Saturday, December 11, 2010
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
The National
I haven't been certain how to begin this post, yet I've been both distracted and incensed by the want to write it since seeing The National in Pomona on October 16th, 2010. Two disparate and appropriate worlds collided with this show- an intense production and a complete personal heartbreak like I haven't known as an adult. Both are selfish, self-imposed and specific. The circumstance was random and unrelated, but something between the two of these separate things fit. A sense of expectation exists in both the building of a relationship and the anticipation of seeing a band you really dig for the first time. I've been around bands, musicians, theatres, artists and the like for many years. I am one. I understand the frailty, strength and commonality of each performance, each rehearsal, each excuse, each responsibility. That's why I love it- it's all a process that builds to an end,that is never an end, and it is so very imperfect. It never stops growing, nor contorting, nor finding a sense of stasis, that may seem comfortable, but is actually deadening. Relationships are built. I love live music for the this reason, but it's more of a spectator aesthetic, being more theatre based. I know what goes into the tireless hours in the studio, in practice spaces, in personal dynamics between band members, in the creation of the songs, in general irks and behaviors. When you see a band live, it is in a presentation stage, but rarely a final one. Everyone is taking one for the team, and it's up to the relationships offstage to determine the interpretation. Where are the rocks getting off? Because they are, if it's an awesome show. If the bond is held. If the relationships are strong. And there is an audience. Another responsibility. This always begs the question of: where is the evidence onstage? You know it's there! The Beatles didn't break up because of Yoko. That's a story created seeking an excuse. The Beatles were a band. A great one. And they broke up. Why? A thousand reasons that became clear in one gesture over a span of ten years. Their story makes sense to them. It is still the fodder of speculation and legend for those who were witness.
But this is not an entry about the Beatles. This is an entry about the National. This is an entry about heartbreak. I went to see this show with a friend of a friend, whom I had not yet met. This band was pivotal in a relationship that I had been building for nearly a year- one that had been full of promise, beauty, support and strength-the beginnings of a beautiful world. A relationship that I had not expected to find, nor had I anticipated to crumble. Questions had loomed, but they always do, and I had chosen to give little weight to those questions in effort to discover what possibilities lay ahead. In that relationship, I had been curious and exultant to step away from my own protective nature and admire the view from the edge of the cliff. I loved it. At any point, I could have jumped, with a running start, a wistful glance to the nodding landscape, or a whim.I did none of those things. I built the view. I loved every moment of each shift and assessment. I had only been in Los Angeles for a month, and was excited to see the National as my first show out here, simply because it was informed with the promise and nostalgia of the aforementioned relationship that had been building for 11 months, the meeting of a new friend and cohort, and I didn't expect much from the band. They had recorded the beauty that informed my expectations. They had already provided the ultimate soundtrack to this knowledge, desire and want of discovery. They could have gone onstage and farted, and I would have waited for the line that seared my heart, the riff that would encapsulate the memory that I would attach to something separate. That was their brilliance. It had nothing to do with them as a band, further than a huge thank you for attaching a beautiful and textured key. They had already done a good job in the studio. I'm a bit of a romantic cynic, in that way, when it comes to seeing bands or anything live. The process is where the building takes shape.Sometimes the audience doesn't care.The audience is meant to be selfish. They've made their decision. But that couldn't happen in this case because of an unexpected twist of fate and common knowledge that my new friend and I shared. On the ride to the show, I learned that the relationship I had been cultivating and loving was a complete fraud, and completely common. On the ride to the show, I wanted nothing more than to run home and hide. How appropriate.
And that happens. And I couldn't run. I couldn't hide. I couldn't launch myself off of that promised edge. It's not my style, nor nature. I could listen and learn. I could bide my time and save whatever face I could muster. For whom? Myself. The ghost of something I won't articulate. I liked my new friend, the view that had been established, and, although I was devastated by the sudden realization of the loss of something in which I loved openly and fully, there was no way that I was going to deem myself a victim, cry in a corner and hide. Falling was not an option. I had to stand as I was. Someone who believed in something, discovered a truth that didn't fit, and took responsibility for my hopes that this wouldn't devolve as it was clearly doing from this point of recognition. Sometimes the responsibility to take is to admit that you get it. All you can do is stand up and stand forward. In a 20 minute conversation, a world imploded. I knew I needed to dismiss everything I had believed in and hoped for in this past year. Okay. Shit. Damn. this was going to hurt. Walking away always does. But I will still choose walking over jumping. It's better that way.
Holy shit, did I not want to see the National by the time we got to the venue. I hoped they'd be quick. I hoped they'd be annoying divas. I hoped they'd suck.I hoped they'd phone it in. I wanted to be disappointed, because I already had access to that vacuum. I just wanted to get home. As soon as they took the stage, they did so with inquiry and attention to detail. They approached the show as a show, and they immediately set their rules. They would play, yes, but something else was waiting. Discovery was staged with the singer coming out from behind the microphone and standing at the edge of the stage, looking at the audience, as the rest of the band continued to blare, blaze and kick ass. This became a pattern that I recognized in the back of my distracted mind. It was overt. He overtly took to the edge as I prayed that Bloodbuzz Ohio and Slow show would be done with quickly. Those were the certain songs that would kill me in my addled heart. And they were. They were done within the first 5 songs. And in between each of the songs, the singer continued his pattern of stepping away from the microphone, standing at the edge of the stage, and looking inquisitively into the crowd. A clear tactic. A pattern was being set, and it was a good one. The band was flawless. they played amazingly. Eventually, the show was done. It was good. It was intriguing. It sounded great. One of the better shows I've seen in years, despite my distraction. Clearly, there would be an encore.And there was. When they came out again, they did so with a grin. I don't remember where they began. I think it was Terrible Love, but there may have been a song prior. But in Terrible Love, the constant stepping away from the microphone gave headway into purpose. It seemed planned, because it was. The singer took his stance at the edge of the stage and during, "It takes an ocean just to break" he entered the crowd. Not crowd surfing, just walking through this mass of people, his roading with his (corded) microphone steady. He made his way through the ground floor, up to the balcony, where we were, hugged a woman next to me, passed by me, as I patted him on the back, and continued along. The most amazing part of it? It wasn't pretentious. It was a conversation that had been begun at the top of the night. Keep in mind, this whole show, I was trying to keep my shit together. I didn't give a fuck about the band. I was taking pictures with my phone because I was surprised and really wanted something to do. By the time he got to me, I put my camera down. It seemed a breach of trust. It seemed embarrassing. That comfort and culture was created in the night. It was more than music. A relationship was built between the audience and the band. That is the brilliant point of an amazing live show. It is a conversation.
By the end of the song, he was back onstage. No problems, no hysteria, corded microphone and roadie intact. They performed their final song, indicating that they wanted everyone to sing along. The musicians unplugged their instruments. The singer stepped away from the microphone.Again. It was natural now. Everyone in this room together sang in chorus, "Vanderlylle, cry baby cry," and it was beautiful. It was church.
Leave your home
Change your name
Live alone
Eat your cake
Vanderlylle crybaby, cry
All the borders are risin'
Still no surprisin' you
Vanderlylle crbaby, cry
Man it's all been forgiven
Swan's are a swimmin'
I'll explain everything to the geese
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
Vanderlylle crybaby, cry
All the borders are risin'
Still no suprisin' you
Vanderlylle crybaby, cry
Man it's all been forgiven
Swan's are a swimmin'
I'll explain everything to the geese
Hangin' from chandeliers
Same small world
At your heels
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
Vanderlylle crybaby, cry
All the borders are risin'
Still no surprisin' you
Vanderlylle crybaby, cry
Man it's all been forgiven
Swans are a swimmin'
I'll explain everything to the geese
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
I sang all of the wrong words, which I wouldn't have known had i not just googled the lyrics now. Goes to show that you hear what you need.. I sang, "All the very best of us string ourselves up for love...I'll explain everything to the geeks" I know that I'm not the only one and what matters is not the specificity, but the intent, the space, and the opportunity. A beautiful show. Perhaps the best show I have seen in a while. Terrible circumstances, wonderful company of equal awareness in absurdity of an extreme circumstance, and a band that really performs what they have written and recorded. Luck.
When I got home, I knew I had to settle the awareness I had been given in this random evening. I could have pretended the knowledge I gained didn't happen. I could have played dumb and changed the relationship without warning. I could have been cruel and dissolute. I could have gone along and tried to salvage a false extension, because I really didn't want to lose this love. But I knew that it was false, and that's not how I appreciate the luck of love. I could have lied. I considered it. I didn't want us to disappear. I was scared to death of it. But the fact is, I needed to open the conversation. I still believed in the beauty of the fruition of knowing each other. Clearly, I had had my doubts and scrutinies, it wouldn't be a heartbreak if there wasn't some sort of indication of a fall. It wouldn't be a cliff edge that you'd pace without the trust that the other person would protect and watch out for you. Even when I got home, I went directly to him, offering an inch of what I was told. I had hoped for a conversation.A soccer mom arm at the edge. And he jumped. He was done. No explanation, no need. Yoko didn't break up the Beatles. The Beatles decided not to continue. They jumped. Because they could. Sometimes, people jump. Sometimes, these things happen. Sometimes, you see a great show. Sometimes, your heart gets smashed into a million pieces. Sometimes, great bands play. Sometimes, you are both lucky and screwed. Points to the band that can play through that shit. Sheesh. The National- hats off to you! I'm still admiring the view, pacing the edge, pulling bits and pieces back together. I've never been a jumper. Like you, I like to admire and consider and articulate the right time to wade in. It just seems more authentic and respectful that way. I suppose I am drawn to the drama of cliffs, but I will always stop short. I will not jump nor fall. So give me the ocean. A world lives within the water.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4TojO3l9CL4
But this is not an entry about the Beatles. This is an entry about the National. This is an entry about heartbreak. I went to see this show with a friend of a friend, whom I had not yet met. This band was pivotal in a relationship that I had been building for nearly a year- one that had been full of promise, beauty, support and strength-the beginnings of a beautiful world. A relationship that I had not expected to find, nor had I anticipated to crumble. Questions had loomed, but they always do, and I had chosen to give little weight to those questions in effort to discover what possibilities lay ahead. In that relationship, I had been curious and exultant to step away from my own protective nature and admire the view from the edge of the cliff. I loved it. At any point, I could have jumped, with a running start, a wistful glance to the nodding landscape, or a whim.I did none of those things. I built the view. I loved every moment of each shift and assessment. I had only been in Los Angeles for a month, and was excited to see the National as my first show out here, simply because it was informed with the promise and nostalgia of the aforementioned relationship that had been building for 11 months, the meeting of a new friend and cohort, and I didn't expect much from the band. They had recorded the beauty that informed my expectations. They had already provided the ultimate soundtrack to this knowledge, desire and want of discovery. They could have gone onstage and farted, and I would have waited for the line that seared my heart, the riff that would encapsulate the memory that I would attach to something separate. That was their brilliance. It had nothing to do with them as a band, further than a huge thank you for attaching a beautiful and textured key. They had already done a good job in the studio. I'm a bit of a romantic cynic, in that way, when it comes to seeing bands or anything live. The process is where the building takes shape.Sometimes the audience doesn't care.The audience is meant to be selfish. They've made their decision. But that couldn't happen in this case because of an unexpected twist of fate and common knowledge that my new friend and I shared. On the ride to the show, I learned that the relationship I had been cultivating and loving was a complete fraud, and completely common. On the ride to the show, I wanted nothing more than to run home and hide. How appropriate.
And that happens. And I couldn't run. I couldn't hide. I couldn't launch myself off of that promised edge. It's not my style, nor nature. I could listen and learn. I could bide my time and save whatever face I could muster. For whom? Myself. The ghost of something I won't articulate. I liked my new friend, the view that had been established, and, although I was devastated by the sudden realization of the loss of something in which I loved openly and fully, there was no way that I was going to deem myself a victim, cry in a corner and hide. Falling was not an option. I had to stand as I was. Someone who believed in something, discovered a truth that didn't fit, and took responsibility for my hopes that this wouldn't devolve as it was clearly doing from this point of recognition. Sometimes the responsibility to take is to admit that you get it. All you can do is stand up and stand forward. In a 20 minute conversation, a world imploded. I knew I needed to dismiss everything I had believed in and hoped for in this past year. Okay. Shit. Damn. this was going to hurt. Walking away always does. But I will still choose walking over jumping. It's better that way.
Holy shit, did I not want to see the National by the time we got to the venue. I hoped they'd be quick. I hoped they'd be annoying divas. I hoped they'd suck.I hoped they'd phone it in. I wanted to be disappointed, because I already had access to that vacuum. I just wanted to get home. As soon as they took the stage, they did so with inquiry and attention to detail. They approached the show as a show, and they immediately set their rules. They would play, yes, but something else was waiting. Discovery was staged with the singer coming out from behind the microphone and standing at the edge of the stage, looking at the audience, as the rest of the band continued to blare, blaze and kick ass. This became a pattern that I recognized in the back of my distracted mind. It was overt. He overtly took to the edge as I prayed that Bloodbuzz Ohio and Slow show would be done with quickly. Those were the certain songs that would kill me in my addled heart. And they were. They were done within the first 5 songs. And in between each of the songs, the singer continued his pattern of stepping away from the microphone, standing at the edge of the stage, and looking inquisitively into the crowd. A clear tactic. A pattern was being set, and it was a good one. The band was flawless. they played amazingly. Eventually, the show was done. It was good. It was intriguing. It sounded great. One of the better shows I've seen in years, despite my distraction. Clearly, there would be an encore.And there was. When they came out again, they did so with a grin. I don't remember where they began. I think it was Terrible Love, but there may have been a song prior. But in Terrible Love, the constant stepping away from the microphone gave headway into purpose. It seemed planned, because it was. The singer took his stance at the edge of the stage and during, "It takes an ocean just to break" he entered the crowd. Not crowd surfing, just walking through this mass of people, his roading with his (corded) microphone steady. He made his way through the ground floor, up to the balcony, where we were, hugged a woman next to me, passed by me, as I patted him on the back, and continued along. The most amazing part of it? It wasn't pretentious. It was a conversation that had been begun at the top of the night. Keep in mind, this whole show, I was trying to keep my shit together. I didn't give a fuck about the band. I was taking pictures with my phone because I was surprised and really wanted something to do. By the time he got to me, I put my camera down. It seemed a breach of trust. It seemed embarrassing. That comfort and culture was created in the night. It was more than music. A relationship was built between the audience and the band. That is the brilliant point of an amazing live show. It is a conversation.
By the end of the song, he was back onstage. No problems, no hysteria, corded microphone and roadie intact. They performed their final song, indicating that they wanted everyone to sing along. The musicians unplugged their instruments. The singer stepped away from the microphone.Again. It was natural now. Everyone in this room together sang in chorus, "Vanderlylle, cry baby cry," and it was beautiful. It was church.
Leave your home
Change your name
Live alone
Eat your cake
Vanderlylle crybaby, cry
All the borders are risin'
Still no surprisin' you
Vanderlylle crbaby, cry
Man it's all been forgiven
Swan's are a swimmin'
I'll explain everything to the geese
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
Vanderlylle crybaby, cry
All the borders are risin'
Still no suprisin' you
Vanderlylle crybaby, cry
Man it's all been forgiven
Swan's are a swimmin'
I'll explain everything to the geese
Hangin' from chandeliers
Same small world
At your heels
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
Vanderlylle crybaby, cry
All the borders are risin'
Still no surprisin' you
Vanderlylle crybaby, cry
Man it's all been forgiven
Swans are a swimmin'
I'll explain everything to the geese
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
I sang all of the wrong words, which I wouldn't have known had i not just googled the lyrics now. Goes to show that you hear what you need.. I sang, "All the very best of us string ourselves up for love...I'll explain everything to the geeks" I know that I'm not the only one and what matters is not the specificity, but the intent, the space, and the opportunity. A beautiful show. Perhaps the best show I have seen in a while. Terrible circumstances, wonderful company of equal awareness in absurdity of an extreme circumstance, and a band that really performs what they have written and recorded. Luck.
When I got home, I knew I had to settle the awareness I had been given in this random evening. I could have pretended the knowledge I gained didn't happen. I could have played dumb and changed the relationship without warning. I could have been cruel and dissolute. I could have gone along and tried to salvage a false extension, because I really didn't want to lose this love. But I knew that it was false, and that's not how I appreciate the luck of love. I could have lied. I considered it. I didn't want us to disappear. I was scared to death of it. But the fact is, I needed to open the conversation. I still believed in the beauty of the fruition of knowing each other. Clearly, I had had my doubts and scrutinies, it wouldn't be a heartbreak if there wasn't some sort of indication of a fall. It wouldn't be a cliff edge that you'd pace without the trust that the other person would protect and watch out for you. Even when I got home, I went directly to him, offering an inch of what I was told. I had hoped for a conversation.A soccer mom arm at the edge. And he jumped. He was done. No explanation, no need. Yoko didn't break up the Beatles. The Beatles decided not to continue. They jumped. Because they could. Sometimes, people jump. Sometimes, these things happen. Sometimes, you see a great show. Sometimes, your heart gets smashed into a million pieces. Sometimes, great bands play. Sometimes, you are both lucky and screwed. Points to the band that can play through that shit. Sheesh. The National- hats off to you! I'm still admiring the view, pacing the edge, pulling bits and pieces back together. I've never been a jumper. Like you, I like to admire and consider and articulate the right time to wade in. It just seems more authentic and respectful that way. I suppose I am drawn to the drama of cliffs, but I will always stop short. I will not jump nor fall. So give me the ocean. A world lives within the water.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4TojO3l9CL4
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
The world is small
So, the world is small
a distant fleck of light on a shivering night
huddled beneath the green intent of building a fantasy
borne of cool strokes in thankful connection.
Arms to hips
fists to grips
angles and ships
trusting navigation to the waves
anchors to rudders
views from the moon
pulling and pushing
resistance and release
assessment and belief
chartering the ebbs and tides with the patience of a saint
who whispers from behind
this has been done before
through storms and skies unadultered
risks and sly lovers
pinning fate within the bend of a stalwart bow
scrawling moments as refracted plows
sent to till and establish that which can grow up from a seed
the beauty of a need
to tend and imagine
stalks strong and robust.
These two cannot match
driving forward and standing up
to lean down and ignite the pluck
slipping past my hip, dropping an illusory lip.
To claim yourself a steward is cruel
while the water and the soil waits.
Dependent upon the skies and seasons
that pull our tide and make our gardens grow.
Lucky Tide, it always shifts
as the Earth bestows it's gifts.
Here I float, fingers tensed
imagining the beauty on a fence
lost in the prince with no common sense
steering the rudder with the wind of the waves.
a distant fleck of light on a shivering night
huddled beneath the green intent of building a fantasy
borne of cool strokes in thankful connection.
Arms to hips
fists to grips
angles and ships
trusting navigation to the waves
anchors to rudders
views from the moon
pulling and pushing
resistance and release
assessment and belief
chartering the ebbs and tides with the patience of a saint
who whispers from behind
this has been done before
through storms and skies unadultered
risks and sly lovers
pinning fate within the bend of a stalwart bow
scrawling moments as refracted plows
sent to till and establish that which can grow up from a seed
the beauty of a need
to tend and imagine
stalks strong and robust.
These two cannot match
driving forward and standing up
to lean down and ignite the pluck
slipping past my hip, dropping an illusory lip.
To claim yourself a steward is cruel
while the water and the soil waits.
Dependent upon the skies and seasons
that pull our tide and make our gardens grow.
Lucky Tide, it always shifts
as the Earth bestows it's gifts.
Here I float, fingers tensed
imagining the beauty on a fence
lost in the prince with no common sense
steering the rudder with the wind of the waves.
Monday, October 11, 2010
New city, still haven't written of the drive
In the midst of stasis
and waiting
as though these two do not agree
this is the echo
melodramatic and resigned.
Amazing in it's place.
Seek if you will.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B7nY2ZmbAhE
and waiting
as though these two do not agree
this is the echo
melodramatic and resigned.
Amazing in it's place.
Seek if you will.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B7nY2ZmbAhE
Friday, October 8, 2010
of memory
I can tell a million stories
that scurry and slip
to weave and admit.
I can stand in admittance
of a proof of identity
a call to some arms
that are imagined far and wide.
I can build arms for the pedestals
to laugh at the hubris
of those who don't catch the humor
in the clear craftsmanship
built of honor and remembrance
while I slide by,
hoping for a hilarious hook.
A change.
An awareness.
A look.
And I can settle in remorse.
Arms thrown to the wind
of words suddenly silenced
and hopes deemed dimmed
Perhaps return is not possible.
Penelope at her loom
unabashed and slyly supported.
Belief at her temple
pounding as it does.
So, to wait.
To smile.
To be correct.
Despite the odds.
A hurried heroine pulling at threads.
A hubris blanket with harried ends.
that scurry and slip
to weave and admit.
I can stand in admittance
of a proof of identity
a call to some arms
that are imagined far and wide.
I can build arms for the pedestals
to laugh at the hubris
of those who don't catch the humor
in the clear craftsmanship
built of honor and remembrance
while I slide by,
hoping for a hilarious hook.
A change.
An awareness.
A look.
And I can settle in remorse.
Arms thrown to the wind
of words suddenly silenced
and hopes deemed dimmed
Perhaps return is not possible.
Penelope at her loom
unabashed and slyly supported.
Belief at her temple
pounding as it does.
So, to wait.
To smile.
To be correct.
Despite the odds.
A hurried heroine pulling at threads.
A hubris blanket with harried ends.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
This is of the Moon
From Wikipedia: Desire
Desire (emotion), a sense of longing or hoping
Desire (philosophy)
Greed, one of the seven deadly sins, selfish pursuit of wealth, power, or possessions
Interpersonal attraction
Libido, sexual desire according to Freud and psychoanalysis
Limerence, an involuntary state of intense romantic desire
Lust, intense craving for self gratification
Motivation, a thought that leads to an action
Preference, a concept in the social sciences, particularly economics
Taṇhā, craving in Buddhist psychology
Want, in economics
To transpose:
To sit and to wait,
holding propriety in a pose projected
Nodding only to an esteem
That means nothing, merely a choice in position
while assuming clarity.
A passive projection.
A worthy rumination.
A formula of frequent fruition that stands aside,
watching over,
rejecting reasons right and demeanors slight.
I have been undone and intrinsically bound.
He has been apparent and stringent and sound.
Now Finally screaming yes and learning limerance
Understanding the sight.
Having Awkwardly skirted in this light
That has been due to shine like the moon
With Jupiter at her hip
As she does so now
My eyes are serpent sponges
With brows aware and knit
to welcome this slip
This indulgence of night
This truth.
Our protective grip.
Sent to stare and skip
in perfection and blips.
The welcome of bliss.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Rediscovering Memphis
I had a plan. I had planned to document my drive from Chicago to Los Angeles as a meditative practice. I did so on the first day. After that, the plan was shirked in the blogosphere because, well...I wanted to enjoy the drive and found that there was a bit too much, and a bit too little, to record. So, I condensed. If I were to follow my path of travel, it would be done so in a silly photo-documentary of a Mr. Potatohead adventure pictoral that I sent to a friend, who was kind enough to indulge.
Even in writing, in whatever form, plans change. Rather than write of the journey, I find myself wanting to write of the discovery of places.
Rediscovering Memphis:
I never realized how pretty Memphis is. Driving into the city, and in retrospect, I was struck. How pretty is this city with which I have held such loyalty and itchy discomfort? The people and friendships I had built here in my early 20's are pristine. I have never known such a loving, caring and strong community before nor since, yet I have memories of the city as one of complete disarray and discontent. I remember a strong pulse of anger and segregation in some areas, combatted by a calming reminder of those who persevere and stand strong to negate that pulse with beauty, stoicism and resolve. Perhaps I never realized how pretty the city is simply because I'd never been a visitor. My introduction to this city and community is framed in a leather biker jacket, screaming out windows, falling hopelessly in love with impossible relationships, and running back to NYC to nurse the wounds of a failed glimpse at a potential life I could have absorbed, wondering about the "what if" life that I now live.
As a visitor, I found myself not as a guest, but returning family. What a relief and release to return to the success of my dear friends, the continued success and expansion of Playhouse on the Square, who brought me out there in the first place, at the tender age of 22, when I was young, a little lost, and over the top. I learned so much in this city, and I am incorrect to eulogize my memory, as it is still in the texture of both my experience, and the transcriptions of some of the best friendships I have ever been lucky enough to hold dear. Memphis never forgets. Memphis may skirt, but her memory is long and open. A city of true revelry and significance and a slow burn of expansion that clings lovingly to it's own history, despite the discomfort of the pain that lingers as a texture of experience and the process of change.
Even in writing, in whatever form, plans change. Rather than write of the journey, I find myself wanting to write of the discovery of places.
Rediscovering Memphis:
I never realized how pretty Memphis is. Driving into the city, and in retrospect, I was struck. How pretty is this city with which I have held such loyalty and itchy discomfort? The people and friendships I had built here in my early 20's are pristine. I have never known such a loving, caring and strong community before nor since, yet I have memories of the city as one of complete disarray and discontent. I remember a strong pulse of anger and segregation in some areas, combatted by a calming reminder of those who persevere and stand strong to negate that pulse with beauty, stoicism and resolve. Perhaps I never realized how pretty the city is simply because I'd never been a visitor. My introduction to this city and community is framed in a leather biker jacket, screaming out windows, falling hopelessly in love with impossible relationships, and running back to NYC to nurse the wounds of a failed glimpse at a potential life I could have absorbed, wondering about the "what if" life that I now live.
As a visitor, I found myself not as a guest, but returning family. What a relief and release to return to the success of my dear friends, the continued success and expansion of Playhouse on the Square, who brought me out there in the first place, at the tender age of 22, when I was young, a little lost, and over the top. I learned so much in this city, and I am incorrect to eulogize my memory, as it is still in the texture of both my experience, and the transcriptions of some of the best friendships I have ever been lucky enough to hold dear. Memphis never forgets. Memphis may skirt, but her memory is long and open. A city of true revelry and significance and a slow burn of expansion that clings lovingly to it's own history, despite the discomfort of the pain that lingers as a texture of experience and the process of change.
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