss it, in ways. It was nice to just spend a day by myself every so often, go to the biggest library I could find in a far off part of town and immerse myself in a history of modern popular music, not worry about relations and work and the worries of the default world. It was just music, words, story, all.
Of all those songs I heard, I think this is one of my favorites. It's delicate and wonderful and it surprised me with every new musical introduction, my eyes closed and head moving slow. And I don't listen to it so often, maybe because it is best in my mind from that one day.
Monday, October 4, 2010
October 4, 2010: Vashti Bunyan - Just Another Diamond Day
Vashti Bunyan - Just Another Diamond Day: youtube.com/watch?v=lwSTf_sekv4
I've been told that both sides of my family came from Ireland during the potato famine. When I was a kid I thought the concept of a "potato famine" was ridiculous as I looked down at my supper plate of potatoes, meat and vegetables. Why didn't they just eat something else? Did they love potatoes that much that they couldn't just eat something else? But I was a kid, what did I know.
Anyway, both sides of my family came to Canada from Ireland during the potato famine. And where I grew up there was an island just outside the town. Apparently as the boats full of weary, tired and sick Irish pulled into New Brunswick they dropped off all the sick on the island, leaving just the weary and tired to continue. Those sick who somehow recovered on this tiny island formed a small community and became the core of what is now my "hometown" of Miramichi.
This could all be misinformation, misconstruction or myth. I don't know. What I do know, though, with a certainty, is that I am descended from the Irish. And you know how I know this? Because we didn't listen to Irish music in my household, save perhaps the occasional Pogues song. However, somehow, every Irish sounding song I hear captures me fully. There is something inherent in the structure and the sound of Irish music that compels me more than any other music. I wasn't exposed to it, it's not like some hearkening nostalgia, it's just inherent inside of me. It's in my blood from the people whose line I've followed, who have long died and who exist still in my blood. I have no evidence for this, I just know.
It breaks my heart.
I've been told that both sides of my family came from Ireland during the potato famine. When I was a kid I thought the concept of a "potato famine" was ridiculous as I looked down at my supper plate of potatoes, meat and vegetables. Why didn't they just eat something else? Did they love potatoes that much that they couldn't just eat something else? But I was a kid, what did I know.
Anyway, both sides of my family came to Canada from Ireland during the potato famine. And where I grew up there was an island just outside the town. Apparently as the boats full of weary, tired and sick Irish pulled into New Brunswick they dropped off all the sick on the island, leaving just the weary and tired to continue. Those sick who somehow recovered on this tiny island formed a small community and became the core of what is now my "hometown" of Miramichi.
This could all be misinformation, misconstruction or myth. I don't know. What I do know, though, with a certainty, is that I am descended from the Irish. And you know how I know this? Because we didn't listen to Irish music in my household, save perhaps the occasional Pogues song. However, somehow, every Irish sounding song I hear captures me fully. There is something inherent in the structure and the sound of Irish music that compels me more than any other music. I wasn't exposed to it, it's not like some hearkening nostalgia, it's just inherent inside of me. It's in my blood from the people whose line I've followed, who have long died and who exist still in my blood. I have no evidence for this, I just know.
It breaks my heart.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
October 3, 2010: Neko Case - I Wish I Was the Moon
Neko Case - I Wish I Was the Moon: youtube.com/watch?v=gCV-YMD6oXA
It's difficult to write the moon into anything. It's overused and cliched, it's overly romantic. But when someone gets it right it's refreshingly beautiful.
And for whatever reason this is one of my favorite songs.
It's difficult to write the moon into anything. It's overused and cliched, it's overly romantic. But when someone gets it right it's refreshingly beautiful.
And for whatever reason this is one of my favorite songs.
Friday, October 1, 2010
October 1, 2010: Bright Eyes - Road to Joy
Bright Eyes - Road to Joy: youtube.com/watch?v=23d2qee4lG4
A friend of mine recently said to me:
I just want to know how long it will be before I don't feel like shit all the time.
I didn't have an answer for him.
And I went to bed last night thinking that I seem to not be able to do anything right. And I woke up today with those after effects in my body. I don't much feel like doing anything at the moment but to stay in listening to music all day, reading. But I have to move all of my things from one room to another room across town and I don't know how I'm going to do that but I will because I have little choice. Shower, some food will serve me right, bring me back.
I sometimes think of a poem I read when I was twenty, by Dylan Thomas, where the narrator tells a dying man, "Do not go gentle into that good night. / Rage, rage against the dying of the light." I'd never considered such an approach to death and it's sometimes the closest I have to an approach to living.
A friend of mine recently said to me:
I just want to know how long it will be before I don't feel like shit all the time.
I didn't have an answer for him.
And I went to bed last night thinking that I seem to not be able to do anything right. And I woke up today with those after effects in my body. I don't much feel like doing anything at the moment but to stay in listening to music all day, reading. But I have to move all of my things from one room to another room across town and I don't know how I'm going to do that but I will because I have little choice. Shower, some food will serve me right, bring me back.
I sometimes think of a poem I read when I was twenty, by Dylan Thomas, where the narrator tells a dying man, "Do not go gentle into that good night. / Rage, rage against the dying of the light." I'd never considered such an approach to death and it's sometimes the closest I have to an approach to living.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
September 30, 2010: The Mars Volta - Drunkship of Lanterns (live)
The Mars Volta - Drunkship of Lanterns (live): youtube.com/watch?v=nNDPAlRJCFg
I feel weird about the term "rock and roll." Or "rock 'n roll" or "Rock 'n Roll" or whatever. It never feels right coming out of my mouth. I appreciate the distinction between "hip hop" and "rap" but rock has no alternative. Maybe "alternative"? but that feels pretentious.
When I think "rock and roll" I think of Elvis. I think of Chuck Berry. I think of Buddy Holly. Rock and roll became a genre defined by what is now considered to be a pretty tame form but was then exciting and unpredictable (though it was based on pretty predictable blues structures). So that's what defined rock and roll, right? The exciting, the unpredictable, it became less a genre and more a style. But then what does rock and roll sound like if it's a style and no longer a genre? I always think back on the landmark, blues based (tame) form when I think of the sound of it.
But it seems quite different when we think "rap" and "hip hop." Rap is the act, like singing, it's a lyrical form where hip hop is the overall presentation; when a song focuses more on the rap aspect it's rap but when the music aspect is on par with the rapper(s) it is hip hop. 50 Cent is rap, The Roots is hip hop. Or so I see things.
I'd like some distinction in rock and roll. And I don't mean classifying genres but laying focus on the sound rather than the style. What would be the word? I don't know if we (white people, the youth, the lower middle class, etc) are truly capable of keeping a pure genre without making it a style. Look what happened to the term "indie," though it be short for independent; a lot of "indie" bands are on major labels, it's become a distinction of style. And look at "grunge." Remember how they were selling grunge shirts in Sears catalogs?
But it's all bullshit laymen garbage anyway. All these genres are really about marketing products, aren't they? It's all music. The Mars Volta is no different from Elvis is no different from 50 Cent is no different from John Cage. Do we have to dumb it down for the layman sake? I guess I don't really care about the terms.
I guess all I wanted to convey, really, is that this performance of "Drunkship of Lanterns" by The Mars Volta embodies what I think is best in Rock and Roll.
I feel weird about the term "rock and roll." Or "rock 'n roll" or "Rock 'n Roll" or whatever. It never feels right coming out of my mouth. I appreciate the distinction between "hip hop" and "rap" but rock has no alternative. Maybe "alternative"? but that feels pretentious.
When I think "rock and roll" I think of Elvis. I think of Chuck Berry. I think of Buddy Holly. Rock and roll became a genre defined by what is now considered to be a pretty tame form but was then exciting and unpredictable (though it was based on pretty predictable blues structures). So that's what defined rock and roll, right? The exciting, the unpredictable, it became less a genre and more a style. But then what does rock and roll sound like if it's a style and no longer a genre? I always think back on the landmark, blues based (tame) form when I think of the sound of it.
But it seems quite different when we think "rap" and "hip hop." Rap is the act, like singing, it's a lyrical form where hip hop is the overall presentation; when a song focuses more on the rap aspect it's rap but when the music aspect is on par with the rapper(s) it is hip hop. 50 Cent is rap, The Roots is hip hop. Or so I see things.
I'd like some distinction in rock and roll. And I don't mean classifying genres but laying focus on the sound rather than the style. What would be the word? I don't know if we (white people, the youth, the lower middle class, etc) are truly capable of keeping a pure genre without making it a style. Look what happened to the term "indie," though it be short for independent; a lot of "indie" bands are on major labels, it's become a distinction of style. And look at "grunge." Remember how they were selling grunge shirts in Sears catalogs?
But it's all bullshit laymen garbage anyway. All these genres are really about marketing products, aren't they? It's all music. The Mars Volta is no different from Elvis is no different from 50 Cent is no different from John Cage. Do we have to dumb it down for the layman sake? I guess I don't really care about the terms.
I guess all I wanted to convey, really, is that this performance of "Drunkship of Lanterns" by The Mars Volta embodies what I think is best in Rock and Roll.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
September 29, 2010: Tom Waits - Christmas Card from a Hooker in Minneapolis
Tom Waits - Christmas Card from a Hooker in Minneapolis: youtube.com/watch?v=tE5NLpZC6r0
I was talking with my roommate last night about the stylization of the past; how some movies, say, from the 70s now look great compared to the movies of, say, today. Will people look back on the movies of 2010 and ask why movies aren't made that way anymore? or will movies of the 1970s just be lionized more so?
He said "I'll tell you one thing. The 1970s really hit their mark when it came to buttons and knobs. I'm sick of this touch screen bullshit. Give me buttons and knobs." He then told me about the death of his first family TV, which had lasted them into his teen years.
I've been thinking lately about a poem I recently read in which the author stated that he had already lived a dozen lives. And how many lives have I lived? I could probably, at 26 years, designate between 2 and 5 lives lived depending on the perspective. I think, though, that perhaps I could also designate the death of my family television as the end of one of my lives. As much as I resent such a thing it's a certain amount of true.
Our family basement / living room was designed and structured in a completely different manner when we had our first, somewhat cumbersome, thick and wooden television. The room was long and narrow and the TV faced one of the horizontal walls, most of the sitting arrangement was organized to face it. I remember a lot of brown, stained wood, even the couches were brown, grey, drab. But then when we got rid of that TV there came this big screen, 50 inch, black, heavy beast of a television that was exciting and new, all the sitting arrangements faced it again but this time vertically so we were in a kind of hallway facing the end (or beginning). Then the furniture changed. And then the walls. The whole room became different and the TV was so big and loud that it was heard throughout the house.
There even used to be a door to the basement / living room, I remember, and we would shut it when the TV was too loud down there. That all changed with the big screen though.
A friend asked me the other day, "So you were raised on TV?" I hadn't stated such, but I had to agree, yes I was raised on TV. It's not untrue. And it's the most unfortunate thing I can think of. Some I know quit school, ran away and traveled, got their own apartments, struggled young and adventured; my parents were steady, my household was quite sane and "normal" and this sort of normalcy was propagated. My only real problem growing up was too much television and what kind of problem is that? It's barely anything to overcome, barely a problem. It's nothing, really.
That's not to say that I strive for struggle or resent my family's stability, quite the opposite. But when I think back on my childhood it seems like nothing real ever happened. We had TV, video games, computers...
This same poet I read stated that most writers never really have anything important to write because they never had anything important that had to be written. When you're comfortable always, what's to say except that you're not uncomfortable? Conflict makes for good writing, but without the familiarization of conflict, is one able to write? Or does one find discomforts where really there is nothing real? Is this a necessity?
I was talking with my roommate last night about the stylization of the past; how some movies, say, from the 70s now look great compared to the movies of, say, today. Will people look back on the movies of 2010 and ask why movies aren't made that way anymore? or will movies of the 1970s just be lionized more so?
He said "I'll tell you one thing. The 1970s really hit their mark when it came to buttons and knobs. I'm sick of this touch screen bullshit. Give me buttons and knobs." He then told me about the death of his first family TV, which had lasted them into his teen years.
I've been thinking lately about a poem I recently read in which the author stated that he had already lived a dozen lives. And how many lives have I lived? I could probably, at 26 years, designate between 2 and 5 lives lived depending on the perspective. I think, though, that perhaps I could also designate the death of my family television as the end of one of my lives. As much as I resent such a thing it's a certain amount of true.
Our family basement / living room was designed and structured in a completely different manner when we had our first, somewhat cumbersome, thick and wooden television. The room was long and narrow and the TV faced one of the horizontal walls, most of the sitting arrangement was organized to face it. I remember a lot of brown, stained wood, even the couches were brown, grey, drab. But then when we got rid of that TV there came this big screen, 50 inch, black, heavy beast of a television that was exciting and new, all the sitting arrangements faced it again but this time vertically so we were in a kind of hallway facing the end (or beginning). Then the furniture changed. And then the walls. The whole room became different and the TV was so big and loud that it was heard throughout the house.
There even used to be a door to the basement / living room, I remember, and we would shut it when the TV was too loud down there. That all changed with the big screen though.
A friend asked me the other day, "So you were raised on TV?" I hadn't stated such, but I had to agree, yes I was raised on TV. It's not untrue. And it's the most unfortunate thing I can think of. Some I know quit school, ran away and traveled, got their own apartments, struggled young and adventured; my parents were steady, my household was quite sane and "normal" and this sort of normalcy was propagated. My only real problem growing up was too much television and what kind of problem is that? It's barely anything to overcome, barely a problem. It's nothing, really.
That's not to say that I strive for struggle or resent my family's stability, quite the opposite. But when I think back on my childhood it seems like nothing real ever happened. We had TV, video games, computers...
This same poet I read stated that most writers never really have anything important to write because they never had anything important that had to be written. When you're comfortable always, what's to say except that you're not uncomfortable? Conflict makes for good writing, but without the familiarization of conflict, is one able to write? Or does one find discomforts where really there is nothing real? Is this a necessity?
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
September 28, 2010: B.A. Johnston - I Love it When You Dress Up
B.A. Johnston - I Love it When You Dress Up: youtube.com/watch?v=RkmDCqkJYlk
I don't remember the first time I saw B.A. Johnston but I do remember the first time I heard of him. Richard told me he had been at Gus' Pub one night and there was a band onstage, all wearing bad suits, and they started playing, were looking around as if something was wrong. Then their attention went toward the lotto machines in back of the bar where there was another guy in a bad suit. That guy got pissed, kicked the lotto machine and came onstage, started singing. Richard said it was the funniest thing he'd ever seen, with some kind of wonder behind it all.
And I listened to some of B.A.'s songs after, saw him perform and I was a convert. There is something about his songs that capture both the lowest of humour and the worst of heartbreak that I really admire, it all seems so unabashedly confessional.
And what of the "confessional" lyric? It can go so terribly wrong at times but when it's right it's really right. Ani DiFranco has been guilty of both bad and good confession in its worst and best forms. But all example aside the confessional is attractive I think because we all, everyone, have in us the ability to be the most evil, self-hating and low garbage of beings possible. And who wants to admit that? It seems natural to let it go, forget it, move past and toward the good. But when someone admits to their worst, admits a particular instance where they have been such, it can be refreshing. Especially when that person seems admirable.
The confessional lyric has to go beyond the "I'm a shit" stage, though, to make it worth anything. There has to be something else behind the words whether it be celebration, regret, sorrow, etc. It's a difficult form for otherwise you're just bragging.
I don't remember the first time I saw B.A. Johnston but I do remember the first time I heard of him. Richard told me he had been at Gus' Pub one night and there was a band onstage, all wearing bad suits, and they started playing, were looking around as if something was wrong. Then their attention went toward the lotto machines in back of the bar where there was another guy in a bad suit. That guy got pissed, kicked the lotto machine and came onstage, started singing. Richard said it was the funniest thing he'd ever seen, with some kind of wonder behind it all.
And I listened to some of B.A.'s songs after, saw him perform and I was a convert. There is something about his songs that capture both the lowest of humour and the worst of heartbreak that I really admire, it all seems so unabashedly confessional.
And what of the "confessional" lyric? It can go so terribly wrong at times but when it's right it's really right. Ani DiFranco has been guilty of both bad and good confession in its worst and best forms. But all example aside the confessional is attractive I think because we all, everyone, have in us the ability to be the most evil, self-hating and low garbage of beings possible. And who wants to admit that? It seems natural to let it go, forget it, move past and toward the good. But when someone admits to their worst, admits a particular instance where they have been such, it can be refreshing. Especially when that person seems admirable.
The confessional lyric has to go beyond the "I'm a shit" stage, though, to make it worth anything. There has to be something else behind the words whether it be celebration, regret, sorrow, etc. It's a difficult form for otherwise you're just bragging.
Monday, September 27, 2010
September 27, 2010: Pearl Jam - Do the Evolution
Pearl Jam - Do the Evolution: youtube.com/watch?v=aDaOgu2CQtI&ob=av2n
I was an awkward teenager. We all of us were, but this first fact is integral.
I once went to a friends house, just stopped in to see what he was up to. He was in his basement working on bikes with a couple guys who were a lot cooler than me. They were both a little surprised I was there. I remember one of them asking:
"What do you listen to?" as if it were a threat.
"I like Pearl Jam."
They laughed. "Who the fuck are they?"
"They just came out with their first video in about 10 years and it's great. It's called Do the Evolution."
They laughed. "That sounds fucking stupid."
Or so I remember the conversation going. I'm sure that's dumbed down a little.
They were a certain kind of right in laughing at that. I mean, "Do the Evolution" sounds like a 1950s educational song in the vein of Buddy Holly. And the name Pearl Jam sounds like breakfast fare or a bad basketball move or semen. But what a great and aggressive song. Granted, the first scream sounds kind of funny, but the rest is all fire.
Strange my friend didn't stand up for me that day, but who cares. I loved him anyway. He wanted to be cool as much as I did.
I was an awkward teenager. We all of us were, but this first fact is integral.
I once went to a friends house, just stopped in to see what he was up to. He was in his basement working on bikes with a couple guys who were a lot cooler than me. They were both a little surprised I was there. I remember one of them asking:
"What do you listen to?" as if it were a threat.
"I like Pearl Jam."
They laughed. "Who the fuck are they?"
"They just came out with their first video in about 10 years and it's great. It's called Do the Evolution."
They laughed. "That sounds fucking stupid."
Or so I remember the conversation going. I'm sure that's dumbed down a little.
They were a certain kind of right in laughing at that. I mean, "Do the Evolution" sounds like a 1950s educational song in the vein of Buddy Holly. And the name Pearl Jam sounds like breakfast fare or a bad basketball move or semen. But what a great and aggressive song. Granted, the first scream sounds kind of funny, but the rest is all fire.
Strange my friend didn't stand up for me that day, but who cares. I loved him anyway. He wanted to be cool as much as I did.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
September 25, 2010: Modest Mouse - Bukowski
Modest Mouse - Bukowski: youtube.com/watch?v=xr_B2IOUYSw
I'm not really the type to rest. I can't relax. I have to do something with my hands at all times if I'm not sleeping. I don't see this as a bad thing, essentially, but it's difficult when I go through periods without income generating work.
I'm dealing with a problem that has no solution: I don't need money to be happy. I do, though, need to have a full stomach and a place to sleep to be happy (or, at least, not go insane), and I'm quite ambitious in my artistic pursuits, will need money to follow through with this. But my artistic pursuits don't generate an income, they barely break me even, so I must find a job. As I do not want to fall into some comfortable, nice job for the money and neglect my artistry I tend to take jobs that I don't necessarily care about, something I can leave in an instant if I need. But as I don't care about these jobs, essentially, I have no drive to find them when I'm low on money. And I don't need money to be happy, ad infinitum.
And then when I'm not working an income generating job I have so much time for artistic endeavors that I run out of things to do. I get through all the projects that excite me and I'm left with reading piles of books and drinking coffee all day. And I love this but my hands get idle and my mind needs rest. And I can't rest.
I've started in on a new Bukowski book because he's an easy read, he's as much rest as I can find. And he unfortunately (fortunately) reinforces my desire to drink and write and despise the futility of undesirable work for the sake of work.
Our worth is not based on our work nor our suffering.
I'm not really the type to rest. I can't relax. I have to do something with my hands at all times if I'm not sleeping. I don't see this as a bad thing, essentially, but it's difficult when I go through periods without income generating work.
I'm dealing with a problem that has no solution: I don't need money to be happy. I do, though, need to have a full stomach and a place to sleep to be happy (or, at least, not go insane), and I'm quite ambitious in my artistic pursuits, will need money to follow through with this. But my artistic pursuits don't generate an income, they barely break me even, so I must find a job. As I do not want to fall into some comfortable, nice job for the money and neglect my artistry I tend to take jobs that I don't necessarily care about, something I can leave in an instant if I need. But as I don't care about these jobs, essentially, I have no drive to find them when I'm low on money. And I don't need money to be happy, ad infinitum.
And then when I'm not working an income generating job I have so much time for artistic endeavors that I run out of things to do. I get through all the projects that excite me and I'm left with reading piles of books and drinking coffee all day. And I love this but my hands get idle and my mind needs rest. And I can't rest.
I've started in on a new Bukowski book because he's an easy read, he's as much rest as I can find. And he unfortunately (fortunately) reinforces my desire to drink and write and despise the futility of undesirable work for the sake of work.
Our worth is not based on our work nor our suffering.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
September 23, 2010: Hayden - Barely Friends
Hayden - Barely Friends: youtube.com/watch?v=U3mwg1-2BfQ&feature=related
I sometimes resent the fact that I've resigned myself to go through with this blog project. For I revel in mystery but it's not served me best so far, I'm attempting transparency. Which means, sometimes, confession.
So. Despite myself.
My biggest love once told me that when she was a teenager she decided she would marry Hayden. She had no choice, it was decided. Now she's with a man who resembles Hayden, who treats her right, and they'll probably get married. And I'm happy for her, for that.
Sometimes the thought of what could have been different, though, can be debilitating.
And I've felt, for years, that perhaps I'm cursed when it comes to love. I married a concept of my life when I was young and have pushed away many things which I felt could have been a distraction from that, including love, affection, security. But then any time I've left those concepts aside, allowed them, they've seem to spurn me.
Not always, of course. But for the sake of argument:
I've felt before that perhaps my person can be off-putting; I'm silent and accepting. I have little capacity to "fight" for someones affections. I'm honest to a fault. I've considered that perhaps if I were a better liar I could win every woman to my side for I've seen it done but I don't have such things in me. One close to my heart once told me of her past boyfriend, that she had never had someone so persistent in wanting to be her boyfriend and she relented to him for that.
A friend said recently, "Why do I always pick the wrong guy?" I had no answer, and in fact felt her concern to be foolish for we always seem to pick the wrong one in retrospect, it's just that some give the wrong one more of a fighting chance. Granted, I'm not so cynical, but you get my point? It's so rare to find "the right one" that it may take a lifetime and I guess I'm ready for that more so than most.
But most chances I've taken have ended in sorrow, embarrassment or (worst of all) anticlimax. It seems.
Though I am no pariah. I admit I have spurned.
I sometimes resent the fact that I've resigned myself to go through with this blog project. For I revel in mystery but it's not served me best so far, I'm attempting transparency. Which means, sometimes, confession.
So. Despite myself.
My biggest love once told me that when she was a teenager she decided she would marry Hayden. She had no choice, it was decided. Now she's with a man who resembles Hayden, who treats her right, and they'll probably get married. And I'm happy for her, for that.
Sometimes the thought of what could have been different, though, can be debilitating.
And I've felt, for years, that perhaps I'm cursed when it comes to love. I married a concept of my life when I was young and have pushed away many things which I felt could have been a distraction from that, including love, affection, security. But then any time I've left those concepts aside, allowed them, they've seem to spurn me.
Not always, of course. But for the sake of argument:
I've felt before that perhaps my person can be off-putting; I'm silent and accepting. I have little capacity to "fight" for someones affections. I'm honest to a fault. I've considered that perhaps if I were a better liar I could win every woman to my side for I've seen it done but I don't have such things in me. One close to my heart once told me of her past boyfriend, that she had never had someone so persistent in wanting to be her boyfriend and she relented to him for that.
A friend said recently, "Why do I always pick the wrong guy?" I had no answer, and in fact felt her concern to be foolish for we always seem to pick the wrong one in retrospect, it's just that some give the wrong one more of a fighting chance. Granted, I'm not so cynical, but you get my point? It's so rare to find "the right one" that it may take a lifetime and I guess I'm ready for that more so than most.
But most chances I've taken have ended in sorrow, embarrassment or (worst of all) anticlimax. It seems.
Though I am no pariah. I admit I have spurned.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
September 22, 2010: Rich Aucoin - Brian Wilson is A.L.i.V.E
Rich Aucoin - Brian Wilson is A.L.i.V.E: youtube.com/watch?v=b44X2hY0LxA
This will be the last I have to offer for this one sided argument.
Last night I went to see Rich Aucoin at The Horseshoe. He started by handing out glow sticks and 3D glasses. Then he started the crowd off by making us scream. Then he started playing next to a screen that showed a 3D video of The Grinch That Stole Christmas, Youtube clips, psychedelic colours and such. He taught lyrics to everyone and had us sing along. He brought out a parachute and had us hold it up and cover everyone with it. He had balloons and sparklers and confetti. He had us put our arms around the people next to us.
I ended up in a circle of complete strangers with our arms around each other, kicking air. The girl next to me was laughing so hard her friend had to ask her if she was okay.
And this happened in Toronto and we all gratefully were part of it.
This will be the last I have to offer for this one sided argument.
Last night I went to see Rich Aucoin at The Horseshoe. He started by handing out glow sticks and 3D glasses. Then he started the crowd off by making us scream. Then he started playing next to a screen that showed a 3D video of The Grinch That Stole Christmas, Youtube clips, psychedelic colours and such. He taught lyrics to everyone and had us sing along. He brought out a parachute and had us hold it up and cover everyone with it. He had balloons and sparklers and confetti. He had us put our arms around the people next to us.
I ended up in a circle of complete strangers with our arms around each other, kicking air. The girl next to me was laughing so hard her friend had to ask her if she was okay.
And this happened in Toronto and we all gratefully were part of it.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
September 21, 2010: dd/mm/yyyy - Digital Haircut / Van Tan
dd/mm/yyyy - Digital Haircut / Van Tan: youtube.com/watch?v=8iIfkBztfow
I mentioned a couple days ago that shows in Toronto can be boring and it's mostly the crowds fault. I can't really attack them/us without proper argument, so here goes:
I've seen only a handful of great shows in Toronto, one of which was dd/mm/yyyy in the basement of an abandoned hardware store in Parkdale. I had gone out to see a band at Mitzi's Sister and ran into Bill and Cora, some other friends. Bill told me about a show going on down the street, I was bored and restless and let him lead me, we went into an alley nearby where a small group smoked, we went past a door guy and into the back entrance of a building, down the stairs. The basement we entered was poorly lit and concrete, wood beams, a maze leading from one room to the next, my throat burned from the asbestos in the air. I recognized some faces. I was still a little unsure what was even happening here, I just followed.
Then I saw Alex. She led me to a tiny room where we all, about 40 of us, gathered in a circle around a band setting up. There was one lamp lighting them all near the drummer. They started with a blast of feedback and Alex immediately started dancing, across from me in the crowd. I don't remember much from there but getting drunk, dancing, the music, Alex across from me and moving, the harsh light and the heavy, sweaty air full of asbestos. It was beautiful.
And I was coming from Halifax where we never got big shows. I remember Broken Social Scene at The Forum being revelatory, we all drunk and singing and moving up and down with the crowd. I remember Death From Above 1979 being a mess, being terrified the crowd would break into a riot. I remember seeing Buck 65 at The Marquee, him reciting a song without music, the crowd going quiet complete.
In Toronto I've seen Broken Social Scene and it was without it's charm. Buck 65 I've seen here and it's always a modest endeavor. I don't know what it is, exactly, that keeps us from really digging it here, letting ourselves go into it all, letting go, but it can be upsetting. I saw Cat Power in Toronto and there was almost a middle-aged man fight behind me because one was standing too close to the other.
I think we're spoiled. We get too many shows. I can go see near anyone and count on being able to see them again within the span of a year because they don't have many other options in Canada for big cities. It's us and Montreal. So they'll be back, no point in going crazy for it. In Halifax there was a sense that this band will never be back here again (and often they weren't) so we made it worth it all.
And we're too insular. I can go to any show, nearly, and run into people I know from around the city, most I may not know so well. And as I don't know them so well I don't let it out, I'll stand and watch and be appreciative and follow the crowd energy. Is that just me? Granted I'm not so scared of people anymore but are we all so scared of people?
It can be infuriating. And not even the fact that crowds seems lackluster but that I contribute to that. I've come to play shows and early into the set will ask the audience to just come a little closer. And it works! I've seen it happen at a show The Sleepless Nights played, same with The D'Urbervilles, it's like we're waiting for the green light to really enjoy the moment. So we want to dig it, fully, but there's something holding us from it.
We need Jen Polk back.
I mentioned a couple days ago that shows in Toronto can be boring and it's mostly the crowds fault. I can't really attack them/us without proper argument, so here goes:
I've seen only a handful of great shows in Toronto, one of which was dd/mm/yyyy in the basement of an abandoned hardware store in Parkdale. I had gone out to see a band at Mitzi's Sister and ran into Bill and Cora, some other friends. Bill told me about a show going on down the street, I was bored and restless and let him lead me, we went into an alley nearby where a small group smoked, we went past a door guy and into the back entrance of a building, down the stairs. The basement we entered was poorly lit and concrete, wood beams, a maze leading from one room to the next, my throat burned from the asbestos in the air. I recognized some faces. I was still a little unsure what was even happening here, I just followed.
Then I saw Alex. She led me to a tiny room where we all, about 40 of us, gathered in a circle around a band setting up. There was one lamp lighting them all near the drummer. They started with a blast of feedback and Alex immediately started dancing, across from me in the crowd. I don't remember much from there but getting drunk, dancing, the music, Alex across from me and moving, the harsh light and the heavy, sweaty air full of asbestos. It was beautiful.
And I was coming from Halifax where we never got big shows. I remember Broken Social Scene at The Forum being revelatory, we all drunk and singing and moving up and down with the crowd. I remember Death From Above 1979 being a mess, being terrified the crowd would break into a riot. I remember seeing Buck 65 at The Marquee, him reciting a song without music, the crowd going quiet complete.
In Toronto I've seen Broken Social Scene and it was without it's charm. Buck 65 I've seen here and it's always a modest endeavor. I don't know what it is, exactly, that keeps us from really digging it here, letting ourselves go into it all, letting go, but it can be upsetting. I saw Cat Power in Toronto and there was almost a middle-aged man fight behind me because one was standing too close to the other.
I think we're spoiled. We get too many shows. I can go see near anyone and count on being able to see them again within the span of a year because they don't have many other options in Canada for big cities. It's us and Montreal. So they'll be back, no point in going crazy for it. In Halifax there was a sense that this band will never be back here again (and often they weren't) so we made it worth it all.
And we're too insular. I can go to any show, nearly, and run into people I know from around the city, most I may not know so well. And as I don't know them so well I don't let it out, I'll stand and watch and be appreciative and follow the crowd energy. Is that just me? Granted I'm not so scared of people anymore but are we all so scared of people?
It can be infuriating. And not even the fact that crowds seems lackluster but that I contribute to that. I've come to play shows and early into the set will ask the audience to just come a little closer. And it works! I've seen it happen at a show The Sleepless Nights played, same with The D'Urbervilles, it's like we're waiting for the green light to really enjoy the moment. So we want to dig it, fully, but there's something holding us from it.
We need Jen Polk back.
Monday, September 20, 2010
September 20, 2010: Gonzales - Gogol
Gonzales - Gogol: youtube.com/watch?v=exSP7VqUMAw
I ran to catch the streetcar tonight. And when I caught it I was the only one on there. It was strange and beautiful.
And we drove past University and I thought of Katie, how when I first moved here she brought me out to see some forgettable movie but to get in and out of the theatre we had to walk through the middle of a mall, through the echoed hallways at night. She drove me home, I was squatting in a condo in the entertainment district, deep tourist downtown, and she commented on how she never drives at night and it was nice to drive these usually congested streets, to see them when they're empty. Looking back it was part of what brought me here, what made the city exciting and beautiful.
And as I thought this I considered that perhaps I need a new form of living. Eight years ago I dreamt of the city, made it three years ago and have flourished here, have lived and died here over again, but I may need the dream of a new city. Not even necessarily a different city but a new one.
"Livin and dyin in New York means nothin to me."
I've been thinking of Berlin the past while. I know little to nothing of it but hear things, shape it. I wish it were Paris in my thoughts.
I ran to catch the streetcar tonight. And when I caught it I was the only one on there. It was strange and beautiful.
And we drove past University and I thought of Katie, how when I first moved here she brought me out to see some forgettable movie but to get in and out of the theatre we had to walk through the middle of a mall, through the echoed hallways at night. She drove me home, I was squatting in a condo in the entertainment district, deep tourist downtown, and she commented on how she never drives at night and it was nice to drive these usually congested streets, to see them when they're empty. Looking back it was part of what brought me here, what made the city exciting and beautiful.
And as I thought this I considered that perhaps I need a new form of living. Eight years ago I dreamt of the city, made it three years ago and have flourished here, have lived and died here over again, but I may need the dream of a new city. Not even necessarily a different city but a new one.
"Livin and dyin in New York means nothin to me."
I've been thinking of Berlin the past while. I know little to nothing of it but hear things, shape it. I wish it were Paris in my thoughts.
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