Philip Glass - Metamorphosis 1
There's something about the piano that terrifies and excites me. They're full of some strange power that compels my every sense, they're full of mystery and make me breathe differently, strange.
My aunt Jeannie had one in her living room. I remember my cousin feigning to learn it but I don't remember anyone ever actually playing it. I know there were songs but I can't recall them and I don't think it was played well or with any force. I remember sitting under it and hitting its keys and wanting it to make sense instead of just noise. I wanted to speak with it, for it to speak with me. I wanted to be at a piano. I remember others in the room speaking but I didn't care for their words, I wanted the words of this thing.
I learned some basics on a chord organ when I lived by myself. It sat against the wall next to the bathroom and was barely ever turned on. It was loud so I would learn its scales late at night with no sound, finding the tones in my head and making memory in my muscles. I gravitated more toward the minor keys. And I never really learned it but found words.
I don't know that I ever want to learn it though. I fear it would lose its mystery. I have to detune my guitar and find alternate tunings to remember its appeal, I don't want that for pianos. They're too holy in my body for such things. The wood, the colour, the sound, the cities inside them. They're the most pure of instrument.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Sunday, November 28, 2010
November 29, 2010: Charles Spearin - Mrs. Morris
Charles Spearin - Mrs. Morris
In rehearsal. Sunday.
Mike mentioned that he could only stay ten more minutes. One asked why. Said he had to go to a memorial service. I asked who died.
"You remember Michael Smoughton?" I didn't. "You know, played the No Age show with us a couple weeks ago, British guy." I did. "He and his wife died in a tragic car accident a couple days ago."
And my body sunk.
I walked into the memorial service just minutes after. I first felt impostor; I didn't know Michael well, I didn't even know his last name. I'd never met his wife. I didn't know all but a handful in the room. The week before he'd died he'd told me he was leaving Toronto soon to go back to England, I'd been full of disappointment as he was kind and compelling and we barely had the time to connect. We were playing in a band together and he first approached me and broke my quiet. We had a handful of rehearsals, some shows to meet and discuss Canada and Christopher Hitchens and marvel at the getting away with playing inconsequentially simple instruments with well trained musicians, among. I'd last seen him the day before he left Toronto, wishing him as sincerely I could manage good luck in his travels. The time between was daily.
And I felt impostor. I knew his dearest friend would have told me otherwise (and a man named Pete did express such sentiment) but I was allowed to feel somewhat impostor surrounded by those who knew his body well. And the room was so full of sorrow that it overcame and the faces filled me. Speechless, I observed and considered my own paper body, the ones surrounding me. I met small forms of beauty.
Some people got up in front of the crowd and spoke, told stories. No story surprised me, they all told of the transparency of kindness that Michael had emitted. One man used the word "elegance" and it seemed most fitting.
And then we sat, eight of us, and spoke of other things. The sadness of the room had lifted and we simply told stories. Sudden the death was in background of our words and the faces seemed more welcome.
In leaving I was with a sense of thanks, fragile and full of love.
I can't help but hope that with all I speak one knows every word stands before backgrounds of affection. Every statement is in appreciation of form. Of being.
In rehearsal. Sunday.
Mike mentioned that he could only stay ten more minutes. One asked why. Said he had to go to a memorial service. I asked who died.
"You remember Michael Smoughton?" I didn't. "You know, played the No Age show with us a couple weeks ago, British guy." I did. "He and his wife died in a tragic car accident a couple days ago."
And my body sunk.
I walked into the memorial service just minutes after. I first felt impostor; I didn't know Michael well, I didn't even know his last name. I'd never met his wife. I didn't know all but a handful in the room. The week before he'd died he'd told me he was leaving Toronto soon to go back to England, I'd been full of disappointment as he was kind and compelling and we barely had the time to connect. We were playing in a band together and he first approached me and broke my quiet. We had a handful of rehearsals, some shows to meet and discuss Canada and Christopher Hitchens and marvel at the getting away with playing inconsequentially simple instruments with well trained musicians, among. I'd last seen him the day before he left Toronto, wishing him as sincerely I could manage good luck in his travels. The time between was daily.
And I felt impostor. I knew his dearest friend would have told me otherwise (and a man named Pete did express such sentiment) but I was allowed to feel somewhat impostor surrounded by those who knew his body well. And the room was so full of sorrow that it overcame and the faces filled me. Speechless, I observed and considered my own paper body, the ones surrounding me. I met small forms of beauty.
Some people got up in front of the crowd and spoke, told stories. No story surprised me, they all told of the transparency of kindness that Michael had emitted. One man used the word "elegance" and it seemed most fitting.
And then we sat, eight of us, and spoke of other things. The sadness of the room had lifted and we simply told stories. Sudden the death was in background of our words and the faces seemed more welcome.
In leaving I was with a sense of thanks, fragile and full of love.
I can't help but hope that with all I speak one knows every word stands before backgrounds of affection. Every statement is in appreciation of form. Of being.
November 28, 2010: The National - England
The National - England
Cari used to get kicked out of restaurants for laughing too hard. She had asthma so when she really got laughing she would run out of breath, it would come out like a quack. And loud. There was a pressure built up in her body. Her tiny frame came from a birth four months premature, she was not expected to live. She'd been handed a death sentence on her first breath where the rest of us feign forms of immortality. So she lived.
I first met her through a friend. She stood alone doing the dishes of idiot men as they sat in the living room talking about football, pussy. Then she came into the room and told them how dumb they were while they wanted for her words against and laughed. We didn't know each other for months but to stop and say hello. And when she told me of England, her coming solo trip and her want for companionship I said yes. She was going to see some mutual friends, I had never been outside Canada and I wanted for her words.
London came and we slept on the floor of our friends flat, made cereal in the kitchen. We bought some beer and went out dancing, met drunk old racist men and attractive women who loved our voices. We celebrated in the streets with a 3 story high bonfire, fireworks, young men from Brighton who saw us as shining alien. We sang on the subway and spit beer.
Edinburgh was the place, though. We wandered, climbed a volcano. We got a bottle of whiskey and shared it in the basement of the hostel. We sat at a table and shared stories, she stroked her long black hair with her hand as she talked and I was sure I fell in love with her that night only. Next day was friend. We laughed how the couple who shared our room thought us a couple too as I made a pack of cards from found pen and paper.
Halifax came again. We slowly lost contact. I would see Cari in the street, would visit now and again. The last time I saw Cari I lamented, she'll one day be a great mother and I'll have to see her only in passing.
So much beauty passing by unrecognized.
Cari used to get kicked out of restaurants for laughing too hard. She had asthma so when she really got laughing she would run out of breath, it would come out like a quack. And loud. There was a pressure built up in her body. Her tiny frame came from a birth four months premature, she was not expected to live. She'd been handed a death sentence on her first breath where the rest of us feign forms of immortality. So she lived.
I first met her through a friend. She stood alone doing the dishes of idiot men as they sat in the living room talking about football, pussy. Then she came into the room and told them how dumb they were while they wanted for her words against and laughed. We didn't know each other for months but to stop and say hello. And when she told me of England, her coming solo trip and her want for companionship I said yes. She was going to see some mutual friends, I had never been outside Canada and I wanted for her words.
London came and we slept on the floor of our friends flat, made cereal in the kitchen. We bought some beer and went out dancing, met drunk old racist men and attractive women who loved our voices. We celebrated in the streets with a 3 story high bonfire, fireworks, young men from Brighton who saw us as shining alien. We sang on the subway and spit beer.
Edinburgh was the place, though. We wandered, climbed a volcano. We got a bottle of whiskey and shared it in the basement of the hostel. We sat at a table and shared stories, she stroked her long black hair with her hand as she talked and I was sure I fell in love with her that night only. Next day was friend. We laughed how the couple who shared our room thought us a couple too as I made a pack of cards from found pen and paper.
Halifax came again. We slowly lost contact. I would see Cari in the street, would visit now and again. The last time I saw Cari I lamented, she'll one day be a great mother and I'll have to see her only in passing.
So much beauty passing by unrecognized.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
November 27, 2010: Dethklok - Coffee Jingle
Dethklok - Coffee Jingle
I like to sit and coffee and read and look at the faces. It's a form of meditation. Coffee is a holy drink and shouldn't always be used as a force for waking. It is a conversationalist, let it sit and it will tell you marvelous things. It will let its heat rise and play with the air around you. It will bring calm and beautiful strangers to your side. Give it attention and it will hum quietly beneath the din of the room.
Daily I do this. It is beyond routine, has passed into a ceremony. Daily I sit at coffee and speak with a friend, converse with a book, manipulate words, watch strangers pass. It brings me into myself and focuses my body.
I've become such a presence at some coffee shops that I get free cups often. It's a little embarrassing.
I like to sit and coffee and read and look at the faces. It's a form of meditation. Coffee is a holy drink and shouldn't always be used as a force for waking. It is a conversationalist, let it sit and it will tell you marvelous things. It will let its heat rise and play with the air around you. It will bring calm and beautiful strangers to your side. Give it attention and it will hum quietly beneath the din of the room.
Daily I do this. It is beyond routine, has passed into a ceremony. Daily I sit at coffee and speak with a friend, converse with a book, manipulate words, watch strangers pass. It brings me into myself and focuses my body.
I've become such a presence at some coffee shops that I get free cups often. It's a little embarrassing.
Friday, November 26, 2010
November 26, 2010: Jeff Buckley - I Never Asked to Be Your Mountain
Jeff Buckley - I Never Asked to Be Your Mountain
A friend said to me, yesterday, "I'm scared that he doesn't love me because my family is so normal." I couldn't help but sympathize.
When I first moved to Toronto I had to stop asking people about their parents and their families because I found more and more that parents had died, divorced, that people were adopted or their siblings were estranged, that they ran away from home when they were teenagers or else abused. I couldn't assume that people had "regular" families; a mother, a father and brothers and/or sisters. I found forms of families otherwise regarded as deviant or irregular which functioned as families fully. And I found them exciting and new and intimidating and felt insecure in the stories they told.
I come from a "regular" family. They're normal. We're normal. I have a mother and a father who are still married and very loving and supportive. I have two brothers who have jobs and children and significant others, a house and a car and a cat, one owns a business and the other is a website developer.
Boring.
But there's nothing wrong with this. It's strange that I can feel so insecure about a loving and supportive family that gets along. I guess it makes one feel themselves normal; average. There is nothing special or unusual or remarkable about being average, it's a form of gray. But then there is the family on paper vs the family in reality, the self on paper vs the self in reality. Different forms. Completely.
Katie was one of the most beautiful, kind I'd yet met and she brought me to her parents Toronto home. They were lawyers. They owned a home and had built a pond in back filled with goldfish. They had a modest art collection. I spoke with her father about The United Nations as he leaned on his breakfast nook, his pale blue dress shirt tucked into his slacks. We drank wine on their back patio. It was a few days since they had installed lights on the CN Tower and you could see it in the distance, bringing my brimmed wonder to spill.
A friend said to me, yesterday, "I'm scared that he doesn't love me because my family is so normal." I couldn't help but sympathize.
When I first moved to Toronto I had to stop asking people about their parents and their families because I found more and more that parents had died, divorced, that people were adopted or their siblings were estranged, that they ran away from home when they were teenagers or else abused. I couldn't assume that people had "regular" families; a mother, a father and brothers and/or sisters. I found forms of families otherwise regarded as deviant or irregular which functioned as families fully. And I found them exciting and new and intimidating and felt insecure in the stories they told.
I come from a "regular" family. They're normal. We're normal. I have a mother and a father who are still married and very loving and supportive. I have two brothers who have jobs and children and significant others, a house and a car and a cat, one owns a business and the other is a website developer.
Boring.
But there's nothing wrong with this. It's strange that I can feel so insecure about a loving and supportive family that gets along. I guess it makes one feel themselves normal; average. There is nothing special or unusual or remarkable about being average, it's a form of gray. But then there is the family on paper vs the family in reality, the self on paper vs the self in reality. Different forms. Completely.
Katie was one of the most beautiful, kind I'd yet met and she brought me to her parents Toronto home. They were lawyers. They owned a home and had built a pond in back filled with goldfish. They had a modest art collection. I spoke with her father about The United Nations as he leaned on his breakfast nook, his pale blue dress shirt tucked into his slacks. We drank wine on their back patio. It was a few days since they had installed lights on the CN Tower and you could see it in the distance, bringing my brimmed wonder to spill.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
November 25, 2010: The Ramones - Pet Cemetery
The Ramones - Pet Cemetery
I remember the room. I remember the woman, frail with glasses, standing in front of us and kind speaking of God. I remember a picture on the wall of a man holding Jesus above the water, cradled. I remember someone asking the woman if animals go to Heaven.
"No," she said, "animals don't have souls like people have so they don't go to Heaven."
I went home and hugged my dog, Susie. She had been roaming the house, waiting for me when I was away for as long remembered and I loved her, she sat next to me when I was picked on by my brothers, when my parents fought, when my friend couldn't play. She loved and anticipated love. I was young and she was the closest thing to humanity I knew.
A friend asked me today, "How many books do you read a year?" and I did the math and figure it around a hundred. I've read Dostoevsky and Henry Miller, immersed myself in Shakespeare and the brothers Grimm, have known the words of Emily Dickinson and Sylvia Plath, Garcia Marquez and Garcia Lorca. I think I've had enough of a foundation laid that I can finally read the Bible and not tell young children that their most holy of loved family will not join them in the magical made-up land they can look forward to when they die.
I've begun. It is the corner stone of our form of literature and I've begun.
I remember the room. I remember the woman, frail with glasses, standing in front of us and kind speaking of God. I remember a picture on the wall of a man holding Jesus above the water, cradled. I remember someone asking the woman if animals go to Heaven.
"No," she said, "animals don't have souls like people have so they don't go to Heaven."
I went home and hugged my dog, Susie. She had been roaming the house, waiting for me when I was away for as long remembered and I loved her, she sat next to me when I was picked on by my brothers, when my parents fought, when my friend couldn't play. She loved and anticipated love. I was young and she was the closest thing to humanity I knew.
A friend asked me today, "How many books do you read a year?" and I did the math and figure it around a hundred. I've read Dostoevsky and Henry Miller, immersed myself in Shakespeare and the brothers Grimm, have known the words of Emily Dickinson and Sylvia Plath, Garcia Marquez and Garcia Lorca. I think I've had enough of a foundation laid that I can finally read the Bible and not tell young children that their most holy of loved family will not join them in the magical made-up land they can look forward to when they die.
I've begun. It is the corner stone of our form of literature and I've begun.
Monday, November 22, 2010
November 22, 2010: Neko Case - I'm an Animal
Neko Case - I'm an Animal
Sitting with Laura behind her bar in the day, boxed in by four buildings and the sun overhead a thing rarely seen and seemed new though I saw that space in the night twice a week at least. She was reading horoscopes and telling me about witches, about astrology, about the stars.
At one point I mentioned how this thing of beauty, whatever it was, "broke my heart." Laura felt sympathy for me but no, it was good, it was a glorious breaking that I wanted for for it was in beauty. She didn't understand.
I remember an immense admiration for John Keats when I was introduced to his work. Same with Nick Drake. I tend towards those who, it seems, have their names writ on water. Perhaps it's something inherent in my body, I tend toward sadness and think under any circumstance my body would react in this same wanton way. These is a beauty there, everywhere, and it kills me slowly with sorrowfully bowed strings.
And this song kills me. There's a humour there too, if you want.
Sitting with Laura behind her bar in the day, boxed in by four buildings and the sun overhead a thing rarely seen and seemed new though I saw that space in the night twice a week at least. She was reading horoscopes and telling me about witches, about astrology, about the stars.
At one point I mentioned how this thing of beauty, whatever it was, "broke my heart." Laura felt sympathy for me but no, it was good, it was a glorious breaking that I wanted for for it was in beauty. She didn't understand.
I remember an immense admiration for John Keats when I was introduced to his work. Same with Nick Drake. I tend towards those who, it seems, have their names writ on water. Perhaps it's something inherent in my body, I tend toward sadness and think under any circumstance my body would react in this same wanton way. These is a beauty there, everywhere, and it kills me slowly with sorrowfully bowed strings.
And this song kills me. There's a humour there too, if you want.
Friday, November 19, 2010
November 19, 2010: Daft Punk - Da Funk
Daft Punk - Da Funk
Been in a funk lately. Have moved beyond after past night.
Played in a show that felt good, was a part with many wonderful people I respect and admire. Met many more who were charming and kind. Shared a cigarette with a girl who has been provoking my silences. Drank whiskey from a flask. Heard some beautiful ear splitting music. Brought myself to the floor, it was shaking and I was flung into a restless sea of arms and bodies. No judgment, no sex, just bodies into each other. After, two young girls walked me home full of flirt, to my door.
It was most what the city has been meant to bring me. Or, how I perceive. It was refreshing and I've spent today wandering, listening to music, working, was up at 8:00. New. Can't hear right, though.
Ready for the coming months. I know I stare down the most difficult days.
Been in a funk lately. Have moved beyond after past night.
Played in a show that felt good, was a part with many wonderful people I respect and admire. Met many more who were charming and kind. Shared a cigarette with a girl who has been provoking my silences. Drank whiskey from a flask. Heard some beautiful ear splitting music. Brought myself to the floor, it was shaking and I was flung into a restless sea of arms and bodies. No judgment, no sex, just bodies into each other. After, two young girls walked me home full of flirt, to my door.
It was most what the city has been meant to bring me. Or, how I perceive. It was refreshing and I've spent today wandering, listening to music, working, was up at 8:00. New. Can't hear right, though.
Ready for the coming months. I know I stare down the most difficult days.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
November 18, 2010: No Age - Losing Feeling
No Age - Losing Feeling
There's something holy in music that transcends popular forms.
I know that's a strange thing to admit a third of your way into life but at least it has resonated and fully.
I looked down into the crowd that had converged over this man who manipulated sounds to fill the room and waves. And lights around him were being mirrored onto the ceiling. And some covered their bodies. Most were to the side and casual and barely took note but it seemed like the whole room had become family.
And then another band played and the room filled and I could barely hear and some strange white noise penetrated the background and slightly hurt. And I watched in awe for until the balcony cleared and then went into it all, every body converging onto each other. The first thing I loved was the floor in a shaking. I stood still and all my body moved.
I still can't hear quite right just now and my body is tired and alive.
There's something holy in music that transcends popular forms.
I know that's a strange thing to admit a third of your way into life but at least it has resonated and fully.
I looked down into the crowd that had converged over this man who manipulated sounds to fill the room and waves. And lights around him were being mirrored onto the ceiling. And some covered their bodies. Most were to the side and casual and barely took note but it seemed like the whole room had become family.
And then another band played and the room filled and I could barely hear and some strange white noise penetrated the background and slightly hurt. And I watched in awe for until the balcony cleared and then went into it all, every body converging onto each other. The first thing I loved was the floor in a shaking. I stood still and all my body moved.
I still can't hear quite right just now and my body is tired and alive.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
November 17, 2010 - Townes Van Zandt - Nothin'
Townes Van Zandt - Nothin'
Lately time passes without a word. Barely a whisper. Every day seems like the last and every outcome predictable. I wake, shower, breakfast. Coffee, reading, writing. Home, food, writing. Then comes either a drink with friends, a show with whatever band will have me, a movie alone or more writing, more reading. In between I contact people to help me press an album. I meet pretty faces and attempt a flirt but just say words and walk away. My phone rings and I hope it that girl I met, a dear friend who wants my company, but it becomes someone from work wanting to switch a shift.
It's not a bad life. But there are times when the line of thought becomes so tedious and all the actions so predictable that I long for some surprise, something pleasant to just fall. Or, better, to rise.
The black, the red I love so much is becoming some vague form of grey. And it's more frustrating than most anything I've known.
Lately time passes without a word. Barely a whisper. Every day seems like the last and every outcome predictable. I wake, shower, breakfast. Coffee, reading, writing. Home, food, writing. Then comes either a drink with friends, a show with whatever band will have me, a movie alone or more writing, more reading. In between I contact people to help me press an album. I meet pretty faces and attempt a flirt but just say words and walk away. My phone rings and I hope it that girl I met, a dear friend who wants my company, but it becomes someone from work wanting to switch a shift.
It's not a bad life. But there are times when the line of thought becomes so tedious and all the actions so predictable that I long for some surprise, something pleasant to just fall. Or, better, to rise.
The black, the red I love so much is becoming some vague form of grey. And it's more frustrating than most anything I've known.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
November 16, 2010: Bon Iver - Woods
Bon Iver - Woods: youtube.com/watch?v=tZYVJlhnqxQ
I used to listen to Radiohead's OK Computer every night while I was sleeping. It would play on my stereo above my head and play me to sleep, haunt my dreams. I would often skip "Fitter Happier" if I was still awake because it scared me out of myself.
Then Kid A came out. I remember driving my Dad's half-ton truck to the mall and buying it, putting it in the CD player as I drove home in the dark, hearing it for the first time. I remember the street lights in the gloaming. I listened to twenty seconds of a song and skiped it, the next song wouldn't be any good and I'd fast forward, skipped every song all the way to the end. I took it out before I even got home, disappointed. I hated it. It wasn't what I expected and it was slow and monotonous and I hated it. I put it aside, didn't listen to it for months. I can't recall why I gave it a second chance but I did and thankfully.
And now I can't help but stop and swell up every time I hear Kid A. It's brilliant.
I've seen things which at first I hate to a retching become those things I love most. I don't understand my physiognomy at times and I'm sure, more and more, that I know myself less and less. And these loves are the most intense loves, perhaps because they fought to win me over.
I used to listen to Radiohead's OK Computer every night while I was sleeping. It would play on my stereo above my head and play me to sleep, haunt my dreams. I would often skip "Fitter Happier" if I was still awake because it scared me out of myself.
Then Kid A came out. I remember driving my Dad's half-ton truck to the mall and buying it, putting it in the CD player as I drove home in the dark, hearing it for the first time. I remember the street lights in the gloaming. I listened to twenty seconds of a song and skiped it, the next song wouldn't be any good and I'd fast forward, skipped every song all the way to the end. I took it out before I even got home, disappointed. I hated it. It wasn't what I expected and it was slow and monotonous and I hated it. I put it aside, didn't listen to it for months. I can't recall why I gave it a second chance but I did and thankfully.
And now I can't help but stop and swell up every time I hear Kid A. It's brilliant.
I've seen things which at first I hate to a retching become those things I love most. I don't understand my physiognomy at times and I'm sure, more and more, that I know myself less and less. And these loves are the most intense loves, perhaps because they fought to win me over.
Monday, November 15, 2010
November 15, 2010: Vic Chessnut - Flirted With You All My Life
Vic Chessnut - Flirted With You All My Life: youtube.com/watch?v=V4Z-kjr4BLs
There was a period in my life where I was so depressed that I considered suicide. There isn't much to get into there, it wasn't one thing or another merely the basic difficulties of being a teenager, living in a small town. I often felt paralyzed and out of focus, building toward something good but unable to see it ahead, not even sure if it was there. It's strange to look back on that time and see myself shrouded by this darkness that I couldn't explain, unable to reach out to anyone for help, spiraling thoughts of terrible being. I think the only thing that kept me alive was the fact that my death would have killed my family in turn.
I had a friend who killed himself when he was fifteen, I was sixteen. I didn't know him so well but I admired him immensely. I was just on the verge of stepping out of my depression when I met him proper, was still somewhat shunned and made the fool by those I considered friends and he said friendly words toward me. I felt comfortable talking to him, called him a brother, he was charming and handsome and funny. Then, as briefly as we had spoken he disappeared. He stopped going to school because of an injury and I saw him just a handful of times again before he put a gun in his mouth. His death was shocking and I didn't know how to understand it, I remember holding onto it like gossip at first because the concept was so foreign and immense I couldn't grasp. It wasn't felt truly until I saw his body, shook his mothers hand and she told me he'd mentioned my name before, kindly.
The most difficult thing in life for me at this point is to show those I love how much I truly love them. I'm so full of gratitude and honour for those I've so far met and who have stated kind words of me, to me, that the feeling sometimes rises to burst and I want to lie myself prostrate at their feet. Even those I meet in passing, those beautiful faces that fill my dreams and pass into their own forms of beauty. It's too much.
And the eyes that regard with familiarity are the hardest to bare, lovingly.
There was a period in my life where I was so depressed that I considered suicide. There isn't much to get into there, it wasn't one thing or another merely the basic difficulties of being a teenager, living in a small town. I often felt paralyzed and out of focus, building toward something good but unable to see it ahead, not even sure if it was there. It's strange to look back on that time and see myself shrouded by this darkness that I couldn't explain, unable to reach out to anyone for help, spiraling thoughts of terrible being. I think the only thing that kept me alive was the fact that my death would have killed my family in turn.
I had a friend who killed himself when he was fifteen, I was sixteen. I didn't know him so well but I admired him immensely. I was just on the verge of stepping out of my depression when I met him proper, was still somewhat shunned and made the fool by those I considered friends and he said friendly words toward me. I felt comfortable talking to him, called him a brother, he was charming and handsome and funny. Then, as briefly as we had spoken he disappeared. He stopped going to school because of an injury and I saw him just a handful of times again before he put a gun in his mouth. His death was shocking and I didn't know how to understand it, I remember holding onto it like gossip at first because the concept was so foreign and immense I couldn't grasp. It wasn't felt truly until I saw his body, shook his mothers hand and she told me he'd mentioned my name before, kindly.
The most difficult thing in life for me at this point is to show those I love how much I truly love them. I'm so full of gratitude and honour for those I've so far met and who have stated kind words of me, to me, that the feeling sometimes rises to burst and I want to lie myself prostrate at their feet. Even those I meet in passing, those beautiful faces that fill my dreams and pass into their own forms of beauty. It's too much.
And the eyes that regard with familiarity are the hardest to bare, lovingly.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
November 14, 2010: Bob Dylan - The Man in Me
Bob Dylan - The Man in Me: metacafe.com/watch/4343906/bob_dylan_the_man_in_me/
My first night in Toronto. I was to stay the night with a friend, Brooklyn, downtown before moving into a room in my cousins Brampton house. Brooklyn was having a birthday party that night and invited me to meet her there, in a bar in Kensington. I wandered then went early, nothing to do, drank by myself and was hit on by charming and aggressive men as I waited. I was here. I was ready.
I found myself in the night at a table with two beautiful girls and an acquaintance, I gravitated toward the acquaintance for I stupidly assumed these two beautiful girls, being beautiful, were likely dull and uninterested in such an alien. Then, being left alone against my wishes with these two beautiful girls I feigned to make conversation for it was all I knew. One of them, Hannah, told me that she was an actress. She had studied classical theatre, she had been an Iago and she had been a Juliet.
And I was transfixed. We talked for an hour untouched by any other drunken body in the room. She told me her histories and of Israel and of her Father. She told me of her home and of her friends, of the theatre, asked me of the East and my visions of Toronto. I was empty of experience at her side, had nothing to offer and so when she left I let her without a word.
It was some weeks before I was able to find a home in Toronto, a means of survival, somewhere to lay my head and myself. And I found her somehow. And I asked her to meet me and she agreed. And we met. And I was bold and she showed me many varied forms of beauty. She told me I was trouble. She was something I'd never known and she let me.
It wasn't long, though, before she put it all to some form of rest. She called me and said she couldn't, I said I could and she agreed to meet me once more and then alone, the next day. An infinity can occur between seconds, I found. As I walked toward her there was a newspaper headline of the frequency of breakups at this particular time of year. I knew what I was walking into. And I wondered, when we finally met and she cried and she told me it was over and Bob Dylan's "The Man in Me" played above me on the coffee shop speakers, her figure far behind her as an Iago and a Juliet, is my life a some form of tragedy or comedy?
My first night in Toronto. I was to stay the night with a friend, Brooklyn, downtown before moving into a room in my cousins Brampton house. Brooklyn was having a birthday party that night and invited me to meet her there, in a bar in Kensington. I wandered then went early, nothing to do, drank by myself and was hit on by charming and aggressive men as I waited. I was here. I was ready.
I found myself in the night at a table with two beautiful girls and an acquaintance, I gravitated toward the acquaintance for I stupidly assumed these two beautiful girls, being beautiful, were likely dull and uninterested in such an alien. Then, being left alone against my wishes with these two beautiful girls I feigned to make conversation for it was all I knew. One of them, Hannah, told me that she was an actress. She had studied classical theatre, she had been an Iago and she had been a Juliet.
And I was transfixed. We talked for an hour untouched by any other drunken body in the room. She told me her histories and of Israel and of her Father. She told me of her home and of her friends, of the theatre, asked me of the East and my visions of Toronto. I was empty of experience at her side, had nothing to offer and so when she left I let her without a word.
It was some weeks before I was able to find a home in Toronto, a means of survival, somewhere to lay my head and myself. And I found her somehow. And I asked her to meet me and she agreed. And we met. And I was bold and she showed me many varied forms of beauty. She told me I was trouble. She was something I'd never known and she let me.
It wasn't long, though, before she put it all to some form of rest. She called me and said she couldn't, I said I could and she agreed to meet me once more and then alone, the next day. An infinity can occur between seconds, I found. As I walked toward her there was a newspaper headline of the frequency of breakups at this particular time of year. I knew what I was walking into. And I wondered, when we finally met and she cried and she told me it was over and Bob Dylan's "The Man in Me" played above me on the coffee shop speakers, her figure far behind her as an Iago and a Juliet, is my life a some form of tragedy or comedy?
Friday, November 12, 2010
November 12, 2010: RUN DMC - My Adidas
RUN DMC - My Adidas: youtube.com/watch?v=dA8DsUN6g_k
I've been waging a personal debate of style vs substance, it's remained for years with no proper conclusion. It seems they're indispensable and conjoined.
Style alone cannot be trusted. It is ultimately vapid and meaningless, just a shiny piece of emptiness that attracts the eye. Style is a way of expression; when there is no connection to anything which bears weight the expression becomes that of nothing.
Substance alone cannot be trusted. If a piece of work is without style than it is detracting all attention from itself. It is disagreeable and full of animus. Something substantial would be overly challenging and, though worthy of praise, incapable of connection.
The perfect piece blends style and substance seamlessly. The substantial elements are accentuated and made agreeable by the stylistic elements. They do not have to face away from each other though they be opposite and seemingly incapable of blend.
I bring this up because I've found myself interested in clothing and fashion.
I've always felt that fashion is somewhat of an irrelevance. I remember seeing a designer on TV once asked, "If wearing sandals in winter were considered fashionable, even if it meant freezing your feet all the time, would you wear sandals in winter?" to which he replied a confident "Yes." I remember thinking this was incredibly vain and full of foolish. I now, though, sympathize with his answer; it's not so much that one would wear a piece of clothing that would be counter to common sense, it's more so that individual expression comes first. And if you're expressing yourself through clothing then you're likely to wear clothes that may not agree with your surroundings.
There is a difference between clothing and fashion: Clothing is more the utilitarian which protects you from your physical environment (substance) where fashion is what attracts others and yourself to a certain article (style). And clothing creates such an intimate statement. The things you wear are an extension of your body, they are up against your flesh and dance with it as you move, your body is embraced by fabrics and colour and shape. It all becomes part of you and against you and makes you move differently depending on its intimacy, its understanding.
I tend to move in dichotomies and so the things I am drawn to are often archetype masculine or feminine. There isn't much middle ground and it all tends to make some men uncomfortable.
I've been waging a personal debate of style vs substance, it's remained for years with no proper conclusion. It seems they're indispensable and conjoined.
Style alone cannot be trusted. It is ultimately vapid and meaningless, just a shiny piece of emptiness that attracts the eye. Style is a way of expression; when there is no connection to anything which bears weight the expression becomes that of nothing.
Substance alone cannot be trusted. If a piece of work is without style than it is detracting all attention from itself. It is disagreeable and full of animus. Something substantial would be overly challenging and, though worthy of praise, incapable of connection.
The perfect piece blends style and substance seamlessly. The substantial elements are accentuated and made agreeable by the stylistic elements. They do not have to face away from each other though they be opposite and seemingly incapable of blend.
I bring this up because I've found myself interested in clothing and fashion.
I've always felt that fashion is somewhat of an irrelevance. I remember seeing a designer on TV once asked, "If wearing sandals in winter were considered fashionable, even if it meant freezing your feet all the time, would you wear sandals in winter?" to which he replied a confident "Yes." I remember thinking this was incredibly vain and full of foolish. I now, though, sympathize with his answer; it's not so much that one would wear a piece of clothing that would be counter to common sense, it's more so that individual expression comes first. And if you're expressing yourself through clothing then you're likely to wear clothes that may not agree with your surroundings.
There is a difference between clothing and fashion: Clothing is more the utilitarian which protects you from your physical environment (substance) where fashion is what attracts others and yourself to a certain article (style). And clothing creates such an intimate statement. The things you wear are an extension of your body, they are up against your flesh and dance with it as you move, your body is embraced by fabrics and colour and shape. It all becomes part of you and against you and makes you move differently depending on its intimacy, its understanding.
I tend to move in dichotomies and so the things I am drawn to are often archetype masculine or feminine. There isn't much middle ground and it all tends to make some men uncomfortable.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
November 9, 2010: The Band - This Wheel's On Fire
The Band - This Wheel's On Fire: youtube.com/watch?v=reiwGA7FR7s
Yesterday I ran into Jeremy. I hadn't seen him in three years, have barely thought of him since we last saw to such an extent that I briefly forgot his name. He acted like he wasn't surprised, I asked him how long he'd be in town.
"I'm leaving tomorrow, going to South America."
He once let me stay at his house, thankfully. I was on a winter tour and was staying with a friend in her bachelor apartment until she brought a date home at 3am and I let them be. Went outside to the winter, shook my way to an overpriced hotel, woke up that day alone and full of sadness. When I told Jeremy about the hotel the next day he insisted I stay in his apartment for my last night in Halifax.
That night was no celebration. I'd driven so far to play to a few people who were mostly friends, quiet and supportive and went home early. I had to drive to Ottawa the next day and so said my thanks to Brian for having me in his bar, packed my things and left. I don't even remember if I said goodbye to Jeremy that day.
"I'm tired of cars, of people and money, I need to get away from it all. Do you know what I mean?"
I did. I spent a week this year without a phone, no computer, no communication but to faces, spent no money, slept on the ground. There were cars where I'd been but they weren't used in utilitarian ways, rather as spectacle and took second to feet, bikes. It was incredible and I want it back often. It was freedom.
"Well, I don't know when I'll see you again. Bye!" and he walked off. I wanted to tell him that he's beautiful but was still so struck by the moment that I lost my chance.
Yesterday I ran into Jeremy. I hadn't seen him in three years, have barely thought of him since we last saw to such an extent that I briefly forgot his name. He acted like he wasn't surprised, I asked him how long he'd be in town.
"I'm leaving tomorrow, going to South America."
He once let me stay at his house, thankfully. I was on a winter tour and was staying with a friend in her bachelor apartment until she brought a date home at 3am and I let them be. Went outside to the winter, shook my way to an overpriced hotel, woke up that day alone and full of sadness. When I told Jeremy about the hotel the next day he insisted I stay in his apartment for my last night in Halifax.
That night was no celebration. I'd driven so far to play to a few people who were mostly friends, quiet and supportive and went home early. I had to drive to Ottawa the next day and so said my thanks to Brian for having me in his bar, packed my things and left. I don't even remember if I said goodbye to Jeremy that day.
"I'm tired of cars, of people and money, I need to get away from it all. Do you know what I mean?"
I did. I spent a week this year without a phone, no computer, no communication but to faces, spent no money, slept on the ground. There were cars where I'd been but they weren't used in utilitarian ways, rather as spectacle and took second to feet, bikes. It was incredible and I want it back often. It was freedom.
"Well, I don't know when I'll see you again. Bye!" and he walked off. I wanted to tell him that he's beautiful but was still so struck by the moment that I lost my chance.
Monday, November 8, 2010
November 8, 2010: Serge Gainsbourg - Requiem pour un con
Serge Gainsbourg - Requiem pour un con: youtube.com/watch?v=07O7GTk3hKQ&feature=related
There are some things you just can't escape.
I had been going to see a friend regularly at his work. He was becoming a mentor of sorts, telling me about his touring days, advising and sharing admiration for the sounds we both heard though separate. He mentioned Joanna Newsom every time I saw him and in the papers sometimes.
"This song has the best drum sound I've ever heard. Do you know anyone making a hip-hop album? Because they should sample this." I didn't. It was one of the last times I'd see him.
In months, Katie sat next to me in the library. She lightly played with her pen, between her fingers, as I told her about a song. She leaned back against the wall.
"You speak French right? What is he saying?" I told her what I could understand. There was a lot I couldn't catch, though, for I'm out of practice and it all seemed like such simple and ridiculous language for such a sophisticated and cool song. Later that day Katie drew a picture for me, something simple, and I kept it with me for years. It was herself, a line swirling forward from her face and to the right.
Toronto. Julia asked me if she could make me a mixed CD. I said of course, of course. "There's a couple of our songs I want you to hear." And it was on there. It was the seventh song in the list of twenty among so much Pavement, Vashti Bunyan and her own bands songs. It stood out strangely, unappealing.
But only ever in this context.
There are some things you just can't escape.
I had been going to see a friend regularly at his work. He was becoming a mentor of sorts, telling me about his touring days, advising and sharing admiration for the sounds we both heard though separate. He mentioned Joanna Newsom every time I saw him and in the papers sometimes.
"This song has the best drum sound I've ever heard. Do you know anyone making a hip-hop album? Because they should sample this." I didn't. It was one of the last times I'd see him.
In months, Katie sat next to me in the library. She lightly played with her pen, between her fingers, as I told her about a song. She leaned back against the wall.
"You speak French right? What is he saying?" I told her what I could understand. There was a lot I couldn't catch, though, for I'm out of practice and it all seemed like such simple and ridiculous language for such a sophisticated and cool song. Later that day Katie drew a picture for me, something simple, and I kept it with me for years. It was herself, a line swirling forward from her face and to the right.
Toronto. Julia asked me if she could make me a mixed CD. I said of course, of course. "There's a couple of our songs I want you to hear." And it was on there. It was the seventh song in the list of twenty among so much Pavement, Vashti Bunyan and her own bands songs. It stood out strangely, unappealing.
But only ever in this context.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
November 7, 2010: PJ Harvey - Man-Sized
PJ Harvey - Man-Sized: youtube.com/watch?v=E8ZE6XK89YA
"Artistic creation is by definition a denial of death. Therefore it is optimistic, even if in an ultimate sense the artist is tragic. And so there can never be optimistic artists and pessimistic artists."
There is a school of thought which dictates that one must feel pain, go through trials in order to create great art; one should know the deepest depths of human emotion before one can even venture to breach the skin. This isn't untrue. For joy only exists as to oppose misery. But it's not a necessity.
My favorite artist right now is Shary Boyle. I went to see her exhibition lately and it almost brought me to tears. Her work embodies something that attracts me most, is something akin to "terrible beauty." It approaches the horrific or repulsive but is done in a way that is compelling full of beauty. You can see this technique used strongly in the Brothers Grimm fairy tales (to which I've been indebted), the blood and death red with wonder. And I heard Shary Boyle lecture lately and she talked of her methods which are mostly practical. It's refreshing to hear an artist talk about being in the studio, searching out teachers of her particular art forms, all while this great moaning body of work looms behind her. She not once spoke of misery or ecstasy. Never did she speak of struggle. It was her work.
Not to say those tragedies and joys didn't necessarily play into her work, but their importance was downplayed to nil.
"Artistic creation is by definition a denial of death. Therefore it is optimistic, even if in an ultimate sense the artist is tragic. And so there can never be optimistic artists and pessimistic artists."
There is a school of thought which dictates that one must feel pain, go through trials in order to create great art; one should know the deepest depths of human emotion before one can even venture to breach the skin. This isn't untrue. For joy only exists as to oppose misery. But it's not a necessity.
My favorite artist right now is Shary Boyle. I went to see her exhibition lately and it almost brought me to tears. Her work embodies something that attracts me most, is something akin to "terrible beauty." It approaches the horrific or repulsive but is done in a way that is compelling full of beauty. You can see this technique used strongly in the Brothers Grimm fairy tales (to which I've been indebted), the blood and death red with wonder. And I heard Shary Boyle lecture lately and she talked of her methods which are mostly practical. It's refreshing to hear an artist talk about being in the studio, searching out teachers of her particular art forms, all while this great moaning body of work looms behind her. She not once spoke of misery or ecstasy. Never did she speak of struggle. It was her work.
Not to say those tragedies and joys didn't necessarily play into her work, but their importance was downplayed to nil.
November 6, 2010: Garth Brooks - The River
Garth Brooks - The River: youtube.com/watch?v=VL893RIp3gg
This was the first song to which I slow danced with a girl. I was 14. All my friends had danced with girls at 13, had kissed them or put their hands down their pants and I was jealous, it took until I was 14 just to ask a girl to dance.
I realized lately that I'm still just about as scared of girls now as I was then. I'm 26.
It's strange that I'm still as much the same person I was when I was 14. Then I had braces, pimples, was chubby, got good grades and was kind. Of course I was picked on, my kindness was taken as weakness. And any girl I liked generally laughed at me. Literally laughed. I asked a girl out once and her and her friends laughed for the whole lunch period, 20 minutes, even pointed. Pointed! Who points and laughs at a person?
And I'm at least ten years beyond all that but still so terrified of rejection, of getting hurt, of women. Some have taken a chance on me, some loved immensely, one I would have married had she let me. But still, despite all the goodness and charity I can't call myself a hunter. I can't think of taking a step sometimes without the portraits on my walls reminding me.
Granted, I have fashioned it all this way.
I've wanted, recently, to pick a fight with a friend of mine. I wouldn't do it of course, but I'm curious to see if he would stand up for himself. He doesn't seem the type and I want to force him to stand up for himself, to show him how important it is. I realize this is a tactic my brothers used on me.
This was the first song to which I slow danced with a girl. I was 14. All my friends had danced with girls at 13, had kissed them or put their hands down their pants and I was jealous, it took until I was 14 just to ask a girl to dance.
I realized lately that I'm still just about as scared of girls now as I was then. I'm 26.
It's strange that I'm still as much the same person I was when I was 14. Then I had braces, pimples, was chubby, got good grades and was kind. Of course I was picked on, my kindness was taken as weakness. And any girl I liked generally laughed at me. Literally laughed. I asked a girl out once and her and her friends laughed for the whole lunch period, 20 minutes, even pointed. Pointed! Who points and laughs at a person?
And I'm at least ten years beyond all that but still so terrified of rejection, of getting hurt, of women. Some have taken a chance on me, some loved immensely, one I would have married had she let me. But still, despite all the goodness and charity I can't call myself a hunter. I can't think of taking a step sometimes without the portraits on my walls reminding me.
Granted, I have fashioned it all this way.
I've wanted, recently, to pick a fight with a friend of mine. I wouldn't do it of course, but I'm curious to see if he would stand up for himself. He doesn't seem the type and I want to force him to stand up for himself, to show him how important it is. I realize this is a tactic my brothers used on me.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
November 4, 2010: The Dandy Warhols - Bohemian Like You
The Dandy Warhols - Bohemian Like You: youtube.com/watch?v=vK5MC8pa_cY
I went to university for 5 years and studied English literature. As I started there was no question that this was something I wanted to do for I had to discover the joys of reading, how to be a writer. Two years in I saw that I wasn't learning to be a writer at all but learning to be critical and form an argument. I was learning to write essays. I was learning how to shit on any writing that wasn't canonized. I was learning from hack writers, closed into tight cold rooms with people who generally didn't want to be there. After three years I had a moment where I had to get out: I was reading On the Road in the library, boxed in and silent, living through this book and not truly living this book. I had to move, I couldn't learn living through this form of death.
But I stayed in university despite this. I had been developing a tendency to quit before finishing and had to see it through. There was a reason I originally wanted to be there and I had to remember it. In ways I'm glad I stayed for my final year found amazing books and projects and a brief mentor of sorts.
And through university, when I told people I was in English Literature, they would ask me the same question always: "So you're going to be a teacher?" At first I would say, "Maybe" just to humour them but then, growing tired, would challenge. "You can be a lot more than a teacher with an English degree." "I'm not going to university to get a job." Or, "Nope. Never."
I'm often faced with a problem when asked, "What do you do?" I find most to be ill-defined by a single title. I work in bars for money. I write. I write and perform music. I study books and records. I drink. I am neither a bartender, a writer, a musician, a student, nor am I a drunk. Not singularly, anyway. So how does one title oneself? And why? I often cater the answer to who I speak with but find myself more often challenging that question. It can be a problem for the questioner.
When I was a teenager I wanted to move to Toronto. "What are you going to do?" my brother asked me. "I'll be a bohemian." I think that's the best answer I've ever given. But how pretentious is that? And the self-awareness of such a statement is a bit of a turn off. And today I may identify as bohemian but what of tomorrow? I suppose for the present I fit certain criteria; poor, concerned with art and culture, without any significant ties, prone to move.
I used to like this song, by the way, but now find it a bit of a turn off. I think it's the snide sort of irony they apply. It degrades a lifestyle to a style.
I went to university for 5 years and studied English literature. As I started there was no question that this was something I wanted to do for I had to discover the joys of reading, how to be a writer. Two years in I saw that I wasn't learning to be a writer at all but learning to be critical and form an argument. I was learning to write essays. I was learning how to shit on any writing that wasn't canonized. I was learning from hack writers, closed into tight cold rooms with people who generally didn't want to be there. After three years I had a moment where I had to get out: I was reading On the Road in the library, boxed in and silent, living through this book and not truly living this book. I had to move, I couldn't learn living through this form of death.
But I stayed in university despite this. I had been developing a tendency to quit before finishing and had to see it through. There was a reason I originally wanted to be there and I had to remember it. In ways I'm glad I stayed for my final year found amazing books and projects and a brief mentor of sorts.
And through university, when I told people I was in English Literature, they would ask me the same question always: "So you're going to be a teacher?" At first I would say, "Maybe" just to humour them but then, growing tired, would challenge. "You can be a lot more than a teacher with an English degree." "I'm not going to university to get a job." Or, "Nope. Never."
I'm often faced with a problem when asked, "What do you do?" I find most to be ill-defined by a single title. I work in bars for money. I write. I write and perform music. I study books and records. I drink. I am neither a bartender, a writer, a musician, a student, nor am I a drunk. Not singularly, anyway. So how does one title oneself? And why? I often cater the answer to who I speak with but find myself more often challenging that question. It can be a problem for the questioner.
When I was a teenager I wanted to move to Toronto. "What are you going to do?" my brother asked me. "I'll be a bohemian." I think that's the best answer I've ever given. But how pretentious is that? And the self-awareness of such a statement is a bit of a turn off. And today I may identify as bohemian but what of tomorrow? I suppose for the present I fit certain criteria; poor, concerned with art and culture, without any significant ties, prone to move.
I used to like this song, by the way, but now find it a bit of a turn off. I think it's the snide sort of irony they apply. It degrades a lifestyle to a style.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
November 3, 2010: Wolf Parade - Modern World
Wolf Parade - Modern World: youtube.com/watch?v=1nMHGyR_i8g&feature=related
As much wonder and beauty I find around me most I'm not enthralled with the way my society runs, it's forms of communication, it's objects of attraction. I don't like the fact that I have a cell phone. I don't like the fact that I'm on facebook. I don't like that my bedroom has become an office. But these things exist and I must live with them. I'd eschew them all but that they prove to be useful tools to acquire those things I want for.
But I think things could be better. I went a week this year without a phone or computer, no communication but face to face and it felt liberating. I'm used to being able to pick up and contact anyone at any time and have become indifferent for it. I need to get used to the brief contacts, the beautiful moments where you share with one quickly and gone, never to see that one again most likely. I hold closer and more respectfully those whose presence is the most difficult to grasp. There is an urgency to it all.
For the time being I have to keep my phone and computer at bay for I've chosen a certain life that entails their existence. But in time I'll move it to the side. I recall one of my favorite artists say that he moved to Greece to get away from the telephone wires but they followed him there. Maybe there is no escaping this modern world fully but it must exist.
And we've lost our sense of protest. We can do anything from our homes now and so the streets seem empty or lightly moving when they should be stormed. I remember seeing people in the park where I grew up where now it's just the addicts who frequent its fountain. Can't we convene for no reason? Just to say hello? To put out our laundry and wave to the neighbor? Did that world ever actually exist? Wasn't that our protest?
As much wonder and beauty I find around me most I'm not enthralled with the way my society runs, it's forms of communication, it's objects of attraction. I don't like the fact that I have a cell phone. I don't like the fact that I'm on facebook. I don't like that my bedroom has become an office. But these things exist and I must live with them. I'd eschew them all but that they prove to be useful tools to acquire those things I want for.
But I think things could be better. I went a week this year without a phone or computer, no communication but face to face and it felt liberating. I'm used to being able to pick up and contact anyone at any time and have become indifferent for it. I need to get used to the brief contacts, the beautiful moments where you share with one quickly and gone, never to see that one again most likely. I hold closer and more respectfully those whose presence is the most difficult to grasp. There is an urgency to it all.
For the time being I have to keep my phone and computer at bay for I've chosen a certain life that entails their existence. But in time I'll move it to the side. I recall one of my favorite artists say that he moved to Greece to get away from the telephone wires but they followed him there. Maybe there is no escaping this modern world fully but it must exist.
And we've lost our sense of protest. We can do anything from our homes now and so the streets seem empty or lightly moving when they should be stormed. I remember seeing people in the park where I grew up where now it's just the addicts who frequent its fountain. Can't we convene for no reason? Just to say hello? To put out our laundry and wave to the neighbor? Did that world ever actually exist? Wasn't that our protest?
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
November 2, 2010: Neil Young - Don't Let It Bring You Down
Neil Young - Don't Let It Bring You Down: youtube.com/watch?v=ilbgvmoF0VA
I bought the new Neil Young album tonight. I didn't even know it had been released. And one of my favorite local musicians sold it to me, someone I admire.
There have been a lot of changes in my life in the past year, amazing gratitude pours through me for it. I had reached a point where I was creatively stifled, unhappy, alone and looking at a future unfulfilled, unable to hold anything worth weight, its lightness. I remember being a kid and wishing there was some way to just go to sleep and wake up with years passed and adult and full to confidence. Then at my worst a year ago I just wanted to be able to get out of bed.
I've deconstructed that line so many times: "It's only castles burning."
It's terrifying and feels like more a series of misadventures than anything I've known. I admire most the people I meet who lay themselves bare and barely close their eyes to resting. The ones who pursue some sort of storming, unbelied of stillness but electric. My friend who needs of nothing and smiles. I heard two people speak the other day of an unfortunate incident, both in agreement to it's nature, one expressed shock and concern where the other said, "It's wonderful, isn't it?" As if acknowledged catastrophe can fill you with beauty.
And I've found insomnia to a degree. But still, when I sleep, I dream. And I love my dreaming to find more sleep.
I bought the new Neil Young album tonight. I didn't even know it had been released. And one of my favorite local musicians sold it to me, someone I admire.
There have been a lot of changes in my life in the past year, amazing gratitude pours through me for it. I had reached a point where I was creatively stifled, unhappy, alone and looking at a future unfulfilled, unable to hold anything worth weight, its lightness. I remember being a kid and wishing there was some way to just go to sleep and wake up with years passed and adult and full to confidence. Then at my worst a year ago I just wanted to be able to get out of bed.
I've deconstructed that line so many times: "It's only castles burning."
It's terrifying and feels like more a series of misadventures than anything I've known. I admire most the people I meet who lay themselves bare and barely close their eyes to resting. The ones who pursue some sort of storming, unbelied of stillness but electric. My friend who needs of nothing and smiles. I heard two people speak the other day of an unfortunate incident, both in agreement to it's nature, one expressed shock and concern where the other said, "It's wonderful, isn't it?" As if acknowledged catastrophe can fill you with beauty.
And I've found insomnia to a degree. But still, when I sleep, I dream. And I love my dreaming to find more sleep.
Monday, November 1, 2010
November 1, 2010: The North American Halloween Prevention Initiative - Do They Know It's Halloween?
The North American Halloween Prevention Initiative - Do They Know It's Halloween?: youtube.com/watch?v=jVc11TB8_9g
The place I grew up was once famous for a serial killer. He was called the "Monster of Miramichi" by the press. He killed and raped, was loose through our community for close to a year. When he was caught and tried they used DNA fingerprinting to convict him, one of the first successful uses of this technique in a crime case.
I was very young when this all happened. My parents consciously never talked about it at home, I only heard mentions of this mans name at school. His existence wasn't a part of my young life and I don't think I would have been able to conceive of his actions had I known. The only thing I remember from that period in Miramichi was that the town canceled Halloween.
When I was about 17 I was working in a shoe store and my coworker, who had grown up in Ontario, asked me about the serial killer. He said he'd heard about it when he was growing up, wanted to know what it had been like here as it was all happening. I had no answers for him and in fact had to look up this man and what he did because I'd only ever known his name as mentioned in conversation and that he had been a serial killer. I knew nothing else and had had no personal connection to the events though I had been there.
I suppose I'm glad I was sheltered from that fear. I remember young girls telling me about sleep overs they had and being terrified at night together, mentioning his name as if he actually was some sort of monster, some creature that isn't a man. I wouldn't have wanted that looming.
By no means do I mean to forward some philosophy of ignorance or shelter, I think one should be able to acknowledge a fear and simply overcome it. But what would a child think exposed to such inhumanity? Can that be overcome at such a young age? I wonder how I would have developed knowing of that monster.
The place I grew up was once famous for a serial killer. He was called the "Monster of Miramichi" by the press. He killed and raped, was loose through our community for close to a year. When he was caught and tried they used DNA fingerprinting to convict him, one of the first successful uses of this technique in a crime case.
I was very young when this all happened. My parents consciously never talked about it at home, I only heard mentions of this mans name at school. His existence wasn't a part of my young life and I don't think I would have been able to conceive of his actions had I known. The only thing I remember from that period in Miramichi was that the town canceled Halloween.
When I was about 17 I was working in a shoe store and my coworker, who had grown up in Ontario, asked me about the serial killer. He said he'd heard about it when he was growing up, wanted to know what it had been like here as it was all happening. I had no answers for him and in fact had to look up this man and what he did because I'd only ever known his name as mentioned in conversation and that he had been a serial killer. I knew nothing else and had had no personal connection to the events though I had been there.
I suppose I'm glad I was sheltered from that fear. I remember young girls telling me about sleep overs they had and being terrified at night together, mentioning his name as if he actually was some sort of monster, some creature that isn't a man. I wouldn't have wanted that looming.
By no means do I mean to forward some philosophy of ignorance or shelter, I think one should be able to acknowledge a fear and simply overcome it. But what would a child think exposed to such inhumanity? Can that be overcome at such a young age? I wonder how I would have developed knowing of that monster.
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