Laying on the couch in my brothers apartment in Springfield, Oregon and I am unable to sleep trying to think of how dipped candles are made. Two in the morning, people are running water, the harrowing rushing sound of moving water, pipes connected (if I empty the toilet perhaps we can talk like they do in prisons? Head in the bowl, tapping messages, whispering jail break secrets...) but really I am thinking about National Geographic writers and the how they do what they do. They are the white wick dipping again and again into the hot pool of liquid wax- immersing themselves in Bosnia, Ireland, Pandas, Beiruit, Mummies of Mayan sacrifices found on the sides of mountains or any one the articles I've read in the past week. The writers immerse themselves in layers of their subject matter. . .
Monday, February 23, 2009
Thursday, February 19, 2009
It was one of those mornings...
It was one of those "World Have Your Say" episodes where Rabiya Limbada was hosting and everyone was getting out of control.
Desk Job
The other night I passed by that bank, the one that is on the corner of Bond and Greenwood (or is it Newport?) and I looked in the office windows of the bank with the drab metal filling cabinets and cream colored walls. I noticed a desk with two perfect piles of papers and a computer and one of those keyboard cleaners, the high pressure air thing. And I looked at all this and it made me go crazy for the person that has to work there who crucially maintains their levels of clean everyday, trying to keep the perfect stasis of dust free polished wood. I am sure if they looked in on my small life they would want to explode; bits of cat litter everywhere an assailant of smells: candles, incense, garlic, cat poop, dust, life.
A Snap shot
A snap shot of Bend
I am at the Downtowner where they consistantly make the greatest soup known to man (vegetarian as well) Spicy Tomato and I have this high seat which overlooks the courtyard where the gutter punks are loitering around listening to what sounds like Nickleback and I am sitting near (but not with) the guy with long hair that works at Ranch Records who is in that band Problem Stick the same guy I once gave a small bottle of sake after a sake tasting at Bo an Asian themed cocktail bar/restaurant on Franklin where I used to work with the kindest of all Thai women "Pick" who once gave me a silk notebook when I gave her a pair of feather earrings I had bought at Blue (but not the Ashley ones, sorry) and from stage left comes the Sluts-dreamboats with their iron pressed (or permed) perfectly coifed hair smoking cigarettes like nihilist gods and as they pass the boarded up (why is it boarded up?) window through the Breezeway and there is a table in the corner, two men, who are making jealous sounds saying something about how they are way cooler than those emos while someone unseen in the kitchen sings the words to that Counting Crows song "Around Here"and I am kind of singing because on my sixteenth birthday my friend Micheal burned this song for me, the same Michael who lives down the street from me and works with kids but wasn't affected by the Boys and Girls Club closing down but knows people who were; I am thinking of this car I saw, lost, trying to find downtown because they were driving slow and turned on their right signal when they saw the 1/2 mile exit sign for downtown and I don't remember being lost in a long while because I've been here so long now. And a part of me is fine with that because I have this soup and these odd connections and fearless familiarity. But, I'd like if you would tell me something I don't know.
I am at the Downtowner where they consistantly make the greatest soup known to man (vegetarian as well) Spicy Tomato and I have this high seat which overlooks the courtyard where the gutter punks are loitering around listening to what sounds like Nickleback and I am sitting near (but not with) the guy with long hair that works at Ranch Records who is in that band Problem Stick the same guy I once gave a small bottle of sake after a sake tasting at Bo an Asian themed cocktail bar/restaurant on Franklin where I used to work with the kindest of all Thai women "Pick" who once gave me a silk notebook when I gave her a pair of feather earrings I had bought at Blue (but not the Ashley ones, sorry) and from stage left comes the Sluts-dreamboats with their iron pressed (or permed) perfectly coifed hair smoking cigarettes like nihilist gods and as they pass the boarded up (why is it boarded up?) window through the Breezeway and there is a table in the corner, two men, who are making jealous sounds saying something about how they are way cooler than those emos while someone unseen in the kitchen sings the words to that Counting Crows song "Around Here"and I am kind of singing because on my sixteenth birthday my friend Micheal burned this song for me, the same Michael who lives down the street from me and works with kids but wasn't affected by the Boys and Girls Club closing down but knows people who were; I am thinking of this car I saw, lost, trying to find downtown because they were driving slow and turned on their right signal when they saw the 1/2 mile exit sign for downtown and I don't remember being lost in a long while because I've been here so long now. And a part of me is fine with that because I have this soup and these odd connections and fearless familiarity. But, I'd like if you would tell me something I don't know.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
PS I LOVE YOU
P.S. I Love You, the movie your boyfriend refuses to see and your girlies all watched together last Saturday night with goblets of Arbor Mist. Wine and a group of girls could have gotten me through this movie, however, I watched it alone, sober.
After my viewing of P.S. I Love You I became nauseous and confused all day, asking questions in a high pitched whine; "Are American girls really that awkward?" "Why does Hilary Swank smile so often?" "Why isn't Jennifer Garner in this movie?" "Why does Gerard Butler die?"
A brief synopsis with plot spoilers: Gerry (Butler) and Holly (Swank) are a "down and out" couple living in New York City. By down and out I mean they can only afford a fully furnished apartment twice the size of mine. In New York City.
After my viewing of P.S. I Love You I became nauseous and confused all day, asking questions in a high pitched whine; "Are American girls really that awkward?" "Why does Hilary Swank smile so often?" "Why isn't Jennifer Garner in this movie?" "Why does Gerard Butler die?"
A brief synopsis with plot spoilers: Gerry (Butler) and Holly (Swank) are a "down and out" couple living in New York City. By down and out I mean they can only afford a fully furnished apartment twice the size of mine. In New York City.
Early on Gerry dies of a brain tumor (this isn't much of a spoiler; it happens right away). Before this we get a snippet of what their relationship is like; Holly wants to figure out her life and make money while Gerry is perfectly content with himself. From the beginning anyone watching knows Gerry is too good for Holly. After he dies, Holly is in mourning: hanging out in her "filthy" apartment, watching black and white movies, burning a seemingly endless supply of candles, wearing Gerry's old clothes and throwing herself around. She even has a zit on her forehead! It's tragic to see Holly so dispirited.
If there is anything worse than toothy Swank's "sexy" widow, it's the awkward say-anything bartender, Daniel (Harry Connick Jr.) she leashes along to listen to Gerry stories and to make borderline rude comments.
Holly: How did your husband die?
Daniel: Brain tumor.
Holly: Nice!
If there is anything worse than toothy Swank's "sexy" widow, it's the awkward say-anything bartender, Daniel (Harry Connick Jr.) she leashes along to listen to Gerry stories and to make borderline rude comments.
Holly: How did your husband die?
Daniel: Brain tumor.
Holly: Nice!
He's so annoying and NOT cute!! When they first show him staring at Holly's neck during Gerry's wake, I thought, "OH. NO. They are NOT going to have romantic foreshadowing this early in the movie!" If YOU were married to Gerard Butler and he died, wouldn't you just take your own life? I mean, there's really nothing left for you. But so early in the movie they try and do this "chemistry" thing. Dumb.
If there is one thing you are going to get out of this movie it is these essential truths:
Women Don't Know What They Want and Don't Take For Granted What You Have. That's it. Put that on a needlepoint and hang it in the kitchen.
I admit, I cried. Of course I cried. Gerard Butler, the central character in the entire movie is only in select scenes, I barely saw him at all! And he died! He died!
Sometimes when I read a book with an unfair ending, Animal Farm for example, I rewrite the ending to make it more satisfying and bearable. In Animal Farm I added an epilogue where the house burns down with all the nasty pigs inside, Snowball returns, and the animals start the windmill again and live happily every after.
Sadly, for P.S. I Love You, there was no way to save the story with a new ending. You can't take back the not funny scenes with Swank and her friends. You can't make Gerry alive again. So I took the liberty of rewriting the entire screenplay and sending it to director Richard LaGravenese and anyone else who would listen. I asked them to consider not making my version a sequel but rather apologizing for the first one and releasing the new one as quickly as possible as a replacement. I have even offered myself as an alternate to the Holly character.
A synopsis of the plot: Gerry is a guy married to a girl, Holly. She dies within twenty seconds of the opening, no relationship development or anything, she just falls out of a window while whining to Gerry her life isn't good enough, she has no money, she has to buy designer clothes on ebay, wah wah wah. Gerry is really sad for about two seconds. Then he picks up a guitar plays a Pogues song, and drinks himself all the way back to Ireland where the real movie takes place; Gerry and his friend William playing music all over stopping to save children from vicious gangs of bloated English Protestants with primitive urban weapons (like whiskey bottles). The story is totally wild; a mix of Frank Miller, a Bollywood film, Guy Ritchie and funny like the funniest joke you ever heard. The Rock even has a bit piece in this film as a Catholic priest! Trust me, there won't be any stupid women struggling in boats. The only romance happens at the very end when Gerry and William are at a pub and Andrea Corr (from The Corrs) and Dolores O'Riordan (The Cranberries) are there rocking it. Gerry and William do shots with them, declare peace in North Ireland, and have a bunch of incredibly hot children.
If there is one thing you are going to get out of this movie it is these essential truths:
Women Don't Know What They Want and Don't Take For Granted What You Have. That's it. Put that on a needlepoint and hang it in the kitchen.
I admit, I cried. Of course I cried. Gerard Butler, the central character in the entire movie is only in select scenes, I barely saw him at all! And he died! He died!
Sometimes when I read a book with an unfair ending, Animal Farm for example, I rewrite the ending to make it more satisfying and bearable. In Animal Farm I added an epilogue where the house burns down with all the nasty pigs inside, Snowball returns, and the animals start the windmill again and live happily every after.
Sadly, for P.S. I Love You, there was no way to save the story with a new ending. You can't take back the not funny scenes with Swank and her friends. You can't make Gerry alive again. So I took the liberty of rewriting the entire screenplay and sending it to director Richard LaGravenese and anyone else who would listen. I asked them to consider not making my version a sequel but rather apologizing for the first one and releasing the new one as quickly as possible as a replacement. I have even offered myself as an alternate to the Holly character.
A synopsis of the plot: Gerry is a guy married to a girl, Holly. She dies within twenty seconds of the opening, no relationship development or anything, she just falls out of a window while whining to Gerry her life isn't good enough, she has no money, she has to buy designer clothes on ebay, wah wah wah. Gerry is really sad for about two seconds. Then he picks up a guitar plays a Pogues song, and drinks himself all the way back to Ireland where the real movie takes place; Gerry and his friend William playing music all over stopping to save children from vicious gangs of bloated English Protestants with primitive urban weapons (like whiskey bottles). The story is totally wild; a mix of Frank Miller, a Bollywood film, Guy Ritchie and funny like the funniest joke you ever heard. The Rock even has a bit piece in this film as a Catholic priest! Trust me, there won't be any stupid women struggling in boats. The only romance happens at the very end when Gerry and William are at a pub and Andrea Corr (from The Corrs) and Dolores O'Riordan (The Cranberries) are there rocking it. Gerry and William do shots with them, declare peace in North Ireland, and have a bunch of incredibly hot children.
THE END.
P.S. I love you Gerard Butler...
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Why do the people in the tech world make so many blinking things? Damn blinking things! The internet pickup modem thing just blinking away out of the corner of my eye! I am so glad to see you are on!
When I turn out the lights at night they are all still staring at me with their beady little green/blue/yellow eyes. ARG! I unplug them all! Rip them out of the cord and the laptop wines and blinks blue. "I'l unplugged! I'm unplugged!" I know you are! I take out your battery! There! Shut up!
I cannot go to bed until everything in my house but my cat, my boyfriend, and I is dead.
When I turn out the lights at night they are all still staring at me with their beady little green/blue/yellow eyes. ARG! I unplug them all! Rip them out of the cord and the laptop wines and blinks blue. "I'l unplugged! I'm unplugged!" I know you are! I take out your battery! There! Shut up!
I cannot go to bed until everything in my house but my cat, my boyfriend, and I is dead.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Review of Mysle
Mysle's, Chrysalis combines the drama of passing under midnight train tunnels and the elegance of moonlight blooming flowers using layers of clarinet, dreamlike guitar, piano, cello, and voice.
The first song, "Pronounced Misla," the longest on the album, feels influenced by late night high tides at the Pacific Coast and Ulver as it introduces clarinet with rich, heavy, almost clumsy piano notes (continuous throughout the album). The song goes through many phases; spoken word is heard in the background, as if behind thin stained glass but eventually takes the foreground. The middle of the song becomes relatively simple with spoken word then dissolving into what sounds like a clip from a Norwegian film.
The singing is beautiful, rarely center and usually in accompaniment with the instruments. In most cases the words aren't meant to be understood but a loose invitation at human communication. The lyrics, however, are lovely, in perfect compliment with the instruments. My favorite song lyrically, “Winter Sun,” illustrates this point: "in the horizon a snow white curse hangs heavy on my thoughts and i feel that if nothing changes the morning will come without us," reads Robert.
“Glass Ring Dance” is precisely what its title depicts- a round stereo hum of pressing your finger to a crystal glass. The timing feels circular, from softness to loudness- background to foreground- a complete and full circle.
“Born Apotek” is similar to the end bit of “Pronounced Misla” reminiscent of Art Ensemble of Chicago. Speakeasy jazz with piano and dark clarinet. A cool basement with cement floor, two tables of flickering tea lights where everyone is a Scandinavian immigrant, dresses in tweed, drinks Akvavit and dances with existential looks on their faces. The shift in the song after the opening bit makes us realize the song is very much present, not something archaic. “Born Apotek” became easily my favorite song for the timeless theme it presents.
Penna follows the similar theme, keeping the mood cool and melancholy.
You can hear the Icelandic Sigur Ros, Amiina, and of course the Norwegian Ulver. Mysle's Chrysalis challenge isn't talent or uniqueness but finding a receptive audience prepared to listen closely, although it can be appreciated by anyone.
http://thirdseven.com/
The singing is beautiful, rarely center and usually in accompaniment with the instruments. In most cases the words aren't meant to be understood but a loose invitation at human communication. The lyrics, however, are lovely, in perfect compliment with the instruments. My favorite song lyrically, “Winter Sun,” illustrates this point: "in the horizon a snow white curse hangs heavy on my thoughts and i feel that if nothing changes the morning will come without us," reads Robert.
“Glass Ring Dance” is precisely what its title depicts- a round stereo hum of pressing your finger to a crystal glass. The timing feels circular, from softness to loudness- background to foreground- a complete and full circle.
“Born Apotek” is similar to the end bit of “Pronounced Misla” reminiscent of Art Ensemble of Chicago. Speakeasy jazz with piano and dark clarinet. A cool basement with cement floor, two tables of flickering tea lights where everyone is a Scandinavian immigrant, dresses in tweed, drinks Akvavit and dances with existential looks on their faces. The shift in the song after the opening bit makes us realize the song is very much present, not something archaic. “Born Apotek” became easily my favorite song for the timeless theme it presents.
Penna follows the similar theme, keeping the mood cool and melancholy.
You can hear the Icelandic Sigur Ros, Amiina, and of course the Norwegian Ulver. Mysle's Chrysalis challenge isn't talent or uniqueness but finding a receptive audience prepared to listen closely, although it can be appreciated by anyone.
http://thirdseven.com/
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