Nina Simone - Images: youtube.com/watch?v=f89C3uIEXZU
"Writers are made, for anybody who isn't illiterate can write; but geniuses of the writing art...are born. Let's examine the word 'genius.' It doesn't mean screwiness or eccentricity or excessive 'talent.'...A genius is simply a person who originates something never known before. Nobody but Melville could have written Moby Dick, not even Whitman or Shakespeare."
Which is more important to the artist: To achieve a level of genius? Or to live a life unhindered? Are these necessarily exclusive?
Though I agree that the genius is born and not made, that talent is something to be achieved by even the most lost, by those whose frame borders genius, I think genius is something one can pursue. One may never truly achieve it but the act of pursuit is important. Why would one contribute to any art form unless they have something important to say?
But genius seems to hold a heavy burden. Those geniuses I've read, studied, shared drinks with, they relate everything, everything, to their specific genius. I know a drummer who relates everything from food to sex to driving and streetlights to drum patterns. It consumes him. I've studied a writer whose life was, arguably, so much about relating his life in writing that the two became inexorably entwined; the writing became life and the life writing. But does this hinder the life of the genius? I know geniuses of living, who create an art form out of experiencing life, whose lives seem hindered by this same form of genius, who almost become caricatures of themselves and cannot escape their specific form of genius.
I pursue genius. I know I am not of the ranks of the greatest but I move around its circle, at least, touching the outside wall for some sake of osmosis. But I do not have the drive, the discipline to spend every moment relating my world back to one prime element. That is a lie to a degree, but as close to the truth as I can relate.
To pursue anything without the full movement of yourself is to be vain and foolish. Every pursuit, if done with any other intent, can be seen and disregarded. It terrifies me that I pursue such things for I never truly know my own intentions, I just move with an instinct, directed by colour. I hope it's some form of genius but I doubt it.
I once told an artist friend about my embarrassment at first meeting a cute girl, how she asked me what I did that day and I had to tell her that I started compiling a book of poems. She asked why that was so embarrassing, I said because it sounds like something some young pseudo-sensitive man would say to get a girl into bed. She said, "Well, isn't creating art about having sex with other people? Aren't we creating pieces of beauty so that others can share in the beauty we experience? And isn't it natural for some to want to pursue that beauty in the form of sex with the artist?"
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Friday, August 6, 2010
August 6, 2010: Julie Doiron - Me and My Friend
Julie Doiron - Me and My Friend: youtube.com/watch?v=Uo5FLoq4kFk
Have been getting nostalgic lately. I miss some friends.
My friend Katie lives in Australia now, went through some old pictures found a great one of her from when we were friends in Halifax. She lived in a church and had charades parties on weekends, I hate games like that but relented for her for love of her. We went to bars on Sundays, went to a movie together once and she yelled at the screen. She showed me some around Toronto when I moved here but then left soon after has been doing work since in Columbia, Europe. Last we saw each other I went to her parents house and she made me breakfast, looked over her parents art collection in which I once touched a wax painting by accident not knowing it was wax and my finger imprinted when no one was looking. Then her friend drove us downtown, we parted at Bloor and Bay she hugged me and I walked off missing my friend holding every moment for won't see her again for years.
Though will see Katie again. There are other friends I've lost; Lindsay lives in Toronto still but is whole other person now. She used to work in a sex shop, would wander Kensington drinking coffee with me then she'd go to any bar and pick someone up easy, just look in their direction coy. She met my Mom once and they talked about their periods. She was wonderful and beautiful but she wasn't happy, is happy now becoming less bohemian more yuppie trying to take her masters in Women studies, still wonderful and beautiful but whole other person.
Others still. One who helped me through a destructive relationship. One I helped through depression. One I only see when I'm in New Brunswick, a neighbor, a brother. One who simply don't see out at shows anymore.
I think I've been working too much lately.
Have been getting nostalgic lately. I miss some friends.
My friend Katie lives in Australia now, went through some old pictures found a great one of her from when we were friends in Halifax. She lived in a church and had charades parties on weekends, I hate games like that but relented for her for love of her. We went to bars on Sundays, went to a movie together once and she yelled at the screen. She showed me some around Toronto when I moved here but then left soon after has been doing work since in Columbia, Europe. Last we saw each other I went to her parents house and she made me breakfast, looked over her parents art collection in which I once touched a wax painting by accident not knowing it was wax and my finger imprinted when no one was looking. Then her friend drove us downtown, we parted at Bloor and Bay she hugged me and I walked off missing my friend holding every moment for won't see her again for years.
Though will see Katie again. There are other friends I've lost; Lindsay lives in Toronto still but is whole other person now. She used to work in a sex shop, would wander Kensington drinking coffee with me then she'd go to any bar and pick someone up easy, just look in their direction coy. She met my Mom once and they talked about their periods. She was wonderful and beautiful but she wasn't happy, is happy now becoming less bohemian more yuppie trying to take her masters in Women studies, still wonderful and beautiful but whole other person.
Others still. One who helped me through a destructive relationship. One I helped through depression. One I only see when I'm in New Brunswick, a neighbor, a brother. One who simply don't see out at shows anymore.
I think I've been working too much lately.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
August 5, 2010: Arcade Fire - In the Backseat
Arcade Fire - In the Backseat: youtube.com/watch?v=SsmEMk2QOnM
When I lived in Halifax I was borrowing my brothers car, a tiny black Hyundai that I barely used but had and drove friends around, should have gone everywhere, the States, the south shore but here I am. It got broken into once and since there was nothing in it all they took was the spare change in the ashtray, broke a window and it never felt the same inside the car again, someone had been there.
I drove to the airport once, don't remember why maybe picking up my brother from Calgary, yes I remember that was it, he said his plane was coming in at 2am so I drove to the airport and his flight had been delayed 2 hours so I slept on a bench for an hour before driving him into Halifax while the sun loomed in the distance below the horizon. The only CD in the car at the time was Arcade Fire's Funeral and we listened to it in silence.
And this song reminds me of when I was a kid and my father drove my brother and I to the library, part way the car caught on fire and I was stuck in the backseat still in childrens car-seat. I remember my Dad and brother jumping out the front and smoke and fire and nothing else but apparently my Dad jumped in the back and pulled me out, burned his eyebrows off. I remember my Mom waving to us from the front porch before we'd left. Terrible and surreal.
And someone I know, someone I've played a show with before, played at Madison Square Garden last night, helped open for Arcade Fire. So strange.
When I lived in Halifax I was borrowing my brothers car, a tiny black Hyundai that I barely used but had and drove friends around, should have gone everywhere, the States, the south shore but here I am. It got broken into once and since there was nothing in it all they took was the spare change in the ashtray, broke a window and it never felt the same inside the car again, someone had been there.
I drove to the airport once, don't remember why maybe picking up my brother from Calgary, yes I remember that was it, he said his plane was coming in at 2am so I drove to the airport and his flight had been delayed 2 hours so I slept on a bench for an hour before driving him into Halifax while the sun loomed in the distance below the horizon. The only CD in the car at the time was Arcade Fire's Funeral and we listened to it in silence.
And this song reminds me of when I was a kid and my father drove my brother and I to the library, part way the car caught on fire and I was stuck in the backseat still in childrens car-seat. I remember my Dad and brother jumping out the front and smoke and fire and nothing else but apparently my Dad jumped in the back and pulled me out, burned his eyebrows off. I remember my Mom waving to us from the front porch before we'd left. Terrible and surreal.
And someone I know, someone I've played a show with before, played at Madison Square Garden last night, helped open for Arcade Fire. So strange.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
August 4, 2010: Neutral Milk Hotel - Oh Comely
Neutral Milk Hotel - Oh Comely: youtube.com/watch?v=iipO9Tvk1EI
One I thought I'd lost, thought of, found me and wrote me and I happened to be going to her city, Halifax, some time soon, we made plans to meet. Jeanette was with me in the car on the drive, stayed awake long into the morning sharing histories, songs, keeping me kind and driving.
"Listen to this song. It was done in one take."
We played a show in Halifax the first night. She was there. We left after and caught up walking, stayed into the night talked though I exhausted and she fed me and gave me her company. We, the next day, brought Jeanette and others to a beach, saw waves against the shore following a hurricane far into the ocean, she walked off alone and I knew what would come. We would part, later, as we dropped off my friends and she drove away in her car. Jeanette walked me to the store, held me on the corner.
That night, another show, in the car right after at 2am to drive saw a wolf in the road run by through dark and through rain. Got to Quebec before short rest, back at the wheel. Coming into Montreal I said, "Everyone quiet. I love you but I need nobody to talk until we're all out of the car." Found place to park, ragged and lorn.
We short ventured to a pool nearby and refreshed our senses, showered, got a small meal, amazing what some water can do to your skin and your insides. Walking back to the vans found out they'd been broken into, "Take everything out of the vans and check what's missing." Only thing missing my laptop. Cost $1000, had writing and demos I'll never get back. Gone. I felt numb, surging something, sat in the van and collected myself alone for hours, Duff joined and we talked everything but break in, savior. I built my strength, went back to the venue where the rest were at table.
"I'm fine. How is everyone else?" They sat talking. Jeanette sat across. I could feel her staring at my face but wouldn't look because I knew. And she did, when I looked, she held my hand and said she loved me and I was done. I broke.
Later that night, following great show packed room found knick knacks like mixed tape with dirty sex songs, small collection of photos, kind Montreal faces, a room in the basement where we sat, Duff offered to drive back to Toronto. I laid in the back seat asleep, deepest sleep I'd ever found. There was no dreaming, just head on pillow, black.
One I thought I'd lost, thought of, found me and wrote me and I happened to be going to her city, Halifax, some time soon, we made plans to meet. Jeanette was with me in the car on the drive, stayed awake long into the morning sharing histories, songs, keeping me kind and driving.
"Listen to this song. It was done in one take."
We played a show in Halifax the first night. She was there. We left after and caught up walking, stayed into the night talked though I exhausted and she fed me and gave me her company. We, the next day, brought Jeanette and others to a beach, saw waves against the shore following a hurricane far into the ocean, she walked off alone and I knew what would come. We would part, later, as we dropped off my friends and she drove away in her car. Jeanette walked me to the store, held me on the corner.
That night, another show, in the car right after at 2am to drive saw a wolf in the road run by through dark and through rain. Got to Quebec before short rest, back at the wheel. Coming into Montreal I said, "Everyone quiet. I love you but I need nobody to talk until we're all out of the car." Found place to park, ragged and lorn.
We short ventured to a pool nearby and refreshed our senses, showered, got a small meal, amazing what some water can do to your skin and your insides. Walking back to the vans found out they'd been broken into, "Take everything out of the vans and check what's missing." Only thing missing my laptop. Cost $1000, had writing and demos I'll never get back. Gone. I felt numb, surging something, sat in the van and collected myself alone for hours, Duff joined and we talked everything but break in, savior. I built my strength, went back to the venue where the rest were at table.
"I'm fine. How is everyone else?" They sat talking. Jeanette sat across. I could feel her staring at my face but wouldn't look because I knew. And she did, when I looked, she held my hand and said she loved me and I was done. I broke.
Later that night, following great show packed room found knick knacks like mixed tape with dirty sex songs, small collection of photos, kind Montreal faces, a room in the basement where we sat, Duff offered to drive back to Toronto. I laid in the back seat asleep, deepest sleep I'd ever found. There was no dreaming, just head on pillow, black.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
August 3, 2010: k-os - Heaven Only Knows
k-os - Heaven Only Knows: youtube.com/watch?v=lPLQuRTk-oo
I would get up early most days and walk to school with headphones uphill up Regent St, I remember seeing someone cross-country skiing once and cursing them because the hill was killing me, the only refuge whatever I was listening to. Most days it was k-os’ Joyful Rebellion. I was hearing revolution in Canadian music. It was all keeping me alive and reading, writing, building my early understandings.
For a time k-os was my Elvis, the irony of saying such a thing. I had turned hip-hop off, had been turned onto Notorious BIG and Tupac when I was a kid by my brother Ryan, Bodycount and NWA, but couldn’t understand it all, white kid in New Brunswick. I saw all hip-hop as out of touch with my wants, environment. I saw all hip-hop as money, violence. And k-os made music without a gun, no money, speaking revolution and concepts, ideas, the universe, books, women, god and evil, insecurities, art, it spoke to my every sense. And it was hip-hop.
So hip-hop found me and opened a sense I had dulled. It became exciting, made sense. It wasn’t the style but the substance I wasn’t connected to and not a lack of substance but a different form.
And Fredericton was a difficult town, strange time, stayed inside most days and barely knew the city at all, went months without meeting anyone new, drank, no stoner but got high mid-day television, would hide in the library most nights wouldn’t see anyone I knew. And the walk to school was arduous, uphill, winter, just headphones moving my feet.
I live in Toronto and see k-os, pass him in the street, bless and walk past alone.
I would get up early most days and walk to school with headphones uphill up Regent St, I remember seeing someone cross-country skiing once and cursing them because the hill was killing me, the only refuge whatever I was listening to. Most days it was k-os’ Joyful Rebellion. I was hearing revolution in Canadian music. It was all keeping me alive and reading, writing, building my early understandings.
For a time k-os was my Elvis, the irony of saying such a thing. I had turned hip-hop off, had been turned onto Notorious BIG and Tupac when I was a kid by my brother Ryan, Bodycount and NWA, but couldn’t understand it all, white kid in New Brunswick. I saw all hip-hop as out of touch with my wants, environment. I saw all hip-hop as money, violence. And k-os made music without a gun, no money, speaking revolution and concepts, ideas, the universe, books, women, god and evil, insecurities, art, it spoke to my every sense. And it was hip-hop.
So hip-hop found me and opened a sense I had dulled. It became exciting, made sense. It wasn’t the style but the substance I wasn’t connected to and not a lack of substance but a different form.
And Fredericton was a difficult town, strange time, stayed inside most days and barely knew the city at all, went months without meeting anyone new, drank, no stoner but got high mid-day television, would hide in the library most nights wouldn’t see anyone I knew. And the walk to school was arduous, uphill, winter, just headphones moving my feet.
I live in Toronto and see k-os, pass him in the street, bless and walk past alone.
Monday, August 2, 2010
August 2, 2010: The Clash - Straight to Hell
The Clash - Straight to Hell: youtube.com/watch?v=HQwm1v1R-qM
Moved into a new apartment, May, middle of Kensington Market which I'd adopted as a home, found my first jobs, friends, shows in the neighborhood. Two bedroom, moved in by myself and it was wall-lined with garbage, cobwebs in the corners, spent 3 days cleaning. No roommate for 2 weeks.
First night I had no furniture, just a bed, small table I'd built some months before. Jeannette came over and we got a bottle of wine, bought an exacto-knife some bread and cheese and apples, sat on the living room floor eating drinking and listening to The Clash's Combat Rock. Drunk, middle of night Jeannette left I passed out on the floor. Woke to dirty apartment and all day cleaning.
Moved into a new apartment, May, middle of Kensington Market which I'd adopted as a home, found my first jobs, friends, shows in the neighborhood. Two bedroom, moved in by myself and it was wall-lined with garbage, cobwebs in the corners, spent 3 days cleaning. No roommate for 2 weeks.
First night I had no furniture, just a bed, small table I'd built some months before. Jeannette came over and we got a bottle of wine, bought an exacto-knife some bread and cheese and apples, sat on the living room floor eating drinking and listening to The Clash's Combat Rock. Drunk, middle of night Jeannette left I passed out on the floor. Woke to dirty apartment and all day cleaning.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
August 1, 2010: Leonard Cohen - Teachers
Leonard Cohen - Teachers: youtube.com/watch?v=8WXwbRPTxEQ
Leonard Cohen is highly fetishized. I remember a friend of mine I met in a university literature class, in her thirties, thin and magic, telling me that she used to meet with friends one night a week to drink wine, listen to Leonard Cohen albums and dissect his songs. I was in Montreal once with Macey and she found his home, left a love note for him on his doorstep. I've seen some weep to his songs.
I was touring once by myself in winter and had only a tape player in the van, cold and every tape had a scratching noise behind it I thought sometimes on the 14 hour drives that there were devils coming through the middle of the night. I had a Leonard Cohen tape my father made when he was young like me, a compilation mostly early songs all classical guitar and I listened to that tape on repeat to calm me, to keep focus and alive. Foolish endeavors always need some form of camaraderie.
And "Teachers" was the first of his songs I learned to love. My brother was learning to play it, walked the house picking the chords pounded into my head, I moved to Halifax alone lived in a 4 bedroom house alone and terrified every night of the noises downstairs. I would sit in my room listening to this song, dissecting it and writing, learning how to finger pick my guitar. I still don't quite understand it all, found an importance of mystery.
Most are close to kin who have studied this form.
Leonard Cohen is highly fetishized. I remember a friend of mine I met in a university literature class, in her thirties, thin and magic, telling me that she used to meet with friends one night a week to drink wine, listen to Leonard Cohen albums and dissect his songs. I was in Montreal once with Macey and she found his home, left a love note for him on his doorstep. I've seen some weep to his songs.
I was touring once by myself in winter and had only a tape player in the van, cold and every tape had a scratching noise behind it I thought sometimes on the 14 hour drives that there were devils coming through the middle of the night. I had a Leonard Cohen tape my father made when he was young like me, a compilation mostly early songs all classical guitar and I listened to that tape on repeat to calm me, to keep focus and alive. Foolish endeavors always need some form of camaraderie.
And "Teachers" was the first of his songs I learned to love. My brother was learning to play it, walked the house picking the chords pounded into my head, I moved to Halifax alone lived in a 4 bedroom house alone and terrified every night of the noises downstairs. I would sit in my room listening to this song, dissecting it and writing, learning how to finger pick my guitar. I still don't quite understand it all, found an importance of mystery.
Most are close to kin who have studied this form.
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