"The ratés, the failed intellectuals (writers, artists, would-be Ph.D.’s). People like Sam Wolfenstein [mathematician], with his limp, his briefcase, his empty days, his addiction to the films, his penny-pinching and scavengering, his arid family nest from which he flees — terrifies me." - Susan Sontag, Reborn: Journals and Notebooks 1947-1964
My book order finally came in! Sontag even said journals were meant to be read by other people (albeit people intimate with the author, but still). Other people's journals aid in narcissistically looking at our own world and drawing out grand parallels. Any young girl reading Sylvia Plath's college journals would, I'd imagine, identify with all her private insecurity, all her immeasurable melancholy (all her beauty). Five Christmas's ago, the boy who gave me Plath's journals wrote behind the front cover: "I hope it's not too dark or depressing or anything." But given the time, I probably would have wanted it that way.
Youtube and I had some pretty good times there for awhile, but that fling is over. Doomtree is a hip-hop band I've been familiarizing myself with this past term, but never got around to writing about. They've been often characterized as "aggressive" sounding--which harks back to various member's punk-rock roots--but don't be afraid. They co-opt a lot of nostalgic big-band anthems/soulful trumpet wails while keeping song structures astonishingly premeditated. Also, I stand by what I say regarding (these bilingual!?) clever hip-hop lyrics. Just listen to it. It'll feel good. You can thank me later.
He told me not much had changed since the rose-coloured days our parents were kids. He used to always play the magician while I plucked shy daisies for the famous flower act. I had this dress the exact shade of back-porch lemonade and kisses fleeting as the sound of popped bubblegum. There was a season when we would spend evenings lying on the front lawn humming to sounds of Percy Faith breezing through the windows--but we soon realized it wasn't enough ass we grew up, got jobs, got married, got drunk, got kisses from strangers in the haze of smoke-filled rooms. It still wasn't enough.
--Oh, and the music is pretty good too.
This past season, Mad Men featured Sukiyaki (the only Japanese language song to ever hit the top of US sale charts; 1963):
Look. There was nothing to do about it. Even if she knew she was going to have her heart broken, he had a gift for turning everything so romantic that out there, on the dance floor, she grazed the ground so softly as to almost float. He had that mythic smell--the luxury of forgetfulness, a mouthful of apple pie while the dairy moon hung over a cabin in the woods. Late at night, he sang you know I like my girls a little bit older, I just wanna use your love tonight. (She swoons, stupid in love.) I don't wanna lose your love tonight.
I think it was the winter before you turned 10 the winter of 53 when you contracted polio and learned the beauty of cigarettes after a storm. Rather than having the Christmas plague deliver paralysis throughout your tender limbs you were like a rootless tree growing upwards only. A birch traveling towards heaven as you sat in your hospital bed belting carols/belting them louder when nurses walked by. I first saw you perform at the Louis Riel coffeehouse in Saskatoon (after one rejection two) then at The Depression in Calgary. I followed you from art school to Toronto like Toronto was New York where you were going to make it as a folk-singer. Everywhere you touched I was always two moons behind. Train tracks you rode across began to rust before I ever reached them. The rivers were dry like you had taken all their might and drunk them into heartbeats of a song.
I know I've already posted this, but a song this swell ought to be posted twice. Plus, well, it is the season. He is my dearest → El Corazón is a perfect album → this is is my favourite track on it.
She finally strung lights on the tree, only to find they were broken. Now the baubles sit impoverished in their boxes. Tomorrow morning, she'll faithfully go through the string of bulbs. This will inevitably lead to picking up new ones. Remember! Darling isn't much for repairing, and probably/secretly delights in battling through the fray this late in the season. Still, tonight she'll light some candles and turn these songs on. Slush. Mush. Oh hush, there seems enough light now.
(shhhh. didn't you know? i'm in love with a feeling.)
So. Bon Iver became kind of a big deal this year. Next to Fleet Foxes, he's the most hyped-about person on Hype! Not surprisingly, he's also on everybody's "Best of 2008" list, even though, tech-ni-cal-ly,For Emma, Forever Ago came out as a limited-run independent release last year. Aw well! No hard feelings here.
Shockingly, I'm not posting to proclaim my "I love him more than you all love him because I get him" status (um). But that he's coming out with a new EP! Gleeeeeeee. To all you melancholy downers: pre-order that shit.
The blogosphere is in mad-love with this band, which makes sense, because they hail from the same stylistic roots of Cut Copy, Girl Talk, MGMT etc. etc. etc. What is with that? I'll admit, it's music that really compels you to groove, yet these bands somehow always lose their appeal for me after a few loud listens. Boo, you know I hate these short-lived relationships. But really, even if you are going to drive me crazy--it's Christmas, and your sweater on me looks utterly charming(?)
Oh, this biography is pretty charming(ly perfect) too:
"So like, get it out of your mind that this is yet another avant-retro scumbag project, some kind of 21st-century revival of that 80's electropop revival from the late 90's. No, no, that's not it at all. It's more like...well, remember when Peter Gabriel and Scritti Politti crashed your Christmas party sophomore year and did a set of Prince covers on your little cousin's toy piano? Do you remember how pure, how beautiful everything looked outside that night, the snowflakes caught in floodlight against the black of the sky? And that girl--what was her name--how gorgeous she looked in that weird white sweatshirt with all that fake sparkly stuff in her hair? It was NOW, right now, and there wasn't anything else but now. Yeah, that's it.
...
But maybe, just maybe this is something like perfection--five jewelled tunes that catch the waves of joy shimmering up there on the future horizon. Euphoric but plaintive, sublime but wiggly, Chunk of Change gets to the truth of the matter about what we all want--love, release, goddamn snappy beats and swooningly gorgeous hooks. Gorgeous like the girl in the sweatshirt. Passion Pit is now, dude, and that's all there is."
I'm into this business. I'm into this fall asleep when you can no longer keep your eyes open, but fall asleep to this lullaby business. I'm into this waking late/rising later with the noontime sun, guiltless deal. I'm into avocados, pumpkin pie, and these bowls of Christmas chocolates by my bedside. I'm into certain kitschy holiday-scented candles too. I'm into introducing my mum to Mad Men (long ago purchased & quickly set aside for these days) because she's a period piece kind of gal. I'm into Absalom, Absalom! and Dylan's Chronicles I (girlie, it's been two years coming). I'm into beautiful things in store windows (you in my eyes), in my ears. I'm into spending hours being reminded of how much I've missed this past term--I'm into writing about them, now that I have time, but there's always too much to say. Let's understand that I always overshoot (past the time I'm given/the time I think I have).
I sang this song in a joyful choir during high school (choreography included). I'm fairly certain I love Christmas most for how it evokes nostalgic memories (perhaps never mine), so it seemed fitting--if I were going to try--to start here.
I miss singing with the church choir, because it's almost time for epiphanies. If you come up, I will sing the descant for you. Oh, I'll always stay to fight safely inside the harmonies.
My ipod fell into the snow today. (I know, I know.)I tried going to bed at 7, and this happened. It's exam period so I let it slide. It's exam period so I'm ready to burn down the library room I haunt.Take note: he may not be a sensitive man, but your aim is true.I know, I know, I know.
These are the lines that made me love him:
"You worry that I will leave you.I will not leave you.Only strangers travel.Owning everything,I have nowhere to go."
December is the month of everyone's favourite albums of the year, a string of lights, a heightened prevalence of cinnamon, spice, and everything nice. Get(ting) excited?
