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.
Friday, October 29, 2010
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.
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