Grape. Classic. Koolaid, Jello, Jolly Ranchers, Pop Rocks and Ring Pops. Welch’s and icewine. The white grapes in the linguine with vodka sauce and… maybe blue cheese? I never got to try at the ex’s restaurant worked in. We went once, for my birthday, never to return. Me left wondering about this pasta forever. Much earlier…The summer of sour grape blasters. $5 for a box at Au But, the wholesale warehouse in St. Henri. Tongue roughened. Stifling high-ceilinged room. Crazy lady down the hall. Window could only open a crack. Writing daily, transcribing nutsness to paper. Cabin fever without the cabin. Fever of no ventilation. Microwaved hot dogs cut into pieces and frozen corn. My favourite meal of poverty from my youth. Pita pizzas for a lone guest from out of town. But once. Or the 2 in unconventional relation of relations with. Contemplations of breaking into Bjork concert. The feminine dream boat from high school magically became mine. One illness replaced with another. Heath replaced with the cold of winter. Bundling in 10 layers to walk 45 minutes uphill. To the dream boat’s mile-end apartment. To watch him and his friends play videogames amidst warm smoke. Saves the Day and Superdrag. A move to a slightly saner , more spacious space.
Lychee. Favourite fruit. Sticky sweet true candy of nature. Odd appearance that puts many off. Causing them to miss out. Bumpy, rough, brown shell protects transluscnt jelly-like pulp around a bitter black seed – oval-shaped evil eye in its centre. Lychee the reflection of nasty evil in the centre of good. One must eat around it carefully. Martinis and bubble tea. Precious. Short, finicky season. Shipped from Asian for brief mid-summer stint. Searching China town in burning heat. Easily and often missed. Canned ones a poor representation. A fragrant liquor called Soho. Too syrupy sweet for most. Combined with grape Sour Puss, the result is a martini called Barbie Doll. At Crabby Joe’s with half price appetizers on Fridays after 9 pm. Luxurious lychees. $25 for a net. Often eaten sitting on floor, with fan blowing on me. Eating the whole net at once, trying so hard to stop, to save some for a friend who hasn’t tried them yet. And failing.
Apple. Of cliches. Of one’s eye. One a day til you die. Falling not far from its tree. Countless varieties, in the mall-like Loblaws. With names like “Jazz” and “Pink Lady”. Too sweet at times, too sour others. A fruit so tiresome, yet convenient. Waxy. Eaten without utensils. Places easily in one’s purse. Though hands left sticky have recently resulted in preference for the pureed sauce variety for eating at the office. How things come full circle. Once a childhood treat. An exciting dessert eaten at the neighbors’. Full fruit specimen disgusting when mealy. Or too warm. Enjoyed cold, but not too cold. Sticky juice, stickier still when combined with booze. Drunk most evenings for 4 years with the man one had hoped for a future with. The colour of beer or wine. Apple cocktails ruined. Eternally the fruit/drink of disappointment. Remaining irresistible in martini-form. Torture for the weak-willed. A favourite lip gloss a constant portable apple martini. That no men appreciate the same way I do. Kurt Cobain never brushed his teeth – only ate apples. No cavities, or so the myth goes. A sugar that cleans vs. rots? Maybe only in short-lived, most-special rock stars.
Peach. Schnapps too sweet. An underaged-drinking treat. Uncommon in pie and jam, for reasons unbeknownst to me. Mid-teen summers spent eating baskets of fresh, juicy Ontario peaches. Ripe as me. Slightly fuzzy and fully fragrant. Watching mid-90s alt-rock videos on Much Music. During commercials, writing punk songs with ridiculous lyrics for my half-assed band Vilify. Now peaches are purchased late-winter, frozen. Simmered in orange brandy and ginger. The resulting syrup slathered on a slice of French toast. Aside a hefty cut of super-salty bacon.
I’ve finally managed to begin the process of breaching the great-yawning-chasm-of-a-gap between me not-writing and me-writing again. I found myself notably paralysed and though to turn to some of my favourite reading materials for inspiration.
One of my favourite books is a collection of various bits (short stories of sorts, exercises in narrative and form as well as suggestions for exercises for writers, essays on writing, word drawings) by innovative writer and writing theorist Johanna Rodgers called Sentences. I love Ms. Rodger’s writing, her concerns, her sentences, her subject matter and her experimentation. The excerpt below is taken from an essay in the book called “On Writing (1998-2005)”.
“As always, the writing. How is the writing? How is the writing? How is the writing? So much concern for something that is barely there. The writing happens, it never is, so the question doesn’t make a lot of sense. Rain, money, taxes, spring. But it is the writing, of course, that matters, like vanilla in a cake or a bit of salt in bread. It’s just time, after all, words on a page, marks on the wall, money – important to remember that they are all the same thing: invisible time dressed in different costumes”.
The next step for me is to brave reading my novella that has tormented me so. I haven’t read the thing in many moons. At least 600 and something would be my guess. Eventually the plan is to rework the whole thing, but the scope of the revision is daunting, and I believe some stretching, some proper warming-up is essential. I may add to my under-5-minute-fruit/food-exercise series, or tackle any of the other ideas I’ve had sitting around collecting dust for months, years.
After I watch entirely uncool things that make me wonder what I’m becoming, I listen to stuff like this for some kind of solace with a high success rate.
Can’t wait for this obscurity to arrive in the mail as the first CD I’ve purchased in I don’t know how long… Props again to Paul Mullen for crushing it cool-wise and turning me onto this stuff. Just what I needed, really. And I ctrl-c, ctrl-v to insert this link into this post without the venom that goes into my literally hundreds of ctrl-c, ctrl-v’s daily in my ‘new’ ‘old’ job that I told myself I wanted. Until the carpel tunnel sets in, that is.While 5-7 extra hours I have daily disappear into oblivion. My laziness becomes more apparent than possibly ever before.
And what is it about this music anyway? I keep thinking it’s that if I made music, this is the music I’d make. But as logical as that may seem, to me it’s still weird thing to think for someone that doesn’t make music and never will. I guess most people don’t stop to think about why they like the things they do music-wise. I guess there’s really no point. But the whole what-point-is-there to things conversation could go on forever, and really… what would be the point? The irony of that sentiment…?
I just put this on and thought “If I had to die and hear one last song, I’d want it to be this.”
So yeah. It’s hard to pin a ‘favourite’ song by one artist, let alone entirely. But in this moment and many, I’d have to say this is the winner. B-side off YCNI:M’s “17” single (2005 – 8 years ago, but still impressively new, really, in the context of the history of music). A song called “Undone.” Unfortunately, this track exists like nowhere online save for snippets, and WordPress won’t allow me to upload it (THANK YOU VERY MUCH FREESPEECH BLOGGING). Also one of my favourite’s off their album Ignoto. The other b-side on the single is ‘ace’ as well. Anyway not that anyone gives a crap, but if so, I’d be happy to email you the song.
Best I could find online is this lame obscenely teasing snippet: https://itunes.apple.com/gb/album/17-ep/id60588278
I think what does it for me with emotive music of this sort is the utmost singability that just feels like therapy in a way nothing else can. A sort of painful and pleasurable letting it out. When no one but the artist seems to understand what it is we are going through.
Milohhhhh. I think the most therapeutic part of this song is the “I’ve come to realize” repeat bridge followed by “Now it’s over, I can walk away”. What a great death-song of such epic proportions. The volume at which I’m playing it is likely to get the neighbors who I perpetually feel sorry for, to finally complain perhaps. But it is, afterall (two words that SHOULD BE ONE), a Friday night. So they aren’t allowed, right?
Friday nights are for getting drunk. For being alone (by choice or otherwise. after forcing someone to let you buy them a couple of drinks) and feeling alone. For feeling misunderstood. For feeling too much. For being emo. For being a pain. For being in pain. And for trying to patiently hang photos in a straight line. When it’s what you are worst at. And when there’s no one to see them but you still care (or tell yourself you do, at any rate). Any project that’s not the dreaded writing, essentially.
Turns out not much has changed music-wise. The best music is rare and obscenely hard to obtain. I just ‘purchased’ two ‘cds’ online for the first time in literally aeons because that was the only way I could get my hands on the likes of obscure post-hardcore goodness like this : http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5Ti8_pK9nC8
Thanks to Paul Mullen my never-to-be husband for turning me onto this and giving me exactly what I needed – old-ass music I like that is new to me. They just don’t make ’em like they used to. So says the old-lady that still gets I.D’d EVERYWHERE she goes.
I am immensely impatient when all there is is pale shelter.
I give too little and expect too much. Too soon.
And this knowledge does nothing for me. Gets me nowhere. Like so much knowledge that comes and goes and comes around again.
Thinking of Yourcodenameis:Milo doing an all Tears For Fears cover night and me having not been there just about kills me. Feeling excited about a retro night this weekend just turns to anxiety. Like all possibly good things are destined to. Like almost all past retro nights have.
Impatience and anxiety breeds disappointment. Time and time again. We tell ourselves the knowledge we didn’t grow up in a cage should be enough to remind us to be grateful, but it all falls away so easily forgotten.
Of what my heart considers to be emo. Three songs off Cursive’s 2005 album The Differences Between Houses and Homes. A compilation of songs between 1995-2001. My guess, based on sound and content, would be my favourites fall on the earliest end of this spectrum.
While in general I only love a handlful of Cursive songs and the dischordance found within, and knowing they are likely to not sit well with many people, I really can’t do anything but promote them. Because this is real ’emo’ in the sense that it is pure ‘post-hardcore’ with hardcore elements still in tact. If I made music, it would sound at least somewhat like this, at some point.
“That’s cool. I guess you’re fitted for solitude. The suit doesn’t fit you. Lonely fish. Cry in his cage. Does your owner ignore you?… I want some lonely fish to call my own.”
“Disruption in the Normal Swing of Things”:
“These hands are shaking. They’ve lost all trust in me… AND I NEED THIS sympathy.”
“And I know that the stars all have names. Just some of them aren’t as good as others. Some of them are just letters and numbers. Sometimes I forget that the smallest things can be oh so big”.
Have programmed me for:
Handling my drinks too well (an inability to vomit, but an extreme sensitivity to visualizing it)
Crying at romantic comedies that likely shouldn’t make one cry (i.e. The 40-year-old Virgin)
Listening to emo (damn the Get Up Kids never getting old. Geeze louise)
Distracting oneself with inability with regards to ‘love’ and ‘relationships’ instead of focusing on the other things that matter in one’s life as an individual
Combined it’s a pretty potent combo. Along with blogging like the 19-yr old I still look like, and at times clearly, feel like. Though I guess in my defense, blogging wasn’t an option then. And I was too off-my-rocker then to manage anyway.