tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42988786634247508702024-03-14T01:04:37.508-07:00The History of Words"I would hurl words into this darkness and wait for an echo, and if an echo sounded, no matter how faintly, I would send other words to tell, to march, to fight, to create a sense of hunger for life that gnaws in us all." - Richard WrightMeghanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03728995525432436005noreply@blogger.comBlogger20125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4298878663424750870.post-24494109980145486562014-03-04T14:03:00.001-08:002014-03-04T14:05:00.169-08:00Falling Faster Than You Can RunIt goes a little bit like this...<br />
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Arrive at coffee shop. Dance with your decision to order coffee or tea since it will be the second cup of the morning. Wonder if it's actually caffeine that incites jumpy hands and a wandering mind, or just the weight of time. Think about <i>True Detective</i>'s treatment of time and Sunday's penultimate episode. <i>Time is a flat circle</i>, you know. Realize it's your turn to order. Panic order a latte and bagel with cream cheese, which was never a part of the plan. Request extra cream cheese. Because, why not?</div>
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Realize there are no available seats with easy access to a power plug-in. Feel sadness, or something similar, about your inability to remember to keep your devices charged. Look at your phone. 21% and waning. Unpack your bag of tricks anyway. Computer, phone, headphones, book, second book (as if you might finish the first book in a day's work); beloved Pilot pen. See how many windows you can actually open on Google Chrome. Tweet something random. Get lost on Twitter. Read <a href="http://grantland.com/features/after-normal/" target="_blank">this.</a> Think it's fantastic. Experience a fantasy daydream moment about the pulitzer prize. The image on the medal itself - how hard he must be pulling on the vestige of some ancient dream, about to fall.</div>
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Watch people - the way they move, the way they move when they know they are being watched - the way they like it, the way they don't. Realize time is waning just like your phone battery. Write a few sentences. Get distracted and then lost on a really weird Tumblr for longer than can accurately be admitted. Think about words. Yearn for your headphones to play your music even louder - the full consumption water gives when invading underwater ears. Get lost on Spotify; wonder why people don't use the private session feature more often. They should. </div>
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Turn music even louder to drown out ladies who have weekday coffee dates sitting next to you. Turn down the music to listen to their Oscar recap. They loved Philomena and thought Lupita's dress was <i>too</i> low-cut since she's flat chested; <i>so</i> upsetting that Ellen would joke about Liza, just where was George Clooney? Sometimes people surprise you, sometimes they don't. Music turned back up for Ólafur Arnalds <i>Living Room Songs.</i> Swear you can feel it move from the middle of you and then outwards; sensations like the edges of fire or something more destructive. Think about the book sitting behind your computer. John Cheever, that Chekhovian storyteller of the suburbs - the doormen of the the Upper East Side, the illuminated houses in Connecticut suburbs where dark nights and long days reveal gin-soaked swimmers and the ghost of some summer’s past.<br />
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Vintage Cheever, Collected Stories</span></i></div>
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Feel hungry, but realize it’s an excuse to walk away. The stories we tell ourselves in procrastination or panic are far more survivalist than any real urge to feed or feel. Wonder if it's possible to create and remain invulnerable. See someone you know through the window; freeze in motion while you wonder if you should duck or wave. Press your back against the glass in hopes it might embrace or destroy you, a cool and terrifying illusion. Pray for silence, turn up the music until it hurts your ears. Take the final sip of cold coffee. Should have gotten tea. At some point in your Spotify session, rediscover Nathaniel Rateliff’s album, <i>Falling Faster Than You Can Run</i>. Realize (again) vulnerability is the point. Listen to the album multiple times. Make note in margin: <i>running will do you no good, I'm going to fall, and probably should</i>. Turn back to words. </div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Falling Faster Than You Can Run</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Mod y Vi Records</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">2014</span></i></div>
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“A writer can be seen clumsily learning to walk, to tie his necktie, to make love, and to eat his peas off his fork. He appears much alone and determined to instruct himself. Naive, provincial in my case, sometimes drunk, sometimes obtuse, almost always clumsy, even a selected display of one’s early work will be a naked history of one’s struggle to receive an education in economics and love.”<br />
John Cheever - <i>Preface, The Stories of John Cheever</i></div>
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Meghanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03728995525432436005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4298878663424750870.post-87619301288091791162014-01-06T14:53:00.000-08:002014-02-26T17:47:40.699-08:00Retrograde: A Return to Previous Themes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I suppose I should count it as propitious that I did not resolve to be timely this year. It's six days into the new year and I have to yet to fully grasp just what occurred in 2013. Not for lack of hunger or thirst, but for reticence to abbreviate and surmise. In some ways it was a cruel year, tragic and not without tempestuous clouds, but it was also a year of high notes - cultural fortitude and the undercurrent of some renaissance. Even if that's wishful thinking eventually we must always reprise to a previous theme, and it seems long overdue...</div>
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In 2013 we worshiped in CHVRCHES, praised Yeezus, and understood the bloodthirst of the Weekend vampire. Lourde told us we'll never be Royals, but baby George and the <a href="http://www.mtv.com/news/articles/1719749/5-reasons-why-baby-north-west-had-better-year-than.jhtml" target="_blank">directionally confused demigod</a> disagree. Some <i>Twerk</i>'ed or watched along as young entertainers sought infamy, or moments thereof, via public acts of absurdity. Actions without intention or cultural reference (even when misunderstood) are of the worst kind. We reveled in the bang of the onscreen apocalypse. Walter White went out with a whisper, as Jesse drove screaming into wild freedom. (Spoiler alert kids: he was definitely arrested one mile down the road, right?) Netflix forever changed the landscape of television consumption. Orange (and television binge-viewing) became the new black. Frank Underwood sauntered onscreen via stage left, soliloquist; reminiscent of some tragic, bloodied Scottish general. <i>Reprise. </i>Even in politics little was spared: secrets were leaked, the government went on vacation, and we lost many great minds including our South African, peaceful warrior.<br />
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In contemplation of the previous year and in anticipation for time still to come, I will share some of my personal highlights of the 2013 cultural landscape. They are not necessarily my critical tops, but they are pieces that continue to resonate with me. As I am perched in 2014 and ruminating on 2013, I find my first choice of song, <i>Retrograde</i>, very fitting.<br />
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<b>Tune of the Year: <i>Retrograde</i></b><br />
<i>Retrograde </i>by James Blake is just plain sexy. Though Blake has created some controversy for himself by <a href="http://pitchfork.com/news/44141-echo-chamber-james-blake/" target="_blank">drawing a line in the dubstep sand</a>, he is irrevocably talented and this sophomore album is so delightfully textured and full of the sounds that make him such a compelling artist: R&B, dubstep (the right kind), electronic, gospel, and solo piano. The beginning vocal loop could be the only thing on the track and it would still be the sexiest thing this year. Get into it.<br />
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<b>Album of the Year: <i>White Lighter, </i>Typhoon</b><br />
Originally, I thought of 2013 as the year of the female voice. From Lucius to Daughter to Haim to POLICA - all the sounds I kept returning to were female. But there was nothing else quite like Typhoon's <i>White Lighter</i>. A band comprised of eleven members - including female vocals and harmonies - Typhoon is more an orchestra than a band after all. Their heavy, full, sometimes clamorous sound is textured and rich and then literally collapses into reflective refrain. All of this is guided by Kyle Morton's lyrical storytelling. After a few listens you will see that in both sound and theme it is a concept album that tackles the arc of youth: growing older, gaining awareness and facing the strange and often noxious trials that rise out of that passage.<br />
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<b>Documentary: <i>The Stories We Tell</i></b><br />
<i>The Stories We Tell</i> directed by Sarah Polley (<i>Away from Her</i>, <i>Take This Waltz</i>) was perhaps one of the most staggering, profoundly human pieces of art that I came across this year. Polley sets out to uncover family secrets and unbind the myths of her family's collective voices into one true narrative, but the story itself takes a hold of the feature and twists the genre into something else entirely. I will not spoil the film's most delicate surprise, which is not what it seems at all. It is deeply personal, permanently stained with nostalgia and so entirely human. Sarah's deft storytelling, immutable search for the truth, and Michael Polley's narrative carry the film through the twists and turns of a naturally messy history. In the end stories are just the lies we tell ourselves, are humans themselves are often are the most resounding anecdotes that can be imagined.<br />
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<span style="font-size: 13.333333969116211px;">"When you're in the middle of a story, it isn't a story at all but rather a confusion, a dark roaring, a blindness, a wreckage of shattered glass and splintered wood, like a house in a whirlwind or else a boat crushed by the icebergs or swept over the rapids, and all aboard are powerless to stop it. It's only afterwards that it becomes anything like a story at all, when you're telling it to yourself or someone else."</span></div>
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<b>Fiction: <i>Tenth of December</i>, George Saunders</b><br />
This short story collection will make you feel; really feel. Feel so much that you laugh and cry at the same time; you wonder how language, having come so far, can still seem so imaginative and absolutely bizarre. Though Saunder's crafts strange worlds that appear like science fiction, the absurdity itself is that these worlds and their idioms are not so far from our current human condition. It is often vast and devastating within his dark landscapes, there is still a sense of humanity and shameless humor that is not to be missed. Read this book.<br />
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<b>Television Series: <i>Masters of Sex</i></b><br />
It was a strange, but good year for television; still much was clouded by the haze of Walter's blue crystals. It was a finale seen round the world and to me was a bit lacking (but that's another story). For new debuts I loved the first season of Sundance's <i>Rectify, </i>which has been renewed for 2014, and I am slowly digesting Jane Campion's weird and wonderful <i>Top of the Lake </i>on Netflix. <i>House of Cards</i>, of course.<br />
But the standout for me was <i>Master's of Sex</i>. The strength of acting, the simultaneous restraint and immodest hungriness, and the deftly told scientific history make it a very compelling series. Every character is round and full enough to carry the show itself, and bare enough to leave you breathless. I must admit something though...I haven't seen the whole first season. Having binge watched as many possible episodes over the holidays I'm still a few episodes behind the season finale. Perhaps like the show's subject matter itself, the near anticipation of the finale has kept me in wanting. Good art models the very arc of the emotions it hopes to elicit.<br />
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<b>Scene Stealer: <i>Miles Teller</i></b><br />
For years I've been wishing that we could recreate young John Cusack and keep making heartbreaking but funny coming of age movies. Talk fast, love hard, and hold that boombox so good. Thanks for listening universe.<br />
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<b>Movie: <i>Breathe In</i></b><br />
I've intentionally chosen a movie I think was overlooked and only really ran on the film festival circuit. There were many beautiful films last year, but this is one that perhaps you haven't seen. Drake Doremus (<i>Like Crazy</i>) tells stories the way you might recall them in your mind: as a visitor - with slow reluctance, memories flooding like water, music telling the tempo, and strange emotions extracted. Performances by Guy Pearce, Felicity Jones, and Amy Ryan were strong and heartbreaking. The score by Dustin O'Halloran is so deftly felt it adds another presence to the film; it has also found a permanent home in my music rotation. <i>Breathe In</i> is best viewed through the lens and weight of a short story; breathe in, but don't be prepared to breathe out just yet.<br />
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<b>Come Back Kid: <i>Jay Gatsby</i></b><br />
Oh sweet Jay. What can I say? I will spare you my thoughts on <i>The Great Gatsby</i> itself (Baz Luhrmann's version, I could write another novel about the novel itself), but I can't resist delving into a literary character revival. Jay Gatsby. The romantic, the great tragic hero, the essence of the American Dream and it's eventual disillusion. It's a story and character we romanticize, an inherent part of our natural American landscape; book sales skyrocketed this year under the imminence of the the movie release. Gatsby was first revived in film by Robert Redford (in the hands of Francis Ford Coppola) in 1974 and then again last year by Leonardo DiCaprio (Luhrmann). The story, and Gatsby himself, is perhaps the ultimate warning against retrograde - eternally moving backwards towards a girl, goal, a point, a green light.<br />
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<i>"Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that's no matter - tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther....And one fine morning--"</i></div>
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You know the rest, or at least you should.*</div>
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<i>*In case you were sleeping in English class. "So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."</i></div>
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<br />Meghanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03728995525432436005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4298878663424750870.post-83917697626047681602013-11-22T17:47:00.001-08:002013-11-22T17:47:41.946-08:00A Memorable Shelving: The Maytrees and The LowlandI know people that are very particular about their bookshelves, fanatically so. For those particularly bound to the stories they read, it can become a very heavy task – not just a stowing away – but a finding of refuge for something that once read becomes a part of your emotional memory and intellectual framework. How does one go about that?<br /><br />Imagine a bookshelf where Homer rests heavily upon Kafka, or Franzen rubs bindings with Austen. Hempl stacked upon Palahniuk, supported by Descartes. How unsettling to find Shakespeare nestled amongst the Naturalists. Actually, Shakespeare might rest upon anything most comfortably. And then, there is Joyce and Stephen King pressed together, reticent. <br /><br />Every time I go to put away a book I’ve finished, I too can understand the thirst for classification, a thoughtful tidiness. Thinking about unlikely pairings is quite fun actually. It allows for the birth of a compelling literary argument, to let certain stories lie down together. To what extent do the stories collide, or diverge so aggressively? We might even find that some would surprise us with their similar stories, a similar feel. <br /><br />I read two books this past month in a fever dream of words. Perhaps because of time, but mostly because of their arresting language, setting, and similar themes they will forever resonate with me as pairing. Two books I could shelve together and rest assuredly at their placement, sounding the same as they roll off my tongue: Annie Dillard’s <i>The Maytrees </i>and Jhumpha Lahiri’s <i>The Lowland</i>. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>The Maytrees</i> was published in 2007 and is one of two fiction works by Dillard. It is slight in size, but full of what some have described as mysterious and arcane language and thoughtful, heavy themes on love and marriage. The Lowland was published this year (nominated for the National Book Award) and tells the multi-generational tale of two Indian brothers, born just a few minutes apart, but living separate existences in Calcutta and America. From any angle these may seem like two very different books, and don’t misunderstand that they are indeed, very different. But in their essence they are love stories (aren’t they all somehow?). They are love stories wrought from the bonds of brotherhood, marriage, and progeny – bound or broken by the common act of desertion. This desertion, whether decided by will or by some dire providence, alters the course of both narratives and we come to endure with those left behind. Their will for survival, the things that are done to understand or to harbor, and mostly the things that are done for the people that they love. Both stories follow the arch of the inevitable – change and aging and death – but what endues is the heaviest theme: love’s great cruelty is that it does not allow for forgetfulness.</div>
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<b>A setting, the sea</b></h3>
Both stories are born in the lowest of lands, close to the flatness of the sea. The quiet, coastal aesthetic lends a balance to the tempo of the narratives, and yet at the heart of each story the tide measures out each coming sea change – a reminder that underneath quiet waters there are always movements we are not privy to. <br /><br /><i>The Maytrees</i> is set in Provincetown: “what still seems antiquity’s surface…that exposed and mineral sandspit” – where Lou and Toby Maytree first fall in love – developing their own syncopated rhythm, learning to speak a delicate language at once their own. The sea is always a quiet third party within their marriage, a marking of intimacy and foretelling of storms, even until the very end: <i>“here came sneaking the tide. Its raised rims caught star light that streaked along the beach like lighted eels.”</i><br /><br /><i>The Lowlands</i> begins and ends near a flooded plain outside of a Calcutta neighborhood. But one of the brothers, Subash, relocates to Providence, Rhode Island for his PhD program. It is there that he becomes surrounded by the ocean: his oceanography campus overlooking the Narragansett Bay, a frequent visitor to the beach front under the Newport Bridge, and as compass to his surroundings: <i>“Opening the door, he saw that the tide was in. The sky was bright, the ocean clam. No sign, apart from all the seaweed that had washed like empty nests up on the sand, of the storm there had been.” </i><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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An act, the desertion</h3>
Desertion is the common theme that pervades these novels. It's no matter really if desertion comes by decision or divinity. Do these differ so much to the one that’s left behind?<br /><br />For Lou Maytree it is an undoing – an attempt at extricating something long embedded within her skin. A relearning, for newness always requires some sense of retreat: <i>“She would have the rest of her life to pace lost ground.” </i>And yet, when she and their son, Petie, are asked to reopen themselves it happens with such quick, innate understanding that one would imagine that nothing was ever lost at all.<br /><br />For Subash in <i>The Lowland</i> it is an undertaking – an attempt at salvation through understanding. Some part of him made more whole by seeking the beloved assets of his fellow. Gauri was never his, nor was she meant to be. He is seemingly made whole by the arrival of his daughter, Bela, but even that alliance is a rickety assemblage.<br /><br />For Gauri it is indoctrination – the only way that she can rectify herself against remembering. Throwing herself into philosophy – chasing time –and through it coming into a treaty with herself: <i>“Guari’s mind had saved her. It has enabled her to stand upright. It had cleared a path for her.”</i><br /><br />For Bela it is a betrayal – made ripe in her childhood and then again, as she faces the possibility of her own progeny, she is made privy to the evolution of her own lineage. One memory that she cannot forget, one that she will never know.<br /><h3>
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An end, memory remains</h3>
In the end, it is Lou and Udyan that we hear from; the deserters. It is not their fault that their narratives <i>in absentia </i>so greatly affect the tides of the rest. This is the way a love story so quickly brushes up against, and makes its bed with loss and separation. For nothing that is once given, can so easily be taken away. To forget: that kind of theft would be too merciful for something that was once so consuming. How easy to recall the figure of a departed spouse, to relive a childhood memory of brotherhood adventures, how simple to summon the profile of a mother you have tried to forget, how effortless to return to intimacy. Gestures are just the shadows of relearned memories that we will always be accustomed to; they will survive longer than anyone. <br /><h3>
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<b>A shelving, a final note</b></h3>
I have tried to make the discussion of storyline vague in this reading so that you will be moved to read these beautiful books. Please do. Read them today, or tomorrow, or take all of next year. I will not forget the way they, together, consumed me. Above all, I walked away with a feeling: and a terrible, but tender perch from which to discern memory.<br />We are elastic, or so we long to be. Bound permanently to time, but so wiling to test the restrictions of that stretch: for love, for nostalgia, for our offspring, even for the brevity of a thrill. How helpless we must look against providence, but how we kick and scream and wail and curse and fight and moan and sweat against it. In the end, when we are less elastic or tired of the stretch itself, we will revel in memory like it’s sustenance, survival. It probably is. If not, pray for amnesia. </div>
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Now, back to where to shelve these books...</div>
Meghanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03728995525432436005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4298878663424750870.post-62068797795251506442013-10-31T13:16:00.001-07:002013-10-31T13:16:41.625-07:00Cavalier<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>“Speak until the dust settles in the same specific place.” – James Vincent McMorrow</i></div>
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James Vincent McMorrow has a voice that will break your heart. A strange falsetto that will linger in that lofty, unknown register for longer than you’d like. His debut album, <i>Early in the Morning</i>, was a favorite of mine in 2011. It is an album very much rooted in the folk tradition: anthemic choruses, confessional lyrics, and of course that voice. And yet, there is a quality to his music that provides various layers of listening and reveals manifold influences. <i>We Don’t Eat</i> and <i>Down the Burning Ropes </i>find extra strength with the addition of the chorus, and they also use the ostinato note that is most common in Jazz and R&B. Could you not just as easily lay an electronic beat under these songs to compliment the repetitive rhythms and notes?<br />
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With this in mind, I was delighted to hear <i>Cavalier </i>from McMorrow’s forthcoming album, <i>Post Tropical</i> (out on <a href="http://www.vagrant.com/">Vagrant Records</a>, January 2014). The sobering sentiment of his music remains the same, but the banjo and acoustic guitar have been shelved for electronic layering and smooth soul sounds. Is that also brass I hear triumphing along with his falsetto at the end of the song? Comparisons to James Blake, D’Angelo, and perhaps even Jamie Woon are sure to arise. I can't help but hear even earlier sounds as well - sounds similar to those I grew up with. Synthesized, beat-driven, often sentimental ‘soft rock’ from the late 70’s and early 80’s. If his cover of <i>Higher Love</i> was any indication, I might be inclined to listen to McMorrow’s track along with the likes of early Steve Winwood or Phil Collins. And I’m certain I wasn’t the first to notice the album art for <i>Post Tropical</i> and it’s resemblance to Christopher Cross’ 1979 album. Flamingos unite.<br />
In anticipation of the full <i>Post Tropical</i> album, I like to listen to <i>Cavalier</i> as inherently attributed to earlier music forms, deepened by modern soul and R&B influences, but driven further forward by rapt attention to what's come before. An understanding of (and perhaps even a tribute to) this landscape has allowed him to put notes to a boarder picture, and create a singular sound for himself.<br />
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Let’s talk about the video which is cavalier in and of itself. I heard the song before I played the video and though I didn’t expect <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SxVNOnPyvIU" target="_blank">a naked McMorrow singing soulfully from a dark empty room</a>, I’m not certain I was expecting such a soulful song to elicit such a tragic, story-driven scene. The video is directed by <a href="http://www.aoifemcardle.com/">Aoife McArdle</a>, a Northern Ireland native and director/writer. She attributes most of her visual inspiration to writing and this attention to narrative is apparent in her work. The story opens at the proper beginning - the middle - with a feverish attempt at forgetting. Settings are born from the most lonesome of night spaces – a strip club, bars, bathroom, laundry mat, convenience store, and a nearly vacant bus. As if this insalubrious nighttime were a burial ground for a love story. But similar to that tale they always told us about the cream in the milk, so too will the sadness of memory rise to the top. <i>I remember my first love.</i><br />
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It’s clear that McMorrow should not be pegged as a folk
artist. There’s a
genre-blending here that leaves me rapt for what other sounds might emerge from
his new record. But if one thing is woven throughout his repertoire, it’s a
sense of sweet lamentation, the loss of an idea or some fond love -and all I hear throughout is a beautiful, Irish Caoineadh song. <i>I
remember my first love.</i><br />
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Meghanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03728995525432436005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4298878663424750870.post-19540779721161521252013-04-30T22:35:00.001-07:002013-04-30T22:35:19.331-07:00"Every Love Story is a Ghost Story"<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i>"Every Love Story is a Ghost Story." </i></b></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">- David Foster Wallace</span></i><br />
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<i><span style="text-align: left;">This is not a ghost story. It is a figure, hazy like an apparition before me, moving with meaning and speaking in voices familiar. As real and warm as flesh, and yet somehow unanchored to anything at this present hour. Faceless, at least in recollection, but I take more assurance in sound than shapes. Why is it that ghost stories are always told in hushed voices, in dimly lit spaces? A feeling of intimacy so notional that fear is inspired before visions make themselves known. Perhaps it's not the presence of something foreign, but the absence of something certain that breeds fear. Upon taking past moments to mind, I find them so slippery and ephemeral that they are a vision more feared than any real or retold haunting. </span><span style="text-align: left;">This is not a ghost story, it's just a memory.</span></i></div>
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I am fascinated by how we are intrinsically drawn to themes and motifs of language, whether conscious or unconscious. It's no surprise that the supernatural is a theme that prevails in current and popular art forms in many ways; it seems you can't have a modern love story without a blood-hungry vampire, or a survival guide that doesn't involve running from a zombie. Cover your veins and watch your back, these are creatures that deal with the most fearsome subjects - love and mortality. But what about the quieter, more evasive presences? Taking a recent delve into my musical repitoire, I found myself to be haunted by ghosts at every turn. Song titles, albums, subtle references, reoccurring themes. What is the source of this unsettling?</div>
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This got me thinking about ghosts as a modern artistic and literary motif. In literature ghosts appear in Greek tragedy and with abundance in Shakespeare, haunting the pages of <i>Hamlet</i>, <i>Macbeth</i>, <i>Julius Caesar</i> and <i>Richard III</i>. In <i>Macbeth</i>, Banquo moves through crowded rooms, but is visible only to the eyes of Macbeth himself. In <i>Hamlet</i>, the ghost of the King appears early on the scene and changes the mental and physical course of the landscape that lies ahead; it is he who convinces Hamlet to seek revenge on King Claudius. Many of our modern stories are built on the shoulders of these tales. Then the Victorian era begot the quintessential ghost story, a blend of folklore and twisted psychology meant to inspire fear and terror. The emergence of Spiritualism and Freudian psychoanalysis led to deeper, darker provocations of the human mind and the supernatural was not only a topic of parlor conversations but prominent in literature and the arts.<br />
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Many decades later, the post-modern era shows a strong return to this Victorian gothic sensibility; ghosts haunt every turn. But before writing this off as simply neo-gothic, we should consider this haunting as a vital part of post-modern thought, and a fragment of our current zeitgeist. The ghost that I've encountered in modern music and text provides a single and profound psychological haunting. These are not ghosts that change the shape of plot lines, cause death, or induce terror. They reveal an unexpected presence, but it's more of the mind and less of the body - a dissonance between time and space, a confusion of memory. A dusty visitation from the past, a longing for something other than the present moment, an elegy to a lover long forgotten.<br />
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Each story is so wrought with longing, I couldn't help but think of the phrase attributed to David Foster Wallace, "every love story is a ghost story." In an <a href="http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/books/2012/12/david-foster-wallace-tracing-the-ghostly-origins-of-a-phrase.html" target="_blank">article</a> written by Wallace's biographer, D.T. Max questions the evolution of the phrase itself, perhaps not even originally ascribed by Wallace. The conclusion itself seems ghostlike: "hard to trace pathways" reveal little - maybe he penned it, maybe he didn't. I was also particularly struck by Max's mention of Weltschmerz. In a generation so defined by familiarity with media, a continual influx of information, and the domination of digital technologies, it's strange to come across the presence of something so dim and nebulous as the ghost. Perhaps in a word so hyper-defined, longing is all that's left. The resurgence of the ghost motif reminds us that the physical world is incapable of transcending that of the mind, or more deeply - the emotional subconscious. Even in our current environment, the most terrifying and transfixing of topics are not those that we can conjure, but those that we can't. Memory, dust, love, longing, and some unspoken whisper that reminds us that what we're touching will never rival what we're longing for. This is not a ghost story, it's just a memory.<br />
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For your listening pleasure I've complied a Spotify playlist with some haunting tunes that I will continue to add to, please feel free to make suggestions as well: <a href="http://open.spotify.com/user/thehistoryofwords/playlist/1PZmcF5miKzKxzLKOZHmEi" target="_blank">Ghosts</a>. And yes it does include The Tony Rich Project. You're welcome. I've also included some of my favorite tracks below. Listen and be haunted.</div>
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<b>Typhoon, <i>Ghost Train</i></b></div>
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<i>"You only move when I give chase, when I catch you, you dissipate."</i></div>
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<b>Lord Huron, <i>Ghost on the Shore</i></b></div>
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<i>"Die if I must let my bones turn to dust</i></div>
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<i>I'm the lord of the lake and I don't want to leave</i></div>
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<i>All who sail off the coast ever more</i></div>
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<i>Will remember the tale of the ghost on the shore."</i></div>
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<b>Sanders Bohlke, <i>Ghost Boy</i></b><br />
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<i>"With our TV and radio friends, </i></div>
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<i>we colored our names in with permanent black pens, </i></div>
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<i>in momentary sentiments."</i></div>
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<b>Black Rebel Motocycle Club, <i>Some Kind of Ghost</i></b></div>
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<i>"Oh oh oh sweet lord come home, </i></div>
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<i>Don't feel some kind of ghost."</i></div>
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Meghanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03728995525432436005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4298878663424750870.post-63669964593570237162012-09-30T13:41:00.000-07:002012-09-30T18:09:53.048-07:00NW: Community, Language & Visitation<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>The Penguin Press, 2012</i></span></div>
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In the fourth novel from Zadie Smith, a new prose style and ambitious narrative complexity emerges. <i>NW</i> is a novel primarily about language and the way that language defines us as people in the context of the modern world and the cities and communities that have raised us.<br />
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The story is one of visitations and intersections, showing those who are at home within the constructed world and those who are just guests within the story - as framed by power, and ultimately by language. The narrative follows two main female protagonists, Leah Hanwell and Natalie Blake (formerly Keisha Blake), childhood friends drawn together by a powerful incident when they were young. Woven within the stories of Leah and Natalie are also Felix and Nathan - the male presence, written primarily as visitors within a world over which they have not been able to garner control.<br />
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Set in NW London, where Smith set <i>White Teeth</i> and also where she hails from, the four main characters were raised in the same housing estate. A sense of community is established -whether real or fashioned by events and shared environments -and this community is what binds the stories together. While they are together, they are equally disparate in their own realities and Smith uses different language motifs to make the distinctions of each character more clear.<br />
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<i>NW</i> was very quickly compared to the work of Virginia Woolf, particularly <i>Mrs. Dalloway</i>, for the use of stream of consciousness prose. But while it's inherently inspired by it's Modernist predecessors, it's also filled with the language of the present climate - google maps directions, text messages, IM conversations, stage directions, concrete poems, patios, conversations overheard while waiting, pop culture references - an onslaught of hyper-modern language motifs. Perhaps even more resounding in the comparison to Woolf is the woman's struggle to make a place for herself in the modern world, and the use of time to measure this conflict. I couldn't help but hear Big Ben striking "first a warning, musical; then the hour, irrevocable" (Woolf), throughout my read of the novel and it's many references to time. In fact, Smith goes so far as to hold women as the cadence, the timepiece:<br />
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<i>"If it was not quite possible to feel happy for him it was because the arrangement was timeless - it did not come bound by the constrictions of time - and this was the consequence of a crucial detail: no women were included with the schema. Women come bearing time."</i><br />
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Even in the telling, Smith clearly understands this is the most complex of her works, and uses her own language throughout the novel to engage with the reader. She pulls through the narrative, as if to separate herself from the story, and address you: "reader, keep up!" Characters are often referred to by their full name, as if this use might serve as a formal separation between author, protagonist, and reader. We may share a community within the novel, but we are not the same.<br />
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And, keep up you must. For as much emphasis is placed on language, it's perhaps the implications between the language that play the most important role in the story. Conclusions must be drawn between what is told and what is felt, a motif that the late Modernists mastered, but perhaps becomes most relevant now in the age of technology. At the same time that one is or seeks to be the <i>"the sole author"</i> of their story, it becomes clear that that, <i>"nothing survives in the telling."</i><br />
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Smith crafts very careful communities - both in Willesden, in relationships between protagonists, and in the pages of the novel itself - and then is careful to show that these communities have been authored. The illusion is broken, both for Leah and Natalie, Felix and Nathan; but alas, for the reader as well. <br />
<i>"People were not people but merely an effect of language. You could conjure them up and kill them in a sentence."</i><br />
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Perhaps my only complaint with the novel was the progression towards the novel's ending and it's ultimate conclusion. It seemed that something this carefully wrought by language ran out of time and came to a desperate end within the last 50 pages. Communities are established and destroyed, and thus in the ultimate act for control, the narrative is changed drastically not by language, which has been our guide, but by force. However, being a masterful artist, I can't help but wonder if this was Smith's intention after all. For as quickly as communities were created in the text (by socio-economic conditions, geography, incidents in youth, birth and death), they can just as easily be destroyed. A dramatic play for control -a search for authorship -is made by each of the characters within the novel, and at the end of the novel it seems their story has not been fully drawn. Control is lost. The characters are merely ghosts; failing to understand their progression towards, and ultimately away from their own conclusions about themselves.<br />
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Smith still reigns master at writing histories for characters of race, socio-economic struggle, and especially of women trying to build a place for themselves within the roles society has demanded. As a fan of Woolf, I was especially drawn in by the prose, and felt the language was a successful, resounding attempt for Smith. Though, let's be careful not to place this story on the shelf with other Modernists as a few reviewers have suggested, because in its essence and conclusion it's inherently a story of our current Zeitgeist. Ultimately, we are all just visitors in the communities that have been constructed for us, or even unknowingly created by our own hands.</div>
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<i>For more wonderful writing by Zadie Smith, check out her article on Jay Z, <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2012/09/09/t-magazine/the-house-that-hova-built.html" target="_blank">The House that Hova Built.</a></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>© 2012 Eamonn McCabe</i></span></div>
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Meghanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03728995525432436005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4298878663424750870.post-81682116601089604352012-09-26T23:44:00.000-07:002012-09-30T13:41:25.756-07:00Liberal Arts: A Story About Knowledge<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>"For in much wisdom is much grief: and he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow."</i></div>
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<i>-Ecclesiastes 1:18</i></div>
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It's pretty easy to get annoyed with Ted Mosby on <i>How I Met Your Mother </i>(seriously kids, where is your damn mother?), so it's a good thing that actor Josh Radnor also writes and directs thoughtful, earnest movies. Radnor's first feature, <i>Happythankyoumoreplease - </i>which he wrote, directed and starred in - was nominated for the Grand Jury Prize and won the Audience Award at Sundance in 2010.</div>
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<i>Liberal Arts</i> premiered at Sundance earlier this year and reached theaters this month (limited release, or check your cable provider for the IFC release). It's a love song to academia, intellect, and a gentle warning to the dangers of nostalgia and the ideals that come along with knowledge.</div>
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The story follows Jesse (a college admissions counselor), a thirty-something who battles ennui with his job, personal life, and life in New York City. As the desperate point of apathy is reached, Jesse receives a call from his favorite college English professor, Peter Hoberg (played by Richard Jenkins), and he is invited to return to his alma mater in Ohio to attend a retirement party. As any flailing academic would, he eagerly returns to the arms of the one who provides knowledge. When he arrives on the grounds of his former campus, it seems nostalgia might drip from his pores - what a placating medicine. </div>
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While there, Peter faces retirement as gracefully as most face deletion from academic life - with terror; and Jesse meets a free-spirited college sophomore, Zibby (Elizabeth Olsen), and they quickly connect over consuming dialogue about education, books, classical music, and theater An obvious tug-pull relationship develops between Jesse and Zibby and it becomes clear that she will play the role of the passionate improviser, and Jesse the intellectual - the heedful idealist. While he is there Jesse also meets a "yes-please" hippie (thank you for the laughs, Zac Efron), and encounters Dean (Joe Magaro) an at-first patronizing genius, who turns out to suffer from the darkness of intellectual mania and isolation.</div>
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Eventually life must go on, as it does, and Jesse returns to New York. An ardent Zibby leaves Jessse with a classical music mixed CD in hand (where can I sign up for this offering?) and promises to begin a relationship of the pen. Their letters serve as an emotional and romantic catalyst for their relationship and eventually Jesse is headed back to campus to reconcile with reality and romanticism.</div>
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The writing in this movie is earnest, witty, and especially poignant for our generation of young adults. Rador delivers concise and genuine dialogue, but wavers just slightly in filling the spaces without dialogue -the narrative movement. Overall, the film's message and emotional thesis was clear and well delivered. At times it bordered on the sentimental as it reached for narrative solutions. But where there were lulls or bits too sweet, they were certainly made up for by unfeigned acting performances. The casting was near perfect and the performances were ravaging - in the best way. It seems that Rador truly acts with his heart bleeding on his sleeve, which is why Ted Mosby and Jesse seem to have similarities. I couldn't help but notice them, but I also couldn't help but empathize with this character and his "gooey little heart". Richard Jenkins, break my heart - another convincing and truly devastating performance as a "life after academics" professor struggling with the loss of intellectual identity. Allison Janney also gives a hilarious, raw performance as a Romantics professor. Just perfect. And then of course, Elizabeth Olsen. Olsen nearly over delivers in this role giving us just the right amount of emotional maturity, balanced by the vulnerable presence of one of the most important presences in the movie: youth.</div>
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I was truly delighted by this film in many ways. It's no secret that it spoke to me on many personal levels, being the "victim" of a liberal arts education, and suffering under the brute hands of romanticism and nostalgia at all times. It certainly was intentional that the Romantics were woven into the film - the cruelest of literary periods. For at the same time as one must learn to rely on emotions as their aesthetic guide, they must also remove the intellectual perspectives that inhibit the raptness of the present moment. Knowledge does not allow for the unascertained of the present; therefore we can only romanticize the past, and theorize about the future, but untimely fail to understand what <i>this</i> feels like. True emotion is only experienced in the present, everything else is just knowledge, memory, or theory.</div>
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The relationship between Dean and Jesse was one of my favorite parts of the film. Not haunted by romanticism or nostalgia like other characters in the film, Jesse ultimately suffers devastatingly from the weight of his intellect. Jesse and Dean meet first in a coffee shop and briefly discuss an unnamed author, though it's clear by reference that the author is David Foster Wallace.</div>
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As I marinated further on the film, I couldn't help but think about the commencement speech that Wallace gave at Radnor's alma mater, Kenyon College, where this movie was mostly filmed. I read through the speech and found a quote that seem fitting as pairing to, or thesis for, <i>Liberal Arts.</i></div>
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<i>"Given the triumphant academic setting here, an obvious question is how much of this work of adjusting our default setting involves actual knowledge or intellect. This question gets very tricky. Probably the most dangerous thing about an academic education--least in my own case--is that it enables my tendency to over-intellectualise stuff, to get lost in abstract argument inside my head, instead of simply paying attention to what is going on right in front of me, paying attention to what is going on inside me." - David Foster Wallace, Commencement Speech Given at Kenyon College, 2005</i><br />
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Meghanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03728995525432436005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4298878663424750870.post-1811504641453916112012-07-18T21:17:00.001-07:002012-07-18T21:17:59.606-07:00Words as Weapons, Songs for HopeI used to believe in writer's block; I thought it was actually a symptomatic condition - a uptake inhibitor of words and stories, but these days I'm not so sure. Words are everywhere; how can we misplace them? Shapes and patterns prevail in our minds, we build them even in darkness. The building of patterns (or ideas, if you will) is innate, instinctive; they are only then further manifested in words. <span style="background-color: white;">Nabokov himself said about writing, "The pattern of the thing precedes the thing."</span><span style="background-color: white;"> Can we say that the act of writing is simply transmitting these prevailing ideas from shapes into words? It seems reaching a writer's block is simply just a hesitation, a hesitation built mostly of cowardice. </span><span style="background-color: white;">There are always stories to tell, but perhaps I do not have the nerve to create a permanence for them.</span><br />
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My mind has been busy the past few months, but my blog has been idle. In May I was hoping to share some short stories in honor of short story month. I sat for days in my apartment with towers of books surrounding me; moated by Joyce, Oates, Carver, Cheever, Salinger, Hempel, Fitzgerald. Shall I stop here? I could literally go on for days. I eventually failed to organize my passions and could not commit to five favorite stories. I toyed with sharing my own short fiction, and could not hit "publish." How stripping, how lasting; what would be taken from me?<br />
Earlier this month, I was blown away by <a href="http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m6me6uSdO81qdrz3yo1_1280.png" target="_blank">this</a>. Thoughtful and gracefully bare, this letter was called many things, but never art. I wanted so badly to talk about Frank Ocean, about vulnerability and self-expression, and what it means to be an artist and how that relates to being an activist. Where does the man end and the artist begin?<br />
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Perhaps that's just it. Is being an artist bound to being an activist? <span style="background-color: white;">Are we naive to think that we can separate what we create from who we are? Creation comes with responsibility, but art requires seeking the truth, whatever the cost. The great injustice to art is censorship, but doesn't the </span><span style="background-color: white;">responsibility of creation</span><span style="background-color: white;"> require that we censor our words in some ways? What weapons will my words create, and who will they sacrifice?</span><br />
It's more terrifying than I would like it to be.<br />
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One day I will loose the terror, and I will rise fearless with words as forces that are full of truth and permanence. They will, as one of my <a href="http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Richard_Wright" target="_blank">idols</a> so bravely said, "march and fight." But I better be prepared for them to kill as well.<br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Until then I will share what I know, and perhaps what is safe. </span><span style="background-color: white;">Below are some really stellar bands that have released great albums this year. Enjoy their sounds. Let them sing of hope, until then.</span><br />
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<b>Trampled By Turtles, Stars and Satellites</b><br />
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<i>Stars and Satellites </i>has been one of my favorite albums of 2012. <span style="background-color: white;">I've enjoyed their previous releases as well, but this album in particular perfectly marries a traditional bluegrass sound with progressive rock notes and a transmigratory narrative. </span><span style="background-color: white;">An ode to being on the road, the lyrical journey beings in darkness with</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><i style="background-color: white;">Midnight on the Interstate</i><span style="background-color: white;"> and ends with the quiet of the morning in</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><i style="background-color: white;">The Calm and the Crying Wind. </i><br />
I've always loved bluegrass for it's rich background and darker tales. <span style="background-color: white;">Uneducated music followers often relate bluegrass to American country music, but it's origins speak otherwise. </span><span style="background-color: white;">It's the cold Irish fiddle, the Appalachian banjo in some terrified night</span><span style="background-color: white;">. </span><span style="background-color: white;">It's Scottish funeral songs, African-American jazz sounds and gospel notes singing shapes of hope. </span><span style="background-color: white;">It's holy, it's lonesome, and it's everyman's tale. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">I can't help but think of the Medieval "Everyman" play when I hear these notes. Like the medieval morality plays, even these modern tales elaborate on the goodness and evil of everyman and the conflict therein.</span><br />
The morality is complete within itself; a detailing of this inherent conflict and yet a surrender to those things of greater power...whatever that might mean in worlds both ancient and modern.<br />
<span style="background-color: white;">I can't get enough of the anthemic ballad, <i>Alone. </i></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><i>"The days and nights are killing me </i></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><i>The light and dark are still in me </i></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><i>But there's an anchor on the beach </i></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><i>So let the wind blow hard </i></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><i>And bring a falling star"</i></span></div>
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<b>Walk The Moon, Walk The Moon</b><br />
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Another great release of 2012, I actually discovered Walk The Moon by way of some of their lighter, dance-friendly songs like <i>Anna Sun</i>. But, I was blown away when I came across <i>Iscariot</i>, which feels like a quiet prayer song in the midst of battle. Do not be fooled; though it presents itself like an offering it's sick with the syrup of betrayal and is indeed a battle-ready revenge ballad. And who can't use one of those? If I fail to finish this post, it will be because the last minute of this song just killed me. I would trade more than 30 pieces of silver for the song to go on for another minute, even though it's already 5:24 long. <span style="background-color: white;">There's enough passion, enough anger, enough sadness to fill the whole album with just this song. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">I'm sorry, were there other songs to talk about here? Check out </span><i style="background-color: white;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qDVW81bXo0s" target="_blank">Anna Sun</a></i><span style="background-color: white;"> (dance on, hipsters!) and </span><i style="background-color: white;">Shiver, Shiver</i><span style="background-color: white;">. And though I judged them immediately for making a song called </span><i style="background-color: white;">Quesadilla </i><span style="background-color: white;">- it's actually quite catchy. Dance on. Die on.</span><br />
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<b>First Aid Kit, The Lion's Roar </b><br />
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If I am not also in this field wearing my paisley frock and dancing, I honestly don't know where I am. <br />
I've been a fan of these Swedish sisters since their 2008 Drunken Trees EP and their cover of the Fleet Foxes' <i>Tiger Mountain Peasant Song</i>, which helped them along with their growing popularity. The Lion's Roar, released this year, is a field dream of an album.<br />
You cannot hear their haunting, full voices without calling to mind the voices and sounds of their American music idols, as seen in <i>Emmylou</i>. The spirits of Emmylou and June are certainly here. And though they can easily call to mind the mothers of American folk music, their sound still bears a tonality I can't help but call Nordic. The reverence and allusions to those who have come before them, combined with modern perspectives and languid tones make this make this a perfect epistle on modern love from start to finish.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><i>"In the hearts of men</i></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><i>In the arms of mothers</i></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><i>In the parts we play to convince others"</i></span></div>
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<b>The Lighthouse and The Whaler, Pioneers</b><br />
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Let me start by saying this: The Lighthouse and The Whaler's 2009 Self-titled album was a really phenomenal full-length debut. If you aren't yet familiar, make haste. Be sure to listen to <i>Morning.</i><br />
Their 2012 album <i>This Is an Adventure</i> will be released in September and word on the streets (actually, word on their website) is that it's produced by Ryan Hadlock (The Lumineers) and mastered by Greg Cabrillo (Bon Iver, Grizzly Bear). But though these subtle hands of influence can be seen, their sound is unique, full of life and energy, and their soundscapes and lyrics still have the depth I like to see in my music. It feels light, but it's heavy. <i>Pioneers </i>is from this year's EP and I can't get enough.<br />
"I was wishing we could go back to how it was before age impaired our reach," indeed.<br />
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<b>S T A Y T U N E D.</b></div>Meghanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03728995525432436005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4298878663424750870.post-63226268711370671742012-05-13T22:45:00.000-07:002012-05-13T22:45:18.492-07:00The Shape of Heaviness<div style="text-align: center;">
From here I can almost see the sea. I will know when they're coming; I'll see the little armies rise from the ashes of the sea. They will ascend unannounced, terrifying; but somehow quiet. Slippers crafted from sadness, not a sound will be made made as they climb the shore. From here I cannot see their faces, only the shapes of their bodies. Contrary to what we know about war and invasion they will not be men, nor will they be women- sexless as angels. What will they carry in their arms? Will their weapons be made of heaviness or lightness - a certain kind of burden only <i>Kundera</i> can describe. <br />
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Some theorize the world will end in whispers. But whispers are light and impermanent. Their complacency floats away cruel and buoyant. I see the end in the arms and mouths of these armies, quiet only until they reach the shore. I can only hope when they rise their weapons to meet me, they are heavy. Crafted of wood, brass and sun-drenched copper, with strings, reeds and hides - bows made of the strongest linen. And when the weapons touch their lips they will make a sound that will lie down upon upon me, heavy and permanent. Play me a song.<br />
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We are most surprised by the weight and shapes of those things that can hurt us.<br />
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<b>Summer Heart, <i>I Wanna Go</i></b><br />
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<b>Delta Spirit, <i>Yamaha</i></b><br />
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<b>Sharon Van Etten, <i>We Are Fine</i></b><br />
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<b>Noah Gunderson, <i>Fire</i></b><br />
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While all other songs are from albums released in 2012, I just came across this live version of <i>Fire</i> and could not resist. Noah Gunderson is yet another great artist from the Northwest and the soul and sound of this song feels, well heavy -in the most wonderful way. Check out <a href="http://noahgundersen.bandcamp.com/">Family</a> on Bandcamp.<br />
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<i><b>The heavier the burden, the closer our lives come to the earth, the more real and truthful they become. Conversely, the absolute absence of burden causes man to be lighter than air, to soar into heights, take leave of the earth and his earthly being, and become only half real, his movements as free as they are insignificant. What then shall we choose? Weight or lightness?”</b></i></div>
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<i><b>-Milan Kunderea</b></i></div>Meghanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03728995525432436005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4298878663424750870.post-62131141704148728532012-04-06T19:46:00.002-07:002012-04-06T19:51:30.728-07:00April is the Cruelest Month<div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>And I will show you something different from either </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Your shadow at morning striding behind you </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I will show you fear in a handful of dust.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">-T.S. Eliot, The Wasteland</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;">As a student of literature and a disciple of words, April always calls <i><a href="http://www.bartleby.com/201/1.html">The Wasteland</a></i> to mind. "Memories and desire" of a Modernist sensibility, it's a foreshadowing of darker times; a discontentment with fellow man, art, and religion. A call to an earlier time, or perhaps a return to it's classical binds and mythologies.</div><div style="text-align: left;">I can't help but turn contemplative as April arrives, and think about our current zeitgeist. I recall a professor once speculating if we would ever be able to rise from the depths of post-modern thought. I'm not sure we have. Perhaps we stripped down so far we've removed the context for what came before.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
<i>Let us not forget our fathers.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">This is collection of a few artists I've been enjoying lately. There's nothing essentially particular that ties these songs or artists together, but a feeling I have when I hear them. There's an ambitious quality, a conglomeration of sounds, and a return to innocence and wonder. </div><div style="text-align: left;">In a time when popular music makes one question our intellectual curiosity, its delightful to know that there are artists making music that borrows from the past, overreaches conventional music trends, evokes mythology, and reveals fear. In them I hear the shape of the future in the same breath as the past. It was Eliot himself who said that <i>"the conscious present is an awareness of the past in a way and to an extent which the past's awareness of itself cannot show."<span style="font-size: xx-small;">1</span></i></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Blake Mills, <i>Wintersong</i></b></div>This song is reaching all over the place, like eager hands in the night. It's smooth and unhurried, but also rough and sporadic. With sounds this varied, it easily could easily be broken into a few songs of it's own. But it's just structured enough to come together to create one freakin'-un-real song. In my book, you'll never loose points for overreaching. It's fresh and fun and ends in a thrill of sounds and voices. <br />
Mills is an acclaimed guitarist and at just 24 years has already toured with Band of Horses and Andrew Bird, among others. <i>Wintersong</i> was released on <i>Breaking Mirrors</i> in 2010, but it's hard not to keep coming back to this song, and the album for that matter.<br />
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<b>Patrick Watson, <i>Into Giants</i></b><br />
If you aren't yet familiar with Patrick Watson, now is the time. In 2007, Watson lent his vocals to The <i>Cinematic Orchestra's</i> album <i>Ma Fleur</i> on the song <i>To Build a Home,</i> and subsequently stole my heart<i>. </i>In case you're currently soul searching, this song <i>w</i>ill change your life. For real. <a href="http://youtu.be/bjjc59FgUpg">Try it</a>. His new album will be released in the US on May 1st. Mark you calendars. <br />
Even on it's own, Watson's voice is reminiscent of another era. It floats with lazy, sexy ease and is tinged with falsetto. Layered with female harmonies and symphonic instrumental magic (<i>more trumpet, more trumpet!</i>), this song practically sends telegrams to a long-ago time when music was wide-eyed and playful. Yet it still grounds and moves in a way that only modern music can. I can't wait to hear the rest of the album.<br />
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<b>A.A. Bondy, <i>Skull & Bones</i></b><br />
<i>Believers</i> was one of my favorite albums of 2011, and highly underrated in my opinion. With his haunting, synthetic vocals, darker tales; and overall minor tonality this whole album was mesmerizing. It's so chill you might sit back and smoke it, but so entrancing you might believe it would play as the world quietly burned to an end.<br />
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<b>Middle Brother, <i>Mom and Dad</i></b><br />
Another great album from last year. 2011 was hot. <i>Middle Brother </i>is a super-group of members of <i>Deer Tick,</i> D<i>awes</i> and <i>Delta Spirit</i> (true story kids). If this group and song doesn't call to another time and place, I don't know what will. The super-group (not to be confused with the boy band) was made stellar by <i>Crosby, Stills, & Nash</i> (you tooYoung) - and this takes me back...at least to my dad's vinyl collection.<br />
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<b>The Lumineers, <i>Ho Hey</i></b><br />
Do you know how catchy that <i>Fun.</i> song is and you can't get it out of your head for days and just want to "set the world on fire" all the time? I hope that's not just me...<br />
This song is equally as catchy and contagious, but has more heart. It's troubadour-esque. It makes me believe in something. In case you missed Medieval Literature, the contextual message of the Troubadour is exaltation of the chivalric code and courtly love.<br />
Their sound is a bit reminiscent of <i>Typhoon</i>, but with a more definitive lead vocal and more experimental range. On their self-titled album their sound ranges from Bob Dylan to 1920's nostalgia. Check out <i>Flowers in Your Hair </i>and <i>Flapper Girl.</i><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><b>"HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME"</b><br />
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<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">1<i>Tradition and the Individual Talent, T. S. Eliot, 1919</i></span></div></div>Meghanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03728995525432436005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4298878663424750870.post-67803148643653931562012-01-11T18:42:00.000-08:002012-01-11T18:42:50.358-08:00The Wild YouthI'm from the school of the Proust, Fitzgerald and other voices obsessed with time. As I often do, I found myself reflecting on youth this week. The wildness of it; the audacity. During my quest for art related to youth, I came across this song; <i>The Wild Youth</i>, by Daughter. Elena Tonra's vocals are haunting, and a bit reminiscent of Florence Welch, but a touch more restrained and ethereal - a quieter force. There's a lyric quality here that suits my mission for finding something tinged in nostalgia.<br />
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You can find the 4 track EP,<i>The Wild Youth</i> on Bandcamp <a href="http://ohdaughter.bandcamp.com/">http://ohdaughter.bandcamp.com/</a>. Another reminder that there are many great artists to be discovered through these platforms; a great way for bands to distribute directly to their fans, and fans to discover days of pleasure uncovering new music. Yes, I said days.<br />
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Some with daring and yearning, will want to live in a youthful state forever. But how could you resist the temptation to remove yourself from that place and look back with longing and terror.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><i>"We thought we were young and that there would be time to love well sometime in the future. This is a terrible way to think. It is no way to live, to wait to love." - Dave Eggers, What is the What</i></div>Meghanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03728995525432436005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4298878663424750870.post-48581508686850612682011-12-14T08:34:00.000-08:002011-12-14T08:34:11.987-08:00This Music Crept By Me Upon the Waters<div style="text-align: center;"><i>This music crept by me upon the waters,<br style="background-color: white; text-align: -webkit-auto;" />Allaying both their fury and my passion<br style="background-color: white; text-align: -webkit-auto;" />With its sweet air: thence I have follow'd it,<br style="background-color: white; text-align: -webkit-auto;" />Or it hath drawn me rather. But 'tis gone.<br style="background-color: white; text-align: -webkit-auto;" />No, it begins again.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">-The Tempest</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><br />
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</i></span></div><div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><b>Of Monsters and Men, <i>My Head is an Animal</i></b></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><b><i><br />
</i></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://shopicelandic.com/components/com_virtuemart/shop_image/product/Of_Monsters_and__4e710bb679b99.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="http://shopicelandic.com/components/com_virtuemart/shop_image/product/Of_Monsters_and__4e710bb679b99.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">There's something about Iceland; about the Nordic countries in general. Cold, cruel, sparse, and terrifyingly beautiful. Just ask Bon Iver, who's <i>Holocene</i> video was filmed entirely in Iceland. That video is unreal (moment of silence).</div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">I've always been fascinated by Nordic folklore, with images that are haunted with powerful female creatures, water spirits, invisibility, and enchanted places or <i>Álagablettur</i>. </div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">There's certainly enchantment in this music; but there's also some sort of light darkness, and of course monsters - which always make for good art and music.</div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">Jam on: Little Talks</div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">Repeat: Love, Love, Love</div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><br />
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</b></div></div><div>I'm a complete sucker for bands from the Northwest. I survived the 90's in Seattle (or outskirts of, I should rightly state), and now I'm delighted to see that the angst and <i>teen spirit</i> that got us through that phase has transformed itself decades later into something equally as cathartic but graceful and softly provoking.<br />
I was first drawn to this band after seeing their <i>Coming Back</i> video. A tribute to sea, to song. It feels more like Homer than Cobain. It feels good. No offense grunge, we had a good time together...<br />
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Jam on: Coming Back<br />
Repeat: Samson<br />
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<b>Gregory Alan Isakov, <i>This Empty Northern Hemisphere</i></b><br />
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Ideally, I should have kept these albums to those released in 2011. However...I seriously can't stop listening to this album, which was released in 2009. It's like a sickness. These words; this quiet, still, strong sound echoes everywhere. And I can't get enough. I'll let it speak for itself.<br />
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Jam on: That Moon Song<br />
Repeat: Seriously, the whole album.<br />
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<b>City and Colour, <i>Little Hell</i></b><br />
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My dearest friend first exposed me to Dallas Green years ago in the depths of Canada, appropriately enough. I really enjoyed it, but it didn't quite set-in until I happened upon a live acoustic performance of <i>As Much as I Ever Could. Whoa. </i>This year <i>Little Hell </i>was released and I think it's a quite striking album and highly overlooked. There's a fresh, fuller sound here on tracks like <i>Fragile Bird </i>and<i> Weightless, </i>and of course that familiar sound and lyric quality I'm so drawn to in <i>Northern Wind </i>and<i> Sorrowing Man</i>. <i>Hope for Now</i> will archive itself in my memory without ever being played again. "<i>Oh, and I sing</i>." His voice is truly haunting and its refreshing to hear a solo guitarist sing honest, pointed lyrics about love and loss and sorrow without screaming infidelities..if you know what I mean. <br />
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Jam On: Little Hell<br />
Repeat: Grand Optimist<br />
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<b>Brothers of End, <i>Mount Inside</i></b><br />
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Back to the Northern Hemisphere we go. This album is weirdly delicious. The album itself unfolds like a story; ephemeral, almost creepy and at times upbeat; it's certainly a journey from beginning to finish. Give a few listens, and you'll find that sounds are reminiscent of those as varied as Sigur Rós, a touch of Midlake, The Amazing, a bit of Simon & Garfunkel if you dare. I know it sounds crazy. It's a ride people, get on it.<br />
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Jam on: Daybreak<br />
Repeat: Valinge Träsk<br />
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</div>Meghanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03728995525432436005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4298878663424750870.post-80945839179750926652011-11-17T22:15:00.000-08:002011-11-17T22:15:24.309-08:00Like Crazy<i>I've t</i><i>ried a few times to write movie reviews and always find myself fumbling; over language, over ways to express images. I'm not quite sure it's ever right. But i'm going to make a desperate attempt for this film.</i><br />
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</i></div><i>Like Crazy</i> is one of these films that speaks not to the heart, but the gut. In fact, the first 15 to 20 minutes are just turn-away, hide behind your beverage painful. No one wants to admit to remembering or laboring through these first moments, these blundering fragments of a love story. It's just awkward. There's a a distinct intimacy here, an intimacy that it feel's we've violated as an audience.<br />
As we labor through the scenes we're not sure if we've stumbled upon or if we've been invited to, we're reminded that first loves are not the stories we once thought they were but merely a desperate, passionate category of images and feelings. Lacking a real story line, they surf on apparitions of hope and lust and everything that lies down in between.<br />
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The story starts with Anna, played by Felicity Jones, the perfectly lovable British girl who leaves a poetry-laden love note on the car of Jacob, played by Anton Yelchin. They quickly start a romance and we're not really given the birth and the blossom, just images. There are montages indeed, but somehow done well. They unfold not as they are really happening, but from the bank of someone's recollection. This is the way these stories are meant to be told. <br />
Soon it's time for Anna to go back to England but she defers on her visa to stay the summer with Jacob; a summer seen only through hyper-sequences of images and mostly just body language -the most apt judge of young love. But then due to this impulsive love-choice Anna has deferred on her student visa and is no longer allowed into the United States. <span style="font-size: xx-small;">1</span> Once images of entangled bodies, Anna and Jacob are now bodies apart. Soon there are other relationships, missed phone calls, separate time zones, different worlds, tearful attempts at phone calls, name mishaps, and just...life. And so the second book -the new testament -the real movie begins.<br />
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It's unraveling; a roller coaster of highs and lows, it's images, it's sickening, it makes your gut hurt. I read a review that said it was a bit like watching <i>Blue Valentine</i>, but without giving you the desire to cut your head off. I agree in a way, and given <i>Blue Valentine</i> was one of my favorite films of last year, I guess I should just go ahead and deem myself a movie-going masochist and move on. But something about <i>Like Crazy</i> felt inherently more painful to me. I'm sure many movie-goers could find a transient youthful adolescence or even a hopefully quality. I won't deny it's there, but it doesn't resonate as the part of the story that we are to carry away.<br />
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Classic tragic formula has taught us that plot is the "soul of tragedy". <span style="font-size: xx-small;">2 </span> The story usually involves a protagonist who is esteemed higher than the ordinary person, and this person is brought from happiness to misery by either a tragic flaw, or a dramatic turn of plot. Even the Romantic Tragedy assumes that there is a choice made by the protagonist's <i>hamartia</i> that eventually leads them to misery. A mistake, if you will; a stray from the good or normal, a mishap - your typical romantic comedy formula. There is an obstacle in this movie, but it's overcome. And when it is, we're still empty.<br />
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<i>Like Crazy </i>feels tragic<i>,</i> but represents a story separate from plot and choices. The characters are not heroic, in fact they are wonderfully ordinary. The plot is but a minor presence in this film. It's almost as if the director relies on us to attach to these images, and our nostalgia becomes the third character, the tragic plot twist. It's a play on memory and belief, and in the end there's just the space between the memory of <i>what was</i> and <i>what will be</i>. And that space hurts like crazy.<br />
But even so, let it pour over you. Let it pour over you, like crazy.<br />
And then, let it go...<br />
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<i></i><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><i><i>"I thought I understood it. But I didn't. I knew the smudgeness of it. The eagerness of it. The Idea of it. Of you and me." - Like Crazy</i></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span></i></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.hollywoodchicago.com/sites/default/files/t1larg.like_.crazy_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="http://www.hollywoodchicago.com/sites/default/files/t1larg.like_.crazy_.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">1) And they say we're not strict enough on border control.</span></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">2) Thanks Aristotle, what would we do without Poetics?</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span></i></i></div>Meghanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03728995525432436005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4298878663424750870.post-1828313700745625622011-09-26T10:23:00.000-07:002012-10-01T13:01:14.764-07:00Elegy<div style="text-align: center;">
Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels' hierarchies?</div>
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and even if one of them pressed me suddenly against his heart:</div>
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I would be consumed in that overwhelming existence.</div>
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For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror, which we are still just able to endure,</div>
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and we are so awed because it serenely disdains to annihilate us.</div>
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Every angel is terrifying.</div>
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<i>-Ranier Maria Rilke, The First Elegy - The Duino Elegies</i></div>
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Meghanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03728995525432436005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4298878663424750870.post-148365993094886312011-07-15T11:56:00.000-07:002011-07-15T12:21:15.894-07:00You...remain<div style="text-align: center;"><i>"There's Another You Out There"</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="text-align: left;">During the the previews that preceded <i>Tree of Life</i>, which is a whole other post in itself, I was literally deafened by the preview for <i>Another Earth</i>. With fingers crossed I will declare...Finally, a movie to be excited about. I will concede that my excitement could be entirely about the song that literally carries the preview: "To Build a Home" by The Cinematic Orchestra. I will always return to this song.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">But, I think there's more. I find a pattern in my gravitation toward this film. One of my favorite, and in my opinion undervalued, films of 2010 was <i>Never Let Me Go. </i>A film that could also be coined as science fiction, but deals solely with what it means to be human. It seems these startling templates allow for further and deeper exploration of our human condition. A postmodernist's dream.<br />
<br />
There's already a website dedicated to the idea of the movie, <i>Meet Your Other You, </i><a href="http://www.meetyourotheryou.com/">http://www.meetyourotheryou.com/</a>. In fear, dread or something else entirely I have not experimented with actually meeting my "other me." It requires a webcam, and potentially a sense of humor. If they are brilliant, I am sure the image I would find would indeed just be me staring right back at me...my other me. We all have one. Like many other things in life, I have no desire really to follow this logic to it's conclusion I just enjoy the idea that it might exist. <br />
<br />
Another me. I hope she's reckless with life. I hope her mistakes mirror mine, and her pain is more. I hope she is free and fights, and lingers on the absurd. I hope she lives life from end to beginning, and wakes up with words and art on her tongue. I hope she blogs more than I do. I hope I never meet her.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Though we call this genre of art and thought science fiction, it is truly the most human thing we can feel. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="510" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/N8hEwMMDtFY" width="640"></iframe>Meghanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03728995525432436005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4298878663424750870.post-18835288462338094362011-03-26T19:10:00.000-07:002011-03-29T11:22:04.426-07:00Mixed-Tape EmotionalismThe mixed-tape is truly a lost art. I guess these days you could say we have playlists, or even the smart playlist a la Pandora and You Tube. But there's something lackluster and impersonal about a computer generated list in comparison to a carefully chosen and recorded mixed-tape, sometimes with handwritten song lists and images, handed over in sweaty, eager palms.<br />
Or the dramatic music gesture; John Cusack standing outside my window, boom box held high. An offering. When I look back on that I think, <i>man his arms must have been really tired, that boom box is huge</i>, but also...I miss the<i> emotionalism</i> of music. I want to go back to when music meant as much as hand-crafted art, when it meant as much or sometimes more than words.<br />
When I listen to pop music and the radio these days it's just noise. It leaves little to think about, little to do or to be inspired by. So in an effort to make you my own mixed-tape, I've complied a list of bands who I've been listening to this past year and who I think will continue to do great things in 2011. Most of them are not bands you will hear on the air-waves, are relatively new, or at least have a CD coming out this year. If I were to hold a concert in my backyard tomorrow, this is who I would potentially invite. This music means something. At least to me.<br />
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1<b>) The Head and The Heart</b><br />
This band out of Seattle has been on everyone's radar as of recently, and just signed with Sub Pop records which should mean some great future albums to come. They are near overwhelming live with their harmonizing vocals and six-piece instrumentals. It sounds like family-driven folk with mostly an upbeat sound, but not lacking for emotionally driven lyrics and sporadically haunting sounds. Their voices mesh like carefully woven fabric and the female vocals are simply epic, an almost record-played vintage sound. I expect them to get much more recognition this year and anticipate their album under Sub Pop.<br />
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Radio Jam: Lost in My Mind<br />
On My Tape: Down in the Valley, Winter Song (it's an agonizing tie)<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.boiseweekly.com/imager/b/magnum/1864310/4f30/noise_TheHeadTheHeart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="216" src="http://www.boiseweekly.com/imager/b/magnum/1864310/4f30/noise_TheHeadTheHeart.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<b>2) Breathe Owl Breathe</b><br />
Another band with male and female vocals. Breathe Owl Breathe has an incredibly appropriate name for it's sound in relation to it's mysterious namesake. Quiet, intelligently whimsical and restrained. Micah Middaugh's vocals are somewhere between full singing and almost speaking. It lends a heartbreaking tone to the music, as it manages to sound casual and strained at the same time. And then there are songs like <i>Dragon</i> where he actually does speak, and speaks of a dragon being pen pals with a princess and the dragon's incredible penmanship. It's just too weird for me not to love it.<br />
<br />
Radio Jam: Dogwalkers of the New Age<br />
On My Tape: Own Stunts<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.fensepost.com/main/wp-content/uploads/2010/11/breathe-owl-breathe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://www.fensepost.com/main/wp-content/uploads/2010/11/breathe-owl-breathe.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<b>3) The Cave Singers</b><br />
Another band from Seattle, a weakness of mine I suppose. Getting a away from my tendency towards more contemplative Folk-Rock, The Cave Singers lean more towards Classic Rock, but almost stripped and with roots. While you still have classic folk instruments like the fiddle and tambourine, there is a very gritty plugged-in sound to their new album, <i>No Witch</i>. Strong, raspy lead vocals get me every time, so it's no wonder I'm a fan. And if that's not enough, they are under my favorite label, Jagjaguwar. I'm not sure what they are feeding people over there, but I want some.<br />
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Radio Jam: Swim Club, Dancing On Our Graves<br />
On My Tape: Gifts and the Raft<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://music.syncweekly.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/04/sun0124-cave-singers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://music.syncweekly.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/04/sun0124-cave-singers.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<b>4) The Middle East</b><br />
It's hard to describe the sound of The Middle East. It's emotional, intense, and often transcendent of a musical genre. Male and female vocals are also present here, a little bit of a soft quality but never lacking strength. It's almost unbalanced moving in waves, at times quiet and whimsical and other times violent and forthcoming, but this rounds out to create something that sounds even and epic.<br />
The first time I heard <i>Blood</i>, I literally stopped in my tracks. Though they only have an EP out at this point, I'm incredibly excited to see what comes next.<br />
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Radio Jam: Blood<br />
On My Tape: Blood, it's just that good<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.townsvillebulletin.com.au/images/uploadedfiles/editorial/pictures/2009/12/02/mideast.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://www.townsvillebulletin.com.au/images/uploadedfiles/editorial/pictures/2009/12/02/mideast.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<b>5) Drew Grow and the Pastors' Wives</b><br />
Another band from the Northwest. Yeah, it's true. There's something about those dark wet days, and green, green trees. Personally, I think it's the moss. It has to be, right?<br />
This one is just simple math: you take a guy with strong, acid-like vocals, add soulful electric guitar (think Jeff Buckley), throw in some female vocals, add a baritone slide guitar (sigh), gospel-inspired harmonizing and a upright bass, and perhaps a horn or two, just here and there. How could you go wrong? Well folks, you can't. It's like gospel music, but for white people. Kind of makes you want to put your hands together and well, clap.<br />
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Radio Jam: It's All Comes Right<br />
On My Tape: Friendly Fire<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.eugeneweekly.com/2010/graphics/052710music3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="205" src="http://www.eugeneweekly.com/2010/graphics/052710music3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<b>6) The Mountain Goats</b><br />
This band is certainly nothing new, but their new album has reminded me how much I enjoy them. I was sold with their release of <i>Tallahassee</i>, in 2003, which told an incredibly sad story of a couple's slow demise. The musical and lyrical ups and downs were described in a review as "visions of F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald crashing a party hosted by Tennessee Williams." Those are <i>my people</i>, so I was sold.<br />
Their new sound has moved away from the static-like, <i>I recorded these songs in my bedroom</i> sound. Which I read that John Darnielle actually did in the early days. A boom box, his vocals, and a guitar. The sound is, even now that it's been refined, is as stripped as the lyrics are. These are the most honest and heartbreaking lyrics you will ever hear, and from a guy that doesn't really have a very good voice. It's all honesty here. And since there's little to no dissonance between the sound of his voice and the horror of some of the lyrics, it makes the songs incredibly moving, but sad. A lot like that joke you shouldn't be laughing at.<br />
Their new album will be released on March 29, and from early listens it sounds like it's a bit softer around the edges than some of their previous releases but still reminds us that "we are young supernovas and the heat's about the break."<br />
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Radio Jam: No Children<br />
On My Tape: High Hawk Season<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://grinnellconcerts.com/wp-content/uploads/2007/08/mountaingoats0413.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://grinnellconcerts.com/wp-content/uploads/2007/08/mountaingoats0413.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<b>7) Lia Ices</b><br />
I have a few patterns going here: another from Jagjaguwar records. And if I'm being really honest there are few female vocalists out there that I really enjoy (calm down Regina Spektor, you totally make my list) but Lia Ices is incredibly talented. Her voice is beautiful and expertly trained. She sings with the strength, tone and grace of a timeless singer of a bygone era, singing by a piano in a bar that has frosted glass doors and smoke rising from tables. But within this melodic music there is experimentation, playfulness and profound intellect. It's incredibly refreshing.<br />
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Radio Jam: Grown Unknown<br />
On My Tape: Daphne<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_5Zr3UiTqDjo/TPY18fvfFDI/AAAAAAAAAAc/CV_2bHg-7k0/s1600/lia1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_5Zr3UiTqDjo/TPY18fvfFDI/AAAAAAAAAAc/CV_2bHg-7k0/s320/lia1.jpg" width="247" /></a></div><br />
<b>8) Strand of Oaks</b><br />
This is the definition of Indie singer-songwriter. Like those that have come before him, he has all the proper tools. Beard: check. Acoustic guitar: check. Burned-down house, broken engagement, and living on park benches in Philadelphia writing sad songs: check. While his first album, <i>Leave Ruin</i>, was written in the aftermath of the aforementioned tragedy his newest album, <i>Pope Killdragon</i>, is still mournful, but delivers near absurd mythologically driven lyrics in an incredibly thoughtful way. And you have the admit the name of the album pulls you in a little, doesn't it?<br />
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Radio Jam: I'm not sure there is one.<br />
On My Tape: Alex Kona<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.muzzleofbees.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/04/strand-of-oaks-madison.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://www.muzzleofbees.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/04/strand-of-oaks-madison.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<b>9) David Ramirez</b><br />
I must admit that Joe Pug would have been my first choice here had David Ramirez not been coming out with the next great music movie (fingers crossed), <i>Between Notes. </i>But he's from Austin, worthy of points alone, and is an incredible songwriter. Just a twang of Texas is there in his sound, but the words are worth a listen. And if I learned anything from <i>Once</i>, I think we'll be hearing quite a bit from David Ramirez in the years to come.<br />
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Radio Jam: Shoeboxes<br />
On My Tape: Try<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.davidramirezmusic.com/images/mainpic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://www.davidramirezmusic.com/images/mainpic.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<b>10) Anything by Justin Vernon or Will Sheff</b><br />
Enough said. These two are just brilliant and cannot be left off of my list. With all that Justin Vernon has done recently to keep us on our toes (Auto-Tune, GAYNGS, Volcano Choir, a solo album and of course Kayne West), I imagine there's more where that came from in 2011. Okkervil River will be releasing a new album this year. The single they released thus far, <i>Mermaid</i>, is breathtaking. That's not even the right way to say it, the first time I heard it I was reminded of Jack Nicholson. Why you ask? Because it made me want to be a better (wo)man. Might I also mention that both of these artists are under Jagjaguwar. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.jagjaguwar.com/press/willsheff/will1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="http://www.jagjaguwar.com/press/willsheff/will1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.neonamerican.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/08/justin-vernon1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://www.neonamerican.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/08/justin-vernon1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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<b>Honorable Mention (Side B):</b><br />
Chris Bathgate<br />
Joe Pug<br />
Great Lake Swimmers<br />
Blizten Trapper<br />
Horse Feathers<br />
Frightened Rabbit<br />
Angus & Julia Stone<br />
Typhoon<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.examiner.com/images/blog/EXID15166/images/sayanything.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://www.examiner.com/images/blog/EXID15166/images/sayanything.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>Meghanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03728995525432436005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4298878663424750870.post-85916862839421447832010-12-27T10:00:00.000-08:002011-03-27T22:19:51.869-07:00Submitted Work<div style="text-align: center;"><i>1507-D</i></div><br />
Mrs. Shaw said it just rained and rained. Nearly brought the water up above the drains and levies built with the waters direction and destiny in mind. Said, it was out of sorts for this area and that we were lucky to live on the third level and not the first. Told us how all this happened before we got there, before her kids moved out of state. The rain brings out all kinds of insects looking for a piece of dry land she said.<br />
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We moved just a month ago. My wife drove our car while I drove the moving truck. She drove in front because it was my idea to move. Her rationale was that she shouldn’t have to stare at my decision for any longer than she already had to. <br />
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The apartment was perfect in so many ways that the first night we swore we heard a ghost, a gas leak and movements from the neighbors above us that were those of occupants who sold drugs. I am good with “pros and cons,” so I made a list. We decided that we didn’t have any kids so that a ghost would be okay. We never smoked so our lungs should sustain a gas leak for longer than most and last, we knew very little about the drug trade. I gave the list to my wife who said, if only we could tell more about a place from its online pictures.<br />
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There are times when I’ll go a whole hour without looking up from my computer. We live by the Pacific Ocean so the weather can dramatically change during that hour. The transformation can make you feel like you lost a day, or left too much unfinished. When this occurs, I like to switch my clothes even though the temperature inside hasn’t changed at all. We struggle with water coming in when it rains, but surprisingly it doesn’t seem to work both ways. Our heating bill is significantly less now than it was before we moved.<br />
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Just yesterday a couple moved into the apartment next to us. They brought over oatmeal cookies and asked about how we ended up in San Francisco. I thought it best to start at the beginning. To explain my desire to be closer to the baseball team I sold season tickets for and then to head to the end which was always that we were looking for a change of scenery. I left out the middle. The part about my mom, her parents and the car accident. Their first vacation together. I don’t think if my wife had been there she would have added the middle. Our walls are thin, and from our bed she could hear my account of the story. <br />
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-Alex King<br />
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Please send submissions to thehistoryofwords@gmail.com. Fiction, poetry, and selected non-fiction will be reviewed for acceptance.Meghanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03728995525432436005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4298878663424750870.post-54089472940397698492010-11-12T15:40:00.000-08:002010-11-12T15:40:07.967-08:00Save The WordsToday I came across a staggering statistic that 90% of everything that we write is communicated in only 7,000 words. This not a lot considering the vast vocabulary of the English language. Not to mention Greek, Latin, and all the other languages we borrow from to create our modern syntax.<div>The Oxford Dictionary contains full entries for 171,476 words in current use, and 47,156 obsolete words.</div><div>I'm tired of not doing things about heartbreaking statistics, start small and adopt a word today...expand your mind and your vocabulary.</div><div><br />
</div><div><a href="http://www.savethewords.org/">http://www.savethewords.org/</a></div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.reconnections.net/words-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://www.reconnections.net/words-1.jpg" width="247" /></a></div><div><br />
</div>Meghanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03728995525432436005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4298878663424750870.post-74525255147666705612010-10-01T08:38:00.000-07:002010-10-01T08:38:33.556-07:00Rothko This past weekend, even with the ever elusive San Francisco sunny day on the horizon, we decided it was time for a little slice of culture and headed for the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. They had an exhibit on display, sharing the rich and fairly impudent history of not only the SFMOMA in the last 75 years but modern art in general: it's seed, birth, rebellion, it's latent insecurity and evident transformation. Everything from the first solo Pollock exhibit, to the familiar colors and lines of a Matisse and the fervent dots that make up a Lichtenstein.<br />
I will openly admit that I'm one of those museum visitors who cannot resist reading all the mini novels carefully and aridly written on the wall next to each painting. In fact, as we were walking around I found myself very jealous of those with a convenient headset. I think the jealousy came on when I found myself standing awkwardly too close to a painting, reading intently, and realized that I had failed to even look at the art itself before digesting the words. I know that in many ways we would be nowhere without the context of history, but I wonder how our experiences would be different without it. Perhaps the understanding of art sometimes requires the absence of any context at all.<br />
<br />
For me, the proof for this is idea is Mark Rothko. Even though I had previously been to the museum, it had slipped my mind that the museum had a Rothko in it's permanent collection and as I rounded another white wall for more, I couldn't help but to be blown away, again, by this monstrosity of color. And it truly is just that: three colors painted on a monstrous canvas. It's that simple.<br />
It might be embarrassing for me to admit how much research I've done on Rothko trying to uncover what's behind the color. The suicide, the Seagram murals, the rejection of abstract expressionism, the unfinished book, the Rothko chapel, the supposed religiosity of his work, the tumultuous marriage.<br />
My devotion to these details is similar to my inability to not read the provided text on the wall next to each painting. We're trained as human beings to connect knowledge to emotion. Feeling is no longer first, as e.e. cummings told us it should be. We think first, and then feel.<br />
Because of this, viewers often fail to understand Rothko. The simplicity is intended, it's essence is the art itself, because like the art of a child which demands no intellectual pretense and asks for no history, it is a replica of raw emotion and a direct projection of the self. There are no lines to signal space or boundaries, nothing drawn from the archives of human memory, just color. And color is as close to the beginning as I can remember. I don't event recall "learning" colors, if that's what we do. It is, as Rothko intended, primitive, because it demands so little from the mind, and so much from what is just <i>felt</i>.<br />
None of this should come as a surprise to those who have studied abstract art. But unlike the frantic lines of a Pollock or the the deliberate shapes of a Gorky, there is something inherently peaceful and yet somehow silently terrifying about a Rothko to me. I can't get enough.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Mark Rothko, No. 14</i><br />
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"Silence is so accurate" - Rothko<br />
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</i></div></div></div></div></div>Meghanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03728995525432436005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4298878663424750870.post-568114128856007192010-09-25T17:52:00.000-07:002011-03-27T22:30:47.718-07:00These Are Not The Roads You Knew Me By<b>First, let me begin.<br />
Let me begin by telling you how I got here.<br />
I arrived years ago, but it wasn't until now that I realized it.</b><br />
<br />
I decided to start "blogging" earlier this month when I realized that I was overwhelmed and disheartened by the pulses of social media, and other strange and seeming voyeuristic modern practices we have become accustomed to. Nothing against them personally, they just aren't always for me.<br />
I found myself yearning to be able to share something more profound than clicking the "like" button on someone's post. The essence of where I am and what I'm doing entails so much more than locale. It requires history, knowledge of past and present, and the freedom of length and voracity of words.<br />
<br />
So here I am. Sitting in my office on one of those perfect San Francisco days. It's one of those days that reminds you that if it were to be like this even 37 days out of the year everyone in the world would live here. It would be worth it. As much as I enjoy it, instead I often prefer the depth of the cooler, darker days; when the fog clings to the certainty of the landscape like moss and the cold bears down to your bones like the legends of the heavy, sinking libraries. <br />
<br />
There are things you become accustomed to living by the ocean. The dampness in the air, the smell of oxidization. There are other things one never gets used to. One in particular for me is the horns of the boats and barges in the sound. They sound most frequently at night and in the morning, especially on foggy days. It sounds low and long like a stranger, minor in tone and lingering. Often one will repeat itself again and again.<br />
Are they are coming, or going? Is this the return to where they came from, or just the beginning? Where have they come from and what do they carry with them that would tell us their story?<br />
I usually like to imagine that they are embarking on a new journey, but somehow their sound signals something else to me; it seems to say "I have arrived." As if that would tell us all that came before.<br />
<br />
In composing this I was reminded of one of my favorite poems, by one of the great living poets residing in the Bay Area. I thought it was particularly well-suited for my first "entry".<br />
<br />
"Within two miles of the Pacific rounding<br />
this long bay, sheening the light for miles<br />
inland, floating its fog through redwood rifts and over<br />
strawberry and artichoke fields, its bottomless mind <br />
returning always to the same rocks, the same cliffs, with<br />
ever-changing words, always the same language<br />
-this is where I live now. If you had known me<br />
once, you'd still know me now though in different<br />
light and life. This is no place you ever knew me.<br />
<br />
But it would not surprise you<br />
to find me here, walking in the fog, the sweep of the great ocean<br />
eluding me, even the curve of the bay, because as always<br />
I fix on the land. I am stuck to earth. What I love here<br />
is old ranches, learning seaward, lowroofed spreads between rocks<br />
small canyons running through pitched hillsides<br />
liveoaks twisted on steepness, the eucalyptus avenue leading<br />
to the wrecked homestead, the fogwreathed heavy-chested cattle<br />
on their blond hills. I drive inland over roads<br />
closed in wet weather, past shacks hunched in the canyons<br />
roads that crawl down into darkness and wind into light<br />
where trucks have crashed and riders or horses tangled<br />
to death with lowstruck boughs. These are not the roads<br />
you knew me by. But the woman driving, walking, watching<br />
for life and death, is the same"<br />
-Adrienne Rich, from <i>An Atlas of The Difficult World</i>Meghanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03728995525432436005noreply@blogger.com0