All You Need to Know about this Weekend

Possibility

Lykke Li from Black Cab Sessions on Vimeo.

Self-Damned and Drunk.

There is work to be done. That's as much as I know. The rest is a cacophony of advice, ideas, urgings, scoldings, useless reassurances, flattery, and dream dream dreams. The memory is the torturer of souls. Among other forehead-slapping memories in my newborn giraffe-stumblings through a smithereened economy, death rattling print industry, and retching, aching malaise is a summer at Tin House.

I spent long hours up at night after full days of workshops, screaming into the receiver of a phone containing the voice of a drunk and infantile man child who had only recently been the unspoken cause of a left-favoring limp. My bathroom stall conversations when he was attacked by hoods at his security job became the topic of one author's seminar on "Good Openings." Apparently, the eavesdrop is as good a method as any to begin to weave a tale, from as little information as, "Did you bleed? How many were there? If there had been more...God, you're lucky. If there had been any more, you would've really been in trouble." The author on her podium glanced up and winked at me in the auditorium. I felt used, but this time it wasn't a bad feeling.

There was my interview with the Editor-in-Chief's young and precocious ten year-old son for the conference newsletter in which, gushing, I asked if he'd be my conference boyfriend. The closing gala involved me creeping up into the Student Affairs "office," (which at Reed College is wall-matted with hyper-intellectual graffiti and newsclippings of anarchic student activity) to smoke a few joints with, among others, an apparent student who used me as a scapegoat that night for her hipster-hate diatribes. Then back to the bar to down a few more free-ish beers, and dance with aforementioned ten year-old son of the man who I hope will someday publish me, leaning down to execute a proper Twist, only realizing later my dress had slipped in the front, and perhaps explains why his parents were looking on in horror and amusement. I also seemed to have acquired a friend in who I thought was a flashy Bukowskian novelist but turned out to be a self-glorifying, not-as-funny-as-he-thinks, forty-something married gentleman who nevertheless made me the recurring muse of some candid photography, and wrote in my autograph book that in order to help me develop my voice, he would "beat, bludgeon, and--did I mention?--beat" me out of me. I'm continually haunted by his facebook requests.

Then also:

A girlfriend of mine worked at an artsy boutique hotel in a popular gay restauranted area of Washington, D.C. She made a killing at a full-time job as front desk agent, with front row seats to interact with the likes of Diplo In Armani and Jack White's crew of disaffected vampire punks. I wanted in. Unfortunately, after five separate interviews, I was shoved into their adjacent, extremely mismanaged yet celebrity-chefed Japanese restaurant. Hostessing there I learned the art of peeling coats off the elderly and addressing the politically significant, and likewise the value in matching coat to coat number. I also learned the true meaning of "boy's club." My bosses were male, gay, and at least one was extremely lecherous, charming with woman, but with men...a more wanton asshole I'll never meet. The chef, celebrity or no, had an inflated ego which protected him in his clandestine comments and lashings whenever I needed to conduct business in his area. The issue of my growing discomfort at being the object of such rough and violent sexual imagery while in my corporate-issued Club Monaco back-zippered lil' black number was overlooked and awkwardly unaddressed. On one particularly frustrating day, after being called "Blondie," and then told I "didn't know my place," I stood, fuming at my prison stand when a large man with a glass eye approached me. Arrangements were quickly fussed about between my managers, where this man would choose to sit. He chose a seat with the clearest view of me, and fixed his tattooed face on me. He limped, as if from sciatica, and wore, despite his apparent association with the President and other luminaries, overalls, with a ridiculous Jack Straw plaid shirt underneath. One overall was undone and draped over his pot belly. The GM offered him graciousness and charm as he sat, but he pulled her close and they whispered for a while with periodic glances my way. This, I was certain, would be the final clincher of my employment. I was, apparently, much too controversial with my elevated education and ideas of proper management. I knew I wouldn't last. What had I possibly done to raise this man's ire, though, I wondered? He motioned me forward once she had gone, and pulled me close so I could smell the whiskey. He slipped something in my hand. "I've been saving this for you," he whispered. I was creeped out. "Don't be creeped out," he said. "I've spent many years with the mystics of New Zealand, and I spent time collecting gifts for the people I would meet in Washington. I am going to see the President, Obama, an old friend of mine, to receive a medal of honor tomorrow. I want you to have this before I leave." He pressed something small, smooth and cold into my hand. It looked like a small piece of flint with markings. "This is a very special protective talisman," he told me, looking deep into my face. "It will protect you from the evils of men."

"So, it'll repel all the D.C. snobs?" I asked.

"No, no. From men. Bad men. It is for you. I didn't know who it was for when I found it, but then I saw you. It is for you. But you must wear it all the time. Promise me, or I will be worried about you."

And this:

An old friend texted me about coming to his art studio to be an extra in an indie film being filmed in the warehouse. It was the end of October, two days before my birthday. I had successfully escaped all the horribleness of my life in Washington and was clean-slate living in a brand new one-bedroom apartment all to myself and my cuddly tiger friend. My spidey sense was tingling. Baltimore is a city of loud, beer-and chicken-laden women and introspective, moon-eyed artist boys. I was feeling the seduction of possibility. Ego brimming, I showed up on set to join up with old college acquaintances who were also to be extras in this film no one knew the plot to. I checked in with wardrobe; after a requisite once-over, I was told I looked cute, but lose the white jacket or it'll wash out the camera. So I spent a freezing nine hours sitting on dusty warehouse floors in holding, just a tank top and miniskirt to mention. Buzzing, buzzing buzzing I was, and I felt like everyone else could feel it. I felt certain I'd be taking someone home, or perhaps...taking someone in. We danced in front of a fake band, following direction as to heightening frenzy and delirium. Could one make a career of this? Background dancing? And how cruel was the casualness with which I was beckoned to this, my dream of vanity and exposure and--and--and then, those eyes. And that gesture, and that flashlight to light my way back from the smoking balcony. And in and in and in.

We are self-prophecies, when will we realize?

Innocence as an expectation cannot survive, I think, once this self-prophecy starts spinning. Why have I been so surprised? Nothing of what was in the head does not somehow materialize--and yet every time feels like a club to the temple. Why should we be so off-guard? It is unbecoming, the assumption of innocence. Good Intent does not beget innocence, nor does mal-intent beget evil. I can't accept it. I've seen the most evil from the most lovable, and therefore I routinely distrust that old, rehearsed charisma. In the past, my acquiescence has been my defense, a death-by-agreement. But we can't agree to everything or surely we'd die.

Nor should we be slinging into the streets with all the grandiosity of a lion during zoopocalypse (the sudden, anarchist-initiated liberation of our city's fine captivities). This too is self-prophesying, as I frequently remind my paranoiac love object that a shotgun above the bed will-and-must be used, therefore forget zoopocalypse and wait for the inevitable: zombiepocalypse. (Or perhaps like the umbrella rule, having one prevents one from having to use it?)

I'm not sure how to answer myself. Probably I'll have to wait years and years to define my position in relation to the others. I have to craft it, that position, baffling and anguished and tremendously high, and it's the one thing I'm terrified I won't have the courage to do. I'm afraid of everything I've already prophesied into reality, of what it forced me to be in order to conquer it. Now a thirst left to dry out and crisp in the mouth, the burning, bleeding, throbbing opulence of ambition dashed dashed dashed and again--too soon? Too late?

Is there a talisman to defend against the imagination?

Go ahead and try--bid the scorpion not sting itself in dead freezing desert apathy, a shadow under dark sky amid sharp things.

Again, and again, and then.

And now--

Note from the Author

For it is written: When it rains it pours.

I've had the recent opportunity to try my hand at job searching again, this time looking for some sort of teaching gig. In this application for the Institute of Reading Development, I was asked to answer a few questions as a writing sample. I won't provide the questions because they should be evident from the answers, and besides, I felt it was time to sort of update my attitude towards my passion in a renewing-of-vows sort of thing.

Each time I revisit Lolita, I am seduced by the details of Nabokov's craft, and the way in which he allows his novel to take on a life of its own. It is one of the seminal works in which the definition of love--particularly the destructive and volatile nature of an artist's love is explored to quite tragic and sublime results. The grim humor behind pain and pining, and the casual cruelty of youth are treated with such artistry and careful construction that it both softens the blows and digs the knife deeper. I am greatly inspired by the unflinching bravery of Nabokov's surrender and devotion to his characters, to the story, and to the craft.

Additionally, I find myself frequently becoming entwined in J.D. Salinger's Glass family stories. It is a world of laden dialogue and forged connections which frequently miss intended targets, and create a heritage of secrets, style, and pride. The way in which the characters attempt to maintain their own illusions and dignity through obsessive memories of the past creates a tunneling effect between past and present. Ideas of consciousness, its deceptive games and the increasingly limitless methods of softening reality are still relevant seventy years later. The characters search ceaselessly for a balm which may not exist at all, least of all in the material world. In fact the balm, as Salinger seems to have found, may be literature itself.

Increasingly, and as I develop my own voice, I am drawn to those writers who exhibit the most freedom and playfulness in their writing. Tom Robbins is as colorful a character as the ones he creates, and I am given to frequent laughter at his sneaky cleverness and circus ringleader style of narration. I gladly suspend disbelief due to his unflinching authority and seductive prose. Reading should involve the joy of connection, whether between author and reader, author and character, or reader and character. And as laughter is essential to the sheer pleasure of interacting with literature, Robbins' writing is an abiding favorite of mine.

My plans for the next year include taking the GRE's and applying for a Masters program in English Education. I have been fortunate enough to have great English teachers and professors who have inspired me to develop a natural talent and personal passion into a rich career. Specifically, I developed a strong interest in the crossover of philosophy and literature in my high school AP English class. My teacher brought to the works of Sartre and Camus the greater context and influence of thinkers such as Friedrich Nietzsche, Carl Jung and Sigmund Freud to fuel our basis for comparison. The idea of the character as mortal plaything, independent of spirit but submissive to the will of the author posed questions beyond the sphere of my own experience. I became greatly interested in different ways of thought as I matured and encountered the seemingly limitless number of options. But no matter where the dark realms the implications of fate or free will took me, words could turn that terror into a thing of beauty.

I am frequently moved to think of those younger generations struggling through the same or worse series of average tragedies as I have, and hope to offer them possibilities for refuge. Literature may not be the ultimate balm for all of human suffering, may in fact be the "hot fudge sundae" Kurt Vonnegut spoke of when scoffing at the ire with which some people react to a novel. But without it, we would be deprived of a great source of pleasure, empathy and self discovery.

Teaching is a two-way process by which both parties, instructor and pupil come to a higher perception of experience. The pleasure of a good story is universal, and the positivity formed by the critical deconstruction of prose increases sophistication of expression by which people can come to a better understanding of one another. In this age of increasing technological advances, we have encountered a splintering of community, with alienating results. I see myself as a champion of sincere human encounter, and I see teaching as a method by which to help myself and others regain a sense of history and belonging.

Dearly Twitterpated

Adjective

twitterpated (comparative more twitterpated, superlative most twitterpated)

1. Smitten or love-struck. (http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/twitterpated)
2. Not to be confused with the narcissistic disorder involving the overuse of a certain social online forum

It is indeed the time of year for things to spring, including those things that don't need the sunshine to do so. In honor of us poor daft fools searching for our own heads in the weeds, and to the myriad distractions and projects we become involved in to keep us from defenestrating, I dedicate this playlist. Let it, and this poem by my sometime friend D.A. Powell fill your orifices.

"Sprig of Lilac"

in a week you could watch me crumble to smut: spent hues

spent perfumes. dust upon the lapel where a moment I rested

yes, the moths have visited and deposited their velvet egg mass

the gnats were here: they smelled the wilt and blight. they salivated

in the folds of my garments: you could practically taste the rot

look at the pluck you've made of my heart: it broke open in your hands

oddments of ravished leaves: blossom blast and dieback: petals drooping

we kissed briefly in the deathless spring. the koi pond hummed with flies

unbutton me now from your grasp. no, hold tighter, let me disappear

into your nostrils, into your skin, a powdering smudge against your rough cheek

(from Chronic; Graywolf Press, St. Paul, MN; 2009)

Tristen

02 Baby Drugs.mp3

Nico

02 These Days.mp3

Geotic

10 The Sprawling, Glorious Newness.mp3

Yeasayer

04 I Remember.mp3

It could happen to YOU.

The Worst Song EVER?

Usually I opt for more positive reviews on here, not because I'm a journalistic push-over or crotch-licker of the indie-famous or anything. A close friend (my oldest one, in fact) has named one side of me the "sardonic shark." But still, my overall attitude is usually, why waste breath on the unworthy?

Sometimes it's just impossible to ignore. Take this tune from Yann Tiersen, entitled "Fuck Me." Note, if you will, the apparent contradictions--the juxtaposition of the lamb-gentle male and female vocals over top some deeply emotive guitar weavings. With apologies to Iron & Wine, I'm sure. Then we have these lyrics:

I know you know we’re all falling into a deep oblivion

I know you know we’re all falling into a neverending mess

So we have to take care, take care, and share it, share it, share it together (x2)

So let’s get undressed, we need to feel it

Please let’s get undressed, we need to live it

and sing: fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me you make me come again, you make me come again (x2)

I know you know we’re all falling into a deep oblivion

I know you know we’re all falling into a neverending mess

So we have to take care, take care, and share it, share it, share it together (x2)

So let’s get undressed, we need to fill it

Please let’s get undressed, we need to live it

and sing: love me love me love me love me, you make me love again, you make me love again (x2)

love me love me love me love me, you make me love again, you make me love again love me love me love me love me, you make me love again, you make me love again love me love me love me love me, you make me love again, you make me love again

More lyrics: http://www.lyricsmania.com/fuck_me_lyrics_yann_tiersen.html
All about Yann Tiersen: http://www.musictory.com/music/Yann+Tiersen

Kinda reminds me of some of the more grueling creative writing workshops I've attended: the short story, "As Told By My Cat." The song-turned-poem entitled, "Sealed With A Kiss." (No redemption for these innocent dumplings.) And then imagine being prompted--called on, by name--to comment on the various THEMATIC ELEMENTS of this drivel. Pray tell, what was your FAVORITE line? Reminder to act in sincerity, with an unerring, unflinching yet courteous CRITICAL EYE when phrasing your response.

Fuck. Me.

Hiatus

Yes, I abandoned blogship for over a month, but in favor of some very worthy projects, not the least of which is the fairyland painbliss of truthbeauty that killed lesser women than myself. Among those still standing is my favorite current artist, Lykke Li, born in my same year and sharing some of same Nordic lineage. She's a girl after my own heart not only for the eyes searing from underneath baby-blonde, but the courage to be thrown to the wolves of passion, and the fortitude to be swallowed alive and reborn with new faith.

She has said of her first album, Youth Novels, that she was fresh off the street and into the studio. She has said she has come to resent the apparent demure image that was born of the reticence in her voice. The feather-soft voice might have been what attracted me to her (what can I say? Apparent vulnerability appeals to me.), but what has increased my interest in her artistically is the contrast you hear behind her, and even more so the intensity of her live performance. Hearing her launch into a freestyle over top an old Lou Reed favorite at the 6th and Eye Synagogue in D.C. exploded all expectations of what you might expect from an indie pop princess.

Her second album, Wounded Rhymes seems to emerge from a much darker place. In interviews given to Fader and Dazed and Confused, she discusses her recent involvement with certain occult tribes in the California deserts, and her interest in ritual, seance, and voodoo. Has our Swedish beauty gone off the deep end? I hope so.

She has a new video out for the single "I Follow Rivers," and I'm hearing a more cohesive pop anthem that has already been remixed by Dave Sitek and some others. A bit disappointing in its seeming accessibility, but her personality is in no way compromised in the lyrics. Much harsher is the single "Get Some," a kind of vindication of the ways in which people use each other. Her voice in these sounds very different--deeper, harsher, stronger, more confrontational and mature. She's said she can't wait 'til she smokes enough cigarettes to get the tone of voice she most admires. (Think Joni Mitchell on Court and Spark vs. Both Sides Now!)

Lykke Li seems to be pushing constantly at her own boundaries, challenging herself to live more deeply than any normie would voluntarily. I admire her weirdness, in fact it's the most beautiful thing about her. But she also has a shifting aesthetic that relates to her personal style. She has an effervescent but extremely lucid quality that's attracted designers. BUST Magazine feature took some gorgeous shots.

I hope she has the courage and the support to continue what seems to be a very serious quest for her. I hope she maintains her vision and her weirdness, and that she's not afraid to be terrified and strung out in the best ways possible. Keep that heart broken, baby, let it fill you up.

South Afreaky

Recently this group Die Antwoord (in Afrikaans, 'the answer') has been blowing up all over the place. I first witnessed the weirdness at Sticky Rice when John started playing this video after dinner:

As I previously expected, based on hints of tongue-in-cheekness in there, these folks are spoofin'. Much in the vein of that guy with the big nose and curly hair from SNL who did the video with T. Pain, it's all apparently a satire of the young white Afrikaaners, those sons-of-apartheid-turned-poseur in the realm of South Africa's Zef style street hip hop style.

And yes, that video plays at Sticky every single night as well.

Okay, I'll admit that for a while they had me going too. I mean, I thought it was entirely possible that they were for real, and for real really weird, with a healthy sense of humor in their videos. It brings warm Xmas cheer to my heart to watch the expressions on the faces of diners and bar rats when they see Yolandi Va$$er, the toe-headed mouse-wonder with her dead white rat coat and long nails carving a pentagram on Diplo's chest. And I'm just tickled with tender amusement of articles like This One from "Music Industry Online," that calls them "courageous" for using such controversial language and subject themes. It would be like if a Japanese music blog hailed this video for being "courageous," in the important sense:

SNL Uncensored: Dick In A Box

Come to think of it, this might actually be the beacon of anti-censorship we've needed on major cable television network conglomerate shareholder-owned blah blah blah!

Indeed, the American public needs its fair share of blah blah blah, otherwise what the fuck are we doing here anyway? I've got a headache, don't bother me. Ahhh.