Sunday, March 31, 2013

Decades of Record




What leads you there is a mystery, but suddenly you've found yourself late one evening lifting the lid off a crate of old journals and falling into the seductive rabbit-hole of miasmic nostalgia.

Intrigue mingles with horror as you dare to open each crinkled page and decipher old handwriting styles and bygone syntaxes. It's like reading someone else's journals, especially the older ones. But a certain guilt forms in the pit of your stomach because you cannot deny they are your words, your pathetic clingings, your outlandish aspirations, your perverted admissions, your melodramatic love affairs.

You wish you'd never even started. All these orphaned, half-formed diatribes that reveal more than they should are best kept forever! in this storage crate or better yet buried in some unmarked vault on a deserted island. You think to yourself, one day I'm going to die and someone is going to find these and I will be spinning in my grave as my dirtiest of laundry is brought into the light of day. You shiver with shame as you imagine your own mother or sister finding these and pouring over their sordid contents.

Someone long ago told you to start keeping these diaries. And, in fact, you remember exactly who it was: a high school English teacher, who said sagely that if you recorded your own life you could return to the old missives and take stock of your growth and progress (or lack thereof). You could observe your own life via these recordings much as your own anthropologist, observing significant or errant patterns and evolutions. You considered the wisdom in this and started scribbling the years away.

But it barely works in this way. Much like old photographs, once you've gotten into your 40s and have taken snapshots of every birthday, every gathering, every vacation, every boyfriend or girlfriend, they just become this obscene albatross of nostalgia that you cannot bring yourself to discard, yet really don't want ever to linger upon too intently.

Decades of record takes up space, in photo albums, spiral notebooks, fancy yellowed journals, drawing pads, and are in the end so much dead space taking up your apartment, filling some corner of a room or closet, and represent more than anything a significant heavy layer upon the carapace of your aging being: one more possession that has no use other than representing fragments of your identity, something you keep simply because you cannot throw away.



Sunday, March 17, 2013

Save Me A Place


Don't know why I have to work
Don't know why I can't play
Turn me off turn me out
But don't turn me away
Save me a place
I'll come running if you love me today


Invoking Pan in the backyard. 













Don't know why I have to go
Don't know why I can't stay
Guess I want to be alone
And I guess I need to be amazed
Save me a place
I'll come running if you love me today
I'll come running if you love me today.


Written by Lindsey Buckingham 

Wednesday, March 13, 2013

All One In the Same


The popular icons and works recognized in the recent Grammy and Academy Awards ceremonies are a sad and stark reminder of the esthetic fall of an empire.

I realize that these are pathetic representations of the truest talents to be found within America's borders (or, at least I hope so). But they are, nonetheless, zeitgeist engines that culminate phenomenal amounts of monetary investment in music and in film and generate the vastest of audiences... who not unlike caesars in coliseums of yore determine the fate of whatever they see with a thumbs up or thumbs down based purely on impulse rather than artistic value…

Which is forgivable because so little artistic value is present in the first place!

The fact that the title artist is bestowed on so many musicians and actors who are merely flesh and blood mannequins manipulated shamelessly by some producer and have no talent beyond being able to stand in front of a camera or shriek into a microphone is abominable.

To call Katy Perry an artist during the same event where Carol King is being honored for lifetime achievement is blasphemous, just as Bruno Mars sharing the stage with Sting to recognize a demi-god like Bob Marley. (It is like me saying I laud George Saunders as a fellow writer.)

As the camera sweeps through the audiences of these so-called artists it becomes clear that they are as much fashion models as they are anything.

No one is willing to get real or ugly for art anymore.

Adele is as close as we are going to get to a Patti Smith. Robert Downey, Jr. (who was once relatively gritty) is as close as we are going to get to a Jack Nicholson.

All these pretty boys and pretty girls who are essentially interchangeable become so much wallpaper after a while. And isn't it telling that there is little difference between an actor and musician now? You could practically move them back and forth amongst professions with similar indistinguishable results.


Both of these women are artists?


And it is no wonder. Shows like American Idol de-emphasize originality or raw talent, and instead reward emulating some performers who've already made it to the top.

The result is an elevation of mediocrity, conformity and repetition.

Devoted fans of the show, who watch it season after season, would be hard-pressed (despite their fervent fandom) to name all the insignificant people who've won.

Actors are no different. Promising upstarts like James Franco and Joseph Gordon Levitt have been all but hammered into lack-luster drones and will surely be replaced in a few years. Think of their earlier roles versus the ones they are attaining gargantuan fame for now.


Both of these men are actors?


It hasn't always been this way.

Oscars were once bestowed on the likes of Marlon Brando, Elizabeth Taylor and Henry Fonda.

Grammies were awarded to Bob Dylan, Fleetwood Mac and Bruce Springsteen.

This shift in impetus, in taste and what is to be elevated is recent and endemic to a descent that can be observed throughout this country, top to bottom, from civil participation to education, journalism to politics, en masse behavior to intimate social interaction, even down to the bare root of language... all further indicating a culture in tailspin demise.

It is notable that in the past few years our pop culture icons have increasingly come to resemble our politicians, and vice versa: glamorized figureheads absorbing enormous amounts of wealth while producing mediocre-at-best results.

Talent and conviction have been superseded by fashion and good looks and a willingness to whore oneself to the highest bidder.

Our politicians fare as badly, few representing common will, moral integrity or reasonable intellect, but more concerned with strategic positioning and satisfying the partisan factories that support and eventually replace them with new-and-improved watered down versions of what a leader is supposed to be.

All one in the same.


Monday, March 4, 2013

A No-Win Situation


The clock is broken and it's been 3:20 (PM or AM, take your pick) for the past two months.

Listening to summer music in the wintertime just ruins you, makes you sadder than anything. Yet you still revel in it. 

Each morning you fight the tears and the breakdown; each night the boredom and solitude. Seeking diversion is a real necessity, yet a constant challenge.

It's a no-win situation.





Those who get the things they want always want the most idiotic things. Yet those who sincerely know what they want never get any of it.... or if they come close, they are so foolish they don't grab it when it's in their midst and allow it to slip away.

The beautiful take everything for granted; while the ugly feel freakish no matter what the occasion. Brief moments of attractiveness just make them feel guilty and odd, yet their usual shabby ostrocity make them feel like ending it all in shame.

Those who have the money don't know how to spend it; while the consistently struggling know EXACLY what they'd do with it. 

Yet once it's in their grasp, they panic and fuck it all up.

You ache for a lover, yet really the aching becomes you... because once you get one, you panic and fuck that up, too. You never know quite how to behave.

Suffering becomes your style after awhile. We've all seen those at the party who never drink, are always melancholy, suddenly become giddy and animated, and seem instantly bizarre. While those who are always chipper and up become blue suddenly have  everyone so deeply concerned. 

You must be addicted to the blues. Happiness is so abstract; wanting so familiar, that it becomes who you are.