For a while, I seemed to have rid myself of this. Late night meandering, a product of an inability to sleep. Its return, though, is at once peculiar and familiar-- like a loved one returning not quite changed but not quite as remembered. Such is the nature of my muse it seems, rising from the day's brainclutter and making just enough racket to make clearing my mind, and so sleeping, impossible. What changed? The college life maybe takes emphasis from introspection. So that when I could be thinking I'm instead too exhausted. Or else the internet provides too many distractions, piling page after page requiring inspection on top of one another-- the maintenance of that "second" life more pressing than writing about the primary one. But that doesn't make any sense. There are plenty of people with internet lives more extensive than mine that blog daily. This is a caper.
I now am forced to accept that I'm more than halfway done with my undergraduate education. Another semester is behind me and I'm that many months closer to being an adult and stuff. Am I better prepared? Is education actually happening? Are the decisions I'm making more mature and well-informed? [How] Am I different now. Let's talk about these things.
This was a strong semester for me academically. My basis for this statement is my belief that I hung more A's on the refrigerator than I have ever earned the right to previously. Also, I find myself remembering when my tests and quizzes are and even occasionally doing homework. I did not do these things in high school and even in the past two years do I remember sitting down to "clear your desks for the test" and thinking "fuck." So there's that. Because of the aforementioned's relationship to memory I will talk about that. I noticed this semester that I have a fairly poor one, save for regarding certain things (typically, that in which I have any interest). This means one of two things. One: my memory is going away. If this is true, bad looks. I should figure out what's making that happen and cut it out (aging included). Two: my memory was always terrible and I am only now self-aware enough to realize it. This would be good because only upon awareness of a problem can one remedy it, I feel. Exactly how I'd go about this remains a mystery.
I had a number of notable accomplishments this semester. Most memorable, perhaps, was learning to solve the Rubik's Cube. This probably seems silly and unimpressive to most, and it's hard to explain precisely why it is neither of those things. The thing about Rubik's Cube is that for the couple minutes or so you're solving it, you're transported to this deep and relaxing concentration-- meditation, I think, on a totally 70's feel-good level because "fuck yeah I can solve this thing! Just gimme a few... done!" And poof. Instant accomplishment. Ramen for your ego.
Music: David Byrne and Brian Eno
Mood: Giggly
Likeliness of Corrolation: High
I wrote a short story for Creative Writing about two guys getting lost in the desert. It's pretty alright and I hope to carry it over into next semester's Creative Writing Capstone as part of a series of short stories that compile a novel's story. Meaning, the stories will be largely independent in tone, voice, and point of view-- but will revolve around the development and maturation of a single group of people. This could come out really good or really bad. There's promise though, and that's enough for me. These are things that keep me from sleep. I'm struck by ideas for characters or ways to intertwine their stories, but in no shape to sit down and write the damn thing. So I think about it for an hour or two while simultaneously trying to find sleep and probably end up forgetting most of it. OR! Or I file it all somewhere deep in my brain to pull up the next time I'm tossing and turning-- forming a sort of unconscious revisionary system. Is it possible that my mind is that wild? It would be damn sweet.
[Too] Similar to this is my approach to music. This past semester also brough with it the composition and early stages of recording my first solo EP. Yeah yeah, everybody makes an EP-- shut up. I am, regardless, really [immaturely] excited about it. I have these songs and ideas for how to make them logical and substantial in the arc of a release. My biggest fear is that the entire endevour is a masturbatory attempt to prove to myself [everyone] that I have musical ability. If this is the case I'll end up with 30 minutes of dribble to put away in a drawer and avoid discussing with everyone I will have overeagerly given a copy. So your guess is as good as mine I suppose.
Writing this, realize I actually did some legitimate stuff with my time the past couple of months. This is a good feeling and I should try to make it habit.
So what of the future, friends? I think I should set some goals for next semester so that I can again experience reflection and wondering if they constitute accomplishment. Let's do this. In no particular order:
1. Finish EP. Like it. Hold listening/dance party. Play gigs. Conquer world.
2. Turn short story into novel thing. Be proud of it. Send it to places. Be the envy of all the children on the playground too unathletic to perform default recess activities.
3. Learn to skateboard.
4. Read mad books. (Tolstoy, London, Joyce[?])
5. Accidently find a new and unexpected hobby. (Devil sticks?)
That is a good list. Oh, shit.
6. Blog more.
Okay.
Man, I can't believe it's almost Christmas. When my parents used to say the season 'snuck up on them' I always thought "what the hell is wrong with you? It's CHRISTMAS. I've been counting down the days since motherfucking July." But now I guess I get it. I love the season though. Synthetic cheer and irritable consumerism. That isn't sarcasm. I am legitimately attracted, like so many people, to the Christmas aethetic. I love the lights and displays. The ridiculous theatre of it all. Call me crazy.
The other thing I love is that it's just about Oscar season, which means it's time for me to drag anyone willing to Red Bank and Manhattan to see artsy indie movies. Last night Eric and I went to see "Milk" and it was magnificent. I've had a man crush on Sean Penn ever since "Into the Wild" and his performance as Harvey Milk only confirmed my belief that he is top-tier. Before break is over I hope to have seen "Slumdog Millionaire," "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button," "Frost/Nixon," and "The Wrestler" so that when nominations come around I can arrogantly consider myself a faultless authority. Oh and I'll probably watch "The Dark Knight" a dozen or so times. I am not exaggerating.
As I feel this blog now qualifies as "long" I will stop writing. This felt good to do, and hopefully getting my thoughts down here will make sleep come easier. So good night, all.
Bomb the blogosphere,
Mike
Monday, December 22, 2008
Thursday, December 11, 2008
For the enemy
In absence of recent blogs, here is a paper I just wrote on King Lear. Lol.
Edmund’s tragedy lies not within his decent to villainy. An Elizabethan audience would take no issue with a bastard opportunist as an antagonist, plagued by self-interest and a desire to be recognized similarly to his “legitimate” brother, acquiring land and power in an effort to bring upheaval to the social dictates that denied him Edgar’s life. However, sympathy awarded Edmund for his impossible situation, supposed desire for familial affection or last-minute stab at redemption in repenting his having doomed Cordelia is in my opinion misguided. My voice, however, is that of a 21st century “Post-Holden Caufield” reader. No longer does theatre, film, and literature revolve around the victory of social sustainability in which, though everyone is dead, Edgar is there to take up the crown and restore order to Britain. We are instead raised on Rocky, Rudy, and Eric Liddell of Chariots of Fire— men who acted against expectations to overcome various physical, social and moral tribulations, emerging victorious, and if not, all the better for having tried. For this reason, I find Edmund’s tragedy to be in his vehement dedication to his expected nature: the slighted bastard jealously seeking to get “one up” on his father and brother.
It is true that Edmund’s obsession can be attributed to Gloucester’s constant reference to his son’s illegitimacy, and that Edmund’s choice to act against his family is largely due to the expectation that, being a bastard, it is inherently engrained in his character. However, Edmund is at his weakest when he cries, “Thou, Nature, art my goddess; to thy law/ My services are bound” (1.2.1-2) at the beginning of the play because he is destroying any possibility of independence or uncharacteristic achievement.
Edmund makes repeated reference to his nativity and nature— basing many of his calculated plays on what he perceives others to expect of him. “My father compounded with my mother under the Dragon’s Tail, and my nativity was under Ursa Major, so it follows that I am rough and lecherous… My cue is villainous melancholy,” (1.2.139-148) he says, succumbing to a predetermined course instead of choosing a path. When composing the forged letter from Edgar Edmund concludes with the line, “If our father would sleep till I waked him, you should enjoy half his revenue for ever, and live the beloved of your brother, EDGAR” (1.2.55-57). The gesture of closing the false note as such suggests not only Edmund’s subscription to his predetermined nature, but his belief that Gloucester expects it of him. The letter is believable because it appeals to Gloucester’s perception of Edmund, but presents a shocking Edgar. Gloucester is fully prepared to believe in an Edmund greedy enough to be tempted by the revenue in question and jealous enough to desire the affections of his brother— even if it means betraying his father. That Edgar proposes this rebellion is shocking, but his appeal to Edmund for help is not. Edmund is perceptive enough to know this, and his choice to embrace it and use it as a vehicle is disappointing.
This practice of Edmund’s repeats itself at the beginning of the play’s second act in report of an invented dialogue with his brother. “’Thou unpossessing bastard,’” quotes Edmund of Edgar, “’dost thou think,/ If I would stand against thee, would the reposal/ Of any trust, virtue, or worth in thee/ Make thy words faithed? No.’” Again, Edmund is taking his “cue of villainous melancholy” and applying it to Gloucester’s expectation of his behavior. The phony dialogue is effectively phrased, as Gloucester knows it to be true— except, ironically, that in reality it isn’t. Typically he wouldn’t dream of believing his bastard son over his legitimate one, and it is Edmund’s knowledge of and play on this that allows Edmund to manipulate his father into doing so.
Throughout the play Edmund is motivated only to be a villainous bastard, to act as an illegitimate son would and become what he believes he is destined to become. He pursues Edgar’s land and power not because they motivate him, but because the desire to commit and be evil does. Likewise, he pursues the affections of Regan and Goneril, not because he is motivated by desire for their love but because they are instrumental in his self-inflicted purpose of being a monstrosity. Finally, when Edgar strikes him down and accuses him of costing Gloucester his eyes, Edmund cries, “Th’ hast spoken right, ‘tis true;/ The wheel is come full circle; I am here” (5.3.175-176). Fortune’s wheel, which has deposited Edmund back at the bottom he was born into, doubles as a representation of his journey— he hasn’t actually gone anywhere, but rather chased his tail instead of choosing to find any legitimate goal.
Even in death, Edmund returns to this theme: “I pant for life: some good I mean to do,/ despite of mine own nature” (5.3.264). Closing the first sentence during which he considers rebelling against his nature with the word itself suggests Edmund’s dishonesty, confirmed by his delay in saving Cordelia. And so he dies, having never desired anything deviating from that which he was born into and raised believing. To me, this is the greatest tragedy of Edmund— not his supposed loneliness or relentlessly criminal actions. Edmund, necessarily for the play, chooses to accept himself as a villain with no purpose but to advance himself as such and therefore denies himself a world of possibility.
For The Enemy
Edmund’s tragedy lies not within his decent to villainy. An Elizabethan audience would take no issue with a bastard opportunist as an antagonist, plagued by self-interest and a desire to be recognized similarly to his “legitimate” brother, acquiring land and power in an effort to bring upheaval to the social dictates that denied him Edgar’s life. However, sympathy awarded Edmund for his impossible situation, supposed desire for familial affection or last-minute stab at redemption in repenting his having doomed Cordelia is in my opinion misguided. My voice, however, is that of a 21st century “Post-Holden Caufield” reader. No longer does theatre, film, and literature revolve around the victory of social sustainability in which, though everyone is dead, Edgar is there to take up the crown and restore order to Britain. We are instead raised on Rocky, Rudy, and Eric Liddell of Chariots of Fire— men who acted against expectations to overcome various physical, social and moral tribulations, emerging victorious, and if not, all the better for having tried. For this reason, I find Edmund’s tragedy to be in his vehement dedication to his expected nature: the slighted bastard jealously seeking to get “one up” on his father and brother.
It is true that Edmund’s obsession can be attributed to Gloucester’s constant reference to his son’s illegitimacy, and that Edmund’s choice to act against his family is largely due to the expectation that, being a bastard, it is inherently engrained in his character. However, Edmund is at his weakest when he cries, “Thou, Nature, art my goddess; to thy law/ My services are bound” (1.2.1-2) at the beginning of the play because he is destroying any possibility of independence or uncharacteristic achievement.
Edmund makes repeated reference to his nativity and nature— basing many of his calculated plays on what he perceives others to expect of him. “My father compounded with my mother under the Dragon’s Tail, and my nativity was under Ursa Major, so it follows that I am rough and lecherous… My cue is villainous melancholy,” (1.2.139-148) he says, succumbing to a predetermined course instead of choosing a path. When composing the forged letter from Edgar Edmund concludes with the line, “If our father would sleep till I waked him, you should enjoy half his revenue for ever, and live the beloved of your brother, EDGAR” (1.2.55-57). The gesture of closing the false note as such suggests not only Edmund’s subscription to his predetermined nature, but his belief that Gloucester expects it of him. The letter is believable because it appeals to Gloucester’s perception of Edmund, but presents a shocking Edgar. Gloucester is fully prepared to believe in an Edmund greedy enough to be tempted by the revenue in question and jealous enough to desire the affections of his brother— even if it means betraying his father. That Edgar proposes this rebellion is shocking, but his appeal to Edmund for help is not. Edmund is perceptive enough to know this, and his choice to embrace it and use it as a vehicle is disappointing.
This practice of Edmund’s repeats itself at the beginning of the play’s second act in report of an invented dialogue with his brother. “’Thou unpossessing bastard,’” quotes Edmund of Edgar, “’dost thou think,/ If I would stand against thee, would the reposal/ Of any trust, virtue, or worth in thee/ Make thy words faithed? No.’” Again, Edmund is taking his “cue of villainous melancholy” and applying it to Gloucester’s expectation of his behavior. The phony dialogue is effectively phrased, as Gloucester knows it to be true— except, ironically, that in reality it isn’t. Typically he wouldn’t dream of believing his bastard son over his legitimate one, and it is Edmund’s knowledge of and play on this that allows Edmund to manipulate his father into doing so.
Throughout the play Edmund is motivated only to be a villainous bastard, to act as an illegitimate son would and become what he believes he is destined to become. He pursues Edgar’s land and power not because they motivate him, but because the desire to commit and be evil does. Likewise, he pursues the affections of Regan and Goneril, not because he is motivated by desire for their love but because they are instrumental in his self-inflicted purpose of being a monstrosity. Finally, when Edgar strikes him down and accuses him of costing Gloucester his eyes, Edmund cries, “Th’ hast spoken right, ‘tis true;/ The wheel is come full circle; I am here” (5.3.175-176). Fortune’s wheel, which has deposited Edmund back at the bottom he was born into, doubles as a representation of his journey— he hasn’t actually gone anywhere, but rather chased his tail instead of choosing to find any legitimate goal.
Even in death, Edmund returns to this theme: “I pant for life: some good I mean to do,/ despite of mine own nature” (5.3.264). Closing the first sentence during which he considers rebelling against his nature with the word itself suggests Edmund’s dishonesty, confirmed by his delay in saving Cordelia. And so he dies, having never desired anything deviating from that which he was born into and raised believing. To me, this is the greatest tragedy of Edmund— not his supposed loneliness or relentlessly criminal actions. Edmund, necessarily for the play, chooses to accept himself as a villain with no purpose but to advance himself as such and therefore denies himself a world of possibility.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Hard sun
I realize, with terrible guilt, that I've only written 8 blog entries in all of 2008. This is irresponsible of me but I will make it up to you, dear readers.
I was just listening to my headphones, typing that intro when I noticed that I had a missed call from "Home." Wondering what was up (because my family will be seeing me on Monday as I'm going home to vote) I made my way downstairs and called back. So... my dad is flying south tomorrow morning to Florida to be with my grandfather. My grandma died today-- no sickness, no suffering, no hospital. Just reclined in a chair, maybe resting her eyes after finishing a book. And that's the way to go, I think.
It's weird to think of my dad flying down and not going with him. I feel called, or obligated-- like this is reunion of the Frederick Michael Stringers and I'm staying up north. I worry about the last impression I made. I hope my grandpa gets to see me at least another time. There isn't much family left.
And what do I do now? I guess I just keep on as usual. Write what I was going to write before the phone call.
Rest peacefully, Grandma Stringer.
I love you,
Mike
So I shaved my head yesterday. Please enjoy these pictures of the process:
Before (while dressed in 'guido' party swagger and clearly stolen from facebook):
The Process (thanks Mark, for shaving the back of my head and Sean for lending me your beard trimmer for use on my dome):
After!
A lot of people ask me why I decided to buzz all of my hair off. The reason is this. I wanted to do something different. Something wild, unexplained and unpredictable. I wanted to be in the moment, foolish and brave. Its the 'now' we forget too often, I forget too often. And all this 'now time' spent worrying about past and future is wasted. I don't want to do that anymore. I want to dive into projects and be excited about things. Do things that make people think I'm crazy-- just to fucking do them. To be there. Then. Now. So that's what I'm going to do.
My List:
Shave head
Spend weekend in woods, writing
Record EP
Finish "Caribou"
Write novel
Drive to California
See the American west
I'm sure I'll be adding to this list, but this is a nice foundation. It'll happen. It's got to.
Bomb the blogosphere,
Mike
I was just listening to my headphones, typing that intro when I noticed that I had a missed call from "Home." Wondering what was up (because my family will be seeing me on Monday as I'm going home to vote) I made my way downstairs and called back. So... my dad is flying south tomorrow morning to Florida to be with my grandfather. My grandma died today-- no sickness, no suffering, no hospital. Just reclined in a chair, maybe resting her eyes after finishing a book. And that's the way to go, I think.
It's weird to think of my dad flying down and not going with him. I feel called, or obligated-- like this is reunion of the Frederick Michael Stringers and I'm staying up north. I worry about the last impression I made. I hope my grandpa gets to see me at least another time. There isn't much family left.
And what do I do now? I guess I just keep on as usual. Write what I was going to write before the phone call.
Rest peacefully, Grandma Stringer.
I love you,
Mike
So I shaved my head yesterday. Please enjoy these pictures of the process:
Before (while dressed in 'guido' party swagger and clearly stolen from facebook):
The Process (thanks Mark, for shaving the back of my head and Sean for lending me your beard trimmer for use on my dome):
After!
A lot of people ask me why I decided to buzz all of my hair off. The reason is this. I wanted to do something different. Something wild, unexplained and unpredictable. I wanted to be in the moment, foolish and brave. Its the 'now' we forget too often, I forget too often. And all this 'now time' spent worrying about past and future is wasted. I don't want to do that anymore. I want to dive into projects and be excited about things. Do things that make people think I'm crazy-- just to fucking do them. To be there. Then. Now. So that's what I'm going to do.
My List:
Spend weekend in woods, writing
Record EP
Finish "Caribou"
Write novel
Drive to California
See the American west
I'm sure I'll be adding to this list, but this is a nice foundation. It'll happen. It's got to.
Bomb the blogosphere,
Mike
Monday, October 13, 2008
Hello
There are things, I think, that I'm ready to say.
On November 4th we are all going to take some small, or even large, slice of our time to cast a determination of which trajectory to set the world upon. I say "we all" out of the "how could we not" sentiment. How could we not take up whatever arms have been left to us and assume the responsibility of a people to participate? This is not a plea to fence sitters. This is not out of hope to nudge you, reader, blueside. I'm not, I pray, so disappointing.
Rather, this is out of resignation. Ours are shitty times. With so little advancement as a society in areas other than science and technology, we've come to that point where church and state are no longer enough to sustain us. We thirst. Even the internet, which gave voice to the consumer without corporate filter, is at risk of becoming yet another medium to be read and watched through a lens.
Cash rules everything around us.
We are renaissance men. Even with our computers and ipods and match.coms and airplanes. We are family men and, maybe the greatest tragedy, we are born outlined. We graduate high school, we graduate college, we get jobs or go to graduate school so as to deserve better jobs, we invest, we marry, we have children, we watch our children leave us, we retire, we move, we read and look out windows, we die. Where commas divide we laugh and cry and make terrible mistakes. We feel at once completed and absent. And we fall in love a hundred thousand times in hope of finding something that lasts. And we do.
But ours, I think, aren't times for renaissance men. We are so spoonfed instant happiness that we forget the majesty of joy. Or the adventure of its discovery. The people of the 21st century are a people who would crucify a Christ who could turn water into oil-- out of fear, perhaps, of what it could possibly mean. We put bullets in our heads because we don't have the dollar bills it costs to continue living.
Are we, then, a people of value?
I think there are only a handful-- maybe fifty, maybe 100-- years of thought and art left. Fewer of oil and government, at least as we know it now. Only a generation of years until our children take Amtrak cable cars to Wal-Mart University, learning NBC or CNN's brand of business or economics or mathematics or literature to become-- whatever.
But maybe not. Because we ARE renaissance men. And if I am to believe anything, I believe that as the wood yellows its roads diverge.
On November 4th we will go out and play our part. We will pass go. We will lose two hundred dollars to taxes or layoffs or natural disaster, but we will beat irregularly onward. Barack Obama promises change-- and my optomistic side hopes that it isn't just to stir whatever swims within us that appeals to the word-- but rather in recognition of the cusp on which we teeter. The end is not nigh. But something is.
The economy is temporary, administration is temporary, culture is temporary. Because humans, as adaptable as we are, lack the constitution for permanence. I believe, though, that in brevity is greatness made. In these snapshot lifespans we live is still there beauty. Even should it all collapse is there the company of brothers and the rapture of companionship.
So I go, and likely too shall you, to graduate college. To work and find passion in work, to mate and marry and know the ancient joy of raising children. To read while books still circulate and enjoy, maybe, the freedom to see the fringes of the country and love the fellows I meet. To write and teach the possibility of grace within the self. I am not victim but rather citizen. And it will be good. As it is.
I don't know how, and neither am I ready, to say goodbye.
So hello. Welcome.
Love always,
Mike
On November 4th we are all going to take some small, or even large, slice of our time to cast a determination of which trajectory to set the world upon. I say "we all" out of the "how could we not" sentiment. How could we not take up whatever arms have been left to us and assume the responsibility of a people to participate? This is not a plea to fence sitters. This is not out of hope to nudge you, reader, blueside. I'm not, I pray, so disappointing.
Rather, this is out of resignation. Ours are shitty times. With so little advancement as a society in areas other than science and technology, we've come to that point where church and state are no longer enough to sustain us. We thirst. Even the internet, which gave voice to the consumer without corporate filter, is at risk of becoming yet another medium to be read and watched through a lens.
Cash rules everything around us.
We are renaissance men. Even with our computers and ipods and match.coms and airplanes. We are family men and, maybe the greatest tragedy, we are born outlined. We graduate high school, we graduate college, we get jobs or go to graduate school so as to deserve better jobs, we invest, we marry, we have children, we watch our children leave us, we retire, we move, we read and look out windows, we die. Where commas divide we laugh and cry and make terrible mistakes. We feel at once completed and absent. And we fall in love a hundred thousand times in hope of finding something that lasts. And we do.
But ours, I think, aren't times for renaissance men. We are so spoonfed instant happiness that we forget the majesty of joy. Or the adventure of its discovery. The people of the 21st century are a people who would crucify a Christ who could turn water into oil-- out of fear, perhaps, of what it could possibly mean. We put bullets in our heads because we don't have the dollar bills it costs to continue living.
Are we, then, a people of value?
I think there are only a handful-- maybe fifty, maybe 100-- years of thought and art left. Fewer of oil and government, at least as we know it now. Only a generation of years until our children take Amtrak cable cars to Wal-Mart University, learning NBC or CNN's brand of business or economics or mathematics or literature to become-- whatever.
But maybe not. Because we ARE renaissance men. And if I am to believe anything, I believe that as the wood yellows its roads diverge.
On November 4th we will go out and play our part. We will pass go. We will lose two hundred dollars to taxes or layoffs or natural disaster, but we will beat irregularly onward. Barack Obama promises change-- and my optomistic side hopes that it isn't just to stir whatever swims within us that appeals to the word-- but rather in recognition of the cusp on which we teeter. The end is not nigh. But something is.
The economy is temporary, administration is temporary, culture is temporary. Because humans, as adaptable as we are, lack the constitution for permanence. I believe, though, that in brevity is greatness made. In these snapshot lifespans we live is still there beauty. Even should it all collapse is there the company of brothers and the rapture of companionship.
So I go, and likely too shall you, to graduate college. To work and find passion in work, to mate and marry and know the ancient joy of raising children. To read while books still circulate and enjoy, maybe, the freedom to see the fringes of the country and love the fellows I meet. To write and teach the possibility of grace within the self. I am not victim but rather citizen. And it will be good. As it is.
I don't know how, and neither am I ready, to say goodbye.
So hello. Welcome.
Love always,
Mike
Monday, August 25, 2008
You enjoy myself
So I bought the PS3.
There were a couple of factors that helped me arrive at this decision. They are as follows:
1. Price. A "decent" Playstation 3 is significantly less expensive than a "decent" Les Paul. This may be because I don't really know anything about what makes a game system a good one, and way too much about guitars.
2. I needed a DVD player anyway. Now, spending $500+ on a DVD player that also "plays some games or something" is very poor rationalization. But it also plays Blu-Ray! And be able to play Blu-Ray it shall-- even though I don't have a 1080p HDTV.
3. "Hey, wanna come to my room and play Madden/Call of Duty/Soul Calibur/Guitar Hero?" is definitely the new "Hey, wanna come over and watch a movie while I sit awkwardly close and try to unhook your bra without arousing suspicion?"
4. Metal Gear Solid 4. I hear it's pretty alight.
5. I'm a Fender guy at heart. Betraying Leo (Fender) by giving Les (Paul [Gibson]) some of my hard earned monies instead would eat me up inside. Though I suppose giving it instead of Sony isn't doing anything for anybody. Especially America.
6. Chris Scaffa. He isn't allowed to bring his PS3 up to school and I worry that separation from one for a prolonged period will emotionally and psychologically damage him. Aw, who am I kidding? This isn't a reason at all. Just a completely legitimate concern.
And there you have it. A collection of lazy, terrible excuses for buying the most expensive game system with the smallest library on the market. But I mean, Hey. Seriously. Metal Gear Solid 4. It's pretty alright, man.
So summer is coming to an end. I feel an obligation to sit back and reflect on everything that's happened in the past four months and present something universally identifying and insightful about it-- but I gotta be honest here, I'm coming up empty. What did I do this summer... I left for work every weekday morning at like 8:45 and got home too late to do anything other than establish some stage of undress before collapsing into bed. There I did my best to ninja around the Six Flags Great Adventure, avoiding the ever-watchful eye of higher-ups and create the illusion of working diligently. In reality I played a lot of Tekken and took a lot of naps.
No, that isn't completely fair. The aforementioned pretty accurately sums up my last week of work, but the time that proceeded my trip to Puerto Rico I actually wracked my brain pretty hard to come up with ways to motivate and inspire the employees under my leadership. Whether or not I was successful, the red-nametag life at Six Flags isn't one a person can sustain for too long, I think. Eventually the hopelessness of generating happiness and efficiency gets to everybody and they end up playing Tekken and avoiding the responsibility they so eagerly embraced only a few weeks previously. Now, don't get me wrong. I made more friends this summer than I have in any other I can remember-- my co-leads and supervisors made the job tolerable and time spent together outside work amazingly enjoyable. With the Regent Diner and various houses as stomping grounds, I've got some seriously bitchin' memories to look back on when I become miserly about potentially returning next summer.
...blah blah Six Flags blah blah...
Let's pause for a moment and talk about McCain and Obama's respective Vice Presidential candidate selections.
No, you're right. Let's not.
So what else did I do this summer? I dieted and worked out a lot. Now I could easily write an entry (or perhaps even two) detailing the specifics of my journey discovering the nuances of diets and dumbells and crunches and yogurt and supplements and motivation and lack of motivation and discouragement and body image and confidence and mistake and eventual results-- but I feel kind of awkward doing that. I realize this blog is about me and my life, but the subject just seems too narcissistic. Even for me. There is a story to tell though, so if you're legitimately interested drop me a line. We'll chat over an assortment of skinless grilled chicken, whey powder, fish oil, leafy greens and whole wheat whatever. And yogurt.
Speaking of yogurt, I got my wisdom teeth out. The procedure was just fine thanks to my new buddy Nitrous Oxide, but recovery was a bitch-- sure Vicodin calmed the pain, but it also made me want to just sit around and mope. So that wasn't cool. I'm still not allowed to eat certain things and I need to make sure I clean my gums thoroughly, lest food get trapped in there and grow alien-spider legs-- effectively "body snatching" me.
But anyway, more recently I started writing a new short story. This one's going to be longer than mine tend to be. I typically would now say "maybe I'll post some of it sometime" but never do, so I'll abstain and keep your expectations low. If you're itching for some spoilers, I've got these to offer you: Unlike most of my stories, which feature urban settings-- this one takes place in Wyoming. It's in first person. Like I tend to do, it abuses the present tense. It has a staggered timeline and doesn't necessarily move chronologically. There isn't any drug use and uhhh... only slight pervasive language.
Writing it is a trip, but one I'm enjoying.
Well, I'm beginning to lose focus so I guess I'll start wrapping this up. I'm excited to go back to school and see everybody-- hell, I'm even a little bit excited about my classes. I want the acoustic shows and special events and parties and creative opportunities that come along with a semester at Ramapo. So I guess I never did come up with anything insightful to say. It's all good, we got time for that.
I guess that about says it.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
There were a couple of factors that helped me arrive at this decision. They are as follows:
1. Price. A "decent" Playstation 3 is significantly less expensive than a "decent" Les Paul. This may be because I don't really know anything about what makes a game system a good one, and way too much about guitars.
2. I needed a DVD player anyway. Now, spending $500+ on a DVD player that also "plays some games or something" is very poor rationalization. But it also plays Blu-Ray! And be able to play Blu-Ray it shall-- even though I don't have a 1080p HDTV.
3. "Hey, wanna come to my room and play Madden/Call of Duty/Soul Calibur/Guitar Hero?" is definitely the new "Hey, wanna come over and watch a movie while I sit awkwardly close and try to unhook your bra without arousing suspicion?"
4. Metal Gear Solid 4. I hear it's pretty alight.
5. I'm a Fender guy at heart. Betraying Leo (Fender) by giving Les (Paul [Gibson]) some of my hard earned monies instead would eat me up inside. Though I suppose giving it instead of Sony isn't doing anything for anybody. Especially America.
6. Chris Scaffa. He isn't allowed to bring his PS3 up to school and I worry that separation from one for a prolonged period will emotionally and psychologically damage him. Aw, who am I kidding? This isn't a reason at all. Just a completely legitimate concern.
And there you have it. A collection of lazy, terrible excuses for buying the most expensive game system with the smallest library on the market. But I mean, Hey. Seriously. Metal Gear Solid 4. It's pretty alright, man.
So summer is coming to an end. I feel an obligation to sit back and reflect on everything that's happened in the past four months and present something universally identifying and insightful about it-- but I gotta be honest here, I'm coming up empty. What did I do this summer... I left for work every weekday morning at like 8:45 and got home too late to do anything other than establish some stage of undress before collapsing into bed. There I did my best to ninja around the Six Flags Great Adventure, avoiding the ever-watchful eye of higher-ups and create the illusion of working diligently. In reality I played a lot of Tekken and took a lot of naps.
No, that isn't completely fair. The aforementioned pretty accurately sums up my last week of work, but the time that proceeded my trip to Puerto Rico I actually wracked my brain pretty hard to come up with ways to motivate and inspire the employees under my leadership. Whether or not I was successful, the red-nametag life at Six Flags isn't one a person can sustain for too long, I think. Eventually the hopelessness of generating happiness and efficiency gets to everybody and they end up playing Tekken and avoiding the responsibility they so eagerly embraced only a few weeks previously. Now, don't get me wrong. I made more friends this summer than I have in any other I can remember-- my co-leads and supervisors made the job tolerable and time spent together outside work amazingly enjoyable. With the Regent Diner and various houses as stomping grounds, I've got some seriously bitchin' memories to look back on when I become miserly about potentially returning next summer.
...blah blah Six Flags blah blah...
Let's pause for a moment and talk about McCain and Obama's respective Vice Presidential candidate selections.
No, you're right. Let's not.
So what else did I do this summer? I dieted and worked out a lot. Now I could easily write an entry (or perhaps even two) detailing the specifics of my journey discovering the nuances of diets and dumbells and crunches and yogurt and supplements and motivation and lack of motivation and discouragement and body image and confidence and mistake and eventual results-- but I feel kind of awkward doing that. I realize this blog is about me and my life, but the subject just seems too narcissistic. Even for me. There is a story to tell though, so if you're legitimately interested drop me a line. We'll chat over an assortment of skinless grilled chicken, whey powder, fish oil, leafy greens and whole wheat whatever. And yogurt.
Speaking of yogurt, I got my wisdom teeth out. The procedure was just fine thanks to my new buddy Nitrous Oxide, but recovery was a bitch-- sure Vicodin calmed the pain, but it also made me want to just sit around and mope. So that wasn't cool. I'm still not allowed to eat certain things and I need to make sure I clean my gums thoroughly, lest food get trapped in there and grow alien-spider legs-- effectively "body snatching" me.
But anyway, more recently I started writing a new short story. This one's going to be longer than mine tend to be. I typically would now say "maybe I'll post some of it sometime" but never do, so I'll abstain and keep your expectations low. If you're itching for some spoilers, I've got these to offer you: Unlike most of my stories, which feature urban settings-- this one takes place in Wyoming. It's in first person. Like I tend to do, it abuses the present tense. It has a staggered timeline and doesn't necessarily move chronologically. There isn't any drug use and uhhh... only slight pervasive language.
Writing it is a trip, but one I'm enjoying.
Well, I'm beginning to lose focus so I guess I'll start wrapping this up. I'm excited to go back to school and see everybody-- hell, I'm even a little bit excited about my classes. I want the acoustic shows and special events and parties and creative opportunities that come along with a semester at Ramapo. So I guess I never did come up with anything insightful to say. It's all good, we got time for that.
I guess that about says it.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
Sunday, August 03, 2008
Outta town, blowin' up
Yeah, things done changed.
August, with a bullet. It's been a long time since I've written anything on the internet or elsewhere-- I guess because I've been working so much and pausing so little, a gesture saved for hesitance, because it isn't even that I haven't anything to say. So without further ado, let's recap my summer and cast a wary eye forward, remembering always the peripheral.
August, like the stick on the pink of my neck, I find myself a little rearranged. For better or for worse-- pragmatism alludes me sometimes. I am on the closing action of a crush, one that I let fold and dissipate into the past tense like too many others, inaction again my worst enemy. Meanwhile, I dawdle unnecessarily between the introduction and rising action of my newfound interest in fitness. And now I digress...
I find it interesting and strange and sometimes frightening how people grow and change at different speeds, bloom at different times and such. I'm gradually coming to the conclusion that I bloom late-- I tend to get into things, experience things, long after others have. Like my phases were put on standby by my youth and are only now rushing to catch up and prepare me for adulthood. If that's true, and I'll be damed if I know whether it is or not, maybe it's because we were always moving every 18 months or so between my second and seventh birthday. Maybe some reset button was hit every time I had to pack up and make new friends, get used to a new school, and shit like that. I'm young for my grade to begin with-- I think it's possible that my fast cars, fast women and fitness phase(s?) was(were?) put on hold, so I was still chillin' in a bean bag chair while everybody else was buying tubs of powdered whey and busting their asses for varsity letters. Of course, this could just be nonsense.
...but I digress. My listening habits of the summer have deviated strongly from the moody indie rock staples I've come to love lately, but I'm enjoying the more panoptic view of music. If I had a last.fm it would reveal that I've been listening to more 90's hip hop than anything else-- Wu-Tang Clan and all their solo efforts, Biggie, A Tribe Called Quest, Dre, and Outkast's criminally under appreciated Southernplayalisticadillacmuzik. Mix that in with The Raconteurs, Mother Hips, Gorillaz and Protest the Hero (a sick Canadian metal band) and you've got my summer soundtrack. As I type I'm listening to Tool-- happy to try to shed the pretense I've carried the past few years and enjoy music for what it is.
I leave for Puerto Rico Wednesday at like 3am to teach leadership and ceremonial performance. Hooray?
August, with the cinnamon tingle of September between ghost jacaranda breezes. I'm ready to go back to school. That is, I'm ready to live with three other guys and get into trouble and not have to worry about sneaking up the stairs so as not to arouse suspicion. That is, I'm ready to have some relatively carefree fun again. Finally. Some fresh air. I don't know what's to come this semester but I know I'm gonna hit it hard-- put as much of myself as I can into whatever it is I do and live it up. Live and breathe the dream. Rock me baby.
And now a question for the masses. At the end of this summer do I buy a Gibson Les Paul or a Playstation 3? Comment your vote.
Bomb the Blogosphere
and Happy August,
Mike
August, with a bullet. It's been a long time since I've written anything on the internet or elsewhere-- I guess because I've been working so much and pausing so little, a gesture saved for hesitance, because it isn't even that I haven't anything to say. So without further ado, let's recap my summer and cast a wary eye forward, remembering always the peripheral.
August, like the stick on the pink of my neck, I find myself a little rearranged. For better or for worse-- pragmatism alludes me sometimes. I am on the closing action of a crush, one that I let fold and dissipate into the past tense like too many others, inaction again my worst enemy. Meanwhile, I dawdle unnecessarily between the introduction and rising action of my newfound interest in fitness. And now I digress...
I find it interesting and strange and sometimes frightening how people grow and change at different speeds, bloom at different times and such. I'm gradually coming to the conclusion that I bloom late-- I tend to get into things, experience things, long after others have. Like my phases were put on standby by my youth and are only now rushing to catch up and prepare me for adulthood. If that's true, and I'll be damed if I know whether it is or not, maybe it's because we were always moving every 18 months or so between my second and seventh birthday. Maybe some reset button was hit every time I had to pack up and make new friends, get used to a new school, and shit like that. I'm young for my grade to begin with-- I think it's possible that my fast cars, fast women and fitness phase(s?) was(were?) put on hold, so I was still chillin' in a bean bag chair while everybody else was buying tubs of powdered whey and busting their asses for varsity letters. Of course, this could just be nonsense.
...but I digress. My listening habits of the summer have deviated strongly from the moody indie rock staples I've come to love lately, but I'm enjoying the more panoptic view of music. If I had a last.fm it would reveal that I've been listening to more 90's hip hop than anything else-- Wu-Tang Clan and all their solo efforts, Biggie, A Tribe Called Quest, Dre, and Outkast's criminally under appreciated Southernplayalisticadillacmuzik. Mix that in with The Raconteurs, Mother Hips, Gorillaz and Protest the Hero (a sick Canadian metal band) and you've got my summer soundtrack. As I type I'm listening to Tool-- happy to try to shed the pretense I've carried the past few years and enjoy music for what it is.
I leave for Puerto Rico Wednesday at like 3am to teach leadership and ceremonial performance. Hooray?
August, with the cinnamon tingle of September between ghost jacaranda breezes. I'm ready to go back to school. That is, I'm ready to live with three other guys and get into trouble and not have to worry about sneaking up the stairs so as not to arouse suspicion. That is, I'm ready to have some relatively carefree fun again. Finally. Some fresh air. I don't know what's to come this semester but I know I'm gonna hit it hard-- put as much of myself as I can into whatever it is I do and live it up. Live and breathe the dream. Rock me baby.
And now a question for the masses. At the end of this summer do I buy a Gibson Les Paul or a Playstation 3? Comment your vote.
Bomb the Blogosphere
and Happy August,
Mike
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Bare your summer teeth
If we're being honest here, and I like to think we are, there should be no reservation in keystroke. And so and so and so too much like I speak I lose it and begin again so if we're being honest here, and I hope to God we can be, there is always enough to say-- there is no reservation in fingerprick beyond the first so calculated-- and so beautifully like spring I haven't let my car windows up in days, even when it's raining, and I hope to God we can hold on because honestly, honestly, I think I believe it's okay to lose it and let it find itself because there is always, always, something to say. And that is enough for me.
If I could make a midyear resolution considering everything around and inside me thats shifted, it would be to trust more. As much in myself as anything. I found myself trying to explain to someone today how I feel uncomfortable in groups I'm unacquainted with and it occurred to me that I wasn't exactly telling the truth. I'm uncomfortable in groups I'm un-perfectly-acquainted with. What is it that makes me still shaky about people the umpteenth time I'm hanging out with them? That isn't natural. I think I have this fear of being unwelcome and unaware of it, a social burden or someone [I begrudgingly allude] Dane Cook would title "Brian." Ridiculous, yes. If only because a definitive characteristic of "Brian" is his unwelcome feeling of belonging and therefore inability to have written this paragraph. Oddly, reading this over and realizing the impossibility, by definition, of my being "that guy" is comforting. To a point. There is, as with all things, some comfortable medium alluding me here. So I make it my midyear resolution to accident upon it. Wish me luck there.
I started work a little over two weeks ago which, for those of you keeping score at home, comes to pretty much right after Spring semester ended. The absence of any breather between finals and 50+ hour work weeks is proving a little rough not so much on me physically or even mentally, but on my concept of summer and it's chronology. Like, I'm working 5 to 6 days a week and trying to grasp when my friends are around and when they're working or going on vacation or away to study abroad. And juggling work with all the stress and drama therein has been no cakewalk.
Speaking of work, to better myself as a Lead of Looney Tunes and the Justice League, I just attempted to get myself up to date on 70 years of the DC comics universe. It's impossible. I understand it no better than if I had just tried to put Calculus together via internet math team forums. Apparently there are multiple universes, but when DC gets confused they publish a series where some villain destroys these universes and everything is reverted to zero-- allowing DC to rewrite its own universe's history and fix all the paradoxes that dozens of publications per month creates. It's like a cold reboot when your computer hangs up. Kind of a cop-out, and very difficult to understand. Especially because apparently the superheroes are currently (yeah, May 08) going through another "crisis." So why am I bothering to read up on this when its all going to be rewritten again soon? I'm at a loss here.
Ignore all of the previous paragraph.
Well, its good to be writing again. I'm still working on that screenplay, maybe I'll post a page or two of it in here when I'm happy with it. We will have to see.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
If I could make a midyear resolution considering everything around and inside me thats shifted, it would be to trust more. As much in myself as anything. I found myself trying to explain to someone today how I feel uncomfortable in groups I'm unacquainted with and it occurred to me that I wasn't exactly telling the truth. I'm uncomfortable in groups I'm un-perfectly-acquainted with. What is it that makes me still shaky about people the umpteenth time I'm hanging out with them? That isn't natural. I think I have this fear of being unwelcome and unaware of it, a social burden or someone [I begrudgingly allude] Dane Cook would title "Brian." Ridiculous, yes. If only because a definitive characteristic of "Brian" is his unwelcome feeling of belonging and therefore inability to have written this paragraph. Oddly, reading this over and realizing the impossibility, by definition, of my being "that guy" is comforting. To a point. There is, as with all things, some comfortable medium alluding me here. So I make it my midyear resolution to accident upon it. Wish me luck there.
I started work a little over two weeks ago which, for those of you keeping score at home, comes to pretty much right after Spring semester ended. The absence of any breather between finals and 50+ hour work weeks is proving a little rough not so much on me physically or even mentally, but on my concept of summer and it's chronology. Like, I'm working 5 to 6 days a week and trying to grasp when my friends are around and when they're working or going on vacation or away to study abroad. And juggling work with all the stress and drama therein has been no cakewalk.
Speaking of work, to better myself as a Lead of Looney Tunes and the Justice League, I just attempted to get myself up to date on 70 years of the DC comics universe. It's impossible. I understand it no better than if I had just tried to put Calculus together via internet math team forums. Apparently there are multiple universes, but when DC gets confused they publish a series where some villain destroys these universes and everything is reverted to zero-- allowing DC to rewrite its own universe's history and fix all the paradoxes that dozens of publications per month creates. It's like a cold reboot when your computer hangs up. Kind of a cop-out, and very difficult to understand. Especially because apparently the superheroes are currently (yeah, May 08) going through another "crisis." So why am I bothering to read up on this when its all going to be rewritten again soon? I'm at a loss here.
Ignore all of the previous paragraph.
Well, its good to be writing again. I'm still working on that screenplay, maybe I'll post a page or two of it in here when I'm happy with it. We will have to see.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Double dutching ropes
in burning city summers.
I do wonder if anyone else is going through the same "halfway-through-college" crisis I am. I won't waste words with the "it was barely" and "seems like only" yesterdays but correlation between age and the speed of the passage of time is just... stupid. Stupid like the crushes I get at the ends of semesters that are nothing more than bad ideas and dramas waiting to happen. But I digress.
For you, I present this. A mixlist that sums my sophomore year up better than I ever could. Each of these songs has some connection to a day or an event or an emotional stroke, a firing of synapses and a majesty in relation.
I thought about providing explanation, but it occurs to me that trying to explain this would be impossible-- I can think of what makes these songs special, what people, and I think that's enough. There are inside selections here and if you wanted to ask, I'd answer.
1. "Stars" Hum
"She thinks she missed the train to mars, she's out back counting stars."
2. "Album of the Year" The Good Life
"She took me to her mother’s house outside of town where the stars hang down.
She said she’d never seen someone so lost, I said I’d never felt so found."
3. "Digital Love" Daft Punk
"Why don't you play the game?"
4. "The Ocean Breathes Salty" Modest Mouse
"And maybe we'll get lucky and we'll both grow old. Well I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I hope so. "
5. "15 Step" Radiohead
"Et cetera, et cetera."
6. "Can You Please Climb Out Your Window?" The Hold Steady, Bob Dylan cover for I'm Not There
"Why does he look so righteous while your face is so changed?"
7. "I Can Barely Breathe" Manchester Orchestra
"I watched the beauties, watched the fires and the fire burning beauty in their eyes."
8. "Westfall" Okkervil River
"When I was younger, handsomer and stronger, I felt like I could do anything."
9. C.R.E.A.M." Wu-Tang Clan
"I grew up in the crime side, New York Times side. Staying alive was no jive."
10. "Can't Stand It" Wilco
"Speakers speaking, speakers speaking, speaking in code."
11. "Nothing to You" Two Gallants
"But the lost cause of words walks away with my nerves 'cause I'm gay as a choir boy for you."
12. "Sweetest Girl" Wyclef Jean ft. Akon and Lil Wayne
"You don't know not to lay low 'cause 25 to life is no joke."
13. "You Get What You Give" The New Radicals"
"Wake up kids, we've got the dreamer's disease."
14. "Gimme The Loot" Notorious B.I.G.
"I'm all that and a dime sack, where the paper at?"
15. "Lovely NYC" dj BC and The Beastles
"Brownstones, water towers, trees, skyscrapers
Writers, prize fighters and Wall Street traders
We come together on the subway cars."
16. "Watermelon Man" Herbie Hancock
"woo WOO woo WOO! woo WOO! woo WOO!"
17. "Roses" Outkast
"I know you like to thank your shit don't stank but lean a little bit closer, see. Roses really smell like--"
18. "Are You In?" Incubus
"It's so much better when everyone is in, are you in?"
19. "1,000 Deaths" Aesop Rock
"You ever died a thousand deaths? I have.
And in the morrow stood a thousand steps from where my nourish laughed
And made a boat at, nomad, I roam in a social coma
Jones and be home alone days sink how my poems I
Dig in the dirt I bring up the earth like pulley systems
Thereby painting the perfect metaphor for hung juries
Strung along a song of spawning thorns of fury."
20. "Hallelujah" Jeff Buckley
"Well I heard there was a secret chord
That David played, and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do ya?
Well it goes like this the fourth, the fifth
The minor fall and the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah"
That this year is over hasn't sunk it, and probably won't for a couple of days. Maybe then I'll be ready to reflect on how much this year has changed me and the people I've met and stayed close with. The things I've done and the jokes I've heard and the people I've hurt. Soon.
'til then.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
I do wonder if anyone else is going through the same "halfway-through-college" crisis I am. I won't waste words with the "it was barely" and "seems like only" yesterdays but correlation between age and the speed of the passage of time is just... stupid. Stupid like the crushes I get at the ends of semesters that are nothing more than bad ideas and dramas waiting to happen. But I digress.
For you, I present this. A mixlist that sums my sophomore year up better than I ever could. Each of these songs has some connection to a day or an event or an emotional stroke, a firing of synapses and a majesty in relation.
I thought about providing explanation, but it occurs to me that trying to explain this would be impossible-- I can think of what makes these songs special, what people, and I think that's enough. There are inside selections here and if you wanted to ask, I'd answer.
1. "Stars" Hum
"She thinks she missed the train to mars, she's out back counting stars."
2. "Album of the Year" The Good Life
"She took me to her mother’s house outside of town where the stars hang down.
She said she’d never seen someone so lost, I said I’d never felt so found."
3. "Digital Love" Daft Punk
"Why don't you play the game?"
4. "The Ocean Breathes Salty" Modest Mouse
"And maybe we'll get lucky and we'll both grow old. Well I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I hope so. "
5. "15 Step" Radiohead
"Et cetera, et cetera."
6. "Can You Please Climb Out Your Window?" The Hold Steady, Bob Dylan cover for I'm Not There
"Why does he look so righteous while your face is so changed?"
7. "I Can Barely Breathe" Manchester Orchestra
"I watched the beauties, watched the fires and the fire burning beauty in their eyes."
8. "Westfall" Okkervil River
"When I was younger, handsomer and stronger, I felt like I could do anything."
9. C.R.E.A.M." Wu-Tang Clan
"I grew up in the crime side, New York Times side. Staying alive was no jive."
10. "Can't Stand It" Wilco
"Speakers speaking, speakers speaking, speaking in code."
11. "Nothing to You" Two Gallants
"But the lost cause of words walks away with my nerves 'cause I'm gay as a choir boy for you."
12. "Sweetest Girl" Wyclef Jean ft. Akon and Lil Wayne
"You don't know not to lay low 'cause 25 to life is no joke."
13. "You Get What You Give" The New Radicals"
"Wake up kids, we've got the dreamer's disease."
14. "Gimme The Loot" Notorious B.I.G.
"I'm all that and a dime sack, where the paper at?"
15. "Lovely NYC" dj BC and The Beastles
"Brownstones, water towers, trees, skyscrapers
Writers, prize fighters and Wall Street traders
We come together on the subway cars."
16. "Watermelon Man" Herbie Hancock
"woo WOO woo WOO! woo WOO! woo WOO!"
17. "Roses" Outkast
"I know you like to thank your shit don't stank but lean a little bit closer, see. Roses really smell like--"
18. "Are You In?" Incubus
"It's so much better when everyone is in, are you in?"
19. "1,000 Deaths" Aesop Rock
"You ever died a thousand deaths? I have.
And in the morrow stood a thousand steps from where my nourish laughed
And made a boat at, nomad, I roam in a social coma
Jones and be home alone days sink how my poems I
Dig in the dirt I bring up the earth like pulley systems
Thereby painting the perfect metaphor for hung juries
Strung along a song of spawning thorns of fury."
20. "Hallelujah" Jeff Buckley
"Well I heard there was a secret chord
That David played, and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do ya?
Well it goes like this the fourth, the fifth
The minor fall and the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah"
That this year is over hasn't sunk it, and probably won't for a couple of days. Maybe then I'll be ready to reflect on how much this year has changed me and the people I've met and stayed close with. The things I've done and the jokes I've heard and the people I've hurt. Soon.
'til then.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
Monday, April 14, 2008
Antarctica starts here
This one-post-a-month trend isn't permanent. I do promise.
The past few weeks have been more quintessentially college than any before, for better or for worse. One wouldn't be unfair to say I've been putting schoolwork and the like on something of a back burner for the sake of that good time. Sure, I've have my days writing eight page papers and cram sessions same as anybody else, but I'm doing my best to chill a little bit-- just float on like people do.
"You'd better take your face from every cloud I see,
how could I have known you'd be so deep inside of me?"
But it's nice. There's something to be said about somewhere new to be on Tuesday and Thursday nights, new faces, et cetera. And as long as it takes for me to settle in or open up to a new crowd-- I'm getting there, I'm getting better.
I find myself unable to put words to sentiment lately. Like I've got something on the end of my tongue or the tips of my fingers that just needs some ethereal push to resolution, but things can't tie up so nicely.
-
Bridge
After asking why the last four pages are blank
A beat, then, for you to write
the ending, Mike. Behind cracked
hands— my father not knowing
the answer. His tired
slipper steps down-
stairs and erasable pen,
life ring for Leslie, smudged
where formatting had left
me unfinished. Like trying to untangle
an orbit with fingers and
teeth— there are things without
loose ends. A shiver,
like a line that is not a line
We’ve killed her.
We’ve killed her.
-
"You shouldn't tell them that you've seen my face somewhere,
when I leaned in your direction I leaned much too far."
And too much unlike Oscar it's like I've convinced myself not to allow any feelings for anyone to bud, for fear perhaps of rejection-- I don't know. But I get twinges every now and then. I have conversations that leave me wondering how things intersect and thinking I've still got some capacity to feel "that way" in me. There are people too much like poems not to cradle up and believe in with every fiber of being that can still hope. And there are people like me who need them so badly, if only to still believe in poetry.
Speaking of poetry, there has to be some line I can walk through confessionalism unintruded upon by the sentimental. Some line.
"Please will the highway never end?
Some things get broken and they never fix again."
Rick and I played another show last week and I think its safe to say it went significantly better than the first time around. There are naturally frustrations but the songwriting has been coming along alright. It helps to have people to bounce things off of. People who I can trust to give me an honest enough opinion. And it feels good to play the songs I wrote for friends and strangers who, I can hope, are around because they want to hear them. As good as feels to put sentiment to music and say it all like it all seems to me.
"All crooked, all bloody, I'll take my leave.
All the leaves fall and the turnpike lies in front of me.
And this whole wide world isn't wide enough."
Yet sometimes everything is just so big.
Yeah I've got reason to believe
that we're all capable of terrible things
but if we make it through the badlands
we'll find Eden on the other side
Maybe.
Bomb the blogosphere,
Mike
PS. All line in quotations are from "Whole Wide World" by Okkervil River.
PPS. Joe, I remembered to tag you as you requested haha.
The past few weeks have been more quintessentially college than any before, for better or for worse. One wouldn't be unfair to say I've been putting schoolwork and the like on something of a back burner for the sake of that good time. Sure, I've have my days writing eight page papers and cram sessions same as anybody else, but I'm doing my best to chill a little bit-- just float on like people do.
"You'd better take your face from every cloud I see,
how could I have known you'd be so deep inside of me?"
But it's nice. There's something to be said about somewhere new to be on Tuesday and Thursday nights, new faces, et cetera. And as long as it takes for me to settle in or open up to a new crowd-- I'm getting there, I'm getting better.
I find myself unable to put words to sentiment lately. Like I've got something on the end of my tongue or the tips of my fingers that just needs some ethereal push to resolution, but things can't tie up so nicely.
-
Bridge
After asking why the last four pages are blank
A beat, then, for you to write
the ending, Mike. Behind cracked
hands— my father not knowing
the answer. His tired
slipper steps down-
stairs and erasable pen,
life ring for Leslie, smudged
where formatting had left
me unfinished. Like trying to untangle
an orbit with fingers and
teeth— there are things without
loose ends. A shiver,
like a line that is not a line
We’ve killed her.
We’ve killed her.
-
"You shouldn't tell them that you've seen my face somewhere,
when I leaned in your direction I leaned much too far."
And too much unlike Oscar it's like I've convinced myself not to allow any feelings for anyone to bud, for fear perhaps of rejection-- I don't know. But I get twinges every now and then. I have conversations that leave me wondering how things intersect and thinking I've still got some capacity to feel "that way" in me. There are people too much like poems not to cradle up and believe in with every fiber of being that can still hope. And there are people like me who need them so badly, if only to still believe in poetry.
Speaking of poetry, there has to be some line I can walk through confessionalism unintruded upon by the sentimental. Some line.
"Please will the highway never end?
Some things get broken and they never fix again."
Rick and I played another show last week and I think its safe to say it went significantly better than the first time around. There are naturally frustrations but the songwriting has been coming along alright. It helps to have people to bounce things off of. People who I can trust to give me an honest enough opinion. And it feels good to play the songs I wrote for friends and strangers who, I can hope, are around because they want to hear them. As good as feels to put sentiment to music and say it all like it all seems to me.
"All crooked, all bloody, I'll take my leave.
All the leaves fall and the turnpike lies in front of me.
And this whole wide world isn't wide enough."
Yet sometimes everything is just so big.
Yeah I've got reason to believe
that we're all capable of terrible things
but if we make it through the badlands
we'll find Eden on the other side
Maybe.
Bomb the blogosphere,
Mike
PS. All line in quotations are from "Whole Wide World" by Okkervil River.
PPS. Joe, I remembered to tag you as you requested haha.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Watch the north end die
and sing "I love this town."
6:29 am.
I will be expected to wake up in four hours and one minute. I've been some kind of awake for the last sixteen hours but my body doesn't seem to notice the time. I think I understand addictions to sleeping pills. I've been waiting for my Benadryl to kick for the last hour but it seems to be taking its time. That's alright. I've got all of that in the world.
I was in Canada for the (significantly) better part of the last week. Two nights in Montreal and two in Toronto, an hour and change at Niagra Falls and already the memory is blurring. Nothing to do with any activities participated in over the border, but just the same fade the best times tend to suffer. The morning after your seventh birthday party-- nothing to do but scrub cheeto out of the carpet and remember how thrilled you were twenty-four hours ago. I won't bore anyone with the rundown of exactly what we did during our visit to our neighbors up north. With any luck I'll have a video chronicling the whole thing put together before too long. And besides that it's probably exactly what you'd expect.
Things I learned in Canada:
-Canadian girls are stunningly beautiful. However, Montreal girl edge Toronto girls out by a considerable margin.
-ERGO, Montreal > Toronto
-Zombies are bad, but Hurricanes and Screaming Orgasms are quite good.
-Late night television consists of awesome shows that were cancelled after one American season.
-It is not at all difficult to find a Wii in Canada.
-Most of the news is about America. I probably heard about Spitzer before you did.
-Sidewalk plows exist.
-Tim Horton has Ronald McDonald running for his loonies.
-Pints of Guiness make you strong. Eventually.
-New York isn't that expensive.
-Coins can have significant value.
-Motherfucking poutine is a world-rocker.
-I will probably drink anything with Amaretto and/or Bailey's in it.
-Most of the time, perhaps in defiance of probability, they'll pick "no deal."
and probably some other shit.
I had a great time, but being away even for just 5 days reminded me how reliant I am on communication. 5 days without AIM or cell usage beyond a few idle messages (25 cents to send, 20 to recieve) is beautiful the way camping is beautiful. You can focus on something, a task or a view or whatever, without interference. But at the same time, too much isolation leads easily to lonliness (even in excellent company) for me. It's not really a good thing and I think it's safe to say a lot of people, myself of course included, could benefit from stints away from home with the cell phone packed away.
Pretty much every paragraph in this post thus far has begun with "I." I am the quintessential narcissist-- without being so at all.
So, excited for spring break to be over? Yes and no. Sure, I miss my Ramapo guys and girls but there are too many people back home I love that I haven't gotten to see yet. Or that I've gotten to see so briefly its like a tease. I went to see my high school's theatical production of Peter Pan tonight (last night?). It was fantastic and it's bizarre how proud I am of underclassmen I've never met. And how much I miss the stage sometimes. Not just the shows themselves, but "circling up" before each performance or fooling around between shows on Saturday. Antics with cameras and impromptu trips to Burger King. 13-year-olds and 18-year-olds talking shit or pissing themselves laughing or crying or comforting or whatever.
I remember Saturday night Pirates of Penzance with Eric and Dustin, getting snot all over each other and promising we'd never lose it. That thing we had that made us. Impossible-- together--
We were titans, man. We were giants that night.
And I believe in a world that can cry when something sails. That can sing when something sinks and drifts apart like sailors on scattered floorboards. Squeezing eyes tight so as not to forget the ship as it divides ourward into a million little trajectories, as things do.
7:19 am. And the world spins madly on.
Bomb the blogosphere,
Mike
6:29 am.
I will be expected to wake up in four hours and one minute. I've been some kind of awake for the last sixteen hours but my body doesn't seem to notice the time. I think I understand addictions to sleeping pills. I've been waiting for my Benadryl to kick for the last hour but it seems to be taking its time. That's alright. I've got all of that in the world.
I was in Canada for the (significantly) better part of the last week. Two nights in Montreal and two in Toronto, an hour and change at Niagra Falls and already the memory is blurring. Nothing to do with any activities participated in over the border, but just the same fade the best times tend to suffer. The morning after your seventh birthday party-- nothing to do but scrub cheeto out of the carpet and remember how thrilled you were twenty-four hours ago. I won't bore anyone with the rundown of exactly what we did during our visit to our neighbors up north. With any luck I'll have a video chronicling the whole thing put together before too long. And besides that it's probably exactly what you'd expect.
Things I learned in Canada:
-Canadian girls are stunningly beautiful. However, Montreal girl edge Toronto girls out by a considerable margin.
-ERGO, Montreal > Toronto
-Zombies are bad, but Hurricanes and Screaming Orgasms are quite good.
-Late night television consists of awesome shows that were cancelled after one American season.
-It is not at all difficult to find a Wii in Canada.
-Most of the news is about America. I probably heard about Spitzer before you did.
-Sidewalk plows exist.
-Tim Horton has Ronald McDonald running for his loonies.
-Pints of Guiness make you strong. Eventually.
-New York isn't that expensive.
-Coins can have significant value.
-Motherfucking poutine is a world-rocker.
-I will probably drink anything with Amaretto and/or Bailey's in it.
-Most of the time, perhaps in defiance of probability, they'll pick "no deal."
and probably some other shit.
I had a great time, but being away even for just 5 days reminded me how reliant I am on communication. 5 days without AIM or cell usage beyond a few idle messages (25 cents to send, 20 to recieve) is beautiful the way camping is beautiful. You can focus on something, a task or a view or whatever, without interference. But at the same time, too much isolation leads easily to lonliness (even in excellent company) for me. It's not really a good thing and I think it's safe to say a lot of people, myself of course included, could benefit from stints away from home with the cell phone packed away.
Pretty much every paragraph in this post thus far has begun with "I." I am the quintessential narcissist-- without being so at all.
So, excited for spring break to be over? Yes and no. Sure, I miss my Ramapo guys and girls but there are too many people back home I love that I haven't gotten to see yet. Or that I've gotten to see so briefly its like a tease. I went to see my high school's theatical production of Peter Pan tonight (last night?). It was fantastic and it's bizarre how proud I am of underclassmen I've never met. And how much I miss the stage sometimes. Not just the shows themselves, but "circling up" before each performance or fooling around between shows on Saturday. Antics with cameras and impromptu trips to Burger King. 13-year-olds and 18-year-olds talking shit or pissing themselves laughing or crying or comforting or whatever.
I remember Saturday night Pirates of Penzance with Eric and Dustin, getting snot all over each other and promising we'd never lose it. That thing we had that made us. Impossible-- together--
We were titans, man. We were giants that night.
And I believe in a world that can cry when something sails. That can sing when something sinks and drifts apart like sailors on scattered floorboards. Squeezing eyes tight so as not to forget the ship as it divides ourward into a million little trajectories, as things do.
7:19 am. And the world spins madly on.
Bomb the blogosphere,
Mike
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Oh, poor sky
The past month and a half of my days have largely gone as follows: wake up way to early itching like a motherfucker, pop a prednisone and maybe a few tylenol, shower, overapply various creams, go to class, eat, go to class, return, go on the computer/play counterstrike/take a nap, eat, and wait for something to happen. Now, if something happens, it happens and I stumble back pretty early and awkwardly crawl into bed, lather, rinse, repeat. If nothing happens, I go on the computer for a while before popping two benadryl and counting the 45 minutes down before it knocks me out. Lather, rinse, repeat.
One of the shittiest things about both medication and allergic dermatitis is that they suck the libido and (as if "therefore") creative energy straight out of you.
I'm out of prednisone.
So then what's there to write about? I guess the aforementioned is as much an apology for having nothing to say as not saying it. But maybe it's time to stop apologizing. Everyone says the only way to beat writer's block is to write through it, even if it means pages of dribble, just... words. So I'm here. With nothing of value to say.
I'm on edge lately. Easily frustrated, anxious, worried, paranoid, socially awkward. Only small deviations from the norm but enough to be noticeable. I don't want to do things I should want to do, or that I used to want to do. I worry a lot about friendships. Futures.
Mom doesn't want to let me see an allergist.
Oscar Predications: (aka Who I would give the awards to)
Actor in a leading role: Daniel Day Lewis "There Will Be Blood"
Actor in a supporting role: Javier Bardem "No Country for Old Men"
Actress in a leading role: Ellen Page "Juno" (realistically: Julie Christie "Away From Her")
Actress in a supporting role: Cate Blanchett "I'm Not There"
Animated Feature Film: "Ratatoille"
Directing: Joel and Ethan Coen "No Country for Old Men"
Music (Score): "Atonement"
Best Picture: "There Will Be Blood"
Writing (Adapted): "No Country for Old Men"
Writing (Original): "The Savages"
You know, Rick and I are playing Female Friendly Funk on Thursday. It would be rad if you came.
don't cry on me
Are you gonna fall apart again?
My head plays it over and over.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
One of the shittiest things about both medication and allergic dermatitis is that they suck the libido and (as if "therefore") creative energy straight out of you.
I'm out of prednisone.
So then what's there to write about? I guess the aforementioned is as much an apology for having nothing to say as not saying it. But maybe it's time to stop apologizing. Everyone says the only way to beat writer's block is to write through it, even if it means pages of dribble, just... words. So I'm here. With nothing of value to say.
I'm on edge lately. Easily frustrated, anxious, worried, paranoid, socially awkward. Only small deviations from the norm but enough to be noticeable. I don't want to do things I should want to do, or that I used to want to do. I worry a lot about friendships. Futures.
Mom doesn't want to let me see an allergist.
Oscar Predications: (aka Who I would give the awards to)
Actor in a leading role: Daniel Day Lewis "There Will Be Blood"
Actor in a supporting role: Javier Bardem "No Country for Old Men"
Actress in a leading role: Ellen Page "Juno" (realistically: Julie Christie "Away From Her")
Actress in a supporting role: Cate Blanchett "I'm Not There"
Animated Feature Film: "Ratatoille"
Directing: Joel and Ethan Coen "No Country for Old Men"
Music (Score): "Atonement"
Best Picture: "There Will Be Blood"
Writing (Adapted): "No Country for Old Men"
Writing (Original): "The Savages"
You know, Rick and I are playing Female Friendly Funk on Thursday. It would be rad if you came.
don't cry on me
Are you gonna fall apart again?
My head plays it over and over.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
Saturday, December 29, 2007
The Indecisive, Conflicted Life of
There is free wireless at this Holiday Inn. It's these little discoveries that keep me going, I'm sure of it.
Yesterday I read a book. Yeah, a whole book. It was nice-- I forgot how much I like doing that. Just sitting down with a book and reading it. Minimal interruption, taking it all in. "The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao" by Junot Diaz, before you ask (as I'm sure you were about to). Do I recommend it? Do you think you've ever been in love?
It brings up something interesting, though. The title character, a socially awkward and overweight Dominican sci-fi/fantasy enthusiast, has the bizarre but beautiful habit of falling in love with all of the many women who pass through his life. As endearing is this is, Mr. Diaz' theme works in near direct conflict with one of Mr. Sheff's (Yeah. Will Sheff. Okkervil River. My hero.)
Will writes, (as the album name of what is, in my opinion, the best OR record) "Don't Fall In Love With Everyone You See" But Oscar did just that, in the story of his brief, wondrous life. And it was magical. Beautiful and fucking-- innocent. The purity of man in possession of so much love despite the absence of its reciprocation.
So who's right?
I don't know. But while I think Will is right to warn us, but I get the feeling he believes as strongly as I am beginning to that we all fall in love a hundred times in our lives. Hell, I'm talking a dozen times a day. Maybe not Oscar's love, the awkward forwardness of the unkissed and looking to become lost, but the kind of love that comes from looking upward out the back windshield of your buddy's car from the backseat. Or from simultaneous laughter. I think I fall in love every time I buy a damn coffee.
It's like wanting something so bad you build it. It isn't the same but that's what I've got. Somewhere, there's a perfect balance between care and discretion-- and the capacity to have and share all that love.
Unconventional, yeah. But some nice thoughts, I think.
I'm in Florida. But not the Florida with beaches and bikinis and Disney characters. Nope. The other Florida. I haven't seen anyone older than 7 or younger than 45 sans my sister and random waitresses in 3 days. But I'm getting some reading done. And reminding myself why I'm no "family" man-- despite how badly I want to be one.
I wonder if I'll ever write that novel.
Bomb the blogosphere,
Mike
Yesterday I read a book. Yeah, a whole book. It was nice-- I forgot how much I like doing that. Just sitting down with a book and reading it. Minimal interruption, taking it all in. "The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao" by Junot Diaz, before you ask (as I'm sure you were about to). Do I recommend it? Do you think you've ever been in love?
It brings up something interesting, though. The title character, a socially awkward and overweight Dominican sci-fi/fantasy enthusiast, has the bizarre but beautiful habit of falling in love with all of the many women who pass through his life. As endearing is this is, Mr. Diaz' theme works in near direct conflict with one of Mr. Sheff's (Yeah. Will Sheff. Okkervil River. My hero.)
Will writes, (as the album name of what is, in my opinion, the best OR record) "Don't Fall In Love With Everyone You See" But Oscar did just that, in the story of his brief, wondrous life. And it was magical. Beautiful and fucking-- innocent. The purity of man in possession of so much love despite the absence of its reciprocation.
So who's right?
I don't know. But while I think Will is right to warn us, but I get the feeling he believes as strongly as I am beginning to that we all fall in love a hundred times in our lives. Hell, I'm talking a dozen times a day. Maybe not Oscar's love, the awkward forwardness of the unkissed and looking to become lost, but the kind of love that comes from looking upward out the back windshield of your buddy's car from the backseat. Or from simultaneous laughter. I think I fall in love every time I buy a damn coffee.
It's like wanting something so bad you build it. It isn't the same but that's what I've got. Somewhere, there's a perfect balance between care and discretion-- and the capacity to have and share all that love.
Unconventional, yeah. But some nice thoughts, I think.
I'm in Florida. But not the Florida with beaches and bikinis and Disney characters. Nope. The other Florida. I haven't seen anyone older than 7 or younger than 45 sans my sister and random waitresses in 3 days. But I'm getting some reading done. And reminding myself why I'm no "family" man-- despite how badly I want to be one.
I wonder if I'll ever write that novel.
Bomb the blogosphere,
Mike
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Jesus, etc.
Christ is dry on my tongue and I am a puddle of digression.
I am, perhaps, the term personified. As if a single one of us isn't, now. Catholics
in his house, kneeling and thinking that in the morning we'll draw straws
to see who makes the omelets. We're a splatter of pea coats and sweaters
and hairloss. Too in-between the ages that remember Jesus. The Nicene
Creed is projected on the wall because we don't know it. It should
have been in Latin like I've heard it used to be for all the good we did it.
And I remember Jimmy, telling me with a mouth full of Dutchmaster
that you have to keep it wet so it won't rip. His thumbs working to crack the spine
and spill the dirt and the shit onto the floor. Like a surgeon. Or
maybe like something else, which escapes me. And I remember Junior
year, and how stupid I was. I wonder if I'm as stupid now. Now
that I've come full-circle on the subject of intimacy and landed
nowhere. Like it won't change tomorrow. Like it ever stops. Maybe
it's the way things move around me when the bathroom is dank that makes
people climb out of their people-costumes and stop reciting Shakespeare.
And when someone puts The New Radicals on I feel my own people-costume feather
like molted spiderwebs-- crumbling under the implications of the past
tense and exactly what it is to be too anything. Late, late, late--
like my grandmother who always asked how my girlfriend was. I would protest
at the embarrassment of being eleven and treated like I thought about girls like that
(which I did). Now I think I'd lie. "She's fine, Grandma. Beautiful." And maybe
she'd smile. As I write I realize grandma never met a girlfriend. As big an injustice
as any. Jimmy's name isn't Jimmy. But the idea is the same-- the tongue, like
it intended to send a letter. And I remember cracking the window and toweling
the door. And I remember Father's homily about being God's great masterpiece
and thinking it bullshit. And I remember the great sadness of regret
and the way it all rushed back like if Central America stopped and the East became
the West like it sometimes does in songs about believing. The sex
and how it wasn't important like the music was.
And I remember standing in the upstairs E wing
as I was recited lines I knew by heart.
I am, perhaps, the term personified. As if a single one of us isn't, now. Catholics
in his house, kneeling and thinking that in the morning we'll draw straws
to see who makes the omelets. We're a splatter of pea coats and sweaters
and hairloss. Too in-between the ages that remember Jesus. The Nicene
Creed is projected on the wall because we don't know it. It should
have been in Latin like I've heard it used to be for all the good we did it.
And I remember Jimmy, telling me with a mouth full of Dutchmaster
that you have to keep it wet so it won't rip. His thumbs working to crack the spine
and spill the dirt and the shit onto the floor. Like a surgeon. Or
maybe like something else, which escapes me. And I remember Junior
year, and how stupid I was. I wonder if I'm as stupid now. Now
that I've come full-circle on the subject of intimacy and landed
nowhere. Like it won't change tomorrow. Like it ever stops. Maybe
it's the way things move around me when the bathroom is dank that makes
people climb out of their people-costumes and stop reciting Shakespeare.
And when someone puts The New Radicals on I feel my own people-costume feather
like molted spiderwebs-- crumbling under the implications of the past
tense and exactly what it is to be too anything. Late, late, late--
like my grandmother who always asked how my girlfriend was. I would protest
at the embarrassment of being eleven and treated like I thought about girls like that
(which I did). Now I think I'd lie. "She's fine, Grandma. Beautiful." And maybe
she'd smile. As I write I realize grandma never met a girlfriend. As big an injustice
as any. Jimmy's name isn't Jimmy. But the idea is the same-- the tongue, like
it intended to send a letter. And I remember cracking the window and toweling
the door. And I remember Father's homily about being God's great masterpiece
and thinking it bullshit. And I remember the great sadness of regret
and the way it all rushed back like if Central America stopped and the East became
the West like it sometimes does in songs about believing. The sex
and how it wasn't important like the music was.
And I remember standing in the upstairs E wing
as I was recited lines I knew by heart.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Bring back album-based music!
The following are the top ten most important albums to my life, thus far.
10. "Films About Ghosts" by Counting Crows
"Oh, well happy new year's baby
We could probably fix it if we clean it up all day
Or we could simply pack our bags
and catch a plane to Barcelona 'cause this city's a drag."
Counting Crows put on the best live show I've ever seen. The experience was moving in ways I couldn't have expected from a band I wasn't even there for. It became clear during a particularly riveting rendition on "Mrs. Potter's Lullaby" why Goo Goo Dolls open for them.
9. "Enema of the State" by Blink 182
"I haven't been this scared
In a long time
And I'm so unprepared
So here's your valentine."
I wouldn't play guitar if it wasn't for Tom Delonge. No two-ways about it. And while I can't remember if it was "Dammit" by this band or "Brown-Eyed Girl" by Van Morrison that was my first learned, I can accredit the effort to Blink. This album appealed in every way to the middle-school kid in me who didn't get girls and just wanted to be a middle-school kid making mistakes and being vulgar and being young.
8. "Greetings From Asbury Park" by Bruce Springsteen
"I stood stone-like at midnight,
suspended in my masquerade
I combed my hair till it was just right
and commanded the night brigade"
For years, this was the CD I played while in my Dad's truck. For entire trips to various campgrounds and back again, Bruce accompanied. It's pretty safe to say that when I started really writing songs I wanted to be the next Bruce Springsteen. Today I hope to one day hold a candle to him.
7. "What It Is To Burn" by Finch
"Stay with me
Cigarettes and open air, hand in hand
I said stay with me
'Cause every star that I see is brighter than the last"
This album IS my freshman year of high school. I got turned on to it by a sophomore in my drama class and, I guess, I haven't been the same since. It was my first exposure to "emo" or whatever it was and I loved it. I went through an elitist classic rock period junior year and I can't even express how refreshing its been to come back to this album. Like coming home by walking backwards.
6. "Your Favorite Weapon" by Brand New
"And is that what you call a getaway?
Tell me what you got away with
Cause you left the frays from the ties you severed
when you say "best friends" means friends forever"
If "What It Is To Burn" is my freshman year, "Your Favorite Weapon" was sophomore. Yes, "Deja Entendu" is "better." But this isn't about that. This record put poetry to my frustrations for the first real time, I think. I covered songs from it in my first "band" at my first "show," the local Cornerstone Cafe.
5. "I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning" by Bright Eyes
"The end of paralysis, I was a statuette
Now I'm drunk as hell on a piano bench
And when I press the keys it all gets reversed
The sound of loneliness makes me happier."
I accidented upon Bright Eyes by perusing shared networks on iTunes last year. I found myself listening to strangers' libraries more frequently than my own. It's all about the lyrics and I'm always so thrilled when people get that. Conor Oberst is the artist I'm most frequently compared to, and be that meant positively or negatively... I'll take it.
4. "(What's the Story?) Morning Glory" by Oasis
"All your dreams are made
When you're chained to the mirror with the razor blade
Today's the day that all the world will see"
Oasis is the first band I ever went to see with friends. I'll never ever ever forget it. Taking the train, eating at Nathans in Penn Station, noticing the British kids behind us smoking weed, Jet, crescent moon tambourines, and Ultimate the next morning. How perfect.
3. "Yankee Hotel Foxtrot" by Wilco
"The cash machine is blue and green
For a hundred in twenties and a small service fee
I could spend three dollars and sixty-three cents
On Diet Coca-Cola and unlit cigarettes"
My album I'm currently wearing out. It's so working/middle-class. So earnest. So midwestern. I tell people I want to move to Oregon or Nebraska. It's because of the worlds that exist in these songs. Wilco is from Illinois but it's a universal things for the middle-Americans I think. Something I've never gotten, having lived only on coasts. A slower life, a big sky life.
2. "Black Sheep Boy" by Okkervil River
"So why
did you flee?
Don’t you know you can’t leave his control
only call all his wild works your own?
So come back and we’ll take them all on.
So come back to your life on the lam.
So come back to your old black sheep man."
It occurs to my how much I owe Apple for my musical taste. I happened upon Okkervil River on an iTunes radio station. The first song I heard was "Black." OR is my favorite band. There's just nothing I can say that can express what their songs have done for me.
1. "The Blue Album" by Weezer
"You walk up to her.
Ask her to dance.
She says, "Hey, baby, I just might take the chance."
You say, 'It's a good thing
That you float in the air...
That way there's no way I will crush your pretty toenails into a thousand pieces.'"
I was on a Boy Scout canoeing trip. I was maybe eleven or twelve. My dad and I were carpooling with another family. The other kid in the car was a couple years older than me and on the ride home he asked his dad if he could change the music. After a nod of his dad's head he slipped in a cassette. For the next two or three hours I listened to "The Blue Album" three or four times, interrupted only by the clicking as the car's cassette deck flipped it every five songs. I would have never gotten into rock music, never mind alternative rock music, had it not been for this experience. It's still close to me, despite Weezer's decline. And I think it always will be.
So, to summarize, my life by album:
Middle School: "Enema of the State" by Blink 182
9th Grade: "What It Is To Burn" by Finch
10th Grade: "Your Favorite Weapon" by Brand New
11th Grade: "(What's the Story?) Morning Glory" by Oasis
12th Grade: "Black Sheep Boy" by Okkervil River
Freshman: "I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning" by Bright Eyes
Sophomore (s0 far): "Yankee Hotel Foxtrot" by Wilco
Hm.
Bomb the blogosphere,
Mike
10. "Films About Ghosts" by Counting Crows
"Oh, well happy new year's baby
We could probably fix it if we clean it up all day
Or we could simply pack our bags
and catch a plane to Barcelona 'cause this city's a drag."
Counting Crows put on the best live show I've ever seen. The experience was moving in ways I couldn't have expected from a band I wasn't even there for. It became clear during a particularly riveting rendition on "Mrs. Potter's Lullaby" why Goo Goo Dolls open for them.
9. "Enema of the State" by Blink 182
"I haven't been this scared
In a long time
And I'm so unprepared
So here's your valentine."
I wouldn't play guitar if it wasn't for Tom Delonge. No two-ways about it. And while I can't remember if it was "Dammit" by this band or "Brown-Eyed Girl" by Van Morrison that was my first learned, I can accredit the effort to Blink. This album appealed in every way to the middle-school kid in me who didn't get girls and just wanted to be a middle-school kid making mistakes and being vulgar and being young.
8. "Greetings From Asbury Park" by Bruce Springsteen
"I stood stone-like at midnight,
suspended in my masquerade
I combed my hair till it was just right
and commanded the night brigade"
For years, this was the CD I played while in my Dad's truck. For entire trips to various campgrounds and back again, Bruce accompanied. It's pretty safe to say that when I started really writing songs I wanted to be the next Bruce Springsteen. Today I hope to one day hold a candle to him.
7. "What It Is To Burn" by Finch
"Stay with me
Cigarettes and open air, hand in hand
I said stay with me
'Cause every star that I see is brighter than the last"
This album IS my freshman year of high school. I got turned on to it by a sophomore in my drama class and, I guess, I haven't been the same since. It was my first exposure to "emo" or whatever it was and I loved it. I went through an elitist classic rock period junior year and I can't even express how refreshing its been to come back to this album. Like coming home by walking backwards.
6. "Your Favorite Weapon" by Brand New
"And is that what you call a getaway?
Tell me what you got away with
Cause you left the frays from the ties you severed
when you say "best friends" means friends forever"
If "What It Is To Burn" is my freshman year, "Your Favorite Weapon" was sophomore. Yes, "Deja Entendu" is "better." But this isn't about that. This record put poetry to my frustrations for the first real time, I think. I covered songs from it in my first "band" at my first "show," the local Cornerstone Cafe.
5. "I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning" by Bright Eyes
"The end of paralysis, I was a statuette
Now I'm drunk as hell on a piano bench
And when I press the keys it all gets reversed
The sound of loneliness makes me happier."
I accidented upon Bright Eyes by perusing shared networks on iTunes last year. I found myself listening to strangers' libraries more frequently than my own. It's all about the lyrics and I'm always so thrilled when people get that. Conor Oberst is the artist I'm most frequently compared to, and be that meant positively or negatively... I'll take it.
4. "(What's the Story?) Morning Glory" by Oasis
"All your dreams are made
When you're chained to the mirror with the razor blade
Today's the day that all the world will see"
Oasis is the first band I ever went to see with friends. I'll never ever ever forget it. Taking the train, eating at Nathans in Penn Station, noticing the British kids behind us smoking weed, Jet, crescent moon tambourines, and Ultimate the next morning. How perfect.
3. "Yankee Hotel Foxtrot" by Wilco
"The cash machine is blue and green
For a hundred in twenties and a small service fee
I could spend three dollars and sixty-three cents
On Diet Coca-Cola and unlit cigarettes"
My album I'm currently wearing out. It's so working/middle-class. So earnest. So midwestern. I tell people I want to move to Oregon or Nebraska. It's because of the worlds that exist in these songs. Wilco is from Illinois but it's a universal things for the middle-Americans I think. Something I've never gotten, having lived only on coasts. A slower life, a big sky life.
2. "Black Sheep Boy" by Okkervil River
"So why
did you flee?
Don’t you know you can’t leave his control
only call all his wild works your own?
So come back and we’ll take them all on.
So come back to your life on the lam.
So come back to your old black sheep man."
It occurs to my how much I owe Apple for my musical taste. I happened upon Okkervil River on an iTunes radio station. The first song I heard was "Black." OR is my favorite band. There's just nothing I can say that can express what their songs have done for me.
1. "The Blue Album" by Weezer
"You walk up to her.
Ask her to dance.
She says, "Hey, baby, I just might take the chance."
You say, 'It's a good thing
That you float in the air...
That way there's no way I will crush your pretty toenails into a thousand pieces.'"
I was on a Boy Scout canoeing trip. I was maybe eleven or twelve. My dad and I were carpooling with another family. The other kid in the car was a couple years older than me and on the ride home he asked his dad if he could change the music. After a nod of his dad's head he slipped in a cassette. For the next two or three hours I listened to "The Blue Album" three or four times, interrupted only by the clicking as the car's cassette deck flipped it every five songs. I would have never gotten into rock music, never mind alternative rock music, had it not been for this experience. It's still close to me, despite Weezer's decline. And I think it always will be.
So, to summarize, my life by album:
Middle School: "Enema of the State" by Blink 182
9th Grade: "What It Is To Burn" by Finch
10th Grade: "Your Favorite Weapon" by Brand New
11th Grade: "(What's the Story?) Morning Glory" by Oasis
12th Grade: "Black Sheep Boy" by Okkervil River
Freshman: "I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning" by Bright Eyes
Sophomore (s0 far): "Yankee Hotel Foxtrot" by Wilco
Hm.
Bomb the blogosphere,
Mike
Sunday, November 04, 2007
On the surgical stage
Aside: This note will be composed of disjointed, largely unrelated but nevertheless applicable one-liners. Sorry. This is going to end up highly confessional. Really, don't read it. Sorry. /Aside
How is it that I can surround myself with people and still feel lonely? It's possible that I'm just not good at convincing myself that I'm supported.
Pretentious people are the most self-conscious and insecure.
I am probably pretentious.
I am probably not as pretentious as I seem sometimes. But maybe I am.
There's little better than being proven wrong on a bad first impression. There's little worse than being proven wrong about a good first impression. Being proven right doesn't really make me feel any more or less of anything. Except maybe cynical.
If you asked me what I looked for in a girl the first thing I would think of would be a mutant Audrey Hepburn/Jenny Lewis and the first thing I'd say would be, "I don't really know."
If you asked me again I would say, "cute, sweet, well read and listened, honest, and in possession of a good, honest laugh." What I would mean to say would be, "cuddler, handholder, lyrics-quoter, and whisperer." What I would really mean would be, "crazy about me." And I would picture sweaters and sidebangs. But those aren't really important.
I think sidebangs are so cute because foreheads are so funny looking.
I'm too picky.
When I find out that someone told me something because it's what I wanted to hear, while they told a party with a conflicting opinion that they agree with them, I get deeply hurt.
Some of the behaviors that bother me the most are behaviors I would adopt given the right circumstance. That makes me feel horrible. But I don't think it's really so bad to be jealous as long as you're honest about it.
Coupland is right. Dogs are beautiful because they never fall out of love.
People are always telling me not to worry about what others think of me-- that I'm amazing and people just don't realize it-- that I've just gotta keep truckin' or hangin' in there or-- that there's a setting and a cast of characters out there waiting for me somewhere--
That is the worst advice.
The term "breakdown" doesn't mean deconstruction or collapse into power chords and crashing cymbals. It's because life is an album and at times things unravel and move at different speeds. We tend to do a lot of screaming during those times. Whether we open our mouths or not.
But it will always always all come back together for one. last. chorus.
I talked about this last time-- but people don't want to hear the truth. And so to preserve what it seems I'm supposed to be I gotta bottle back up. This must be why I've got pores called fingertips. Pens and guitar strings. Blogs and conversations that are only ever half open.
Thinking about how much it would mean to me to be read into makes me feel narcissistic, arrogant, and pathetic.
All writers are liars.
Conceit is like skin.
But it's not the kind of lying you're thinking of. If I say, "I love you," it means I love you. But I'm lying because I didn't say, "I love you because you remind me of the midwest and how I've only been there in postcard racks."
Or assuming a persona. Maybe I don't love you-- but if I did it would be fucking beautiful.
That doesn't make any sense.
None of this makes any sense.
Bomb the blogosphere,
Mike
How is it that I can surround myself with people and still feel lonely? It's possible that I'm just not good at convincing myself that I'm supported.
Pretentious people are the most self-conscious and insecure.
I am probably pretentious.
I am probably not as pretentious as I seem sometimes. But maybe I am.
There's little better than being proven wrong on a bad first impression. There's little worse than being proven wrong about a good first impression. Being proven right doesn't really make me feel any more or less of anything. Except maybe cynical.
If you asked me what I looked for in a girl the first thing I would think of would be a mutant Audrey Hepburn/Jenny Lewis and the first thing I'd say would be, "I don't really know."
If you asked me again I would say, "cute, sweet, well read and listened, honest, and in possession of a good, honest laugh." What I would mean to say would be, "cuddler, handholder, lyrics-quoter, and whisperer." What I would really mean would be, "crazy about me." And I would picture sweaters and sidebangs. But those aren't really important.
I think sidebangs are so cute because foreheads are so funny looking.
I'm too picky.
When I find out that someone told me something because it's what I wanted to hear, while they told a party with a conflicting opinion that they agree with them, I get deeply hurt.
Some of the behaviors that bother me the most are behaviors I would adopt given the right circumstance. That makes me feel horrible. But I don't think it's really so bad to be jealous as long as you're honest about it.
Coupland is right. Dogs are beautiful because they never fall out of love.
People are always telling me not to worry about what others think of me-- that I'm amazing and people just don't realize it-- that I've just gotta keep truckin' or hangin' in there or-- that there's a setting and a cast of characters out there waiting for me somewhere--
That is the worst advice.
The term "breakdown" doesn't mean deconstruction or collapse into power chords and crashing cymbals. It's because life is an album and at times things unravel and move at different speeds. We tend to do a lot of screaming during those times. Whether we open our mouths or not.
But it will always always all come back together for one. last. chorus.
I talked about this last time-- but people don't want to hear the truth. And so to preserve what it seems I'm supposed to be I gotta bottle back up. This must be why I've got pores called fingertips. Pens and guitar strings. Blogs and conversations that are only ever half open.
Thinking about how much it would mean to me to be read into makes me feel narcissistic, arrogant, and pathetic.
All writers are liars.
Conceit is like skin.
But it's not the kind of lying you're thinking of. If I say, "I love you," it means I love you. But I'm lying because I didn't say, "I love you because you remind me of the midwest and how I've only been there in postcard racks."
Or assuming a persona. Maybe I don't love you-- but if I did it would be fucking beautiful.
That doesn't make any sense.
None of this makes any sense.
Bomb the blogosphere,
Mike
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Like antennas to Heaven
In order to really really express ourselves we need the ability to invent adjectives. They just aren't vast enough or aren't applicable or accurate enough to properly prefix any given emotion. Like that sinking feeling you get in your stomach when the butterflies that used to flutter there wither and die. Like the lead feeling of sleeping feet when something comes full circle. Or even the cavernous hollow of chest-- like the heart's given up, closed its belfry wings, resigned to sicken and so live.
But that's why we have images. And that's why we have nouns. There are nouns no adjective can touch. Guilt. Regret. What is "guilt" when it's something deeper than "guilty?" And what am I if I'm relieved and at the same time so full of regret? Am I a baby born healthy to a single mother, a motorcycle and a magician for a father? I'm not. Or am I selfish because I got to say what I had to say to make the guilt subside[?]-- but I fucked up and you've moved on and we're learning that the recovery process isn't universal. Because what's out there is out there and is it wrong to hope that words alone can find host in opinion and create possibility? For second, third chances?
I'd hope that one day with all this rhetoric I'll finally say something that makes sense. But I hope too much more that with all this weight and hurt I'll finally forget figures and say something real. Or something beautiful.
You don't make friends by saying what is true. You don't get invited to parties or out with the cool kids by saying what is true. You don't get laid by saying what is true. You don't get by on facts. We don't get by on the true. We live on food and water and aethetics and when we can't find enough to eat or drink or love we create it-- and I think that maybe that's why the world is getting smaller. Because we all need to be in Paris to blow our loads. So to speak. And we want so badly to be have everyone else think we're beautiful.
[line deleted] because you don't find love by saying what is true.
Nothing hurts worse than regret, I'm convinced. And I've seen the mantras: "live life with no regrets." But you might as well be living without feeling in the tips of your fingers. So that even when you're subject to bites and cuts and burns and slammed doors-- you're groovy. Wouldn't it be nice to be numb? No. It would be so dreadful and lonely and false to never hurt and never regret.
Aside: Self-conscious ---> self-aware? Goal, maybe. /Aside
So again, sorry.
I'm still figuring this whole thing out. Really.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
But that's why we have images. And that's why we have nouns. There are nouns no adjective can touch. Guilt. Regret. What is "guilt" when it's something deeper than "guilty?" And what am I if I'm relieved and at the same time so full of regret? Am I a baby born healthy to a single mother, a motorcycle and a magician for a father? I'm not. Or am I selfish because I got to say what I had to say to make the guilt subside[?]-- but I fucked up and you've moved on and we're learning that the recovery process isn't universal. Because what's out there is out there and is it wrong to hope that words alone can find host in opinion and create possibility? For second, third chances?
I'd hope that one day with all this rhetoric I'll finally say something that makes sense. But I hope too much more that with all this weight and hurt I'll finally forget figures and say something real. Or something beautiful.
You don't make friends by saying what is true. You don't get invited to parties or out with the cool kids by saying what is true. You don't get laid by saying what is true. You don't get by on facts. We don't get by on the true. We live on food and water and aethetics and when we can't find enough to eat or drink or love we create it-- and I think that maybe that's why the world is getting smaller. Because we all need to be in Paris to blow our loads. So to speak. And we want so badly to be have everyone else think we're beautiful.
[line deleted] because you don't find love by saying what is true.
Nothing hurts worse than regret, I'm convinced. And I've seen the mantras: "live life with no regrets." But you might as well be living without feeling in the tips of your fingers. So that even when you're subject to bites and cuts and burns and slammed doors-- you're groovy. Wouldn't it be nice to be numb? No. It would be so dreadful and lonely and false to never hurt and never regret.
Aside: Self-conscious ---> self-aware? Goal, maybe. /Aside
So again, sorry.
I'm still figuring this whole thing out. Really.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
Friday, October 26, 2007
With poise, with grace
"Chase This Light," the new Jimmy Eat World album, is hella good. Even though it sounds a little like a musical at times.
My mom is reading some "How to get published" book. I guess so she can give me advice or empathy or something when I hit the point of needing such a book. Anyway, I skimmed through it a little bit and the common advice seems to be what I already knew: write everyday. More of writing pages of shit for a line you love. So here I am.
Mark and I had our first radio show last Monday. It went pretty well for everyone... except whoever tried to call in. We could not figure that stupid phone out. We played some quality jams though, rocked out a little bit. It was fun and I'm looking forward to this upcoming Monday.
Spring break I'm roadtripping to Canada with Keith and Mark.
...
That right there was a pause for applause.
The Moon Red-Handed is coming along, coming together. I've never really been held to a practive regiment before when it comes to music, but everyone who wants to progress should be. Most of the recording equipment I ordered came in too. So big things are ahead, methinks.
Man, I wanted real bad to go to Six Flags tomorrow to see everyone. The weather is effin' shit though. Rain rain, GTFO.
Aside: I just got a text message that says, "Hey can you do me a favor and shut your mouth or I will do it for you okay? Have a great day" And all I can think about is what a terrible sentence it is. /Aside
But yeah. I only even really want to see 4 or 5 people. And I'll be alone in my visit because that's how it goes.
Aside: Nowhere people really are terribly dramatic. /Aside
And then there's the party. Do I even want to go?
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
My mom is reading some "How to get published" book. I guess so she can give me advice or empathy or something when I hit the point of needing such a book. Anyway, I skimmed through it a little bit and the common advice seems to be what I already knew: write everyday. More of writing pages of shit for a line you love. So here I am.
Mark and I had our first radio show last Monday. It went pretty well for everyone... except whoever tried to call in. We could not figure that stupid phone out. We played some quality jams though, rocked out a little bit. It was fun and I'm looking forward to this upcoming Monday.
Spring break I'm roadtripping to Canada with Keith and Mark.
...
That right there was a pause for applause.
The Moon Red-Handed is coming along, coming together. I've never really been held to a practive regiment before when it comes to music, but everyone who wants to progress should be. Most of the recording equipment I ordered came in too. So big things are ahead, methinks.
Man, I wanted real bad to go to Six Flags tomorrow to see everyone. The weather is effin' shit though. Rain rain, GTFO.
Aside: I just got a text message that says, "Hey can you do me a favor and shut your mouth or I will do it for you okay? Have a great day" And all I can think about is what a terrible sentence it is. /Aside
But yeah. I only even really want to see 4 or 5 people. And I'll be alone in my visit because that's how it goes.
Aside: Nowhere people really are terribly dramatic. /Aside
And then there's the party. Do I even want to go?
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
A soundtrack
Why the hell do these things work out so perfectly?
1. Open your library (iTunes, Winamp, Media Player, iPod, etc)
2. Put it on shuffle
3. Press play
4. For every question, type the song that's playing
5. When you go to a new question, press the next button
6. Don't try to pretend you're cool...
SOUNDTRACK TO THE LIFE OF: Me
Opening Credits:
"Wolf's Mouth" Kevin Devine
Waking Up:
"Kracked" Dinosaur Jr.
First Day of School:
"A View from the Afternoon" Arctic Monkeys
First Kiss:
"Roads" Portishead
Falling in Love:
"What's in Store?" Architecture in Helsinki
Fight Song:
"Killing a Camera" Braid
Breaking Up:
"I Don't Know How to Say This" The Early November
High School:
"The Ugly Organist" Cursive
Prom:
"Silver" Mineral
College:
"Katrien" Mogwai
Study Abroad:
"After O'Rourke's 2:10am" The Good Life
That One Drunk night:
"Bacardi" Nada Surf
(WTF.)
Life:
"In a Radio Song" Okkervil River
Mental Breakdown:
"Pull My Hair" Bright Eyes
Walking Down the Street:
"Blueside" Rooney
How your Husband/ Wife Feels about you:
"Cute Without the 'E'" The Vitamin String Quartet
Driving:
"Enthused" blink-182
Flashback:
"A Shot in the Arm" Wilco
Getting Back Together:
"Butterfly" Weezer
First Job:
"Harvest Moon" Neil Young
Wedding:
"Love and Some Verses" Iron & Wine
Birth of Child:
"Alone Down There" Modest Mouse
(Oh my.)
Vacation:
"All There Is" Rites of Spring
Retirement:
"Neon Bible" The Arcade Fire
Final Battle:
"Smith" Pompeii
Death Scene:
"Last Call" Elliott Smith
Funeral Song:
"I Hope Tomorrow is Like Today" Guster
Closing Credits:
"Voids" Paulson
Funny funny funny.
Bomb it,
Mike
1. Open your library (iTunes, Winamp, Media Player, iPod, etc)
2. Put it on shuffle
3. Press play
4. For every question, type the song that's playing
5. When you go to a new question, press the next button
6. Don't try to pretend you're cool...
SOUNDTRACK TO THE LIFE OF: Me
Opening Credits:
"Wolf's Mouth" Kevin Devine
Waking Up:
"Kracked" Dinosaur Jr.
First Day of School:
"A View from the Afternoon" Arctic Monkeys
First Kiss:
"Roads" Portishead
Falling in Love:
"What's in Store?" Architecture in Helsinki
Fight Song:
"Killing a Camera" Braid
Breaking Up:
"I Don't Know How to Say This" The Early November
High School:
"The Ugly Organist" Cursive
Prom:
"Silver" Mineral
College:
"Katrien" Mogwai
Study Abroad:
"After O'Rourke's 2:10am" The Good Life
That One Drunk night:
"Bacardi" Nada Surf
(WTF.)
Life:
"In a Radio Song" Okkervil River
Mental Breakdown:
"Pull My Hair" Bright Eyes
Walking Down the Street:
"Blueside" Rooney
How your Husband/ Wife Feels about you:
"Cute Without the 'E'" The Vitamin String Quartet
Driving:
"Enthused" blink-182
Flashback:
"A Shot in the Arm" Wilco
Getting Back Together:
"Butterfly" Weezer
First Job:
"Harvest Moon" Neil Young
Wedding:
"Love and Some Verses" Iron & Wine
Birth of Child:
"Alone Down There" Modest Mouse
(Oh my.)
Vacation:
"All There Is" Rites of Spring
Retirement:
"Neon Bible" The Arcade Fire
Final Battle:
"Smith" Pompeii
Death Scene:
"Last Call" Elliott Smith
Funeral Song:
"I Hope Tomorrow is Like Today" Guster
Closing Credits:
"Voids" Paulson
Funny funny funny.
Bomb it,
Mike
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
The arc and the eclipse
Things come together and things drift apart.
And so seems the general operation of it all.
Really, a post a month wasn't what I was gunning for. But the whole apology thing is growing tired I'm sure. Perhaps I should be more concise and less ambling. More visual and less introspective. I can't scribe my chronology, but I can paint snapshots-- that kind of thing.
So I've finally got something cooperative and musical going on! The sixth, or thereabouts, saw the birth of The Moon Red-Handed-- and acoustic project of Sir Rick Marciano and myself. Judging by our first little jam session the other day, there is certainly something to look forward to. The only downside is that writing songs severely inhibits by ability to write poetry. Yeah, believe it or not the process is entirely different. But it is what it is and I'm glad to make the trade.
I used exclamation points in the previous paragraph.
There's electricity in the air.
I've been pretty down the last couple days(weeks?). The single life is one I'm accustomed to. But it's also one I feel like I need to outgrow eventually. Like wearing hand-me-downs. And it isn't looking so good on me-- especially not lately. Loneliness is a callous lover, let me tell you. Not that, I'm sure, you need telling. We all know the chill.
And I guess I'm just jealous of all the happy couples. I am. And it isn't worth it to pretend I'm not.
It's just that people are so fickle
they fall in love at different angles.
I haven't shared any poetry in a while. Here you go:
[removed]
Bomb the blogosphere,
Mike
And so seems the general operation of it all.
Really, a post a month wasn't what I was gunning for. But the whole apology thing is growing tired I'm sure. Perhaps I should be more concise and less ambling. More visual and less introspective. I can't scribe my chronology, but I can paint snapshots-- that kind of thing.
So I've finally got something cooperative and musical going on! The sixth, or thereabouts, saw the birth of The Moon Red-Handed-- and acoustic project of Sir Rick Marciano and myself. Judging by our first little jam session the other day, there is certainly something to look forward to. The only downside is that writing songs severely inhibits by ability to write poetry. Yeah, believe it or not the process is entirely different. But it is what it is and I'm glad to make the trade.
I used exclamation points in the previous paragraph.
There's electricity in the air.
I've been pretty down the last couple days(weeks?). The single life is one I'm accustomed to. But it's also one I feel like I need to outgrow eventually. Like wearing hand-me-downs. And it isn't looking so good on me-- especially not lately. Loneliness is a callous lover, let me tell you. Not that, I'm sure, you need telling. We all know the chill.
And I guess I'm just jealous of all the happy couples. I am. And it isn't worth it to pretend I'm not.
It's just that people are so fickle
they fall in love at different angles.
I haven't shared any poetry in a while. Here you go:
[removed]
Bomb the blogosphere,
Mike
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Prairie fires
I sometimes worry that to keep a blog such as this one is self-serving and egotistical. So many sentences beginning with "I". But at the same time, where am I without that pharmaceutical glow or percussion of text against eyes against mind against heart? Shut up tight, liquor-lunged perhaps or bronzed from necessity to be something worth knowing. So it's as much for me to share as it is for you to cradle, maybe. And that alone is enough justify it.
That, and the echo.
It's been a while again, hasn't it? I'd promise not to make a habit of allowing months between posts but these things happen. The shame of it is that with such a larger span of time to reflect on I feel like I lose track of the minute bits of beauty that really matter in favor of summary. But this too, will happen. Almost as unforgiving is the feeling of responsibility- to say something grand and worthy of time wasted. And I'll be honest, there's nothing more synthetic than a month sprinkled in powdered sugar. So we'll try avoid that. We'll stay as small as we can without losing it through the space between our fingers.
I don't miss being home any more than I missed college those first weeks between sheets that smell like the sheets I've slept between for years. The freedom is still fresh and I haven't enough time to think about how I'm another year older and another year more unfit for hiding under my parents wings. Or how in 3 years I'll be expected to frequent the nest more as a novelty than a necessity. Give me time. I'll be thoroughly worried about my life and my future and growing up soon. Right now I'm just enjoying the quiet and the late mornings.
My classes are alright. Naturally, Poetry Workshop is the high point of my academic week. My professor proving himself a genius over and over again with each class. It's a homecoming and my poems have never been more organic. Better writers than I have dreamed of being poets. And better writers than I have crumbled, become homeless, sucked shotguns off, given up. Taught high school English in tiny Minnesota towns. Drank until the words couldn't tread water any longer. And worse writers than them have weathered long enough to see dawn break the storm clouds. Precious few of us wake to blue skies. Precious few.
Intro to Psych is essentially the same course I took in high school. With the same book and everything. Anything short of an A is a product of my foolishness. Intro to Lit is essentially 3 hours of prospective Literature majors attempting to assert themselves as insightful. It'd be wrong of me to assume myself above this, but I don't know. If only Hemingway knew what we were going to do to his work. He'd have shot his publisher before himself.
I have Public Speaking tomorrow. It's more work than a Public Speaking course should be, but the professor knows her shit. And the company is quite the opposite of unpleasant. Quiz tomorrow. I haven't studied.
Of all the things I think about, the wildest must be my midwest romances. There are few things more desirable than sky blue skies into sunsets over rangetops. Of handholding and gypsy-moths and blue jeans and prairie fires. The warmth that sweeps through evening chill like inland waves or music.
It's funny how people can look different from different angles. Or how hard it is to tell the girl across the classroom that her abnormally large nose was the most beautiful thing I saw today. That so much history must be in the creases of her face that form when she smiles. Some eyes are just tired. And I want to tell you, boy with the cigarette outside the atrium, that I know how you feel. You're gonna be alright.
We're all gonna be just fine.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
Post Script: Something more tethered to Earth soon haha. I promise.
That, and the echo.
It's been a while again, hasn't it? I'd promise not to make a habit of allowing months between posts but these things happen. The shame of it is that with such a larger span of time to reflect on I feel like I lose track of the minute bits of beauty that really matter in favor of summary. But this too, will happen. Almost as unforgiving is the feeling of responsibility- to say something grand and worthy of time wasted. And I'll be honest, there's nothing more synthetic than a month sprinkled in powdered sugar. So we'll try avoid that. We'll stay as small as we can without losing it through the space between our fingers.
I don't miss being home any more than I missed college those first weeks between sheets that smell like the sheets I've slept between for years. The freedom is still fresh and I haven't enough time to think about how I'm another year older and another year more unfit for hiding under my parents wings. Or how in 3 years I'll be expected to frequent the nest more as a novelty than a necessity. Give me time. I'll be thoroughly worried about my life and my future and growing up soon. Right now I'm just enjoying the quiet and the late mornings.
My classes are alright. Naturally, Poetry Workshop is the high point of my academic week. My professor proving himself a genius over and over again with each class. It's a homecoming and my poems have never been more organic. Better writers than I have dreamed of being poets. And better writers than I have crumbled, become homeless, sucked shotguns off, given up. Taught high school English in tiny Minnesota towns. Drank until the words couldn't tread water any longer. And worse writers than them have weathered long enough to see dawn break the storm clouds. Precious few of us wake to blue skies. Precious few.
Intro to Psych is essentially the same course I took in high school. With the same book and everything. Anything short of an A is a product of my foolishness. Intro to Lit is essentially 3 hours of prospective Literature majors attempting to assert themselves as insightful. It'd be wrong of me to assume myself above this, but I don't know. If only Hemingway knew what we were going to do to his work. He'd have shot his publisher before himself.
I have Public Speaking tomorrow. It's more work than a Public Speaking course should be, but the professor knows her shit. And the company is quite the opposite of unpleasant. Quiz tomorrow. I haven't studied.
Of all the things I think about, the wildest must be my midwest romances. There are few things more desirable than sky blue skies into sunsets over rangetops. Of handholding and gypsy-moths and blue jeans and prairie fires. The warmth that sweeps through evening chill like inland waves or music.
It's funny how people can look different from different angles. Or how hard it is to tell the girl across the classroom that her abnormally large nose was the most beautiful thing I saw today. That so much history must be in the creases of her face that form when she smiles. Some eyes are just tired. And I want to tell you, boy with the cigarette outside the atrium, that I know how you feel. You're gonna be alright.
We're all gonna be just fine.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
Post Script: Something more tethered to Earth soon haha. I promise.
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