Happy.
Lover.
Fun.
Sweet sadness.
Sun.
Boating.
Company.
Shallow, innocent, smiles.
Immovable, balanced, aimless beauty.
Salty rocks and dark, clear, water.
Gross, impressive, sail boats.
Lighthearted, short-lived, jealousy.
Virtuous, incorruptible, happiness.
Minimal, intense, natural color.
Neighbors.
Shipwrecks.
Wild, mountaintop, cactus fruit, thorns and all.
Those endless clouds again…
Fish flowers, dumb and delicious.
Everyday a new view.
Squinting, purposefully, purely.
Brands are powerful.
They’re convenient containers in which we can easily pack up and pass around dense information.
But there’s a catch: information loss. We throw away depth in exchange for efficiency.
What does “McDonalds” mean? What does “The Swastika” symbol mean? What does “Middle Class” mean?
Most arguments are the result of mis-communication; conflicting assumptions about the fundamentals of the topic being discussed.
You call yourself pro-choice. I call myself pro-life. We both assume the other fits into a very stark characterization. But I agree that rape victims and life-threatening pregnancy complications should be exceptions to any restrictions. And you think 3rd trimester abortions are irresponsible and should be regulated. Actually, at the end of the argument we find out we both agree on more than we disagree, yet we were still initially polarized by the expectations of our respective brand-assigned roles.
The haziness of our inferences caused tension. That sucks, but it’s a small price to pay for the conversations and conveniences made possible by brands. We expect a cup of Starbucks Coffee to taste the same whether it comes from a store in Seattle or one in Manhattan. Similarly, we expect a person who’s heard of Net Neutrality, The NSA Privacy Scandal, or Gun Control to be able to participate in a conversation about said topics with a minimal amount of explanation.
And at the end of the day, any ambiguity can be resolved when needed, right? If we get to a crossroads, we can talk it out and move on, can’t we?
Too often we seemingly can’t, and instead we go around fighting in endless loops.
That’s a shame, but not particularly impactful at the individual level.
What happens when the ambiguity of a brand gets leveraged? What happens when people in positions of power use mis-communication to maliciously frame a topic in a certain light?
Ever seen a commercial featuring an exceptional healthy looking individual eating a fast-food hamburger or drinking a soda?
Ever heard anyone call a politician, past or present, a Nazi? A Communist?
Well, did said politician try to systematically kill 6-million people based on their ethnicity? Or is he simply bad at his job? Did she try to enforce an impossible wheat-production quota? Or is she simply implementing poorly thought out economic policies?
No one really knows. And that is damning to those affected by the topics being discussed.
While we keep fighting against each-other, merely because we superficially support different teams, real decisions are being made that have very substantial consequences.
The solution is to do the work required in order to understand the details. Hold yourself to high standards of integrity even when you’re just bullshitting with friends. Cite your sources, develop your talking points, admit you ignorance, don’t assume or take anything for granted, and ask questions, both to clarify your own and your audience’s perspective.
And don’t widen the gap. It feels good to be on a team, to have a gang; to call yourself a conservative or a liberal, a pro-this or a anti-that, or to participate in any other pair of divides. But supporting a team too often requires you to hate on its rival.
The goal should be truth, and truth in any one topic takes depth and thoroughness, not stereotypes and shallow banner waving.
Explain yourself and don’t take anyone else seriously until they do, too.
Too many people looking for prestige in their performance. Ya’ do it cause you gotta do it, cause it’s the thing you should be doing.
Prestige and power is us and them. It’s isolation. More of the same.
Music for music’s sake is a reminder that we are more of the same. Temporarily separated, but barreling back at break-neck speeds to the abyss of togetherness.
We’re going back there, to where we came from and where we’re going to, to spend an infinite multitude of time, peacefully balancing with one footed flamingos and eating donut-holes and humming our favorite tunes as the whole house buzzes too.
In the meantime, we sing, dance, and play the electric guitar for one another, with each other, cause it’s the right thing to do.
When the cliff hanging over you is so dense that you’re eyes need to adjust to the sudden darkness, you know you’re in it heavy.
A building, in the middle of implosion, falling toward your back, and you’ve got to out run it or die.
Each direction chosen in real time, each bump dealt with through a combination of light like reflexes and weathered wisdom, all the while traveling faster than you though you could think.
No options, just momentum. Perfect flow. Perfect immediacy. Truly continuous integration with the nature of the situation. Brute force disillusion of permanence.
Your brow relaxes. The trip is over. There wasn’t time for memory, but a mark was made none the less.
Turn around and paddle back out.
Abandoned ruins appropriated as valuable, no one asks why they were abandoned in the first place. Typographic diarrhea, shallowly swooned over. Overused, under-thought, in-cohesive spew masquerading as appreciable underneath a king’s cloak of fog and smoke.
The same people evangelizing detoxification, living in asbestos lined buildings built on top of broken bottles and cigarette butts.
It seems something is wrong, practicing yoga in a town with no trees.
Loglo selfishly employed, naively sold as a mutual benefit, warnings unheard or unheeded.
Food and drink are the fun, rather than the company they used to require, but even still, few know how to cook and fewer know how to brew or barrel.
A poem reflects my subconscious, “I’m fooling myself” living in this place, but I love my family and won’t go far from them; bolstered with the convenience – or perhaps excuse – of work, I continue.
Neil Young has been remarkably consistent on the subject of songwriting over the years: It happens, I don’t understand it, I’m grateful and it’s pretty pointless to talk about it. I pity the poor fool who attempts to crack the meaning of his lyrics as if breaking a code. It can’t be done – not with Young’s help, at least, and he doesn’t care. Although he’d never put it this way, I get the feeling Neil Young views songwriting almost superstitiously, like a conjurer’s gift. Define it – question it – fuck with it too much, and it might just go away.
I don’t feel the need to write a song. it’s not like that It’s almost like the song feels the need for me to write it and I’m just there. It’s not like I’m not doing a job.
Songwriting, for me, is like a release. It’s not a craft. Crafts usually involve a little bit of training and expertise and you draw on your experiences – but if you’re thinking about that while you’re writing, don’t! If I can do it without thinking about, I’m doing it great.
– You’ve written songs that feel well crafted, like you’ve worked at them.
Yeah – and they are the most boring songs that I’ve ever written, probably.
– So you don’t write songs, you just get the fax?
I don’t know how to describe what I do. I’m waiting to see hat I’m gonna do next. That should give you some indication of how much planning goes into it.
– How important are lyrics?
Well, it depends on the song.
– What about an abstract song like “Cowgirl in the Sand?”
The words to “Cowgirl in the Sand” are very important because you can free-associate with them. Some words won’t let you do that, so you’re locked into the specific fuckin’ thing the guy’s singin’ about… This way it could be anything.
The thing is, as long as there’s a thread that carries through it, then when you imagine what it’s about, there’s gonna be a thread that takes you to the end, too. You can follow your thought all the way through if you happen to have one – or if you don’t, your realize it doesn’t matter.
– Do all the songs you write make sense to you?
No. That’s not a requirement. It doesn’t have to make sense, just give you a feeling. You get a feeling from something that doesn’t make any sense. It doesn’t make sense – it kind of gives you a sense. Like “Last Trip to Tulsa” or “Rapid Transit” don’t make a lotta sense. Some do, some don’t. It’s not important to me.
– So are your songs autobiographical?
It’s not about information. The song is not meant for them to think about me. The song is meant for people to think about themselves.
The specifics of what songs are about are not necessarily constructive of relevant. Songs come from a source and the source may be several… It could give credence to the theory of reincarnation, where you’ve been a lotta different places but obviously you haven’t. What the fuck am I doing writing about Aztecs in “Cortez the Killer” like I was there, wandering around? ‘Cause I only read about it in a few books. A lotta the shit I just made up because it came to me.
– And you were open enough to receive it?
Yea… I believed in myself enough to let it come in.
– Does believing in yourself have a lot to do with writing songs?
I don’t know. Did Kurt Cobain believe in himself?
– How does stream of consciousness work in your writing?
If it’s a steady stream of consciousness for me, and I can follow the picture all the way through, you can just go smoothly through it on another level. You’re listening to the sound of the words and the pictures and the melody – and they go together. It transcends any one of the elements – so y'know, you just keep going. You’re not thinking about this word or that word, you just get a big blur of images. That’ll happen with me when I’m singing the song and I’m seeing some image that’s unrelated to the words – seemingly unrelated. If i see it and keep seeing it, y'know, the next time I sing it, it may come back. Keeps coming back for years sometimes, a little glimmer of something. If that happens with me, then I think that everybody is gonna have their own identifying place with the song that’s gonna carry them all the way through, too, and they’re gonna think I’m singing directly to them.
– Any songs of yours cut the closest?
Nope.
– Not “Will to Love”?
It was a good song, but its weakness is it was a one-shot deal. I mean, that was it. I can’t even sing it. I can’t remember it. I can’t remember the melody. I can’t even… that’s perfect. To have it like that – so every verse is different and it’s all just comin’ out. It’s real good to get it like that. But uh… I don’t think that’s the only one – several have that vibe… “Goin’ Back” is one of my all-time favorites.
– Did smoking pot have an effect on your writing?
Yea… I was just writing, I don’t know if it had to do with smoking any grass or not smoking any grass. I don’t think it mattered, but it had an effect, yea. What it was I don’t know. 'Cause I can write both ways. Y'know, I can write in a car, I can write while I’m asleep. And all of a sudden I’ve got a melody or words or both – the whole fuckin’ thing.
– Do you have a policy on song editing?
Well, try not to edit. Sometimes you write too much. You take a verse out, whatever. The time to edit is the only important thing. Try not to judge and edit yourself unless you’ve completely finished what you’ve done. Because to start second-guessing yourself as it’s coming out of you, you’re going to jam it up and it’s not gonna come out. Thinking in songs – that’s where it gets lost. Either playing it or writing it.
– Has your writing changed over the years?
I think it has – it’s the same basic kind of writing… it’s evolved. I’ve gotten more sure of things. Less thinking.
–Ever think you’re guilty of preaching in your songs?
Probably I am – but I’m preaching to myself. Ya gotta remember that. The person that I talk to in my songs is mostly me. When I say, “You gotta blah, blah, blah,” I’m talkin’ to myself.
– Are you preaching in “Throw Your Hatred Down”?
I don’t think I’m preaching. I’m reflecting. Maybe talkin’ to myself – I dunno. I hate to take responsibility for every word that I say.
– Francis Bacon once said, “I can’t be held responsible for the products of my subconscious.”
I agree with that. That’s what art’s all about – if you wanna get it out there. Well, I think that applies to songwriting, but it doesn’t apply to life. I’m not sure how far that goes.
– More than a few of your songs mean completely different things to different people.
Open ambiguity. It’s not stated, it’s understood. Something’s there that’s understood, but you can’t put your finger on it. It’s a feeling you have that “Yes, I’m not hearing it all, but I can put it together from what I’m getting.” Y'know what I mean? So that’s part of what happens in my writing naturally. I think that’s my style. What comes out of me is full of those things – where you leave out the connection and assume that the person knows the connection just subliminally. Just keep on goin’. Leave out key words and stuff and it still makes perfect sense – but it doesn’t mean literally what it means … if you read it out word by word, it means one thing, but if you say it all in a line, it means something else – that’s what I think songwriting is. That’s the mystery. The mystery of art.
It’s a tragedy to see a show sitting down.
Watching some nostalgia machine pump out its product in a room full of dead women and lazy boys.
A single suit stands, his tie long gone along with his hair, but he doesn’t care as he dances in the open aisle.
Most ignore this dude’s craziness, pretend he isn’t there, because they’ve been dead so long they don’t remember what life looks like and they are embarrassed by the void.
That guy dancing in the aisle, though, he’s eternal, he’s the light of Venus.
Eh…
I’m just being a bastard about it.
Who knows how hard it is to get old, except the old.
But I’ll keep preaching away, anyway, because I believe it’s more of a mental momentum than a physical limitation; a transition that picks up pace and weight with time poorly spent not paying attention. You gotta cut it off now, before you find yourself rigid in a stadium seat, waiting for a radio relic to finish reproducing a record and release you from your self-imposed obligation.
It’s a choice, this particular effect of age. Not all are, and so I am grateful.
And I can believe it’s a choice, because I’ve observed that this stagnant state is the negligible exception, not the rule.
More often than not, I see smiles and standing ovations and dancing strangers acting like siblings. Good people and consistent appreciation, from backstage to the back of the balconies, free from rage, satisfied by vibrations.
And so I’m writing this as a reminder to myself and those who might care, just beware of what can happen when you stop being aware.
I’m sitting in a cafe, reading “A Moveable Feast”, decompressing after a day’s work with a Sierra Nevada beer, and waiting for Tommy and Lauren to come in and join me.
In the meantime, another potential love interest walks in, and I make eye contact with her, I smile, and she smiles. It happens again, and a handful of times more, but then my friends finally arrive, and I shift my concentration.
I start talking with my friends and, it being the finish of my stay in New Orleans, there are a lot of events to talk about.
I tell them of my walks to Frenchman Street, people watching and listening to jazz through bars’ windows, and wandering through flee markets and record stores.
I speak of how my family got along particularly and surprisingly well, and how we fared excellently for people sharing such close company, all of us being in the same hotel room.
I tell them how my mom was refreshingly relatable and fun to talk to, and how my suspicion of her not being able to tolerate the heat or the crowds was completely dissolved by her apparent happiness and interest in the performances.
And I mention how the music I had gotten to listen to over the weekend was awesome and magnificent. Robert Plant, Eric Clapton, Trey Anastasio, and more; jazz bands, blues bands, and brass bands; most of
them local, yet just as moving as the nationally acclaimed acts.
And as I list all of these talented and entertaining musicians, and attempt to summarize the euphoria they inspired and the dreamland setting in which they did their work, the girl I had been smiling at earlier walks over to my table.
She tells me, directly, that she overheard me talking about musicians, and asks if I was interested in seeing a show tonight.
And at first, being the cynical New Yorker in-training that I am, I thought she was trying to con me or pawn off a spare ticket onto me.
But no…
Her name was Shasha and her name was on the list of artists I was just affectionately gushing over.
I had seen her sing at the festival two days prior; I was complimenting her, oblivious to her presence, two seconds prior; and I had been subtlety flirting with her from across the room since she walked in the door.
I’ll let you know what happens next after I get back from the show…
A little girl, ice cream covering everything below her nose, walks past a sitting me, makes eye-level eye contact, and beats me in a race to make a funny face.
Puddles.
I know why they’re here, I accept their existence, and with effort I can enjoy their company, in moderation.
But they’re bland, and bore easy, and I don’t care for them when they linger. Most of all, they remind me of why I can’t play outside.
Puddles have their place, but it is not here, not anymore. I guess I’ll just have to wait for them to evaporate or learn to live uncomfortable in the overcast.
No one cares that Gary Clark Jr is black.
He still shreds.
No one cares that Allen Stone is white.
He’s still got soul.
No one cares that Neil Young is pushing 70.
He’s still innovating.
No one cares that Brandon Niederauer “TAZ” is eleven.
He’s still skilled.
No one cares that Tedeschi Trucks Band is lead by a woman.
They rock.
No one cares that Adele has curves.
She’s still making hearts bleed.
No one cared that Freddie Mercury was gay-ish.
Better for us that he had a four-octave range.
Music, and especially live music, drops all pretense and prejudice.
People who participate in this scene don’t even talk about these things, and especially not at the shows themselves, because in the community of musicians and appreciators prejudice and racism are completely antiquated concepts. It be like arguing about whether washing your hands was a good idea or not.
I’ve danced next to black guys, white guys, every type of girl, married couples, older folks, young spirits, by myself, in giant groups. I’ve gone to festivals wasted and stone cold sober, dressed in shirt & tie and nearly naked. I’ve been offered food, drink, drugs, and shelter from complete strangers. I’ve seen more smiles, warmheartedness, presence of mind, and happiness at shows than anywhere else.
While part of the world spends their time in vapid debate over gender roles, affirmative action, immigration, woman’s rights and all other kinds of dividing topics, some of us just stopped caring and started doing great things together.
It’s more fun that way.
I’m looking out at the clouds at eye level.
They remind me of some forever deep mountain,
and I imagine myself skiing, or flying, or maybe just
the feeling that comes with both.
I like how they never end and always change.
Time passes, and now I see a beach, or perhaps it’s just sand, but it never ends just the same.
Until you’re dead, you’re still alive, so what does it matter which side of the divide you ride.
Not morbid, but relieving, to know you can play by whichever set of rules you choose to abide.
I step out of my procrastination and onto the road, ready to pick up the run I’ve been putting off.
The moment I finally make it from the trap of my desk chair to the threshold of my front door, that same smell of summer and spring hits me all over again, and the motif of my life is reaffirmed. Immovable laziness floats away, replaced by motivation and lightness of mind.
I’ve transitioned perspectives, and now I’m ready to ride.
Ditching my headphones, I’m hoping to hear something I might of otherwise missed.
I’m lucky. I’ve been kissed by the night’s sounds.
The rhythm of my feet sets the pace of the song in my head, interlocking the tempo of what I’m doing with why I’m doing it.
My concentration is consumed by the beat.
I have nothing more to say.
I’m walking down the street, trying to clear my head before bed.
It’s 2AM, and I happen to hear this crazy ass bird, lost in its own home, eerily echoing its ramblings off of the brick and concrete confusion that is the city I have just moved to.
Not the town I grew up in, but close to it.
Anyway, I keep walking, and my attention shifts.
The sweet smells of summer have begun to descend in the form of spring,
bringing with them a hybrid nostalgic excitement.
A feeling so familiar you can close your eyes and taste it,
count the hundreds, if not thousands, of times you’ve felt it before;
yet so fresh, so new, that, regardless of its simplicity, you become intoxicated with your lack of tolerance for its heady effects.
As far as I can remember, for me this feeling started with the anticipation of summer vacation. No school, long days, warm nights. Beaches and BBQs with cousins and neighbors. The basis for my community and culture. It has since evolved into a lusty soup of expectations and memories. Breaks from vocation, times for love creation and sexual relations.
I pass cigarette smoke and the East River, bars, and cars, and conversations I’ve heard before. I tell myself, “what a bore”, because it’s reflexive, but I ignore this cynical perspective, letting it come, then go, knowing the world is a bigger place than one Conversation on one Street in one City.
I repeat this little poem to myself a number of times, both frustrated and proud that I don’t have my phone or a pen to write it down. With each attempt to memorize it, I end up modifying it, adding meter, and rhythm, and my progressing experience of the expanding night, both forgetting and manipulating different parts, letting things develop naturally.
I continue walking, and my attention is broken. I’ve subconsciously returned to the same street I started on and that same crazy ass bird is still chirping its story for whoever will listen.
I laugh. I’ve been doing the same thing.
Lying nose to nose, I look into your pale, blue, bright eyes, and see them smiling at me.
And I make an effort to realize that you’re a person, not just a means to satisfaction. Understanding that makes me smile, as I realize that the moment is mutual and that I am happy because you seem happy.
The hand I’m holding isn’t a pawn played toward another unbuttoned fly. It’s the hand of a person, just like mine. There’s purpose, and perspective, and longing in that hand, just like in mine. And I stroke the skin of your fingers between mine, empathizing, and we press into each other tightly and kiss deeply, and I momentarily enlighten myself to our understated connectedness.
There’s a love there – however infant, substantial, or sustainable I don’t care – and it is good and it is present. I protect the moment with concentration and it respectfully continues, unmolested by my perpetual skepticism and weak criticisms.
I need to work on this more, but in the meantime, thanks, Moment.
When it’s time to let go, I do, but I’m scared because I fear there’s not much to keep this going, and I don’t want to hurt you, but I do want this to happen again.
Maybe I’m wrong in assuming you’re sensitive, wrong in knowing what you want, wrong in knowing what I need. I’m embarrassed by how wrong I might be.
Regardless, I want you to realize that, whether it comes from me or not, there’s lasting love for you in the world. I hope you knew that already and I feel arrogant for thinking it’s possible you didn’t.
Maybe this is how things are meant to start. Maybe I should jump and figure it out during the fall. Someone said that. It seems like the right thing to do.
I do not care to be esthetically tickled in a fancy theater surrounded by an audience drenched in the confident perfume of culture. I can’t afford it.
-Richard Brautigan's Partners
They feign curiosity, but their only intent is to unrelentingly criticize with hollow arguments and offer unsolicited advice with unsubstantiated authority. They do this over and over again, permuting arbitrarily through unrelated topics until you are disoriented to the point of craving escape, or until every reserve of your patience has been exhausted, or both
In the former case, where you feel the need to flee, they blame you for your lack of participation and the subsequent degradation of relations. They ask, with complete seriousness and obliviousness, why you never talk.
In the inexcusably cruel but unrestrained explosion of your frustration, which follows the latter case, they deny any awareness of their actions, and insist your anger and lashing out are because you are a sadist and not because they’ve provoked you.
When calmly confronted — not an easy task — they clam up immediately, and armed with irrational rhetoric and ad hominem, they rebuke your claims before they’re even spoken, sticking proverbial fingers in her ears and denying any chance at constructive conversation.
In the off chance that I’ve forgotten the ubiquity of the above, and make the mistake of attempting to chat with them, their instinct almost immediately directs the flow toward a sensitive subject: e.g., nonsense directives they’re perfectly capable of carrying out; the state of smoke detectors in obscure places I’d never visit; and how I manage my money.
I don’t know how to fix it, and in the back of my head I know their intention isn’t malicious, but their practice is still painful.
They aren’t bad.
Is that ok?
My heart says no, but my head sighs because the answer is obviously yes.
Mom doesn’t have much to offer in terms of advice, and Dad is affected by them even more than I am.
Not sure if that makes it better or worse.
Regardless I love them.
It’s not about what the speaker says, it’s about what the listener hears.
When trying to describe, it’s the speaker’s responsibility to account for how the listener will perceive their words, but tendency is for us to assume our own comprehension is absolute.
Putting the burden of understanding on the listener is insensitive and arrogant. It’s also ineffective.
When we decorated our hands with henna for holidays and weddings, we drew calculus and chemical formulae instead of flowers and butterflies.
I Am Malala by Malala Yousafzai
I got the point: war is absurd and bureaucracy multiplies the immorality and ineffectiveness of fighting to solve a problem. And for what it's worth, to me the book get's the point out there in a really witty way. The entire Milo subplot is hysterical and relatable, and Colonel Cathcart's completely superficial appreciation of his authority and warped sense of responsibility resonates with anyone that's had a shitty manager in their life. Apply it all to war, and then go on to realize that wars are actually happening, and it becomes a real "Whoa..." inducing kind of book.
But the method of delivery, for me, was a bit agonizing, especially in the beginning. There's so much reliance on allegory, that it feels like you need a magnifying glass just to get a lot of the subtler points, then once they're finally reveled, they're unrelenting. E.g., Nately's whore wanting to kill YoYo -- the reason is hinted at by a one line and then there's 3 chapters dedicated to it; the full body casted man; Orr's chestnuts and the woman with the shoe -- used throughout the book and then explained right at the end in two lines, hungry joe's cat and pretty much everything else about him.
Granted, that could just be because I'm not good at reading between the lines and parsing symbolism, or because I like more literal literature (e.g., non-fiction and more forward novels), but it's frustrating none the less.
I also found myself looking for a more explicit plot to latch onto. It was like each character was its own lesson, and every chapter was its own isolated metaphor; but the punch line to each multi-paragraph joke were single sentences, and the consistency maintained between each chapter was thin since the characters were only there as vessels for the underlying point. Although, when you finally got to one of those punchlines, it was better than sex since the buildup was never ending.
Either way, it got me thinking and I'm glad I read it. I just wish it was more concise.
I was walking from Penn. to work today, like I do everyday, but this morning was especially nice.
It was cold, the sidewalks were icy and sprinkled with old snow and new salt, and the sky was perfectly blue and clear. After about 15 minutes of walking, I went into a coffee shop to get some coffee. I opened the door to the place and right as I did I got that great relieving feeling you get from walking into a heated room after being out in the cold; when warmth envelops your cold face, evaporating its numbness; and it seems like all the snot you’ve ever produced has decided that it’s time to vacate your nose, so you need to sniffle around one hundred times a second to make sure it doesn’t.
Everyone in the place was wearing scarfs and hats and gloves, the people behind the counter were wearing sweaters and making hot drinks and hot breakfast sandwiches, and the windows were slightly fogged up. There was music playing too, but I don’t particularly remember if it was holiday music or not.
I’m waiting in line, and I literally thought to myself, “This moment is what the holidays are all about…”. That specific moment – the setting, the comfort, the glow – it just overwhelmed me, and I realized something: you have to look for it and you have to actively accept it. You have to make the effort to believe that now is real, and that what you’re looking for is right in front of you; it just needs to be seen to be found.
I remember the first Christmas I woke up and didn’t immediately get out of bed to see what was under the tree, or if my parents were awake or if they remembered to eat the cookies we left out. That was sad, and I contemplated that loss for a long time when I was a kid. Was Christmas dead? Was I becoming numb? Would the rest of the things I loved follow the same fate? But now I think it was more-so a coming of age than a dissillusion of innocence. Presents and material things no longer provoked the same sort of effortless wonder anymore. I’d have to work for it, but the wonder wasn’t gone…
It’s really easy to let time pass unnoticed, mistaken for insignificant, while simultaneously yearning for some remembered happiness. I guess this morning was especially nice because, for whatever reason, I did notice its significance and it made me happy.
Hope all of you are having a great day, too.
I fall for her understanding,
the reality of her real,
her effortless authenticity,
her disregard for compromise,
the way she makes me truly feel…
…naive, as if this reprieve were mutual.
Cause when the track stops,
and the stage is struck,
and the house lights and music team up to together make their nightly eviction,
She is still ideal,
but I am estranged.
It’s so bad and sad that this singer’s songs seduce.
But it sure is good to dive into being alive,
and let my preoccupied mind dissolve in its surrender to her movement.
‘Cause even if the energy and chemistry both have to leave me,
the journey she gave to we was still genuine.
And then again, in the end,
is there anything that isn’t fleeting,
that isn’t constantly peacing?
No…
No, her performance isn’t evenly slightly cruel.
Its nature is shared with soul.
It’s a lesson for us that are willing to learn,
that for there to be beauty, that beauty must eventually burn.
Better that than rust.
But I trust that her cooperation in our congregation was more than just vocation.
I have to believe that, because when I try to decipher these artist’s motivations,
I picture myself writing creations.
And I’m not trying to arrogantly compare her talent to me.
All I’m saying is that I realize that there’s a process in getting from A to B.
I used to think that this routine diluted art’s authenticity,
that if you massaged and manicured your performance,
contemplated its quality, you removed its spontaneity,
and thus its claim to being more than just a shadow cast through some cave’s window pane.
But I don’t think that anymore.
It’s egotistical and infantile,
to assume that for one to be “in the moment”
you have to be both witty and impulsive,
is imbecile.
Instead, I think it takes faith on both sides,
faith that this crowd really is magic,
faith that her words really do describe our lives.
But prior to that, there’s work to be done,
there’s hard effort to be made,
difficult personal and logistical battles to be won,
and sometimes that’s not so fun, but she does it anyway,
so don’t always be ready to run for the gun or the rum,
cause, whether you realize it or not, her dedication to you
is more like that of a nun than a bum.
And it’s not measured by her ability to remember a name or an age,
the game doesn’t scale that way from her side of the stage.
Twenty cities, thirty days; just enough time to do her thing,
get paid, and hopefully laid.
But what I’m referring to isn’t perversion, it’s intimacy;
where longevity is traded for intensity.
That fire that leaves you weak in the knees,
with no voice left,
and barely your breath.
See, it be death to not give her one more ole.
Because what she does for us — what she does for me — is just as important as what the sun does day to day.
Yea, at the end of the show, we’ve both got it pretty made.
I started reading Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace today. I bought the book a few months ago after having seen it mentioned a few times in random articles and having heard Stephen King recommend it.
Now, I’ve never read anything by Stephen King. By chance, I had come across some interview he’d given where he mentioned the book, and knowing that he is a popular author and having liked what he was saying at the time (I don’t remember what it was about), I momentarily – and superficially – valued his opinion. I bought the book.
Situations like that are how I’ve come to read a lot of what I’ve read. A conversation with a stranger, a caught reference during a television show, an arbitrary blog post said to be inspired by a certain work, a reputation for being a classic, etc. Some influences are more substantial than others, but at the end of the day there’s a good deal of “people-think-this-is-good-so-I-should-to” that drives me to pick up a book. (What leads me to finish them is usually more organic, but that’s besides the point.)
Anyway, what I’m trying to get at is this: I read – at least partly – because I want to impress other people. I admit it. I want to have the fodder to start interesting conversations with interesting people; and so I try to buy into the game by reading books that supposedly fit the bill. A lot of the time this works out, as the books end up being interesting and immersive, but some of the time it leads to self-doubt. You start reading something that doesn’t make sense or isn’t congruent with the way you’ve experienced the world, and instead of doubting the book you doubt yourself. “This is a brilliant book”, you internally reinforce, ignoring the fact that you originally bought it based on admittedly shallow marketing.
All of that being said, I’d like to think that I’m not so malleable that this process affects me terribly often or, when it does, to the point where I’m changing the entire basis for how I define myself. Also, there are a number of times where this process has lead me to books which have amplified my opinions or introduced to me entirely new and interesting ideas. And lastly, I’ve read a number of books which have been recommended from reputable sources and introduced to me through meaningful influence, and so a little suspension-of-disbelief can pay off.
But regardless, in the moments that follow putting the book down, when it’s time to talk about a book, a lot of that integrity goes out the window. When trying to remain approachable, attractive, and relevant, you don’t want to look stupid, so you bolster small talk with the same vanity that originally brought you to the book, except this time it’s reinforced by the content you’ve actually read (for better or worse depending on which comes first – the substance or the glitter).
When pushed for depth, though, I tend to revert back to my own experience and try to stay as elegant and real as possible. It’s as if insisting on the need for thought forces me to combat the instinct to be ostentatious. The pressure to present evidence reminds me what books are really about – namely, imparting ideas and emotion – and forces me to look at examples of the book’s accomplishments. I’d like to think that this ability is my saving grace in light of the above described problem.
So…
Today I walked into a coffee shop by my house, ordered, sat down and started reading Infinite Jest. An hour and a half later and I had made it about 30 pages in. The book is dense, but I told myself, “so far, so good”.
However, I remember specifically wincing at one character saying, “The integrity of my sleep has been forever compromised, sir”. I thought, even if you’re trying to characterize an elitist academic, no one would be disconnected enough to say something like that in real life. But, I told myself, “This is an acclaimed book by a proclaimed genius!” and moved on. Every fifteen minutes or so, I’d take a break, remove the white-nosie playing headphones from my ears, and stretch, silently and inconspicuously hoping that someone would ask how I’d liked the book so far. No one did. So after reading for a while, I went to order another drink, prepared to walk home.
And in doing so, the guy behind the counter asks me how I liked the book so far. He had read it.
Keep in mind, at the time I was wearing expensive leather shoes and a button down shirt from an upscale chain store. He’s wearing an over-sized, stained t-shirt and a beanie.
I tell him I’ve only read 30 pages or so, and that I don’t really have an opinion yet other than that it’s dense and really descriptive. I ask him for his thoughts, and he comes back with this gem:
“Honestly, I think it’s soul food for the pretentious.”
I looked up and down at myself; reflected on the facts that (1) I had been silently swallowing some of what was identifiably nonsense from the book, (2) had been hoping people would talk to me based solely on the fact that I was reading that nonsense, and (3) dressed up for the occasion; and then I proceeded to absolutely lose my shit.
It was perfect.
I still intend on reading the book, and it’s definitely a push to call it, or any book, nonsense after only reading a tiny fraction; but in the meantime, any attempt at brainwashing myself, for the sake of appealing to my mental image of what constitutes high-brow, has been sufficiently diffused.
Thank you coffee-shop-dude. You’re a fucking superhero.
Do not do so as an academic critic, nor as a person drunk on art, nor as a barbarian in the literary market place. Do so as a sensitive person who has a few practical hunches about how stories can succeed or fail.
- Kurt Vonnegut
My take: Don’t do things in a cerebral vacuum; don’t assign arbitrary meaning, presuming the artist has (or doesn’t have) a license to kill; and don’t walk into the fight blind, lacking any experience, expecting to win.
Instead, be humble and sensible about what’s effective.