... that they yell into a well."
Los Angeles is my well. This vast expanse of mystery and danger, complete with stone, moss and supposed water beyond where the eye can see - this is the void into which I am yelling. It's clammy and deep, but it's depth lends the impression of endless potential. Every inch of it is another layer of history, each brick a palimpsest. I am profoundly affected by this place, my adopted home, in a myriad of ways, but as of late, I have been reluctantly reexamining them to make sure I am still the person I intended to be.
What's going on with me? It's a question that has been asked of all of us in these years following graduation, and we all make up answers that seem as though they'll suffice. What was ever going on? I mean, we were the heard that was funneled through the school system, trotting through our respective channels and then out to the pasture of our choosing. So I guess the question is, how's the pasture? Well... well? Fine? Patient with me, finally. These last three years have stretched the fabric of my character, and I am still too deep in the throes of this transition to genuinely examine how I have held up. There have been financial woes, personal tragedies, and bodily changes. There have been familial spats and humbling workplace experiences. However, along the way, I have flirted with both nostalgia and optimism, as well as despair and wreckless stupidity. I've tried to keep my focus on the greater end, rather than the details of the means, and I think it's because I am too afraid that if I peek at the means they'll be far more mean than I remember myself being.
25 feels like a strange victory lap of sorts. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I am happy with my body, my skin, my financial situation, my relationship, my family, and even my job (when it allows me the luxury of enjoying it). I had spent the last 25 years waiting for this moment, when I was perfectly content with the ambiance of my being, but all the while, there was a quality I never second guessed in myself. I never doubted my own intelligence. I was always terrified that one day I would wake up and this treasured gift of lucidity would be gone, and that fear drove me to keep the cogs grinding rapidly day in and day out. I might not be the prettiest or the thinnest or the quickest or the most fashionable or, for fuck's sake, the coolest, but I'd be goddamned if I wasn't the smartest! Said pride in one's own characteristic is, admittedly, fabricated braggadocio. I know it now as well as I knew it then. However, I was so good at believing it that it made me into this fearless smartass, which is an alright person to be if you are, indeed, fearless and smart. But what happens on the breakdown?
Latin was quite the bitch to learn. Chemistry, algebra, national politics, and my beloved biology were no cake walks in their own right. I knew how hard I worked for each of those A's that I earned, and wore them as red courage badges. When I graduated, it was as though I had been honorably discharged from the ranks of my fellow academic crusaders. Medals may have adorned my crisp uniform, but uniforms aren't required in civilian life, and I thusly stowed it away with not only the badges but the behavior that it compelled. My existence in the workforce has been a profoundly educational experience, but in a different manner and for a different cause. There are no medals awarded, but monetary compensation - a compensation that demands deference and a sense of urgency. After having dedicated what I considered to be my finest instrument (my mind) to a cause dear to my heart for so long, employing it for workplace purposes makes me feel like a mercenary.
It is with a heavy heart that I admit that mercenary thinking is half-hearted.
IT'S TIME TO YELL INTO THIS WELL. Los Angeles, I'm calling on you. I've thrown out, "Two hoots, a hello, and a fuck a'' y'all", but now I am pleading. Give me something to do with this tool, with the part of me that has historically been my favorite. As any woman brought up with the trademark American low self-esteem knows, when you find something that you like about yourself, you cling to it as your weapon, your lifeline in a sea of misogyny and doubt. I miss the sharpness of my bayonet... or perhaps I've dulled in intentionally to give myself the chance to enjoy other aspects of my self. Either way, I'm ready for the discipline again, and with that, I turn again to Mr. Callahan, who realized long before I did, "You know, I had to yell just to get my voice back. "
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Bury Me In Fire, and I'm Gonna Phoenix
I am starting to worry that no one is a liar.
It has made my life so simple to write those who've wronged me off as liars, blackened with bile and laden with malicious falsehoods. It's easier that way. My self-esteem is reinforced by the notion that it takes unabashed hatred of humanity to retract one's love so capriciously. Oh, delicate peony that is my innocent heart, save yourself the trouble of blooming this season... it's poisoned with people who disdain the truth. The facts, the legitimate, the actual, the reality - that's what you need to flourish. Not this cold climate of cynicism and selfishness. Not in a world where, when given the choice between black and white, all select ebony automatically, unthinkingly.
However, and much to my chagrin, there has been a whisper of doubt in this philosophy from the bowels of my mind as of late. I am sure that many of you readers out there (all none of you, probably) are wondering what has taken me so long to awaken from this ridiculous daydream. There has never been a world within which truth is absolute. There is no black and no white, and no gray either. Everything is technicolor and kaleidoscopic, mercurial and merciless, transient and true for the moment. There are no facts when it comes to matters of one's heart, of one's love, unless one could rule constant conditionality as a fact. And in this world where no one is wrong, how am I ever going to know when I am right? As the patron saint of this blog recently stated, "Love is the king of the beasts, and when it gets hungry, it must kill to eat." But really, is martyring oneself to said lion NOT the point of being alive? What's worth preserving? What's worth protecting? When you lie alongside someone and know you "are not cut from the same tree, but are like two pieces of the gallows that share a common dream", is that alright? Do those pieces even fit together, and really, does your ultimate goal as a collective apparatus signify righteousness or maliciousness? FUCK! Is anyone allowed to know anything?
A wise man told me the other night, as we gazed over the muffled and studded hills of Los Angeles, that no one is ever out of the woods. It calmed me at the time as it justified my constant state of panic, but I find myself lamenting, along with Bill, "If [I] could only stop [my] heartbeat for just one heartbeat...." Image the calm that would come with hiatus from constant pursuit! Oh, the bird-like freedom of nothing to chase and nothing from which to hide! The seduction of self-inflicted loneliness, with its flowery pheromones distinctly feminine and self-righteous, mocks my risky behavior with its seeming stability. A salve to soothe the sting of stupidity's scrapes, the raspberry badges of effort in an ultimately failed attempt at being adored.
But said salve does its own damage, in scar form. A tissue so thick that one doesn't bother trying to caress through it anymore. At least, this is what I am sure would happen were I to ever let this tissue form. I am CERTAIN, absolutely and factually, that once I stop bleeding I won't feel anymore! Once all of these liars harden me, there is no turning back, no opening anymore, no more of this pretend love that I dole out by the handful, like chum dumped into the ocean and summoning whichever fish is hungry enough. I will isolate myself in a cage made of truth: a reality of disbelief in anything. Everyone is always fake, no one ever meant anything that they said, and here I sit without ever needing to worry about it again. Yes, indeed, all figured out.
And here I find myself on the white end of the extreme, and being confronted again by the fact that there is no white. Therein lies the worry. Maybe no one is a liar. Maybe I've been duped by my own gauge, drunk on what I thought to be confidence in my ability to read people. Maybe no one is no good, or maybe I am no good and didn't deserve that truth in the first place. I've tied my mind in a knot trying to discern what's worth trusting, and for what? To be correct at the end? To win, while really just losing? I've taken to making lists of the components of the tangle, in allegorical form, of course, so that it might free up a little room in my brain. These lists have been titled "Things that might fix things" and the like. The following is an example:
1. Laundry
2. Groceries
3. Sing
4. Write letters
5. Bathe
6. Eat
7. Clean
I figure that love is so well-documented and hailed throughout the history of humanity, the best way to invite it is to live as humans always have. Complete the tasks that people have completed and you will complete forever in some incarnation. Live as a human in their basest form (not primal, necessarily, but base) would live and see what comes of the simplicity. These things fix things, or at least sustain survival under the crushing weight of broken things. It's a fact, after all, that these things have to get done if you're alone or not. Do they work? Yes.... in the sense that I've not jumped off of either side of the bridge. Do they erase pain? No, though they do make all of the injustices feel like one large river, rather than individual estuaries being pumped from specific sources. Rather than smarting from the specific moments of misunderstanding and hurt, one's heart feels a somber, broad bruise that hasn't a name or a face but a scent and a song. It's always the same song.
These men, these boys that I have for so long resented as enemies of the truth, have allowed me access to this river of sorrow, this universal and ambiguous flowing body of pain that is present in the life of every human being. My heart swims in the one unifying constant of human existence thanks to these people whom I thought had withheld honesty from me. I now know human truth because of liars, and truth is not being alone in my own cage. It is treading water in a tumultuous body full of my peers, my lovers, my enemies, my friends. We're all swimming in this pain now, we've all been done wrong, be it by a lover, a killer, a politician, a rapist, a parent, a friend or a simple misunderstanding of one's own self. It's that unifying factor, that human constant, that gives birth to love. So thanks be to all the liars out there who told me what they thought was the truth. Here, buried in this water, "I will geyser." And buried in this fire, "I'm gonna phoenix."
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
And How Do I Expect Wild Love to Grow?
It is a complete lack of self-control that has lead me here tonight. Here, to this long-since-abandoned blank slate. Here, to these pages ripe with potential, so that I might ravage them of it. My mission this evening is to extract the ink from within my soul and use it as an agent to decorate these immaculate sheets, doing favors to both receptacles. My challenge, however, is figuring out what the hell type of stylus to use. To speak non-metaphorically, I cannot figure how in the world I am going to pry from within myself this cloudy blackness and translate it into something understandable, or if nothing else, pleasing to observe.
Based on the fact that I have a known audience for the first time in the history of this blog, I am extremely self-conscious and find myself slathering adjectives and adverbs all over anything that will sit still... blow-cushioners no doubt. It's a nervous tick, and every time I find myself Dickensing something I try to keep in mind that Tolstoy got away with sentences like "Drops dripped," and evoked more than enough empathy from the general reading public. (Exhales pensively...)
So anyway, back to the self-control that I am so sorely lacking. I can't stand the thought of reading this when it is all finished, and probably won't until I don't even remember what exactly it was I excreted onto the page. When I do finally pour over these words, I'll flush with embarrassment at how willing I am to flay myself open and let people examine. A frog, sliced and gutted for my readers to prod and pin at will. Because of this nauseating prospect, there is not going to be a whole bunch of editing and those precious few typos you discover are yours to keep. They are the freckles on my body of work, not necessarily indicative of anything but a lack of preparation on my part, and yet, I hope, endearing. At any rate, placing my dawdling reluctantly aside and cranking up the Flying Canyon record I am grooving on, here goes nothing short of nothing.
Moderation is perhaps the most esoteric of statuses (stati!) for me. I flirt with it on occasion, especially when it comes to physical consumption. However, for my intellectual and emotional being, I teeter and tip off that narrow beam regularly. For the last few years, I have been trying to counter-weigh enthusiasm against itself in order to maintain peace within myself. When I feel the urge to donate my life to collage, to alt-country, to Photoshop, to poetry, to a record, or to a passing "main squeeze," I seek another stimulus to be equally powerful so that I may remain suspended in air between the two magnets, never so dedicated to a cause that I might not recover from it. This, in theory, is defense mechanics at their finest, but last night as I quivered with electricity, I realized that because of this I find myself in a somewhat consistent state of anxiety. The stakes are always high when there is so much to love, and so much to hide from.
There IS so much to love that its crippling. From the subtle click of a pick on a string to the sincere yearning of an "OBAMA" chant, my ears alone prevent normalcy every chance they get. Summer smells sumptuous as it ages into fall, and when that scent mixes with the perfume of a late summer romance, the aroma of home via a foreign body seduces the eyes shut. That olfactory titillation is mere icing on the fluffy, palpable cakes that bodies become as they introduce themselves to one another. Folding and unfolding like badder, sweet and completely unmanageable, affected by the slightest temperature change with goosebumps screaming to be touched. When the eyes aren't busy being sealed shut or rolled backwards towards their third kinsman, they are clapped on the shifting angle of light that September alone produces, no matter where one is positioned on the globe. And as all of these senses assault my mind, my mouth waters at the thought of it all, my tongue swollen with anxiety and desire.
When it comes to hiding, however, the temptation to do so from all of these senses if often equally great. For as sweet as a song can sound and a kiss can taste, the scorn of losing these moments rubs salt into ragged lesions. If, during one moment of weakness, I relax and allow myself to be pulled in one direction or another, panic snatches at my heart and lungs, robbing me of any comfort I had hoped to find there. I've maintained myself, ever so balanced betwixt passions that the thought of committing to one implies a loss of everything else keeping me upright in the middle. I am scared witless at the notion of falling in any direction (again), and find myself examining these bruised knees and scuffed palms and skinned dignity that have come about with each of my reckless decisions. I lay flat now, the moth at the center of the web, waiting to be seized by something but terrified to struggle, certain to draw attention to my vulnerability.
There really isn't a conclusion that I can draw, nor a point that I can offer you as a reward for your patience with the contents of my mind. I suppose when it all truly concludes, nothing else will be stirring in this soul of mine, so perhaps I am not sorry at all. My moderate revolution is one of being caught between extremes, not one of ambivalence. I live stirred, tense, constantly in motion. My hope, however, is that I can move forward instead of cyclically, trapped in a web made up of my own sticky past experience. I am not yet ready to let go, to lean into the gravity of any of these passions and be consumed. Rather, I am ready to assemble these passions and channel them through my being.
Based on the fact that I have a known audience for the first time in the history of this blog, I am extremely self-conscious and find myself slathering adjectives and adverbs all over anything that will sit still... blow-cushioners no doubt. It's a nervous tick, and every time I find myself Dickensing something I try to keep in mind that Tolstoy got away with sentences like "Drops dripped," and evoked more than enough empathy from the general reading public. (Exhales pensively...)
So anyway, back to the self-control that I am so sorely lacking. I can't stand the thought of reading this when it is all finished, and probably won't until I don't even remember what exactly it was I excreted onto the page. When I do finally pour over these words, I'll flush with embarrassment at how willing I am to flay myself open and let people examine. A frog, sliced and gutted for my readers to prod and pin at will. Because of this nauseating prospect, there is not going to be a whole bunch of editing and those precious few typos you discover are yours to keep. They are the freckles on my body of work, not necessarily indicative of anything but a lack of preparation on my part, and yet, I hope, endearing. At any rate, placing my dawdling reluctantly aside and cranking up the Flying Canyon record I am grooving on, here goes nothing short of nothing.
Moderation is perhaps the most esoteric of statuses (stati!) for me. I flirt with it on occasion, especially when it comes to physical consumption. However, for my intellectual and emotional being, I teeter and tip off that narrow beam regularly. For the last few years, I have been trying to counter-weigh enthusiasm against itself in order to maintain peace within myself. When I feel the urge to donate my life to collage, to alt-country, to Photoshop, to poetry, to a record, or to a passing "main squeeze," I seek another stimulus to be equally powerful so that I may remain suspended in air between the two magnets, never so dedicated to a cause that I might not recover from it. This, in theory, is defense mechanics at their finest, but last night as I quivered with electricity, I realized that because of this I find myself in a somewhat consistent state of anxiety. The stakes are always high when there is so much to love, and so much to hide from.
There IS so much to love that its crippling. From the subtle click of a pick on a string to the sincere yearning of an "OBAMA" chant, my ears alone prevent normalcy every chance they get. Summer smells sumptuous as it ages into fall, and when that scent mixes with the perfume of a late summer romance, the aroma of home via a foreign body seduces the eyes shut. That olfactory titillation is mere icing on the fluffy, palpable cakes that bodies become as they introduce themselves to one another. Folding and unfolding like badder, sweet and completely unmanageable, affected by the slightest temperature change with goosebumps screaming to be touched. When the eyes aren't busy being sealed shut or rolled backwards towards their third kinsman, they are clapped on the shifting angle of light that September alone produces, no matter where one is positioned on the globe. And as all of these senses assault my mind, my mouth waters at the thought of it all, my tongue swollen with anxiety and desire.
When it comes to hiding, however, the temptation to do so from all of these senses if often equally great. For as sweet as a song can sound and a kiss can taste, the scorn of losing these moments rubs salt into ragged lesions. If, during one moment of weakness, I relax and allow myself to be pulled in one direction or another, panic snatches at my heart and lungs, robbing me of any comfort I had hoped to find there. I've maintained myself, ever so balanced betwixt passions that the thought of committing to one implies a loss of everything else keeping me upright in the middle. I am scared witless at the notion of falling in any direction (again), and find myself examining these bruised knees and scuffed palms and skinned dignity that have come about with each of my reckless decisions. I lay flat now, the moth at the center of the web, waiting to be seized by something but terrified to struggle, certain to draw attention to my vulnerability.
There really isn't a conclusion that I can draw, nor a point that I can offer you as a reward for your patience with the contents of my mind. I suppose when it all truly concludes, nothing else will be stirring in this soul of mine, so perhaps I am not sorry at all. My moderate revolution is one of being caught between extremes, not one of ambivalence. I live stirred, tense, constantly in motion. My hope, however, is that I can move forward instead of cyclically, trapped in a web made up of my own sticky past experience. I am not yet ready to let go, to lean into the gravity of any of these passions and be consumed. Rather, I am ready to assemble these passions and channel them through my being.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Limited Capacity
February 2008: This has been a month the likes of which I have only observed once before. Long, long ago, during October 2006, back when I was rollin' in dough and had the whole world laid out before me, I attended 15 concerts in one month (a regular "Rocktober", if you will).
Well, being as I have to appear at least somewhat presentable at work during the day (and not as hung over as I did in class during that fateful Autumn), I have what I will call a "limited capacity" (alright, I have cleared the Bill Callahan tie in hurdle... that will likely be the last you hear of our beloved baritone in this post, sadly). That may or may not be bullshit, however, at the rate I have been going.
When I attend these shows, and so far this month I have attended 8, I am often bowled over by the urge to document what is taking place, for better or for worse. My mind clicks away like a type writer, struggling to rap down the scene before and around me. I shy away from being one of the "YouTubers"... you know the ones. They are the assholes that make sure to record every second of a show by standing perfectly still and ignoring the fact that there is a live performance taking place around them (and also stick their inconvenient elbows right in my eyeline and/or shush me). Don't get me wrong; God bless YouTube. I love the videos on there, but I don't want to know where they come from. I don't need to be anything to do with the process. But I digress. I am a silent, mental recorder, and because I have attended so many damn shows this month, my brain is filling up. I have decided that on this lovely Saturday afternoon, while I should be out running around, I am going to compact every show that I have seen this month into a straightforward, all-encompassing review in haiku form. It's like I always say: Haikus - never not funny. So please, enjoy:
Ryan Adams at Royce Hall, January 31, 2008
On/off the wagon
With his Rufus-like antics
Ryan steals my heart.
Your Vegas/The Switches at the Crash Mansion, February 2, 2008
UMG bands both
"The poor man's Franz Ferdinand"
But accents abound!
Simon Dawes at the Hotel Cafe, February 5, 2008
Braless Malibu
Bitches yap the whole show through
But Taylor is gold.
Dave Barnes at Safari Sam's, February 8, 2008
WHY, WHY, WHY, WHY, WHY?
I have to be polite though...
Georgia friends are fans.
Simon Dawes at the Hotel Cafe, February 12, 2008
Sixth time I've seen them
Blood and Guts ev'ry damn time
Best small band in town
Hayes Carll at the Hotel Cafe, February 13, 2008
Whiskey-soaked, he charmed
Espec'ly when he challenged
Jesus to a duel.
The Black Lips at the El Rey, February 14, 2008
Comical mustache
Crowd-surfers and stage-divers
Made me want to MOSH!
St. Vincent at the EchoPlex, February 15, 2008
She is damn cute, but
I love her because she shreds
LIKE A METALHEAD!!!
So coming up, we have got Glen Phillips, another Simon Dawes show, Built to Spill with the Meat Puppets, The Helio Sequence and Cat Power (and ideally I will be in attendance at all of these, but then again, I am damn broke). I guarantee at least one more haiku in the near future... oh, wait.... here it comes:
I hope these slaked your
Thirst for comedy - Haikus:
Never not funny.
Well, being as I have to appear at least somewhat presentable at work during the day (and not as hung over as I did in class during that fateful Autumn), I have what I will call a "limited capacity" (alright, I have cleared the Bill Callahan tie in hurdle... that will likely be the last you hear of our beloved baritone in this post, sadly). That may or may not be bullshit, however, at the rate I have been going.
When I attend these shows, and so far this month I have attended 8, I am often bowled over by the urge to document what is taking place, for better or for worse. My mind clicks away like a type writer, struggling to rap down the scene before and around me. I shy away from being one of the "YouTubers"... you know the ones. They are the assholes that make sure to record every second of a show by standing perfectly still and ignoring the fact that there is a live performance taking place around them (and also stick their inconvenient elbows right in my eyeline and/or shush me). Don't get me wrong; God bless YouTube. I love the videos on there, but I don't want to know where they come from. I don't need to be anything to do with the process. But I digress. I am a silent, mental recorder, and because I have attended so many damn shows this month, my brain is filling up. I have decided that on this lovely Saturday afternoon, while I should be out running around, I am going to compact every show that I have seen this month into a straightforward, all-encompassing review in haiku form. It's like I always say: Haikus - never not funny. So please, enjoy:
Ryan Adams at Royce Hall, January 31, 2008
On/off the wagon
With his Rufus-like antics
Ryan steals my heart.
Your Vegas/The Switches at the Crash Mansion, February 2, 2008
UMG bands both
"The poor man's Franz Ferdinand"
But accents abound!
Simon Dawes at the Hotel Cafe, February 5, 2008
Braless Malibu
Bitches yap the whole show through
But Taylor is gold.
Dave Barnes at Safari Sam's, February 8, 2008
WHY, WHY, WHY, WHY, WHY?
I have to be polite though...
Georgia friends are fans.
Simon Dawes at the Hotel Cafe, February 12, 2008
Sixth time I've seen them
Blood and Guts ev'ry damn time
Best small band in town
Hayes Carll at the Hotel Cafe, February 13, 2008
Whiskey-soaked, he charmed
Espec'ly when he challenged
Jesus to a duel.
The Black Lips at the El Rey, February 14, 2008
Comical mustache
Crowd-surfers and stage-divers
Made me want to MOSH!
St. Vincent at the EchoPlex, February 15, 2008
She is damn cute, but
I love her because she shreds
LIKE A METALHEAD!!!
So coming up, we have got Glen Phillips, another Simon Dawes show, Built to Spill with the Meat Puppets, The Helio Sequence and Cat Power (and ideally I will be in attendance at all of these, but then again, I am damn broke). I guarantee at least one more haiku in the near future... oh, wait.... here it comes:
I hope these slaked your
Thirst for comedy - Haikus:
Never not funny.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Keep Some Steady Friends Around
Long overdue, as my posts tend to be, this one was a mere inch away from being entitled "Bathroom Floor." As of late, that is pretty much where I feel I belong.
This week, or at least the initial three days of it, has been lightweight schizophrenic. In the immortal words of (guess who!) Bill Callahan, "We are constantly on trial!" I suppose it is true, but it scarcely makes the fact any less unnerving. Where, oh where, to start, I wonder?
Well, I was supposed to have blogged following a somewhat impromptu yet life-changing trip to Portland with five of my closest female friends. It was damn near perfect, worth every penny spent, and the kind of therapy that is going to carry me through all the adversity that I am going to face during 2008. Every corner I turned, Portland bore a new and beautiful souvenir for my heart. Elliott Smith kept manifesting himself, at a photography exhibition at Powell's Bookstore (the Amoeba Records of book stores, hands down), embedded in the sound of the local Hush Records band that we caught (they are called Loch Lomond and they FUCKING ROCKED and you should check them out.... the do the whole Sufjan thing more astutely and give off a CSN-in-the-English-Countryside vibe). I remembered why I loved him (to paraphrase Jenny Lewis), and fell madly back in love with everything that he stood for over good coffee, unique art, and Voodoo Donuts.
My friends are the reason for the title of this blog, and probably the reason I am alive. Never in my life have I been so comfortable in the presence of multiple women. Multifaceted, strange, exotic, beautiful, empathetic, strong women. I was among my people. And granted, we all fell into roles (mine, of course, being that of the baby), we all brought our unique gifts to the experience.
Jane, the friend with whom I was least familiar on this trip at the beginning, proved to be everything I knew she was. On the surface, her cooking was improvisational and exciting, and always proved delicious and satisfying. Her savvy music sense also soundtracked out experience quite nicely (you know, when I was not geeking out to Roman Candle on my iPod). Under the skin, however, Jane was a life force to be reckoned with. Loyalty, honesty and intelligence were Jane, and she fulfilled the role of father on our trip (I mean, hell... she packed the trunk, had an excellent sense of direction, and knew the dimensions of the car well enough to help Noor parallel park every time!).
Noor, the hostess with the mostess, is a friend from college. Noor is the kind of person that someone runs across once in their life. She burns with the kind of fire that drive the people that deserve it. She is a spark, but not of rage or of bitterness or of aimless passion. Her spark is far more appreciative of the world around her. Noor is inspiring and I hope one day to be as kind as she. She was the mom (as evinced when she read the menu to me at lunch and helped me pick ot cold medicine at the drug store).
Megan is my quiet one, a former roommate from my junior and senior year of college. She is a quiet storm though. There is so much going on behind those blue eyes of hers, and we get lucky when we get let in. This trip, she opened the doors just a little bit wider and I got to see someone I think I missed out on during college. Megan is a little girl in spirit, and she doesn't know that I know it yet. It's alright though. She is going to be such a successful, invincible woman because of all that she has gone through, and I am privileged to glimpse that little carefree girl here and there. Megan was a sister.
Katie, or Miss K-Lee, as she may as well be known, is the All-American in the group. She is, as I describe her, the "girl from the Tom Petty song" (you know the one: loves Jesus, horses, America, her momma, and her boyfriend). Katie is a school teacher and while I am sure this is not the case, she seems like she knows exactly what she wants out of life. I envy her in an admiring way for this. I am so proud when I see what she has accomplished, not just on paper, but every day as she inspires and deciphers the world of 3rd grade. I can't even fathom it. Katie is a pillar of moral values for me, because she takes very good care of herself and the people around her, and I know of nothing more morally sound than that. She was an aunt.... definitely a mom, but not my mom.
Mara is my former roommate proper from my senior year of college. As one can imagine, senior year of college is a bit of a fragile period in one's life. However, this year following has far and away out-delicated it. This post-collegiate year has been a latticework of balanced china, all begging gravity to break it. Mara is my anti-gravity. Never in my life have I known someone that cares so dearly about me yet never judges a thing I do. Never before have I known such an open mind. She is the perfect friend, understanding, considerate, easy-going and forgiving, and I literally don't know what I would have done without her open ears. She underestimates herself, I think, which is a tragedy, because she is brave and smart and inspiring and kind. Mara is a sister, a close sister.
So now, when I feel like complaining about all my problems here in the public forum (bitch-blogging, as my friend Scott dubbed it), I am forcing myself to show nothing but gratitude. Money is tight, work is frustrating, and love is far, far away (if it exists at all, in anything other than wild form). However, I keep some steady friends around for now, and I quote Bill again to express my innermost longing:
"Don't stay away so long 'cause we love you too much."
The "we" in this case is me and all of my poisonous stresses and fantasies and bad decisions. I get to be stable because of those aforementioned girls, and I hope to God that they stay close this year.
This week, or at least the initial three days of it, has been lightweight schizophrenic. In the immortal words of (guess who!) Bill Callahan, "We are constantly on trial!" I suppose it is true, but it scarcely makes the fact any less unnerving. Where, oh where, to start, I wonder?
Well, I was supposed to have blogged following a somewhat impromptu yet life-changing trip to Portland with five of my closest female friends. It was damn near perfect, worth every penny spent, and the kind of therapy that is going to carry me through all the adversity that I am going to face during 2008. Every corner I turned, Portland bore a new and beautiful souvenir for my heart. Elliott Smith kept manifesting himself, at a photography exhibition at Powell's Bookstore (the Amoeba Records of book stores, hands down), embedded in the sound of the local Hush Records band that we caught (they are called Loch Lomond and they FUCKING ROCKED and you should check them out.... the do the whole Sufjan thing more astutely and give off a CSN-in-the-English-Countryside vibe). I remembered why I loved him (to paraphrase Jenny Lewis), and fell madly back in love with everything that he stood for over good coffee, unique art, and Voodoo Donuts.
My friends are the reason for the title of this blog, and probably the reason I am alive. Never in my life have I been so comfortable in the presence of multiple women. Multifaceted, strange, exotic, beautiful, empathetic, strong women. I was among my people. And granted, we all fell into roles (mine, of course, being that of the baby), we all brought our unique gifts to the experience.
Jane, the friend with whom I was least familiar on this trip at the beginning, proved to be everything I knew she was. On the surface, her cooking was improvisational and exciting, and always proved delicious and satisfying. Her savvy music sense also soundtracked out experience quite nicely (you know, when I was not geeking out to Roman Candle on my iPod). Under the skin, however, Jane was a life force to be reckoned with. Loyalty, honesty and intelligence were Jane, and she fulfilled the role of father on our trip (I mean, hell... she packed the trunk, had an excellent sense of direction, and knew the dimensions of the car well enough to help Noor parallel park every time!).
Noor, the hostess with the mostess, is a friend from college. Noor is the kind of person that someone runs across once in their life. She burns with the kind of fire that drive the people that deserve it. She is a spark, but not of rage or of bitterness or of aimless passion. Her spark is far more appreciative of the world around her. Noor is inspiring and I hope one day to be as kind as she. She was the mom (as evinced when she read the menu to me at lunch and helped me pick ot cold medicine at the drug store).
Megan is my quiet one, a former roommate from my junior and senior year of college. She is a quiet storm though. There is so much going on behind those blue eyes of hers, and we get lucky when we get let in. This trip, she opened the doors just a little bit wider and I got to see someone I think I missed out on during college. Megan is a little girl in spirit, and she doesn't know that I know it yet. It's alright though. She is going to be such a successful, invincible woman because of all that she has gone through, and I am privileged to glimpse that little carefree girl here and there. Megan was a sister.
Katie, or Miss K-Lee, as she may as well be known, is the All-American in the group. She is, as I describe her, the "girl from the Tom Petty song" (you know the one: loves Jesus, horses, America, her momma, and her boyfriend). Katie is a school teacher and while I am sure this is not the case, she seems like she knows exactly what she wants out of life. I envy her in an admiring way for this. I am so proud when I see what she has accomplished, not just on paper, but every day as she inspires and deciphers the world of 3rd grade. I can't even fathom it. Katie is a pillar of moral values for me, because she takes very good care of herself and the people around her, and I know of nothing more morally sound than that. She was an aunt.... definitely a mom, but not my mom.
Mara is my former roommate proper from my senior year of college. As one can imagine, senior year of college is a bit of a fragile period in one's life. However, this year following has far and away out-delicated it. This post-collegiate year has been a latticework of balanced china, all begging gravity to break it. Mara is my anti-gravity. Never in my life have I known someone that cares so dearly about me yet never judges a thing I do. Never before have I known such an open mind. She is the perfect friend, understanding, considerate, easy-going and forgiving, and I literally don't know what I would have done without her open ears. She underestimates herself, I think, which is a tragedy, because she is brave and smart and inspiring and kind. Mara is a sister, a close sister.
So now, when I feel like complaining about all my problems here in the public forum (bitch-blogging, as my friend Scott dubbed it), I am forcing myself to show nothing but gratitude. Money is tight, work is frustrating, and love is far, far away (if it exists at all, in anything other than wild form). However, I keep some steady friends around for now, and I quote Bill again to express my innermost longing:
"Don't stay away so long 'cause we love you too much."
The "we" in this case is me and all of my poisonous stresses and fantasies and bad decisions. I get to be stable because of those aforementioned girls, and I hope to God that they stay close this year.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
This Is Your Cold Discovery
...Find a soft place on your body and rub me with it. This I won't soon forget...
I am downright certain that the first blog post after the intro is the hardest. This is the one that sets the tone and initiates the trajectory. Intros are child's play; how tough is it to formulate an agenda? Cake. It is the execution of said agenda where laziness can intervene. It's probably going to be damn hard to maintain a cognizant blog with savvy Bill Callahan (and/or other musical) references galore. Whatever though. Here goes nothing.
I have something scary on my mind. Thankfully, it is the kind of unrealistic fear that is so off-putting that it is enjoyable. There are some feelings, some emotions in this world that my life has most thankfully been free of. I will be the first to admit that life has spoiled me. There is always a sunbeam seeping in during my darkest hours, fixing everything. Thus, I resort to what I am going to have to call "emotional slumming." Damn, that's atrocious. Allow me to explain:
No Country For Old Men. Scott Walker's The Drift. The animated version of Watership Down. Through all of these unique pop culture entities, I can derive a feeling comparable to elation. However, said feeling is most potent when I am most horrified. The suspense, the string sections, the 9/11 imagery ("Nose holes caked in black cocaine..."). The collective sucking in of breath, bracing for the blow. The moaning in agony, the disbelief in the unnatural nature of it all. Through violence, visualized, implied, and prophesied, I feel closer to God. The heaviness of these entities is one that I know not in my life and I can't help but believe it is supernatural, granted subtly.
Now, I hope it goes without saying that I am a delicate little flower and violence is the least-present trouble in my life. I am literally surrounded by joy and down comforters. Also, any reality behind the evil I am describing doesn't do it for me. I can't day-dream about the suicide bombers in the Middle East and derive from it anything but sorrow, sympathy and regret. The violence that fascinates me cannot be real, because the emotion to me is surreal. It comes from a world apart: the art world. Art, to me, is that which can evoke emotion unfamiliar to the observer. And thus, the art that brings me the most pleasure that which is most strange and remote from my own existence.
When I caught Bill Callahan at the Echoplex in Los Angeles this past Autumn, he graced us with "Cold Discovery." A somewhat ineffectual track from Dongs of Sevotion, I was taken by how quickly it sucked me in and evoked this very feeling of which I speak. The integration of Thor Harris' masterful percussion launched the song into a menacing maelstrom of pain and pleasure. The simplest invocation of violence ("Bust a lock/With a rock./ Don't need a key/ To have me." and "I can hold a woman/down on a hardwood floor/ and her teeth can gnash right through me.") shot chills down my spinal cord. There is a pain that I like to pretend feels like pleasure, and Bill spoke to it masterfully that night. That, my friends, was art at work, paralyzing people into believing in it.
Anyway, all creepiness and S&M aside, I am still quite impressed with how well artists can move me without gratuity, without overt preaching. Scott Walker, Angela Morley, Joel and Ethan Coen, and of course our Bill Callahan. Elliott Smith and his obsession with the ghosts of soldiers harassing/pleading to nurses. Okkervil River's Will Sheff writing a love song about relishing in the feel of his own blood being spilled ("For Real"). Even (and I hate to give this to him, but I can't help myself) goddamn Steve Albini and his funernalistic "End of Radio" in which he dedicates his last show to the apocalypse. I can't get enough of the barren wasteland, the chilling, haunting, bloody-ass rage and frustration and stark black leafless trees against red skies.
Here in the city of angels, with all the potential and youth and eager hit-the-ground-running peers surrounding me, I can use these works of art to escape to a world bereft of all things me, and relish in it.
*After rereading this post, I really don't think I emphasized enough how much actual violence and human tragedy is awful and regrettable and repulsive and sad. Mothers losing their children, AIDS, religious violence, all that jazz... I loathe it and hope to someday reduce its presence in the world. Seriously, the school shootings, the boy soldiers in Sierra Leon, they are far to tragic to derive any form of pleasure from. When it comes to creepy, terrible, violent things, they must exist in the realm of fantasy, music, lucid dreams for me to appreciate (and thus blog about) them.
I am downright certain that the first blog post after the intro is the hardest. This is the one that sets the tone and initiates the trajectory. Intros are child's play; how tough is it to formulate an agenda? Cake. It is the execution of said agenda where laziness can intervene. It's probably going to be damn hard to maintain a cognizant blog with savvy Bill Callahan (and/or other musical) references galore. Whatever though. Here goes nothing.
I have something scary on my mind. Thankfully, it is the kind of unrealistic fear that is so off-putting that it is enjoyable. There are some feelings, some emotions in this world that my life has most thankfully been free of. I will be the first to admit that life has spoiled me. There is always a sunbeam seeping in during my darkest hours, fixing everything. Thus, I resort to what I am going to have to call "emotional slumming." Damn, that's atrocious. Allow me to explain:
No Country For Old Men. Scott Walker's The Drift. The animated version of Watership Down. Through all of these unique pop culture entities, I can derive a feeling comparable to elation. However, said feeling is most potent when I am most horrified. The suspense, the string sections, the 9/11 imagery ("Nose holes caked in black cocaine..."). The collective sucking in of breath, bracing for the blow. The moaning in agony, the disbelief in the unnatural nature of it all. Through violence, visualized, implied, and prophesied, I feel closer to God. The heaviness of these entities is one that I know not in my life and I can't help but believe it is supernatural, granted subtly.
Now, I hope it goes without saying that I am a delicate little flower and violence is the least-present trouble in my life. I am literally surrounded by joy and down comforters. Also, any reality behind the evil I am describing doesn't do it for me. I can't day-dream about the suicide bombers in the Middle East and derive from it anything but sorrow, sympathy and regret. The violence that fascinates me cannot be real, because the emotion to me is surreal. It comes from a world apart: the art world. Art, to me, is that which can evoke emotion unfamiliar to the observer. And thus, the art that brings me the most pleasure that which is most strange and remote from my own existence.
When I caught Bill Callahan at the Echoplex in Los Angeles this past Autumn, he graced us with "Cold Discovery." A somewhat ineffectual track from Dongs of Sevotion, I was taken by how quickly it sucked me in and evoked this very feeling of which I speak. The integration of Thor Harris' masterful percussion launched the song into a menacing maelstrom of pain and pleasure. The simplest invocation of violence ("Bust a lock/With a rock./ Don't need a key/ To have me." and "I can hold a woman/down on a hardwood floor/ and her teeth can gnash right through me.") shot chills down my spinal cord. There is a pain that I like to pretend feels like pleasure, and Bill spoke to it masterfully that night. That, my friends, was art at work, paralyzing people into believing in it.
Anyway, all creepiness and S&M aside, I am still quite impressed with how well artists can move me without gratuity, without overt preaching. Scott Walker, Angela Morley, Joel and Ethan Coen, and of course our Bill Callahan. Elliott Smith and his obsession with the ghosts of soldiers harassing/pleading to nurses. Okkervil River's Will Sheff writing a love song about relishing in the feel of his own blood being spilled ("For Real"). Even (and I hate to give this to him, but I can't help myself) goddamn Steve Albini and his funernalistic "End of Radio" in which he dedicates his last show to the apocalypse. I can't get enough of the barren wasteland, the chilling, haunting, bloody-ass rage and frustration and stark black leafless trees against red skies.
Here in the city of angels, with all the potential and youth and eager hit-the-ground-running peers surrounding me, I can use these works of art to escape to a world bereft of all things me, and relish in it.
*After rereading this post, I really don't think I emphasized enough how much actual violence and human tragedy is awful and regrettable and repulsive and sad. Mothers losing their children, AIDS, religious violence, all that jazz... I loathe it and hope to someday reduce its presence in the world. Seriously, the school shootings, the boy soldiers in Sierra Leon, they are far to tragic to derive any form of pleasure from. When it comes to creepy, terrible, violent things, they must exist in the realm of fantasy, music, lucid dreams for me to appreciate (and thus blog about) them.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
I Guess This Is What The Kids Are Doing
I blogged once. It was... anticlimactic. But the older I get, the more ruminant I get and the lack of athleticism in my life leaves this as one of my few available outlets. Also, I like to think that these days, something might happen to me that might actually be noteworthy. Just outside of the mediocre. I am living on the Miracle Mile now, somewhat single and electric with energy. I have honed my appreciation of modern music into a downright obsession. Another thing is, I talk a lot. Sometimes the words bottleneck on the way out of my head and make no sense due to my attractive little speech impediment. I can streamline them this way and make less garbled nonsense.
All of these excuses have lead me to you. That, and Bill Callahan. If you ended up here on purpose, you are likely a Bill Callahan fan and you searched for lyrics for "From The Rivers to The Oceans" and now you are disappointed in Google for dragging you here. Well, before you go navigating away, think about the faith in wordless knowledge that brought you here. There are many things I think I know that I am not going to be able to articulate here... but maybe you'll get it. Maybe you think the same picture and sound, and now because of the faith, we found each other.
I might be wrong, but I doubt it. Welcome to my mind, vintage 2008.
-Christina
All of these excuses have lead me to you. That, and Bill Callahan. If you ended up here on purpose, you are likely a Bill Callahan fan and you searched for lyrics for "From The Rivers to The Oceans" and now you are disappointed in Google for dragging you here. Well, before you go navigating away, think about the faith in wordless knowledge that brought you here. There are many things I think I know that I am not going to be able to articulate here... but maybe you'll get it. Maybe you think the same picture and sound, and now because of the faith, we found each other.
I might be wrong, but I doubt it. Welcome to my mind, vintage 2008.
-Christina
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