Jeff Buckley - Morning Theft
I haven't been writing much this month. Or, rather, I've been selective in my words to the point where I rewrite the same word many times every day. I've been considering foregoing this whole blog thing. We'll see. For now it stays, if tenuously.
I've seen several deaths in the past couple weeks. Not anyone I've known bodily but those I've known affectionately. More than one. One much younger than me and for seemingly no reason (though any death is seemingly without reason I suppose, even those of age). It's been paralyzing.
I've written two songs. Might not sound like much but lately it's been a lot. I've even learned a song by Philip Glass and am mastering it in the hours I have.
Tomorrow I work 15 hours. I wake at 8, work at 10, break at 6, work at 8, done at 3, home at 5 and sleep. I feel like I should be preparing but what's to prepare for? I'll wake and I'll go. I suppose the only frightening thing of it all is all the hours spent in waves other than affection, skin and tenderness.
I saw Corey today and we had a big talk. It was beautiful. I love that man very much.
The weight of living is difficult. Beautifully.
And I dream so vivid it sometimes pains.
Okay. Sleep. See you all soon. I fly to New Brunswick later this month and I'm glad for the break. I'll come back fresh.
(I don't know why but the last half of this song has captured me to tears lately, it's been mine. From "What am I still to you..." and on. It's it.)
Friday, December 10, 2010
Monday, December 6, 2010
December 6, 2010: Bing Crosby & David Bowie - Little Drummer Boy
Bing Crosby & David Bowie - Little Drummer Boy
I was 18 and had to get my grad pictures taken. It was a tradition I didn't want to be involved in but the appointment was made and paid for and everyone else was doing it and I didn't know how to deny this process. So I was made to go to a man's house where I waited in the basement for him to take my picture in a graduation gown. When I walked in there was a woman there waiting.
"Hi there. My daughter is getting her pictures taken in the next room. Who are your parents?" I told her who my parents are. "Oh, you're a Casey? Did you know you're related to Bing Crosby?" I thought her a little crazy. I humoured her. Oh, I didn't know that. She sat there and told me all about Bing Crosby having family in Miramichi and how the Caseys are related to him but she never went into too much detail. Or, if she did I didn't really pay attention. Then her daughter came out and they left. And then a man took my picture.
When I got home I looked right away for my Dad. I saw him through the window, in the backyard working on his pool, getting ready for summer. "Hey Dad, do you know who Bing Crosby is?"
"Yup. We're related to him."
I still don't know how. Apparently it's a distant relation, barely conceivable but there. It's all nothing to remark over, really, but that it was an interesting moment between my father and I. He answered like he had heard my whole day.
I was 18 and had to get my grad pictures taken. It was a tradition I didn't want to be involved in but the appointment was made and paid for and everyone else was doing it and I didn't know how to deny this process. So I was made to go to a man's house where I waited in the basement for him to take my picture in a graduation gown. When I walked in there was a woman there waiting.
"Hi there. My daughter is getting her pictures taken in the next room. Who are your parents?" I told her who my parents are. "Oh, you're a Casey? Did you know you're related to Bing Crosby?" I thought her a little crazy. I humoured her. Oh, I didn't know that. She sat there and told me all about Bing Crosby having family in Miramichi and how the Caseys are related to him but she never went into too much detail. Or, if she did I didn't really pay attention. Then her daughter came out and they left. And then a man took my picture.
When I got home I looked right away for my Dad. I saw him through the window, in the backyard working on his pool, getting ready for summer. "Hey Dad, do you know who Bing Crosby is?"
"Yup. We're related to him."
I still don't know how. Apparently it's a distant relation, barely conceivable but there. It's all nothing to remark over, really, but that it was an interesting moment between my father and I. He answered like he had heard my whole day.
Friday, December 3, 2010
December 3, 2010: Third Eye Blind - Motorcycle Drive By
Third Eye Blind - Motorcycle Drive By
I remember Andrew's mother driving us back home from a soccer tournament in Bathurst. I was in the front seat, Andrew and Simon in the back. It was beginning dark in streetlights and I was tired and didn't feel like talking. I put my headphones on and listened to Third Eye Blind. I was 14 at the time I think. I didn't know about revolution then, only what was presented to me. And I remember watching out the window and being filled with some kind of longing during that hour of driving.
I've listened back to some of the music I listened to in teenage lost and most of it is shit, turns out. (Ever re-listen to "Zombie" by The Cranberries?) Somehow, though, despite how much I want to dislike that first album by Third Eye Blind I can't. It's in me forever. I found something in it in my middle teenage years when I longed for escape and love and adventure and it won't let me go. When I could have run away but landed on patience reluctant. When I didn't know anything about PJ Harvey. I listen back to it and see it's terrible and unlistenable flaws but fall into it like water. There's a romance somewhere in there that still holds me.
I haven't seen Andrew's mother in years, nor Andrew nor Simon. I remember them well, though.
I remember Andrew's mother driving us back home from a soccer tournament in Bathurst. I was in the front seat, Andrew and Simon in the back. It was beginning dark in streetlights and I was tired and didn't feel like talking. I put my headphones on and listened to Third Eye Blind. I was 14 at the time I think. I didn't know about revolution then, only what was presented to me. And I remember watching out the window and being filled with some kind of longing during that hour of driving.
I've listened back to some of the music I listened to in teenage lost and most of it is shit, turns out. (Ever re-listen to "Zombie" by The Cranberries?) Somehow, though, despite how much I want to dislike that first album by Third Eye Blind I can't. It's in me forever. I found something in it in my middle teenage years when I longed for escape and love and adventure and it won't let me go. When I could have run away but landed on patience reluctant. When I didn't know anything about PJ Harvey. I listen back to it and see it's terrible and unlistenable flaws but fall into it like water. There's a romance somewhere in there that still holds me.
I haven't seen Andrew's mother in years, nor Andrew nor Simon. I remember them well, though.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
November 30, 2010: Philip Glass - Metamorphosis 1
Philip Glass - Metamorphosis 1
There's something about the piano that terrifies and excites me. They're full of some strange power that compels my every sense, they're full of mystery and make me breathe differently, strange.
My aunt Jeannie had one in her living room. I remember my cousin feigning to learn it but I don't remember anyone ever actually playing it. I know there were songs but I can't recall them and I don't think it was played well or with any force. I remember sitting under it and hitting its keys and wanting it to make sense instead of just noise. I wanted to speak with it, for it to speak with me. I wanted to be at a piano. I remember others in the room speaking but I didn't care for their words, I wanted the words of this thing.
I learned some basics on a chord organ when I lived by myself. It sat against the wall next to the bathroom and was barely ever turned on. It was loud so I would learn its scales late at night with no sound, finding the tones in my head and making memory in my muscles. I gravitated more toward the minor keys. And I never really learned it but found words.
I don't know that I ever want to learn it though. I fear it would lose its mystery. I have to detune my guitar and find alternate tunings to remember its appeal, I don't want that for pianos. They're too holy in my body for such things. The wood, the colour, the sound, the cities inside them. They're the most pure of instrument.
There's something about the piano that terrifies and excites me. They're full of some strange power that compels my every sense, they're full of mystery and make me breathe differently, strange.
My aunt Jeannie had one in her living room. I remember my cousin feigning to learn it but I don't remember anyone ever actually playing it. I know there were songs but I can't recall them and I don't think it was played well or with any force. I remember sitting under it and hitting its keys and wanting it to make sense instead of just noise. I wanted to speak with it, for it to speak with me. I wanted to be at a piano. I remember others in the room speaking but I didn't care for their words, I wanted the words of this thing.
I learned some basics on a chord organ when I lived by myself. It sat against the wall next to the bathroom and was barely ever turned on. It was loud so I would learn its scales late at night with no sound, finding the tones in my head and making memory in my muscles. I gravitated more toward the minor keys. And I never really learned it but found words.
I don't know that I ever want to learn it though. I fear it would lose its mystery. I have to detune my guitar and find alternate tunings to remember its appeal, I don't want that for pianos. They're too holy in my body for such things. The wood, the colour, the sound, the cities inside them. They're the most pure of instrument.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
November 29, 2010: Charles Spearin - Mrs. Morris
Charles Spearin - Mrs. Morris
In rehearsal. Sunday.
Mike mentioned that he could only stay ten more minutes. One asked why. Said he had to go to a memorial service. I asked who died.
"You remember Michael Smoughton?" I didn't. "You know, played the No Age show with us a couple weeks ago, British guy." I did. "He and his wife died in a tragic car accident a couple days ago."
And my body sunk.
I walked into the memorial service just minutes after. I first felt impostor; I didn't know Michael well, I didn't even know his last name. I'd never met his wife. I didn't know all but a handful in the room. The week before he'd died he'd told me he was leaving Toronto soon to go back to England, I'd been full of disappointment as he was kind and compelling and we barely had the time to connect. We were playing in a band together and he first approached me and broke my quiet. We had a handful of rehearsals, some shows to meet and discuss Canada and Christopher Hitchens and marvel at the getting away with playing inconsequentially simple instruments with well trained musicians, among. I'd last seen him the day before he left Toronto, wishing him as sincerely I could manage good luck in his travels. The time between was daily.
And I felt impostor. I knew his dearest friend would have told me otherwise (and a man named Pete did express such sentiment) but I was allowed to feel somewhat impostor surrounded by those who knew his body well. And the room was so full of sorrow that it overcame and the faces filled me. Speechless, I observed and considered my own paper body, the ones surrounding me. I met small forms of beauty.
Some people got up in front of the crowd and spoke, told stories. No story surprised me, they all told of the transparency of kindness that Michael had emitted. One man used the word "elegance" and it seemed most fitting.
And then we sat, eight of us, and spoke of other things. The sadness of the room had lifted and we simply told stories. Sudden the death was in background of our words and the faces seemed more welcome.
In leaving I was with a sense of thanks, fragile and full of love.
I can't help but hope that with all I speak one knows every word stands before backgrounds of affection. Every statement is in appreciation of form. Of being.
In rehearsal. Sunday.
Mike mentioned that he could only stay ten more minutes. One asked why. Said he had to go to a memorial service. I asked who died.
"You remember Michael Smoughton?" I didn't. "You know, played the No Age show with us a couple weeks ago, British guy." I did. "He and his wife died in a tragic car accident a couple days ago."
And my body sunk.
I walked into the memorial service just minutes after. I first felt impostor; I didn't know Michael well, I didn't even know his last name. I'd never met his wife. I didn't know all but a handful in the room. The week before he'd died he'd told me he was leaving Toronto soon to go back to England, I'd been full of disappointment as he was kind and compelling and we barely had the time to connect. We were playing in a band together and he first approached me and broke my quiet. We had a handful of rehearsals, some shows to meet and discuss Canada and Christopher Hitchens and marvel at the getting away with playing inconsequentially simple instruments with well trained musicians, among. I'd last seen him the day before he left Toronto, wishing him as sincerely I could manage good luck in his travels. The time between was daily.
And I felt impostor. I knew his dearest friend would have told me otherwise (and a man named Pete did express such sentiment) but I was allowed to feel somewhat impostor surrounded by those who knew his body well. And the room was so full of sorrow that it overcame and the faces filled me. Speechless, I observed and considered my own paper body, the ones surrounding me. I met small forms of beauty.
Some people got up in front of the crowd and spoke, told stories. No story surprised me, they all told of the transparency of kindness that Michael had emitted. One man used the word "elegance" and it seemed most fitting.
And then we sat, eight of us, and spoke of other things. The sadness of the room had lifted and we simply told stories. Sudden the death was in background of our words and the faces seemed more welcome.
In leaving I was with a sense of thanks, fragile and full of love.
I can't help but hope that with all I speak one knows every word stands before backgrounds of affection. Every statement is in appreciation of form. Of being.
November 28, 2010: The National - England
The National - England
Cari used to get kicked out of restaurants for laughing too hard. She had asthma so when she really got laughing she would run out of breath, it would come out like a quack. And loud. There was a pressure built up in her body. Her tiny frame came from a birth four months premature, she was not expected to live. She'd been handed a death sentence on her first breath where the rest of us feign forms of immortality. So she lived.
I first met her through a friend. She stood alone doing the dishes of idiot men as they sat in the living room talking about football, pussy. Then she came into the room and told them how dumb they were while they wanted for her words against and laughed. We didn't know each other for months but to stop and say hello. And when she told me of England, her coming solo trip and her want for companionship I said yes. She was going to see some mutual friends, I had never been outside Canada and I wanted for her words.
London came and we slept on the floor of our friends flat, made cereal in the kitchen. We bought some beer and went out dancing, met drunk old racist men and attractive women who loved our voices. We celebrated in the streets with a 3 story high bonfire, fireworks, young men from Brighton who saw us as shining alien. We sang on the subway and spit beer.
Edinburgh was the place, though. We wandered, climbed a volcano. We got a bottle of whiskey and shared it in the basement of the hostel. We sat at a table and shared stories, she stroked her long black hair with her hand as she talked and I was sure I fell in love with her that night only. Next day was friend. We laughed how the couple who shared our room thought us a couple too as I made a pack of cards from found pen and paper.
Halifax came again. We slowly lost contact. I would see Cari in the street, would visit now and again. The last time I saw Cari I lamented, she'll one day be a great mother and I'll have to see her only in passing.
So much beauty passing by unrecognized.
Cari used to get kicked out of restaurants for laughing too hard. She had asthma so when she really got laughing she would run out of breath, it would come out like a quack. And loud. There was a pressure built up in her body. Her tiny frame came from a birth four months premature, she was not expected to live. She'd been handed a death sentence on her first breath where the rest of us feign forms of immortality. So she lived.
I first met her through a friend. She stood alone doing the dishes of idiot men as they sat in the living room talking about football, pussy. Then she came into the room and told them how dumb they were while they wanted for her words against and laughed. We didn't know each other for months but to stop and say hello. And when she told me of England, her coming solo trip and her want for companionship I said yes. She was going to see some mutual friends, I had never been outside Canada and I wanted for her words.
London came and we slept on the floor of our friends flat, made cereal in the kitchen. We bought some beer and went out dancing, met drunk old racist men and attractive women who loved our voices. We celebrated in the streets with a 3 story high bonfire, fireworks, young men from Brighton who saw us as shining alien. We sang on the subway and spit beer.
Edinburgh was the place, though. We wandered, climbed a volcano. We got a bottle of whiskey and shared it in the basement of the hostel. We sat at a table and shared stories, she stroked her long black hair with her hand as she talked and I was sure I fell in love with her that night only. Next day was friend. We laughed how the couple who shared our room thought us a couple too as I made a pack of cards from found pen and paper.
Halifax came again. We slowly lost contact. I would see Cari in the street, would visit now and again. The last time I saw Cari I lamented, she'll one day be a great mother and I'll have to see her only in passing.
So much beauty passing by unrecognized.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
November 27, 2010: Dethklok - Coffee Jingle
Dethklok - Coffee Jingle
I like to sit and coffee and read and look at the faces. It's a form of meditation. Coffee is a holy drink and shouldn't always be used as a force for waking. It is a conversationalist, let it sit and it will tell you marvelous things. It will let its heat rise and play with the air around you. It will bring calm and beautiful strangers to your side. Give it attention and it will hum quietly beneath the din of the room.
Daily I do this. It is beyond routine, has passed into a ceremony. Daily I sit at coffee and speak with a friend, converse with a book, manipulate words, watch strangers pass. It brings me into myself and focuses my body.
I've become such a presence at some coffee shops that I get free cups often. It's a little embarrassing.
I like to sit and coffee and read and look at the faces. It's a form of meditation. Coffee is a holy drink and shouldn't always be used as a force for waking. It is a conversationalist, let it sit and it will tell you marvelous things. It will let its heat rise and play with the air around you. It will bring calm and beautiful strangers to your side. Give it attention and it will hum quietly beneath the din of the room.
Daily I do this. It is beyond routine, has passed into a ceremony. Daily I sit at coffee and speak with a friend, converse with a book, manipulate words, watch strangers pass. It brings me into myself and focuses my body.
I've become such a presence at some coffee shops that I get free cups often. It's a little embarrassing.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)