For what it is worth, which is much to me, I don't believe in settling in a negative sense. . .I've never known someone who has claimed settlement negatively and not been gripped with an ennui of regret and an excuse of tortured eyes, a dismissive tone in their valid accomplishments, and a torch burning so bright for something that is not impossible, that it blinds the steps taken, so they can be made towards the goals that they chose with eyes darting to the next downfall. I've known many who have made sacrifices, for many reasons, and I can include myself in that group, and we have done so to get to the next step- the next precipice- the next great unknown. And it's terrifying and invigorating. I've also learned that blindness to those steps, whether it be clouded in regret or drama or whatever vice is chosen, debilitates the beauty of those steps chosen to be taken. Those steps inform your journey, no matter what. Whether you choose to decide them, or allow them to be decided, doesn't matter. We are in our element when we embrace what we have, and implement what we want. It is that fucking simple.
To bolster this idea, I'll use my own growing story. As I write this tonight, I am scared shitless about what my life will become, if I am lucky enough to live long enough to accomplish half of the goals I've set out toward. That's a pretty good incentive, as it is, and one that was instilled by my family, to whom I was clearly the trouble-child, the non-conformist, and the one who carries the torch of all we were taught. A torch that helps me understand those who attach themselves to the negative form of settling. My family is comprised of educators and academics. Brilliant artists, too. My writing will never hold a candle to my father's poeticism. My painting(or sewing skills) will never be nearly so expert and precise as my mothers, nor will I ever have the meticulous patience or skill that my step-father has for color saturation. I will never have the visual aptitude, or the drawing sensibilty that Susan has, nor will I ever have the intense appreciation, knowledge, encouragement and articulation of art that Anne has built so effortlessly. I could mire under the weight of ineptitude in comparison with my family. The influence of this admiration and clear appreciation is what makes my work what it is. I love it- it is messy and precise, funny and extending, wonky and interpretive. It is what it is, and it is clearly my voice, from a generation of influence.
I understand my place in my family, for this reason, and I am lucky for this. When I decided to move out to Los Angeles, after how many moves? New York, Memphis, Atlanta, Chicago, I was scared to death to tell them, even though they had clearly seen both the successes and failures incurred in each city. I could have stayed in New York. I could have stayed in Memphis. I could have stayed in Chicago. Had I done so, I'd have negatively settled. The hardest thing about leaving Chicago was not leaving Striding Lion, it was telling my family that I was on the move again.
And they were relieved, which was a great support. And I was excited and following multiple dreams- some that were manifested the dream of California, as an actor, some that were dreams of the heart, as I had been led first with that, as I always am, and finally the dream of moving forward with adventure and hope, because I was lucky enough to do so. So, I did.
I drove out here in order to set a meditation of crossing at least some of the beautiful land of this country. To finally see it, because I could. Through Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona, I found myself turning off my ipod, and driving along in silence, mouth agape. I paced the journey with a photo documentation of a Mr. Potato-head. Some of these photos were sent to a person who held my heart, when I felt alone. I never was alone. I had my family, I had my friends, I had the absurdity of my Mr. Potato-head documentation.
Since moving out here, I have found a reconnection with some of my dearest friends. I found that the person who first turned my eyes and focus out here was drenched in excuses and dismissal, once the awareness that identified our relationship was clear, and there was no way to turn that around.I don't regret that, as it's not my regret to take, but i acknowledge it, and assure that I will never make those decisions in my world, which I protect and in which I believe. I've been out here for only four months and have incurred confusion, exultation, loss, dismissal, wonder and a myriad of other experiences. Sunny skies and unexpected drenchings. What strikes me about this transition is that, above everything else, I have built the awareness and luck to appreciate that which is clear: Clarity and truth are far more settling than manipulation or dishonesty. When my eyes close for good, they won't be wounded. Rather, they will be full of the wisdom that is continually built and shared. The art that I create is consistently built of those moments of transition, leading to the next. It is full of characters, interpretation, stasis and corrupted settling. A mirror, perhaps, of a wayward journey that is constantly found and accessible. I can't wait to see how it manifests when I have finally settled, and the wayward aspect is an influence, rather than an apex. To use a cheap navigation metaphor- I've definitely entered a phase where I'm comfortable with my role as a rudder, playing direction and skewing. I have a distinct feeling that the Anchor phase is presenting itself, and that is great. Of course, it will begin in a city that is famous for both it's fascination with constant filming,the make-believe believabilty and the unstable constitution of the land upon which we stand. Perhaps the treat of an earthquake actually works better for me- I'm accustomed to tornadoes, blizzards and terrible driving conditions. All of which can be forseen. It's terrifying to me to build upon both literal and metaphoric instability. Sigh. And I love challenges. So, here goes- I'm suddenly in a place of few responsibilities, beautiful weather, reinvention around every corner huddled with the experience to know that reinvention is nothing more than an introduction. I like that. A lot.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Black Swan- holy shit. What a film.
"We're all mad here, I'm mad. You're mad."
-Lewis Carroll
Madness is the apex of all great conflict. We all have points of madness, awareness of mania in the circumstances that surround, and a fascination with those steps that lead to that point, that apex, that loss of control resulting in a need to assess, reorganize, rebuild or let go. We all know madness. It falls apart, at some point, or it builds- a never-ending ebb and flow of humanity, emotion, investment, call it what you will. We are trained to achieve- to build- to grow- to accomplish- to ascertain and to revel in the reward, whatever it may be, or to move on, lessons learned, tucked into the back pocket of identity. Madness is a part of the human condition.
It is no surprise that madness is in the architecture of many, if not most, films, literary works, works of art, performance and other forms built for an audience. Madness and beauty. Film-making, itself, is a maddening art. Madness is not pretty. It is not gorgeous. It is meticulous. It is laborious. It is a series of steps getting to a place of completion that is arguably completed. If a film is to be released, it is just that- released. Let go. Like the release of any goal, whether it to be to achievement, growth, distance, back pockets, what you will.
It is rare that an American film catches madness as Darren Aronofsky's film, Black Swan, has done. This film catches madness in simplicity and familiarity, following Nina in a place of consistent discipline as she traverses, not into madness, but with it. That is madness. So many performances and journeys focus on the descent into madness, and this film articulates the maintenance. The result of this difference is that the aftermath, if there really is one, is almost a relief. Beauty is as translucent and visceral as simple scenes and camera angles that catch pedestrian moments and associations: the muscled back of an aged ballet instructor, building and contorting with escalating movement and precision in a simple frame demonstrating a wingspan growing into flight- articulating an architecture of discipline and prowess, while showcasing the movement of each muscle and years of formation and structure as only a veteran of the movement can do. Black Swan is not about ballet, or the rigors involved in the precision of that particular discipline. But you see it. It is clear and accessible where madness fits within Nina; as a punctuation. It is beautiful and gruesome. And a sidenote. A structured evidence. It is a given circumstance. In this quick shot, anyone knows that Nina's journey is one that has been prepared and accepted and a part of a process. There is no "Rocky Balboa triumphant running up the hill" to it. Nina is clearly skilled and trained and aspiring, and has been for years. No need for concern about her well being, on that point.It is what it is, and the focus remains on her as the protagonist, deemed fragile, clearly being guided, and craving perfection. Ballet is a perfect industry for a backdrop to this story, for that point. It is an art built on precision. A perfect choice. She is clearly marked by the scars of direction, again placed in a pedestrian denouement. Because the story of her journey, again, in not a descent into madness; it is the maintenance of madness. There is no blame, no fall, merely following through. Kudos to all involved in this film- it is a delicate balance to tow the line of madness in this manner as there are so many temptations for all involved to "jump the shark" of imagery, performance and direction. This film is full of that constant opportunity, with a clear budget to do so. Constantly teetering on the edge, form and function maintained itself with integrity and real simplicity. How balletic, right?
For this reason, madness gets to take center stage. This is a treat, a ride and completely terrifying. As an audience, we are not confused by side plot-lines and confusing choices. It all makes sense. There is no muddling, aside from some lighting choices in the ecstasy sequence, which I can forgive, and the idea that Mila Kulis' character, Lily, could be on the same level in ballet with shoulder tattoos and approving dancing sequences with free-flying hair, while overseen by superiors in the dance studio. I know enough about the ballet world to raise my eyebrows there and shrug my shoulders, because I get that it establishes her "rebel" stature. I understand that we are still an american audience. I could even create a list of moments, other than these, that I'd normally attach myself to in disbelief. But I won't, because I didn't, while watching the film. There are some definite points of the film that get "that close" to making me want to call bullshit and rolling my eyes. But those points weren't pushed past the melodrama point in which they could have been. Which makes it more authentic. Because melodrama is also pushed in pedestrian life. I bought it all.
The only film that I've seen that has hit madness so closely is Roman Polanski's "Repulsion." He, however, was not able to so deftly avert melodrama. His heroine did hurt others, rather than merely herself(which true madness is so closely married to self destruction), outside of the visions and dream sequences, and that built the waves to carry the madness ship home. Polanski didn't skirt melodrama in "Repulsion." He hit the madness, but Aronofsky eclipsed him with the maintenance. I guess it was time. 45 years will do that, right? There is something more horrific and identifiable in the vision of hurting and haunting, without the actual implementation. If, as a society, we were to look at those who are truly influenced by this idea of terror, the truly terrific awareness would not be in those who find a means to an end by hurting others, but by those who end themselves. It's all terrible and frightening, yes, and certainly not to be celebrated, as neither Black Swan nor Repulsion do, but Black Swan almost seems more disconcerting because it hits a bit closer to the madness that we all share. Varying degrees, of course, but to stand on the outside of watching someone accomplish their goals and potentially expire because of them, versus watching someone haunted and reacting to that haunting. There's something to that. Perhaps it is more terrifying because Nina is as haunted as Catherine Denouve's character, leaving a trail of evidence along the way that the audience sees, while those around her do not. But Nina's character is more public, watched over in every moment by friends, trainers, herself, and not "left alone for an uncomfortable weekend of rage." Is that the melodramatic difference? That it is public, in every sense? Is that the comparison between the two films, and a statement on the world now, versus then, in a cinematic sphere? It's certainly not "The Social Network." I love this film.
All of the performances by the actors were stunning. Good work, guys.
-Lewis Carroll
Madness is the apex of all great conflict. We all have points of madness, awareness of mania in the circumstances that surround, and a fascination with those steps that lead to that point, that apex, that loss of control resulting in a need to assess, reorganize, rebuild or let go. We all know madness. It falls apart, at some point, or it builds- a never-ending ebb and flow of humanity, emotion, investment, call it what you will. We are trained to achieve- to build- to grow- to accomplish- to ascertain and to revel in the reward, whatever it may be, or to move on, lessons learned, tucked into the back pocket of identity. Madness is a part of the human condition.
It is no surprise that madness is in the architecture of many, if not most, films, literary works, works of art, performance and other forms built for an audience. Madness and beauty. Film-making, itself, is a maddening art. Madness is not pretty. It is not gorgeous. It is meticulous. It is laborious. It is a series of steps getting to a place of completion that is arguably completed. If a film is to be released, it is just that- released. Let go. Like the release of any goal, whether it to be to achievement, growth, distance, back pockets, what you will.
It is rare that an American film catches madness as Darren Aronofsky's film, Black Swan, has done. This film catches madness in simplicity and familiarity, following Nina in a place of consistent discipline as she traverses, not into madness, but with it. That is madness. So many performances and journeys focus on the descent into madness, and this film articulates the maintenance. The result of this difference is that the aftermath, if there really is one, is almost a relief. Beauty is as translucent and visceral as simple scenes and camera angles that catch pedestrian moments and associations: the muscled back of an aged ballet instructor, building and contorting with escalating movement and precision in a simple frame demonstrating a wingspan growing into flight- articulating an architecture of discipline and prowess, while showcasing the movement of each muscle and years of formation and structure as only a veteran of the movement can do. Black Swan is not about ballet, or the rigors involved in the precision of that particular discipline. But you see it. It is clear and accessible where madness fits within Nina; as a punctuation. It is beautiful and gruesome. And a sidenote. A structured evidence. It is a given circumstance. In this quick shot, anyone knows that Nina's journey is one that has been prepared and accepted and a part of a process. There is no "Rocky Balboa triumphant running up the hill" to it. Nina is clearly skilled and trained and aspiring, and has been for years. No need for concern about her well being, on that point.It is what it is, and the focus remains on her as the protagonist, deemed fragile, clearly being guided, and craving perfection. Ballet is a perfect industry for a backdrop to this story, for that point. It is an art built on precision. A perfect choice. She is clearly marked by the scars of direction, again placed in a pedestrian denouement. Because the story of her journey, again, in not a descent into madness; it is the maintenance of madness. There is no blame, no fall, merely following through. Kudos to all involved in this film- it is a delicate balance to tow the line of madness in this manner as there are so many temptations for all involved to "jump the shark" of imagery, performance and direction. This film is full of that constant opportunity, with a clear budget to do so. Constantly teetering on the edge, form and function maintained itself with integrity and real simplicity. How balletic, right?
For this reason, madness gets to take center stage. This is a treat, a ride and completely terrifying. As an audience, we are not confused by side plot-lines and confusing choices. It all makes sense. There is no muddling, aside from some lighting choices in the ecstasy sequence, which I can forgive, and the idea that Mila Kulis' character, Lily, could be on the same level in ballet with shoulder tattoos and approving dancing sequences with free-flying hair, while overseen by superiors in the dance studio. I know enough about the ballet world to raise my eyebrows there and shrug my shoulders, because I get that it establishes her "rebel" stature. I understand that we are still an american audience. I could even create a list of moments, other than these, that I'd normally attach myself to in disbelief. But I won't, because I didn't, while watching the film. There are some definite points of the film that get "that close" to making me want to call bullshit and rolling my eyes. But those points weren't pushed past the melodrama point in which they could have been. Which makes it more authentic. Because melodrama is also pushed in pedestrian life. I bought it all.
The only film that I've seen that has hit madness so closely is Roman Polanski's "Repulsion." He, however, was not able to so deftly avert melodrama. His heroine did hurt others, rather than merely herself(which true madness is so closely married to self destruction), outside of the visions and dream sequences, and that built the waves to carry the madness ship home. Polanski didn't skirt melodrama in "Repulsion." He hit the madness, but Aronofsky eclipsed him with the maintenance. I guess it was time. 45 years will do that, right? There is something more horrific and identifiable in the vision of hurting and haunting, without the actual implementation. If, as a society, we were to look at those who are truly influenced by this idea of terror, the truly terrific awareness would not be in those who find a means to an end by hurting others, but by those who end themselves. It's all terrible and frightening, yes, and certainly not to be celebrated, as neither Black Swan nor Repulsion do, but Black Swan almost seems more disconcerting because it hits a bit closer to the madness that we all share. Varying degrees, of course, but to stand on the outside of watching someone accomplish their goals and potentially expire because of them, versus watching someone haunted and reacting to that haunting. There's something to that. Perhaps it is more terrifying because Nina is as haunted as Catherine Denouve's character, leaving a trail of evidence along the way that the audience sees, while those around her do not. But Nina's character is more public, watched over in every moment by friends, trainers, herself, and not "left alone for an uncomfortable weekend of rage." Is that the melodramatic difference? That it is public, in every sense? Is that the comparison between the two films, and a statement on the world now, versus then, in a cinematic sphere? It's certainly not "The Social Network." I love this film.
All of the performances by the actors were stunning. Good work, guys.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
