Stars - Your Ex-Lover is Dead: youtube.com/watch?v=55FMOJMhV9s
I will be getting up tomorrow morning, early, and jumping on a plane. Will return in September, but for now this is all I have to give. My apologies.
This song, in an eerie way, captures what I am to expect of the next couple weeks.
Read Hitch 22 by Christopher Hitchens while I'm gone. And watch some movies by Philippe Garrel. You'll be better for it.
See you soon.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Saturday, August 28, 2010
August 28, 2010: The Flaming Lips - Do You Realize
The Flaming Lips - Do You Realize: youtube.com/watch?v=5zYOKFjpm9s
It's not often that this song fails to make me feel something. There isn't much to say about it but that every word rings true.
There are many elements of the science vs religion debate that I don't understand. Aside from the science elements: Those on the religious side seem to insist that the beauty of life is taken away by science, that there is nothing of worth to hold onto if we're just a series of small bright blips on a massive sheet of nothingness. But I regard the beauty of a brief life to be stronger than that of an eternity in spirit. If I am here for a fraction of a second in the 100 years of existence then I'll stand awed at it all and then be done with it and thankful for that.
I once had a conception that if I were to die I would hope that nobody cried, that everyone would celebrate for I had my time and was in love. I understand that, regarding death, that goes against what seems to be human nature. For we tend toward sorrow and mourning at such circumstance. I know it would be a trial for me to stand above a loved one, cold and without life, and kiss his head, move on joyous. But it is an ideal to strive for.
It's not often that this song fails to make me feel something. There isn't much to say about it but that every word rings true.
There are many elements of the science vs religion debate that I don't understand. Aside from the science elements: Those on the religious side seem to insist that the beauty of life is taken away by science, that there is nothing of worth to hold onto if we're just a series of small bright blips on a massive sheet of nothingness. But I regard the beauty of a brief life to be stronger than that of an eternity in spirit. If I am here for a fraction of a second in the 100 years of existence then I'll stand awed at it all and then be done with it and thankful for that.
I once had a conception that if I were to die I would hope that nobody cried, that everyone would celebrate for I had my time and was in love. I understand that, regarding death, that goes against what seems to be human nature. For we tend toward sorrow and mourning at such circumstance. I know it would be a trial for me to stand above a loved one, cold and without life, and kiss his head, move on joyous. But it is an ideal to strive for.
Friday, August 27, 2010
August 27, 2010: Mohammed Rafi - Jan Pehechan
Mohammed Rafi - Jan Pehechan: youtube.com/watch?v=aHA_S48KRrI&feature=related
I briefly went through, some years ago, an obsession with Bollywood music. It was very brief, I barely have anything to speak of regarding my love but perhaps an attraction to wonder-fueled dance in video.
I wasn't exposed to much music growing up that was outside the English pop sphere; to listen to music that didn't have English lyrics was ridiculous and shunned. It was foreign, both geographically and personally. I didn't, couldn't, get it.
I once heard one of my favorite artists talk about rap and hip-hop, how if anyone were to give its history there would invariably be talk of New York in the 80s, of many American artists and how the music has evolved from there, but never does one talk about rap from Japan, hip-hop being made in Scandinavia. These people, these places, outside the preconceived spheres are contributing to the history, why are they ignored?
And this is a good example of how rock and roll is and was made outside the US, Canada and England and is still better than most of what it draws from. I should relight my Bollywood rock obsession.
I briefly went through, some years ago, an obsession with Bollywood music. It was very brief, I barely have anything to speak of regarding my love but perhaps an attraction to wonder-fueled dance in video.
I wasn't exposed to much music growing up that was outside the English pop sphere; to listen to music that didn't have English lyrics was ridiculous and shunned. It was foreign, both geographically and personally. I didn't, couldn't, get it.
I once heard one of my favorite artists talk about rap and hip-hop, how if anyone were to give its history there would invariably be talk of New York in the 80s, of many American artists and how the music has evolved from there, but never does one talk about rap from Japan, hip-hop being made in Scandinavia. These people, these places, outside the preconceived spheres are contributing to the history, why are they ignored?
And this is a good example of how rock and roll is and was made outside the US, Canada and England and is still better than most of what it draws from. I should relight my Bollywood rock obsession.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
August 26, 2010: PJ Harvey - When Under Ether
PJ Harvey - When Under Ether: youtube.com/watch?v=lnUQwE0YhZo
When I was a kid I used to get headaches that were so intense I couldn't see, was bed ridden for days. I went to doctors for years to find out where they were coming from but none could find any "cure." Of course they all offered solutions: The eye doctor said it was because of my eyes so I got glasses. The nose and throat specialist said it was because of my sinuses so I took drops and pills for years. The orthodontist said it was because of my teeth so I got braces. Perhaps it was a combination of all of these "solutions" for my severe headaches (or, migraines, I suppose) stopped being as often and intense about half way through my teen years. I, though, would doubt that any of these remedies worked. I do, infrequently, suffer headaches that throb through my whole body but I've become apt at quelling their pain with ibuprofen before the intensity grows to a severe state.
Aside from these headaches I also suffered from strange and hallucination inspired fevers at times. I would suddenly find myself vomiting and sweating, sleeping for days on end, having pills put into my body everywhere. I recall those headaches in association with the fevers and don't know which came first, if the fever stemmed from the headaches. Regardless, in my state during this time I would have disquieting visions, half-conscious dreams, in which certain objects around me would become unreasonably large but lighter than air. I remember my hand acquiring such dimensions, especially. And my blanket would become heavy and imprisoning. And I recall a giant rat in the room, in front of me, but only when I closed my eyes for when my eyes were open he would be gone or would turn to shadow.
These fevers haven't happened to me in years. I would assume that the last such episode happened to me before I was 14 years old. Did I give something up that these hauntings have left me?
When I was a kid I used to get headaches that were so intense I couldn't see, was bed ridden for days. I went to doctors for years to find out where they were coming from but none could find any "cure." Of course they all offered solutions: The eye doctor said it was because of my eyes so I got glasses. The nose and throat specialist said it was because of my sinuses so I took drops and pills for years. The orthodontist said it was because of my teeth so I got braces. Perhaps it was a combination of all of these "solutions" for my severe headaches (or, migraines, I suppose) stopped being as often and intense about half way through my teen years. I, though, would doubt that any of these remedies worked. I do, infrequently, suffer headaches that throb through my whole body but I've become apt at quelling their pain with ibuprofen before the intensity grows to a severe state.
Aside from these headaches I also suffered from strange and hallucination inspired fevers at times. I would suddenly find myself vomiting and sweating, sleeping for days on end, having pills put into my body everywhere. I recall those headaches in association with the fevers and don't know which came first, if the fever stemmed from the headaches. Regardless, in my state during this time I would have disquieting visions, half-conscious dreams, in which certain objects around me would become unreasonably large but lighter than air. I remember my hand acquiring such dimensions, especially. And my blanket would become heavy and imprisoning. And I recall a giant rat in the room, in front of me, but only when I closed my eyes for when my eyes were open he would be gone or would turn to shadow.
These fevers haven't happened to me in years. I would assume that the last such episode happened to me before I was 14 years old. Did I give something up that these hauntings have left me?
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
August 25, 2010: Cat Power - Moonshiner
Cat Power - Moonshiner: youtube.com/watch?v=Lx120yg_JDk
It's been a tough month, or so. I'm off next week on a big trip and, in need of money to fund it, took a job and dedicated myself to it for about 6 weeks at least. The problem is that I'm not making money at this job, or, better stated, not enough. I make now about as much as I did when I moved to Toronto and resigned myself to a job dish washing. So, effectively (I've been using that word a lot in my inner dialogue lately, for some reason), I've been working too hard and have developed a level of stress I'm not used to, am therefore going out drinking.
I don't particularly like drinking to let off steam, I just like the drink. It is, to borrow a massacred phrase someone else has before stated, a means to keep forever this sacred moment. It is a form of rebellion. It is a bonding and a freedom and a way to make oneself spiritual and holy and among. It is to be part of something outside yourself. And to use another borrowed phrase, it makes one either more beautiful or more ugly. I like to imagine myself in the former more than the latter.
So, focused, I walk out my door for the night. See you soon.
It's been a tough month, or so. I'm off next week on a big trip and, in need of money to fund it, took a job and dedicated myself to it for about 6 weeks at least. The problem is that I'm not making money at this job, or, better stated, not enough. I make now about as much as I did when I moved to Toronto and resigned myself to a job dish washing. So, effectively (I've been using that word a lot in my inner dialogue lately, for some reason), I've been working too hard and have developed a level of stress I'm not used to, am therefore going out drinking.
I don't particularly like drinking to let off steam, I just like the drink. It is, to borrow a massacred phrase someone else has before stated, a means to keep forever this sacred moment. It is a form of rebellion. It is a bonding and a freedom and a way to make oneself spiritual and holy and among. It is to be part of something outside yourself. And to use another borrowed phrase, it makes one either more beautiful or more ugly. I like to imagine myself in the former more than the latter.
So, focused, I walk out my door for the night. See you soon.
August 24, 2010: Leonard Cohen - Tonight Will Be Fine
Leonard Cohen - Tonight Will Be Fine: youtube.com/watch?v=e5MUdNyaYoo
I characteristically do not get worked up when celebrities, artists, politicians, radicals, musicians, people I generally don't know or have never met get sick or die, even if I've followed their work or life. I just found out, though, that Christopher Hitchens has cancer and says, himself, that his chances are poor. It's greatly saddening.
I'm in the middle of reading Hitch 22, Christopher Hitchens' memoirs, and I suppose that plays a part. I've been heavily invested in this man's life and memories since opening the cover, reflecting upon my own life and memories in relation to his words as he moves through the spheres of schooling, writing, traveling and discovering culture, art, literature, kindness, sadness and disgust at what comes upon him. He does these things to a degree much greater than I, but none the less I relate and read myself into the words.
A dear friend from my teenage years is now a nurse. She told me, some years ago, that it's surprising how many people have, get, cancer. I've had trouble relating to this as I've known few who have been stricken. Or, better said, I've known few close kin who have been stricken. Though, I know one, who I love and admire though I hold him often at a distance.
A friend of mine, one of the best song writers I've ever come in contact with, one of the best story tellers I've yet known, someone I've seen both in strength and vulnerability, sat me down last year in a room with a mutual friend and a bartender and told me he had cancer. I didn't know what to say, do, but to offer my help should he need it. It was a fairly emotionless exchange. I did, though, later that night, after talking with a mutual friend who told me he has little to no chance of living (who works as a cancer councilor), find myself buckling my knees as I struggled through a night of work in a bar, my dearest friend there and knowing my trouble but so distant and away. I don't know what happened to me but I was a wreck and cannot recall ever feeling so alone and prone to hurt.
My cancer stricken friend has been lucky enough to pull through for about a year since and is recovering. His body has been torn apart, literally (he has a hole in his stomach and cannot defecate, it all flowing into an attached bag), but he stands.
He came to my apartment in Kensington once and sat on my couch, listening to this song repeatedly on my record player. I didn't know it then but later discovered he had been memorizing the lyrics, and I've heard him singing it since, beautifully, among many drunks.
I characteristically do not get worked up when celebrities, artists, politicians, radicals, musicians, people I generally don't know or have never met get sick or die, even if I've followed their work or life. I just found out, though, that Christopher Hitchens has cancer and says, himself, that his chances are poor. It's greatly saddening.
I'm in the middle of reading Hitch 22, Christopher Hitchens' memoirs, and I suppose that plays a part. I've been heavily invested in this man's life and memories since opening the cover, reflecting upon my own life and memories in relation to his words as he moves through the spheres of schooling, writing, traveling and discovering culture, art, literature, kindness, sadness and disgust at what comes upon him. He does these things to a degree much greater than I, but none the less I relate and read myself into the words.
A dear friend from my teenage years is now a nurse. She told me, some years ago, that it's surprising how many people have, get, cancer. I've had trouble relating to this as I've known few who have been stricken. Or, better said, I've known few close kin who have been stricken. Though, I know one, who I love and admire though I hold him often at a distance.
A friend of mine, one of the best song writers I've ever come in contact with, one of the best story tellers I've yet known, someone I've seen both in strength and vulnerability, sat me down last year in a room with a mutual friend and a bartender and told me he had cancer. I didn't know what to say, do, but to offer my help should he need it. It was a fairly emotionless exchange. I did, though, later that night, after talking with a mutual friend who told me he has little to no chance of living (who works as a cancer councilor), find myself buckling my knees as I struggled through a night of work in a bar, my dearest friend there and knowing my trouble but so distant and away. I don't know what happened to me but I was a wreck and cannot recall ever feeling so alone and prone to hurt.
My cancer stricken friend has been lucky enough to pull through for about a year since and is recovering. His body has been torn apart, literally (he has a hole in his stomach and cannot defecate, it all flowing into an attached bag), but he stands.
He came to my apartment in Kensington once and sat on my couch, listening to this song repeatedly on my record player. I didn't know it then but later discovered he had been memorizing the lyrics, and I've heard him singing it since, beautifully, among many drunks.
Monday, August 23, 2010
August 23, 2010: Bruce Springsteen - Spirit in the Night
Bruce Springsteen - Spirit in the Night: youtube.com/watch?v=WvJ1A7EeJ7o&feature=related
I'm sure it was August. I was living in Halifax and had a car. Laura called me in the morning and wanted to go out, do something fun, wanted to drive to East Hastings where she grew up. I still see that whole day in some sort of soft light, like it never happened but was some dream that I can still recall.
As we drove Laura pointed out personal histories. There was the house where her best friend lived. That was where they used to go to drink on the weekends. That's a haunted house. That's where RJ lived when he first moved to Nova Scotia. That's where her and Jack got kicked out of a bar and drank in the parking lot. We talked about ghosts and witches. She brought me to her Mom's house where no one was home and I wandered through, looking at pictures of Laura when she was young, the room where she used to sleep. It was all so surreal, like we'd broken into a house where no one lived but pictures strewn along the walls.
We drove to the beach and laid down. I wanted to swim but had no shorts so Laura gave me an extra pair she'd brought, I barely fit in them tight. I swam out to a landmark in the clear water, some dock someone had built just inside the safety of the deepening shoreline. I've been terrified of swimming for years, mostly because of murky water and what waits beneath, but this water was clear and cool and the wind blew soft against my wet and chilled body. I sat looking out into the water there for some time alone, swam back to the shore.
And all day we'd been listening to Bruce Springsteen's Greetings from Ashbury Park. When "Spirit in the Night" came on we sang to it, listened to it over again all day in the car. We drove and Laura told stories all day, it wasn't yet nightfall when we drove back into the city. And that song held the day. It remains.
I'm sure it was August. I was living in Halifax and had a car. Laura called me in the morning and wanted to go out, do something fun, wanted to drive to East Hastings where she grew up. I still see that whole day in some sort of soft light, like it never happened but was some dream that I can still recall.
As we drove Laura pointed out personal histories. There was the house where her best friend lived. That was where they used to go to drink on the weekends. That's a haunted house. That's where RJ lived when he first moved to Nova Scotia. That's where her and Jack got kicked out of a bar and drank in the parking lot. We talked about ghosts and witches. She brought me to her Mom's house where no one was home and I wandered through, looking at pictures of Laura when she was young, the room where she used to sleep. It was all so surreal, like we'd broken into a house where no one lived but pictures strewn along the walls.
We drove to the beach and laid down. I wanted to swim but had no shorts so Laura gave me an extra pair she'd brought, I barely fit in them tight. I swam out to a landmark in the clear water, some dock someone had built just inside the safety of the deepening shoreline. I've been terrified of swimming for years, mostly because of murky water and what waits beneath, but this water was clear and cool and the wind blew soft against my wet and chilled body. I sat looking out into the water there for some time alone, swam back to the shore.
And all day we'd been listening to Bruce Springsteen's Greetings from Ashbury Park. When "Spirit in the Night" came on we sang to it, listened to it over again all day in the car. We drove and Laura told stories all day, it wasn't yet nightfall when we drove back into the city. And that song held the day. It remains.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
August 22, 2010: Bjork - Declare Independence
Bjork - Declare Independence: youtube.com/watch?v=igOWR_-BXJU
I once heard a writer asked what made him a writer, to which he said "The fact that it's harder for me than it is for the regular person to write anything."
I haven't written anything substantial in a while. I write, not as often as I'd like but in spurts quite often. I've been jobbing a lot lately and trying to build some savings and pay off debts and haven't been able to focus on most anything creative. It's always a difficult period but I'm getting through and reading a lot, at least. And most anything I write right now is shit.
I had a focus some years ago and that focus has been attained. I'm waiting on masters for an album that contains many months, several years worth of that focus and once it's released I can breathe again, find new streets. I'm acquiring a new focus now but am scattered always; I just need one word and it'll be a whole library to come flowing. But it's in wait.
This song draws me more than most any right now. I won't go into detail on the draw that comes (I'll keep that for myself), but it comes slowly and with horses.
Also, Bjork is pretty untouchable. It'll never be this good.
I once heard a writer asked what made him a writer, to which he said "The fact that it's harder for me than it is for the regular person to write anything."
I haven't written anything substantial in a while. I write, not as often as I'd like but in spurts quite often. I've been jobbing a lot lately and trying to build some savings and pay off debts and haven't been able to focus on most anything creative. It's always a difficult period but I'm getting through and reading a lot, at least. And most anything I write right now is shit.
I had a focus some years ago and that focus has been attained. I'm waiting on masters for an album that contains many months, several years worth of that focus and once it's released I can breathe again, find new streets. I'm acquiring a new focus now but am scattered always; I just need one word and it'll be a whole library to come flowing. But it's in wait.
This song draws me more than most any right now. I won't go into detail on the draw that comes (I'll keep that for myself), but it comes slowly and with horses.
Also, Bjork is pretty untouchable. It'll never be this good.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
August 21, 2010: Cee-Lo - Fuck You
Cee-Lo - Fuck You: youtube.com/watch?v=bsoJea3jP1E
This song is going to be huge. Just a heads up.
Does this count as an acceptable form regarding my aesthetic? There is no past involved here but a future; I have no story related to this song aside from the fact that I heard it an hour ago and have listened to it 3 times already.
Okay, well, here's one: I remember when that Coolio song came out, the one from that movie with Meg Ryan where she's a teacher. "Gangster's Paradise" I think the song was called. My cousin Kaitlin listened to that song at least 20 times a day, loud, and ruined it for me. I couldn't listen to that Coolio song for years after Kaitlin left. Multiple listens to a song tend to kill my senses pretty well. Maybe it's the predictability that develops? I remember, too, sitting in the control room while a drummer tried over 30 times to nail one of my songs but he just kept doing something wrong and starting over again. After over an hour of this I had to leave the room and go for a walk because I felt like I was going mad.
Anyway, this song is great. That's all, I guess.
This song is going to be huge. Just a heads up.
Does this count as an acceptable form regarding my aesthetic? There is no past involved here but a future; I have no story related to this song aside from the fact that I heard it an hour ago and have listened to it 3 times already.
Okay, well, here's one: I remember when that Coolio song came out, the one from that movie with Meg Ryan where she's a teacher. "Gangster's Paradise" I think the song was called. My cousin Kaitlin listened to that song at least 20 times a day, loud, and ruined it for me. I couldn't listen to that Coolio song for years after Kaitlin left. Multiple listens to a song tend to kill my senses pretty well. Maybe it's the predictability that develops? I remember, too, sitting in the control room while a drummer tried over 30 times to nail one of my songs but he just kept doing something wrong and starting over again. After over an hour of this I had to leave the room and go for a walk because I felt like I was going mad.
Anyway, this song is great. That's all, I guess.
Friday, August 20, 2010
August 20, 2010: The Tragically Hip - Escape is at Hand for the Travellin Man
The Tragically Hip - Escape is at Hand for the Travellin Man: youtube.com/watch?v=_JBsHeBE3Jc
This song hit me hard when I first heard it. It's a fleeting thing.
I'd like to say, now, that what makes me love this song is in part the element of the traveling musician lifestyle. I don't fill my role as traveling musician enough to claim that though; I might be gone 2 weeks to a month per year at this point, if I'm lucky. It does, though, capture nicely that meeting like minded artists, sharing a night together and moving on as happens when playing different venues in different cities with different bands. At times I want for those people to stay and continue along this mutually fulfilling point we've created but we all must move on to another venue and do the same, create a new point with a new group of people, move on to new. And trying to hold onto that moment too long can be foolish, if a little romantic.
But it's not so much that theme that gets me, I'm sure, as I had no concept of touring at 17 years old (about the time I heard and loved this song most). Maybe it was a touch of the dreamer in me that gravitated toward that theme. No, though, I think it was the moving aspect that got me. Beyond the duty of moving in this vocation it is an aspect of my life which I have adopted fully; I move, dispel nostalgia and hold every moment as sacred. Not as much as I'd like but as much as I can handle at least. This movement sometimes brings to the body romantic notions of getting those lost moments back, but those notions are never if rarely acted upon. What has happened has happened and remains so. Whatever happens here cannot happen again.
And this corresponds with notions of time. I'm reading a book right now in which the author discusses death and the way a persons life will be remembered, especially concerning the subject of biography. It is difficult to put ones life down to paper for the reason that there may be one moment which defines ones life fully and that moment could be their death, at which point it is of course too late to put ones life to paper. But that moment could also be, for example, the reading of a certain book. One reads a book at a young age and says, "How have I gone so long without reading this?" and it changes their whole perspective. That same person, though, perhaps may not read that book until later in life, is given the same revelation then instead of at that young age, but the moment still holds weight. In this case the story of ones life may be irrelevant until that particular moment. So how does one go about writing their life? Their defining moment is always just ahead, just out of reach, impossible to define until the end.
This song hit me hard when I first heard it. It's a fleeting thing.
I'd like to say, now, that what makes me love this song is in part the element of the traveling musician lifestyle. I don't fill my role as traveling musician enough to claim that though; I might be gone 2 weeks to a month per year at this point, if I'm lucky. It does, though, capture nicely that meeting like minded artists, sharing a night together and moving on as happens when playing different venues in different cities with different bands. At times I want for those people to stay and continue along this mutually fulfilling point we've created but we all must move on to another venue and do the same, create a new point with a new group of people, move on to new. And trying to hold onto that moment too long can be foolish, if a little romantic.
But it's not so much that theme that gets me, I'm sure, as I had no concept of touring at 17 years old (about the time I heard and loved this song most). Maybe it was a touch of the dreamer in me that gravitated toward that theme. No, though, I think it was the moving aspect that got me. Beyond the duty of moving in this vocation it is an aspect of my life which I have adopted fully; I move, dispel nostalgia and hold every moment as sacred. Not as much as I'd like but as much as I can handle at least. This movement sometimes brings to the body romantic notions of getting those lost moments back, but those notions are never if rarely acted upon. What has happened has happened and remains so. Whatever happens here cannot happen again.
And this corresponds with notions of time. I'm reading a book right now in which the author discusses death and the way a persons life will be remembered, especially concerning the subject of biography. It is difficult to put ones life down to paper for the reason that there may be one moment which defines ones life fully and that moment could be their death, at which point it is of course too late to put ones life to paper. But that moment could also be, for example, the reading of a certain book. One reads a book at a young age and says, "How have I gone so long without reading this?" and it changes their whole perspective. That same person, though, perhaps may not read that book until later in life, is given the same revelation then instead of at that young age, but the moment still holds weight. In this case the story of ones life may be irrelevant until that particular moment. So how does one go about writing their life? Their defining moment is always just ahead, just out of reach, impossible to define until the end.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
August 19, 2010: The National - So Far Around the Bend
The National - So Far Around the Bend: youtube.com/watch?v=B5clBfEEiSw
At work, mid-day bored. Cute short haired girl walks in, comes to me and asks about jobs, is flirtatious and cool, says she's the best and wants to work. Her name is Holly. I give her resume to my boss, tell her to hire this girl.
Holly is from somewhere in the southern States, has a huge family and has been living in New York, has come to Toronto to live with her boyfriend. She has a dirty mouth and makes fun of everything, drinks a lot, is compassionate and kind and funny and is full of tattoos. She sends me text messages in the middle of the day, telling me about her boyfriends dick. She reads Kurt Vonnegut and Rainer Maria Rilke and she sets down hints that she's unhappy so lightly almost unnoticeable. She pees in alleys. She wears a blonde wig and carries a big fake gun.
One night at work I'm a wreck. She takes a coffee cup, fills it with red wine from her purse and gives it to me, joins me with her own. We get out early, go next door for a drink and she talks me down, listens, makes fun of the couple sitting next to us and slips me more wine from her purse. She holds my hand on the way out and we part. She makes me a city out of a matchbook.
I tried to make it to New York to see her this year but she disappeared.
Last I saw Holly I was on my way to New Brunswick and she was to be gone back to New York before I returned. She forgot I was going away, said "I'll probably see you tomorrow anyway." I didn't bother to correct her, liked it better that way.
At work, mid-day bored. Cute short haired girl walks in, comes to me and asks about jobs, is flirtatious and cool, says she's the best and wants to work. Her name is Holly. I give her resume to my boss, tell her to hire this girl.
Holly is from somewhere in the southern States, has a huge family and has been living in New York, has come to Toronto to live with her boyfriend. She has a dirty mouth and makes fun of everything, drinks a lot, is compassionate and kind and funny and is full of tattoos. She sends me text messages in the middle of the day, telling me about her boyfriends dick. She reads Kurt Vonnegut and Rainer Maria Rilke and she sets down hints that she's unhappy so lightly almost unnoticeable. She pees in alleys. She wears a blonde wig and carries a big fake gun.
One night at work I'm a wreck. She takes a coffee cup, fills it with red wine from her purse and gives it to me, joins me with her own. We get out early, go next door for a drink and she talks me down, listens, makes fun of the couple sitting next to us and slips me more wine from her purse. She holds my hand on the way out and we part. She makes me a city out of a matchbook.
I tried to make it to New York to see her this year but she disappeared.
Last I saw Holly I was on my way to New Brunswick and she was to be gone back to New York before I returned. She forgot I was going away, said "I'll probably see you tomorrow anyway." I didn't bother to correct her, liked it better that way.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
August 18, 2010: Buck 65 - Corrugated Tin Facade
Buck 65 - Corrugated Tin Facade: youtube.com/watch?v=MXQehR_0_Jc
I want to be an outsider. I want to move and gather and discard and move. I want the lonely rooms and the longing and the frustrations and the eyes on forms of revolution. Why is this? Is it for the challenge? I recall going into French Immersion when I was 13 years old, having such trouble with learning French but drawn to the idea of being in a room where I knew nothing of what was being said, what was happening. Challenge, chaos, the unpredictable, they all draw.
But why is this? What is it that compels one to draw a path for themselves alone? So many have come before and done all of these things for us to follow, for us all to take, for to make our lives easier, better, more convenient, less painful. But some say fuck it and go alone, draw a path their own, take everything in life and hold it. But why especially those most difficult held most close? Is it a romantic ideal? Is it an intellectual pursuit? Is it the way one is made?
Maybe there was a moment in my life when I realized I was among but quite apart. I am the youngest of 3 boys, one of the youngest of my generation in my extended family. I remember being in a preschool years younger than the rest because my mother was the teacher and let me sit in and participate in class. I did exercises my peers wouldn't do for a few years. How conscious was I that I didn't quite belong among the rest of that class? Did that early experience set a certain tone? Is my youth among so many older that sets me apart fully? But I don't know that any of those things provide me an answer. Where did I see something that told me I was set meant to be set apart?
Maybe this has nothing to do with anything at all but it just came to mind: I remember being very young when my grandfather died; young enough to know what had happened and its weight but too young to be fully affected. I remember standing at my grandfathers grave when he was buried. I remember the size of the stone and the solemnity of the event. I remember being drawn to this piece of land, this concept that something exists here beyond me that will always understand. And I remember being too terrified to visit regularly. Or maybe I feared it would lose its importance with routine visits.
And I admired most those who raged against life and authority. And still, more so maybe.
I want to be an outsider. I want to move and gather and discard and move. I want the lonely rooms and the longing and the frustrations and the eyes on forms of revolution. Why is this? Is it for the challenge? I recall going into French Immersion when I was 13 years old, having such trouble with learning French but drawn to the idea of being in a room where I knew nothing of what was being said, what was happening. Challenge, chaos, the unpredictable, they all draw.
But why is this? What is it that compels one to draw a path for themselves alone? So many have come before and done all of these things for us to follow, for us all to take, for to make our lives easier, better, more convenient, less painful. But some say fuck it and go alone, draw a path their own, take everything in life and hold it. But why especially those most difficult held most close? Is it a romantic ideal? Is it an intellectual pursuit? Is it the way one is made?
Maybe there was a moment in my life when I realized I was among but quite apart. I am the youngest of 3 boys, one of the youngest of my generation in my extended family. I remember being in a preschool years younger than the rest because my mother was the teacher and let me sit in and participate in class. I did exercises my peers wouldn't do for a few years. How conscious was I that I didn't quite belong among the rest of that class? Did that early experience set a certain tone? Is my youth among so many older that sets me apart fully? But I don't know that any of those things provide me an answer. Where did I see something that told me I was set meant to be set apart?
Maybe this has nothing to do with anything at all but it just came to mind: I remember being very young when my grandfather died; young enough to know what had happened and its weight but too young to be fully affected. I remember standing at my grandfathers grave when he was buried. I remember the size of the stone and the solemnity of the event. I remember being drawn to this piece of land, this concept that something exists here beyond me that will always understand. And I remember being too terrified to visit regularly. Or maybe I feared it would lose its importance with routine visits.
And I admired most those who raged against life and authority. And still, more so maybe.
Monday, August 16, 2010
August 16, 2010: Kathleen Edwards - Away
Kathleen Edwards - Away: youtube.com/watch?v=ILNtnopw1mc
I've been away a couple days, my apologies.
I used to play this song with Rachael. She sang it with my brother Colin better. I used to have a recording of them playing it somewhere but it's been lost in the years.
Sometimes the city makes isolation strong. There are so many I've met here, so many I consider close, but when it comes to it, who is truly there? We're all born alone and die alone, whoever we love will be lost whether we want them or no. Their faces get blurred in time. I grew up in a small town where nothing changes, time is irrelevant and you never think the people around you will be gone. It's the nature of a small community. Large cities are quite different in that you never have a grasp of time, it's always just out of reach. Your loved ones come and go daily. Relationships are light by most. When you need someone it seems crippling, despite the fact that you're surround by a million.
And I've been working a lot, changing near every aspect of my environment. These are more difficult times than so far this year.
My apologies for being away.
I've been away a couple days, my apologies.
I used to play this song with Rachael. She sang it with my brother Colin better. I used to have a recording of them playing it somewhere but it's been lost in the years.
Sometimes the city makes isolation strong. There are so many I've met here, so many I consider close, but when it comes to it, who is truly there? We're all born alone and die alone, whoever we love will be lost whether we want them or no. Their faces get blurred in time. I grew up in a small town where nothing changes, time is irrelevant and you never think the people around you will be gone. It's the nature of a small community. Large cities are quite different in that you never have a grasp of time, it's always just out of reach. Your loved ones come and go daily. Relationships are light by most. When you need someone it seems crippling, despite the fact that you're surround by a million.
And I've been working a lot, changing near every aspect of my environment. These are more difficult times than so far this year.
My apologies for being away.
Friday, August 13, 2010
August 13, 2010: Townes Van Zandt - Rake
Townes Van Zandt - Rake: youtube.com/watch?v=sx4PsxUvMqY
This is the first Townes Van Zandt song I ever heard. I should have written this song. It was glorious, it got me right from the first note, the first words.
I was on a shitty tour I'd planned alone, went through with alone, drove to Halifax and back in late January in a giant empty van that could have carried 8 people at least, all myself, a guitar, an amp and a bag of clothes. It was foolish and mostly a failure, though wonderful all the same. Fredericton was the best show I'd yet played, was asked to sign autographs even. Ottawa was embarrassingly terrible; opening for a cover band, started with no audience at all, no PA, just sat on my amp and played to the bartender who ignored me. Nirupama came with me to Ottawa, a 16 hour drive straight and kept me alive, we celebrated my birthday in an empty cafe in the middle of nowhere Quebec. I met a girl in Halifax, thought she was cute, German studying physics, tried with her to find a bed and a place to stay. No luck. Made it back to Toronto a time later broke and opened for Hamilton Trading Co at The Boat, liked them, asked to join. Drunk near every Sunday following because of.
I was staying with Laura in Halifax in her bachelor sublet for a few days and we drank a bit, watched the Townes Van Zandt documentary Be Here to Love Me. I'd heard the name but never heard his songs. I became obsessed for months after.
And I still retain this song could be played at any point and ring true. Most days.
This is the first Townes Van Zandt song I ever heard. I should have written this song. It was glorious, it got me right from the first note, the first words.
I was on a shitty tour I'd planned alone, went through with alone, drove to Halifax and back in late January in a giant empty van that could have carried 8 people at least, all myself, a guitar, an amp and a bag of clothes. It was foolish and mostly a failure, though wonderful all the same. Fredericton was the best show I'd yet played, was asked to sign autographs even. Ottawa was embarrassingly terrible; opening for a cover band, started with no audience at all, no PA, just sat on my amp and played to the bartender who ignored me. Nirupama came with me to Ottawa, a 16 hour drive straight and kept me alive, we celebrated my birthday in an empty cafe in the middle of nowhere Quebec. I met a girl in Halifax, thought she was cute, German studying physics, tried with her to find a bed and a place to stay. No luck. Made it back to Toronto a time later broke and opened for Hamilton Trading Co at The Boat, liked them, asked to join. Drunk near every Sunday following because of.
I was staying with Laura in Halifax in her bachelor sublet for a few days and we drank a bit, watched the Townes Van Zandt documentary Be Here to Love Me. I'd heard the name but never heard his songs. I became obsessed for months after.
And I still retain this song could be played at any point and ring true. Most days.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
August 12, 2010: Maylee Todd - Summer Sounds
Maylee Todd - Summer Sounds: youtube.com/watch?v=veIYV8Hjnrc
Just a great song by one of the nicest and most talented people I've met. If you don't know Maylee's music, go listen.
And summer is nearly at a close, so go out and drink in the park. Right now.
Just a great song by one of the nicest and most talented people I've met. If you don't know Maylee's music, go listen.
And summer is nearly at a close, so go out and drink in the park. Right now.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
August 11, 2010: Gillian Welch - Revelator
Gillian Welch - Revelator: youtube.com/watch?v=r4LdjEObjGo
I've been thinking of time lately. Think of how a plane sounds when it passes overhead; it's an arching sound that starts low, gets loudest in the center and dies out in the same amount of time as it built. If one person stands at point A and another a mile away at point B and the plane passes directly overhead both people, they hear the sound differently. Sound is dependent on time and space, though time and space aren't separate entities but one in the same; time-space.
I tried to move to Montreal at the beginning of this summer but it didn't work. When I moved to Toronto near 3 years ago I had the option of Toronto or Montreal, I went with Toronto because I had some family here I could stay with while I got my bearings. And I've been here lovingly since. I've acquired a great family and community in this time. However, I am restless and thought I'd give Montreal a try, it sent me right back to Toronto in less than a week for I missed some too much, felt no desire to start fresh after all, yet. However, I think that had I chose Montreal years ago I would have found myself in the reciprocal situation; I would have gathered a great community in Montreal, got restless, tried Toronto and failed then went right back to Montreal. It was all one split decision that has led me to here. I lament Montreal but it's still a great love of mine, and I may make it still.
And I recently read an article on Sammy Davis Jr, how he for a period joined the Church of Satan. People who knew him said that wasn't uncharacteristic as Sammy Davis Jr loved experiencing anything to do with life, that he never turned down an experience despite what consequences may occur. And isn't that why we have life? One day time won't exist and what will it matter that one man among the countless men that have existed followed the Church of Satan for a couple years? What will any of us matter when time is inconsequential?
This is not to espouse a philosophy of indifference, an excuse for any action whatever, merely a consideration that we're meant to experience life in every form.
I've been thinking of time lately. Think of how a plane sounds when it passes overhead; it's an arching sound that starts low, gets loudest in the center and dies out in the same amount of time as it built. If one person stands at point A and another a mile away at point B and the plane passes directly overhead both people, they hear the sound differently. Sound is dependent on time and space, though time and space aren't separate entities but one in the same; time-space.
I tried to move to Montreal at the beginning of this summer but it didn't work. When I moved to Toronto near 3 years ago I had the option of Toronto or Montreal, I went with Toronto because I had some family here I could stay with while I got my bearings. And I've been here lovingly since. I've acquired a great family and community in this time. However, I am restless and thought I'd give Montreal a try, it sent me right back to Toronto in less than a week for I missed some too much, felt no desire to start fresh after all, yet. However, I think that had I chose Montreal years ago I would have found myself in the reciprocal situation; I would have gathered a great community in Montreal, got restless, tried Toronto and failed then went right back to Montreal. It was all one split decision that has led me to here. I lament Montreal but it's still a great love of mine, and I may make it still.
And I recently read an article on Sammy Davis Jr, how he for a period joined the Church of Satan. People who knew him said that wasn't uncharacteristic as Sammy Davis Jr loved experiencing anything to do with life, that he never turned down an experience despite what consequences may occur. And isn't that why we have life? One day time won't exist and what will it matter that one man among the countless men that have existed followed the Church of Satan for a couple years? What will any of us matter when time is inconsequential?
This is not to espouse a philosophy of indifference, an excuse for any action whatever, merely a consideration that we're meant to experience life in every form.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
August 10, 2010: The Locust - Moth Eaten Deerhead
The Locust - Moth Eaten Deerhead: youtube.com/watch?v=Puf9K9bNL9k
I attended a lecture yesterday, an introduction to contemporary dance. It was meant as a means to make others in the artistic community interested in this art form which is, arguably, quite neglected. One example of its neglect was presented in the description of a performance from the early 1900s where the names of the artistic director and the composer were familiar to most in the room where the names of the dancers and the choreographer were unfamiliar, though they are major names in the dance community.
One thing that stood out to me during the lecture was mention of language and its use in describing a performance. I've been to contemporary dance performances, I've liked them generally but can't describe why. I don't know the names of body movements that are used, I sometimes don't understand the structures but I know how it makes me feel when it happens. The same applies for paintings; I know what I like and what I find unattractive or offensively bad.
After the lecture I went to see some noise bands. All of this applies to noise bands strongly, more than any other form of music I experience; sometimes I love noise bands, sometimes I hate them, I never know why exactly. Why is it that one person creating walls of feedback with a guitar is more appealing to me than another person screaming into a microphone with heavy delay? It's all just noise, generally unstructured, not necessarily beautiful or pleasing to the senses, typically abrasive. One thing I noticed, particularly, last night was that with noise music what is most important is not what you hear but how you feel. How do the sound waves flow through your body? How do they affect your insides? How does that make the rest of your body feel? I think most who hear noise music, not knowing how to talk about it, what language to use, would dismiss it as simply bad music. I had thought it all shit, before, until I saw some people I respected in the music community perform as a noise band. Then it was cool. Even before then I'd heard of The Locust and listened to them, the first noise band I'd before heard, and was completely turned off but felt something that stayed with me.
And music isn't about structure, for typically it can be very rigid and conservative. We need noise music for our freedom. It might not be beautiful or pleasing but so what. It's as necessary as any other form.
I attended a lecture yesterday, an introduction to contemporary dance. It was meant as a means to make others in the artistic community interested in this art form which is, arguably, quite neglected. One example of its neglect was presented in the description of a performance from the early 1900s where the names of the artistic director and the composer were familiar to most in the room where the names of the dancers and the choreographer were unfamiliar, though they are major names in the dance community.
One thing that stood out to me during the lecture was mention of language and its use in describing a performance. I've been to contemporary dance performances, I've liked them generally but can't describe why. I don't know the names of body movements that are used, I sometimes don't understand the structures but I know how it makes me feel when it happens. The same applies for paintings; I know what I like and what I find unattractive or offensively bad.
After the lecture I went to see some noise bands. All of this applies to noise bands strongly, more than any other form of music I experience; sometimes I love noise bands, sometimes I hate them, I never know why exactly. Why is it that one person creating walls of feedback with a guitar is more appealing to me than another person screaming into a microphone with heavy delay? It's all just noise, generally unstructured, not necessarily beautiful or pleasing to the senses, typically abrasive. One thing I noticed, particularly, last night was that with noise music what is most important is not what you hear but how you feel. How do the sound waves flow through your body? How do they affect your insides? How does that make the rest of your body feel? I think most who hear noise music, not knowing how to talk about it, what language to use, would dismiss it as simply bad music. I had thought it all shit, before, until I saw some people I respected in the music community perform as a noise band. Then it was cool. Even before then I'd heard of The Locust and listened to them, the first noise band I'd before heard, and was completely turned off but felt something that stayed with me.
And music isn't about structure, for typically it can be very rigid and conservative. We need noise music for our freedom. It might not be beautiful or pleasing but so what. It's as necessary as any other form.
Monday, August 9, 2010
August 9, 2010: Slater-Kinney - You're No Rock N Roll Fun
Slater-Kinney - You're No Rock N Roll Fun: youtube.com/watch?v=kku7zb4unog
Do music fans still exist? Remember how there used to be fan clubs and band zines and show posters? I barely remember them at all, I think I was on the cusp of the end of the band fan.
People can't be fans anymore. If you're not a musician you're a blogger or an organizer or a photographer or a friend of the band. And if you're none of these things you likely download your favorite bands music or ripped it from your friends computer. And do people have favorite bands anymore? There is so much music available and becoming that to have one favorite band is to be limited. We've moved from being passive music listeners to being active participants in music culture.
I starting buying albums seriously at about the same time downloading became a form. I started playing shows about the same time myspace came out and press kits became irrelevant (were they relevant or necessary before?). I started recording when programs like garage band and cubase became accessible. But with this convenience, have we become lazy as musicians? Do friends still get together to make show posters and CD cases and t-shirts for their favorite bands? If you can just record something in your bedroom and send it off to whoever you want, what happens to the community?
I have noticed lately that people at shows are most often members of the music community, but fans are under-represented. What happened that we've excluded them? Has it become too hard to be a fan in this environment?
Do music fans still exist? Remember how there used to be fan clubs and band zines and show posters? I barely remember them at all, I think I was on the cusp of the end of the band fan.
People can't be fans anymore. If you're not a musician you're a blogger or an organizer or a photographer or a friend of the band. And if you're none of these things you likely download your favorite bands music or ripped it from your friends computer. And do people have favorite bands anymore? There is so much music available and becoming that to have one favorite band is to be limited. We've moved from being passive music listeners to being active participants in music culture.
I starting buying albums seriously at about the same time downloading became a form. I started playing shows about the same time myspace came out and press kits became irrelevant (were they relevant or necessary before?). I started recording when programs like garage band and cubase became accessible. But with this convenience, have we become lazy as musicians? Do friends still get together to make show posters and CD cases and t-shirts for their favorite bands? If you can just record something in your bedroom and send it off to whoever you want, what happens to the community?
I have noticed lately that people at shows are most often members of the music community, but fans are under-represented. What happened that we've excluded them? Has it become too hard to be a fan in this environment?
Saturday, August 7, 2010
August 7, 2010: Nina Simone - Images
Nina Simone - Images: youtube.com/watch?v=f89C3uIEXZU
"Writers are made, for anybody who isn't illiterate can write; but geniuses of the writing art...are born. Let's examine the word 'genius.' It doesn't mean screwiness or eccentricity or excessive 'talent.'...A genius is simply a person who originates something never known before. Nobody but Melville could have written Moby Dick, not even Whitman or Shakespeare."
Which is more important to the artist: To achieve a level of genius? Or to live a life unhindered? Are these necessarily exclusive?
Though I agree that the genius is born and not made, that talent is something to be achieved by even the most lost, by those whose frame borders genius, I think genius is something one can pursue. One may never truly achieve it but the act of pursuit is important. Why would one contribute to any art form unless they have something important to say?
But genius seems to hold a heavy burden. Those geniuses I've read, studied, shared drinks with, they relate everything, everything, to their specific genius. I know a drummer who relates everything from food to sex to driving and streetlights to drum patterns. It consumes him. I've studied a writer whose life was, arguably, so much about relating his life in writing that the two became inexorably entwined; the writing became life and the life writing. But does this hinder the life of the genius? I know geniuses of living, who create an art form out of experiencing life, whose lives seem hindered by this same form of genius, who almost become caricatures of themselves and cannot escape their specific form of genius.
I pursue genius. I know I am not of the ranks of the greatest but I move around its circle, at least, touching the outside wall for some sake of osmosis. But I do not have the drive, the discipline to spend every moment relating my world back to one prime element. That is a lie to a degree, but as close to the truth as I can relate.
To pursue anything without the full movement of yourself is to be vain and foolish. Every pursuit, if done with any other intent, can be seen and disregarded. It terrifies me that I pursue such things for I never truly know my own intentions, I just move with an instinct, directed by colour. I hope it's some form of genius but I doubt it.
I once told an artist friend about my embarrassment at first meeting a cute girl, how she asked me what I did that day and I had to tell her that I started compiling a book of poems. She asked why that was so embarrassing, I said because it sounds like something some young pseudo-sensitive man would say to get a girl into bed. She said, "Well, isn't creating art about having sex with other people? Aren't we creating pieces of beauty so that others can share in the beauty we experience? And isn't it natural for some to want to pursue that beauty in the form of sex with the artist?"
"Writers are made, for anybody who isn't illiterate can write; but geniuses of the writing art...are born. Let's examine the word 'genius.' It doesn't mean screwiness or eccentricity or excessive 'talent.'...A genius is simply a person who originates something never known before. Nobody but Melville could have written Moby Dick, not even Whitman or Shakespeare."
Which is more important to the artist: To achieve a level of genius? Or to live a life unhindered? Are these necessarily exclusive?
Though I agree that the genius is born and not made, that talent is something to be achieved by even the most lost, by those whose frame borders genius, I think genius is something one can pursue. One may never truly achieve it but the act of pursuit is important. Why would one contribute to any art form unless they have something important to say?
But genius seems to hold a heavy burden. Those geniuses I've read, studied, shared drinks with, they relate everything, everything, to their specific genius. I know a drummer who relates everything from food to sex to driving and streetlights to drum patterns. It consumes him. I've studied a writer whose life was, arguably, so much about relating his life in writing that the two became inexorably entwined; the writing became life and the life writing. But does this hinder the life of the genius? I know geniuses of living, who create an art form out of experiencing life, whose lives seem hindered by this same form of genius, who almost become caricatures of themselves and cannot escape their specific form of genius.
I pursue genius. I know I am not of the ranks of the greatest but I move around its circle, at least, touching the outside wall for some sake of osmosis. But I do not have the drive, the discipline to spend every moment relating my world back to one prime element. That is a lie to a degree, but as close to the truth as I can relate.
To pursue anything without the full movement of yourself is to be vain and foolish. Every pursuit, if done with any other intent, can be seen and disregarded. It terrifies me that I pursue such things for I never truly know my own intentions, I just move with an instinct, directed by colour. I hope it's some form of genius but I doubt it.
I once told an artist friend about my embarrassment at first meeting a cute girl, how she asked me what I did that day and I had to tell her that I started compiling a book of poems. She asked why that was so embarrassing, I said because it sounds like something some young pseudo-sensitive man would say to get a girl into bed. She said, "Well, isn't creating art about having sex with other people? Aren't we creating pieces of beauty so that others can share in the beauty we experience? And isn't it natural for some to want to pursue that beauty in the form of sex with the artist?"
Friday, August 6, 2010
August 6, 2010: Julie Doiron - Me and My Friend
Julie Doiron - Me and My Friend: youtube.com/watch?v=Uo5FLoq4kFk
Have been getting nostalgic lately. I miss some friends.
My friend Katie lives in Australia now, went through some old pictures found a great one of her from when we were friends in Halifax. She lived in a church and had charades parties on weekends, I hate games like that but relented for her for love of her. We went to bars on Sundays, went to a movie together once and she yelled at the screen. She showed me some around Toronto when I moved here but then left soon after has been doing work since in Columbia, Europe. Last we saw each other I went to her parents house and she made me breakfast, looked over her parents art collection in which I once touched a wax painting by accident not knowing it was wax and my finger imprinted when no one was looking. Then her friend drove us downtown, we parted at Bloor and Bay she hugged me and I walked off missing my friend holding every moment for won't see her again for years.
Though will see Katie again. There are other friends I've lost; Lindsay lives in Toronto still but is whole other person now. She used to work in a sex shop, would wander Kensington drinking coffee with me then she'd go to any bar and pick someone up easy, just look in their direction coy. She met my Mom once and they talked about their periods. She was wonderful and beautiful but she wasn't happy, is happy now becoming less bohemian more yuppie trying to take her masters in Women studies, still wonderful and beautiful but whole other person.
Others still. One who helped me through a destructive relationship. One I helped through depression. One I only see when I'm in New Brunswick, a neighbor, a brother. One who simply don't see out at shows anymore.
I think I've been working too much lately.
Have been getting nostalgic lately. I miss some friends.
My friend Katie lives in Australia now, went through some old pictures found a great one of her from when we were friends in Halifax. She lived in a church and had charades parties on weekends, I hate games like that but relented for her for love of her. We went to bars on Sundays, went to a movie together once and she yelled at the screen. She showed me some around Toronto when I moved here but then left soon after has been doing work since in Columbia, Europe. Last we saw each other I went to her parents house and she made me breakfast, looked over her parents art collection in which I once touched a wax painting by accident not knowing it was wax and my finger imprinted when no one was looking. Then her friend drove us downtown, we parted at Bloor and Bay she hugged me and I walked off missing my friend holding every moment for won't see her again for years.
Though will see Katie again. There are other friends I've lost; Lindsay lives in Toronto still but is whole other person now. She used to work in a sex shop, would wander Kensington drinking coffee with me then she'd go to any bar and pick someone up easy, just look in their direction coy. She met my Mom once and they talked about their periods. She was wonderful and beautiful but she wasn't happy, is happy now becoming less bohemian more yuppie trying to take her masters in Women studies, still wonderful and beautiful but whole other person.
Others still. One who helped me through a destructive relationship. One I helped through depression. One I only see when I'm in New Brunswick, a neighbor, a brother. One who simply don't see out at shows anymore.
I think I've been working too much lately.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
August 5, 2010: Arcade Fire - In the Backseat
Arcade Fire - In the Backseat: youtube.com/watch?v=SsmEMk2QOnM
When I lived in Halifax I was borrowing my brothers car, a tiny black Hyundai that I barely used but had and drove friends around, should have gone everywhere, the States, the south shore but here I am. It got broken into once and since there was nothing in it all they took was the spare change in the ashtray, broke a window and it never felt the same inside the car again, someone had been there.
I drove to the airport once, don't remember why maybe picking up my brother from Calgary, yes I remember that was it, he said his plane was coming in at 2am so I drove to the airport and his flight had been delayed 2 hours so I slept on a bench for an hour before driving him into Halifax while the sun loomed in the distance below the horizon. The only CD in the car at the time was Arcade Fire's Funeral and we listened to it in silence.
And this song reminds me of when I was a kid and my father drove my brother and I to the library, part way the car caught on fire and I was stuck in the backseat still in childrens car-seat. I remember my Dad and brother jumping out the front and smoke and fire and nothing else but apparently my Dad jumped in the back and pulled me out, burned his eyebrows off. I remember my Mom waving to us from the front porch before we'd left. Terrible and surreal.
And someone I know, someone I've played a show with before, played at Madison Square Garden last night, helped open for Arcade Fire. So strange.
When I lived in Halifax I was borrowing my brothers car, a tiny black Hyundai that I barely used but had and drove friends around, should have gone everywhere, the States, the south shore but here I am. It got broken into once and since there was nothing in it all they took was the spare change in the ashtray, broke a window and it never felt the same inside the car again, someone had been there.
I drove to the airport once, don't remember why maybe picking up my brother from Calgary, yes I remember that was it, he said his plane was coming in at 2am so I drove to the airport and his flight had been delayed 2 hours so I slept on a bench for an hour before driving him into Halifax while the sun loomed in the distance below the horizon. The only CD in the car at the time was Arcade Fire's Funeral and we listened to it in silence.
And this song reminds me of when I was a kid and my father drove my brother and I to the library, part way the car caught on fire and I was stuck in the backseat still in childrens car-seat. I remember my Dad and brother jumping out the front and smoke and fire and nothing else but apparently my Dad jumped in the back and pulled me out, burned his eyebrows off. I remember my Mom waving to us from the front porch before we'd left. Terrible and surreal.
And someone I know, someone I've played a show with before, played at Madison Square Garden last night, helped open for Arcade Fire. So strange.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
August 4, 2010: Neutral Milk Hotel - Oh Comely
Neutral Milk Hotel - Oh Comely: youtube.com/watch?v=iipO9Tvk1EI
One I thought I'd lost, thought of, found me and wrote me and I happened to be going to her city, Halifax, some time soon, we made plans to meet. Jeanette was with me in the car on the drive, stayed awake long into the morning sharing histories, songs, keeping me kind and driving.
"Listen to this song. It was done in one take."
We played a show in Halifax the first night. She was there. We left after and caught up walking, stayed into the night talked though I exhausted and she fed me and gave me her company. We, the next day, brought Jeanette and others to a beach, saw waves against the shore following a hurricane far into the ocean, she walked off alone and I knew what would come. We would part, later, as we dropped off my friends and she drove away in her car. Jeanette walked me to the store, held me on the corner.
That night, another show, in the car right after at 2am to drive saw a wolf in the road run by through dark and through rain. Got to Quebec before short rest, back at the wheel. Coming into Montreal I said, "Everyone quiet. I love you but I need nobody to talk until we're all out of the car." Found place to park, ragged and lorn.
We short ventured to a pool nearby and refreshed our senses, showered, got a small meal, amazing what some water can do to your skin and your insides. Walking back to the vans found out they'd been broken into, "Take everything out of the vans and check what's missing." Only thing missing my laptop. Cost $1000, had writing and demos I'll never get back. Gone. I felt numb, surging something, sat in the van and collected myself alone for hours, Duff joined and we talked everything but break in, savior. I built my strength, went back to the venue where the rest were at table.
"I'm fine. How is everyone else?" They sat talking. Jeanette sat across. I could feel her staring at my face but wouldn't look because I knew. And she did, when I looked, she held my hand and said she loved me and I was done. I broke.
Later that night, following great show packed room found knick knacks like mixed tape with dirty sex songs, small collection of photos, kind Montreal faces, a room in the basement where we sat, Duff offered to drive back to Toronto. I laid in the back seat asleep, deepest sleep I'd ever found. There was no dreaming, just head on pillow, black.
One I thought I'd lost, thought of, found me and wrote me and I happened to be going to her city, Halifax, some time soon, we made plans to meet. Jeanette was with me in the car on the drive, stayed awake long into the morning sharing histories, songs, keeping me kind and driving.
"Listen to this song. It was done in one take."
We played a show in Halifax the first night. She was there. We left after and caught up walking, stayed into the night talked though I exhausted and she fed me and gave me her company. We, the next day, brought Jeanette and others to a beach, saw waves against the shore following a hurricane far into the ocean, she walked off alone and I knew what would come. We would part, later, as we dropped off my friends and she drove away in her car. Jeanette walked me to the store, held me on the corner.
That night, another show, in the car right after at 2am to drive saw a wolf in the road run by through dark and through rain. Got to Quebec before short rest, back at the wheel. Coming into Montreal I said, "Everyone quiet. I love you but I need nobody to talk until we're all out of the car." Found place to park, ragged and lorn.
We short ventured to a pool nearby and refreshed our senses, showered, got a small meal, amazing what some water can do to your skin and your insides. Walking back to the vans found out they'd been broken into, "Take everything out of the vans and check what's missing." Only thing missing my laptop. Cost $1000, had writing and demos I'll never get back. Gone. I felt numb, surging something, sat in the van and collected myself alone for hours, Duff joined and we talked everything but break in, savior. I built my strength, went back to the venue where the rest were at table.
"I'm fine. How is everyone else?" They sat talking. Jeanette sat across. I could feel her staring at my face but wouldn't look because I knew. And she did, when I looked, she held my hand and said she loved me and I was done. I broke.
Later that night, following great show packed room found knick knacks like mixed tape with dirty sex songs, small collection of photos, kind Montreal faces, a room in the basement where we sat, Duff offered to drive back to Toronto. I laid in the back seat asleep, deepest sleep I'd ever found. There was no dreaming, just head on pillow, black.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
August 3, 2010: k-os - Heaven Only Knows
k-os - Heaven Only Knows: youtube.com/watch?v=lPLQuRTk-oo
I would get up early most days and walk to school with headphones uphill up Regent St, I remember seeing someone cross-country skiing once and cursing them because the hill was killing me, the only refuge whatever I was listening to. Most days it was k-os’ Joyful Rebellion. I was hearing revolution in Canadian music. It was all keeping me alive and reading, writing, building my early understandings.
For a time k-os was my Elvis, the irony of saying such a thing. I had turned hip-hop off, had been turned onto Notorious BIG and Tupac when I was a kid by my brother Ryan, Bodycount and NWA, but couldn’t understand it all, white kid in New Brunswick. I saw all hip-hop as out of touch with my wants, environment. I saw all hip-hop as money, violence. And k-os made music without a gun, no money, speaking revolution and concepts, ideas, the universe, books, women, god and evil, insecurities, art, it spoke to my every sense. And it was hip-hop.
So hip-hop found me and opened a sense I had dulled. It became exciting, made sense. It wasn’t the style but the substance I wasn’t connected to and not a lack of substance but a different form.
And Fredericton was a difficult town, strange time, stayed inside most days and barely knew the city at all, went months without meeting anyone new, drank, no stoner but got high mid-day television, would hide in the library most nights wouldn’t see anyone I knew. And the walk to school was arduous, uphill, winter, just headphones moving my feet.
I live in Toronto and see k-os, pass him in the street, bless and walk past alone.
I would get up early most days and walk to school with headphones uphill up Regent St, I remember seeing someone cross-country skiing once and cursing them because the hill was killing me, the only refuge whatever I was listening to. Most days it was k-os’ Joyful Rebellion. I was hearing revolution in Canadian music. It was all keeping me alive and reading, writing, building my early understandings.
For a time k-os was my Elvis, the irony of saying such a thing. I had turned hip-hop off, had been turned onto Notorious BIG and Tupac when I was a kid by my brother Ryan, Bodycount and NWA, but couldn’t understand it all, white kid in New Brunswick. I saw all hip-hop as out of touch with my wants, environment. I saw all hip-hop as money, violence. And k-os made music without a gun, no money, speaking revolution and concepts, ideas, the universe, books, women, god and evil, insecurities, art, it spoke to my every sense. And it was hip-hop.
So hip-hop found me and opened a sense I had dulled. It became exciting, made sense. It wasn’t the style but the substance I wasn’t connected to and not a lack of substance but a different form.
And Fredericton was a difficult town, strange time, stayed inside most days and barely knew the city at all, went months without meeting anyone new, drank, no stoner but got high mid-day television, would hide in the library most nights wouldn’t see anyone I knew. And the walk to school was arduous, uphill, winter, just headphones moving my feet.
I live in Toronto and see k-os, pass him in the street, bless and walk past alone.
Monday, August 2, 2010
August 2, 2010: The Clash - Straight to Hell
The Clash - Straight to Hell: youtube.com/watch?v=HQwm1v1R-qM
Moved into a new apartment, May, middle of Kensington Market which I'd adopted as a home, found my first jobs, friends, shows in the neighborhood. Two bedroom, moved in by myself and it was wall-lined with garbage, cobwebs in the corners, spent 3 days cleaning. No roommate for 2 weeks.
First night I had no furniture, just a bed, small table I'd built some months before. Jeannette came over and we got a bottle of wine, bought an exacto-knife some bread and cheese and apples, sat on the living room floor eating drinking and listening to The Clash's Combat Rock. Drunk, middle of night Jeannette left I passed out on the floor. Woke to dirty apartment and all day cleaning.
Moved into a new apartment, May, middle of Kensington Market which I'd adopted as a home, found my first jobs, friends, shows in the neighborhood. Two bedroom, moved in by myself and it was wall-lined with garbage, cobwebs in the corners, spent 3 days cleaning. No roommate for 2 weeks.
First night I had no furniture, just a bed, small table I'd built some months before. Jeannette came over and we got a bottle of wine, bought an exacto-knife some bread and cheese and apples, sat on the living room floor eating drinking and listening to The Clash's Combat Rock. Drunk, middle of night Jeannette left I passed out on the floor. Woke to dirty apartment and all day cleaning.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
August 1, 2010: Leonard Cohen - Teachers
Leonard Cohen - Teachers: youtube.com/watch?v=8WXwbRPTxEQ
Leonard Cohen is highly fetishized. I remember a friend of mine I met in a university literature class, in her thirties, thin and magic, telling me that she used to meet with friends one night a week to drink wine, listen to Leonard Cohen albums and dissect his songs. I was in Montreal once with Macey and she found his home, left a love note for him on his doorstep. I've seen some weep to his songs.
I was touring once by myself in winter and had only a tape player in the van, cold and every tape had a scratching noise behind it I thought sometimes on the 14 hour drives that there were devils coming through the middle of the night. I had a Leonard Cohen tape my father made when he was young like me, a compilation mostly early songs all classical guitar and I listened to that tape on repeat to calm me, to keep focus and alive. Foolish endeavors always need some form of camaraderie.
And "Teachers" was the first of his songs I learned to love. My brother was learning to play it, walked the house picking the chords pounded into my head, I moved to Halifax alone lived in a 4 bedroom house alone and terrified every night of the noises downstairs. I would sit in my room listening to this song, dissecting it and writing, learning how to finger pick my guitar. I still don't quite understand it all, found an importance of mystery.
Most are close to kin who have studied this form.
Leonard Cohen is highly fetishized. I remember a friend of mine I met in a university literature class, in her thirties, thin and magic, telling me that she used to meet with friends one night a week to drink wine, listen to Leonard Cohen albums and dissect his songs. I was in Montreal once with Macey and she found his home, left a love note for him on his doorstep. I've seen some weep to his songs.
I was touring once by myself in winter and had only a tape player in the van, cold and every tape had a scratching noise behind it I thought sometimes on the 14 hour drives that there were devils coming through the middle of the night. I had a Leonard Cohen tape my father made when he was young like me, a compilation mostly early songs all classical guitar and I listened to that tape on repeat to calm me, to keep focus and alive. Foolish endeavors always need some form of camaraderie.
And "Teachers" was the first of his songs I learned to love. My brother was learning to play it, walked the house picking the chords pounded into my head, I moved to Halifax alone lived in a 4 bedroom house alone and terrified every night of the noises downstairs. I would sit in my room listening to this song, dissecting it and writing, learning how to finger pick my guitar. I still don't quite understand it all, found an importance of mystery.
Most are close to kin who have studied this form.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)