Friday, July 31, 2009
New Blog
Beginning--tomorrow--this blog is undergoing a facelift! That's right. It's time for something new! It's time to bring on what we've all been needing in our lives lately--change. And consistency. Is that possible? Yes it is. We're about to experience a seachange here at the MooseBlog, a change which will set us on a new course. MooseBlog will here on out be an oracle, a voice from the present about the future. Actually, it'll be a voice from the present of the present. This is the unemployment blog, the blog of the post-graduate wastrel. Get ready. It's going to be a rollercoaster of love, loafing, and loitering. It's going to be full of ennui, existential angst, and philosophical musings on the nature of (un)happiness, the best kind of budget alcohol to drown your unemployed blues in, and how a day in the life of MooseBlog is best spent. This is a blog for the everyman and the almost man. I hope you enjoy.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Salutation
SPRING HAS SPRUNG! Rejoice and be glad, for the wind blows warm, the ground is thawed, and every space--subterranean, terrestrial, arboreal, atmospheric--bursts with the promise of new life and reunion with that generous source, the sun. Welcome back, old friend.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Friday, March 13, 2009
Michigan's Stimulus Package
Link to official document for President's approval forthcoming.
(semi-related: http://www.mlive.com/news/index.ssf/2008/01/deal_near_on_economic_stimulus.html)
In case you're interested in seeing (in a very general, not very helpful way) where our stimulus money is going, I've attached the plan our Senators (MI) sent to our president today, in the hopes that he'd grace the bill with his mighty pen and let the floodgates open--COME, GREEN!
I wonder if the descriptions listed indicate the level of thought and planning that went into the actual project proposals. If so (which is my suspicion) 'might help explain why money's not used very efficiently in this country, especially on the governmental level. On that note:
You'll be delighted to learn that the Upper Peninsula interoperability radio communications consortium--the Midwest's front line of defense against northern aggressors--is getting $500,000 from the Michigan stimulus package.
Inside sources say the old radio system picked up whispered messages from a snow bunker in a 200-year-old white pine forest in Canada about an upcoming invasion, but the UP antenna was so bent that our dutiful American protectors (Michigan Militia, Communications Unit?) were unable to hear when this invasion from the Great White North was to take place, even after holding a large conch shell to the speakers.
Mike Mahoney said, "I couldn't hear nothing but quail-calls, clinking beer bottles, and the faraway sound of a grizzly, a coyote, a narwhal, and a moose, all serenading the moon in harmony as they practiced for the Great White North Animal A Capella Competition. [Tomorrow at noon p.m. central eastern western time on GreatWhiteNorthLocalAccess.] Mahoney added: "Oh. And the ocean. I could hear the ocean too."
Just hours after giving this interview, Mr. Mahoney was found dead in a lodge in Houghton, UP, his head severely dented by what appear to be hoof prints, "Likely caribou," says animal-crime forensics expert, Dirk Disraeli.
If you fear Canada as much as I do (i.e. almost as much as I fear Gandalf after one of his 3-day benders--crazy wizard!), you know just how important this new system is. Think of the children for crissakes!
Meanwhile, at a press conference with democratic Michigan Senator, Senator Shingle, we learn:
Sustainable agriculture--a backwards concept if there ever was one--gets zilch. "Sustainable?" you ask. 'Sounds scary. Shingle thinks so too:
"If we're sustainable, what excuses will we have to ask for millions in cleanup projects that we give to our contracting buddies? How could we continue to fellate our benefactors in industrial agriculture," wonders Senator Shingle (D-Michigan).
"Hundreds of thousands of vegetable consumers would suddenly stop ingesting inorganic compounds that industrial agriculture pumps into produce, and these consumers might develop fewer health problems--what of the field of medicine?"
"Thousands of pharmaceutical jobs could be lost!" Shingle asserts, pounding his fists on the podium. :Research jobs employing hundreds in the interests of finding solutions to preventable problems will fall away like so many lice off a drowning dog."
"And if sustainable practices were to become the norm," Senator Shingle continues, in his rhetorical quest for the truth, "we might stop thinking of nature as the enemy! But obviously, if we're to be a unified state (and the best country in the universe), we need to have a common villain, and who better than that bitch, Nature?
"And anyway, who farms these days?" Shingle asks. "Why would anybody want to when we all know that food automatically grows in the grocery store [that's why it's called the GROcery store--duh!])"
So why is all of this important?
I answer you thus: For the above-mentioned reasons (which Senator Shingle has so astutely pointed out to the public), and so many more, the entire state of Michigan will receive a whopping $266,000 to go toward the development of sustainable agriculture. This money has already been assigned to cover the costs associated with the creation of a few upscale parks in northern Oakland County. The parks will be equipped with solar-panel-powered lighting and one tomato plant each. Nice, Michigan. Way to be.
Love to all,
Aaron
P.S. This message was supported by Lucky's Kitchen, a quaint little restaurant dedicated to providing cheep, mysteriously addictive "Chinese Food" to hungry college students and construction workers all over the Ann Arbor metropolitan area (read: within a 5 block radius of the Diag). Without Lucky's, I wouldn't feel nearly as lucky as I do right now.
P.P.S For more information on the UP interoperatbility radio communications consortium (which isn't even what it's called), go here.
(semi-related: http://www.mlive.com/news/index.ssf/2008/01/deal_near_on_economic_stimulus.html)
In case you're interested in seeing (in a very general, not very helpful way) where our stimulus money is going, I've attached the plan our Senators (MI) sent to our president today, in the hopes that he'd grace the bill with his mighty pen and let the floodgates open--COME, GREEN!
I wonder if the descriptions listed indicate the level of thought and planning that went into the actual project proposals. If so (which is my suspicion) 'might help explain why money's not used very efficiently in this country, especially on the governmental level. On that note:
You'll be delighted to learn that the Upper Peninsula interoperability radio communications consortium--the Midwest's front line of defense against northern aggressors--is getting $500,000 from the Michigan stimulus package.
Inside sources say the old radio system picked up whispered messages from a snow bunker in a 200-year-old white pine forest in Canada about an upcoming invasion, but the UP antenna was so bent that our dutiful American protectors (Michigan Militia, Communications Unit?) were unable to hear when this invasion from the Great White North was to take place, even after holding a large conch shell to the speakers.
Mike Mahoney said, "I couldn't hear nothing but quail-calls, clinking beer bottles, and the faraway sound of a grizzly, a coyote, a narwhal, and a moose, all serenading the moon in harmony as they practiced for the Great White North Animal A Capella Competition. [Tomorrow at noon p.m. central eastern western time on GreatWhiteNorthLocalAccess.] Mahoney added: "Oh. And the ocean. I could hear the ocean too."
Just hours after giving this interview, Mr. Mahoney was found dead in a lodge in Houghton, UP, his head severely dented by what appear to be hoof prints, "Likely caribou," says animal-crime forensics expert, Dirk Disraeli.
If you fear Canada as much as I do (i.e. almost as much as I fear Gandalf after one of his 3-day benders--crazy wizard!), you know just how important this new system is. Think of the children for crissakes!
Meanwhile, at a press conference with democratic Michigan Senator, Senator Shingle, we learn:
Sustainable agriculture--a backwards concept if there ever was one--gets zilch. "Sustainable?" you ask. 'Sounds scary. Shingle thinks so too:
"If we're sustainable, what excuses will we have to ask for millions in cleanup projects that we give to our contracting buddies? How could we continue to fellate our benefactors in industrial agriculture," wonders Senator Shingle (D-Michigan).
"Hundreds of thousands of vegetable consumers would suddenly stop ingesting inorganic compounds that industrial agriculture pumps into produce, and these consumers might develop fewer health problems--what of the field of medicine?"
"Thousands of pharmaceutical jobs could be lost!" Shingle asserts, pounding his fists on the podium. :Research jobs employing hundreds in the interests of finding solutions to preventable problems will fall away like so many lice off a drowning dog."
"And if sustainable practices were to become the norm," Senator Shingle continues, in his rhetorical quest for the truth, "we might stop thinking of nature as the enemy! But obviously, if we're to be a unified state (and the best country in the universe), we need to have a common villain, and who better than that bitch, Nature?
"And anyway, who farms these days?" Shingle asks. "Why would anybody want to when we all know that food automatically grows in the grocery store [that's why it's called the GROcery store--duh!])"
So why is all of this important?
I answer you thus: For the above-mentioned reasons (which Senator Shingle has so astutely pointed out to the public), and so many more, the entire state of Michigan will receive a whopping $266,000 to go toward the development of sustainable agriculture. This money has already been assigned to cover the costs associated with the creation of a few upscale parks in northern Oakland County. The parks will be equipped with solar-panel-powered lighting and one tomato plant each. Nice, Michigan. Way to be.
Love to all,
Aaron
P.S. This message was supported by Lucky's Kitchen, a quaint little restaurant dedicated to providing cheep, mysteriously addictive "Chinese Food" to hungry college students and construction workers all over the Ann Arbor metropolitan area (read: within a 5 block radius of the Diag). Without Lucky's, I wouldn't feel nearly as lucky as I do right now.
P.P.S For more information on the UP interoperatbility radio communications consortium (which isn't even what it's called), go here.
Volver - Estrella Morente
Excellent Spanish song (originally by Carlos Gardel, 1935), converted to this kinda-sorta-flamenco form by Estrella Morente and here performed by Estrella Morente
Real version by Estrella Morente: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=upsF0jpz4kg&feature=related
There's also a terribly lip-synced but more visually appealing 1:32 long version by a sexy Penelope Cruz in Almodovar's "Volver." Short version from the film here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b_NODJbKyZ4
Yo adivino el parpadeo/I see the flicker
de las luces que a lo lejos/of the faraway lights
van marcando mi retorno./that mark my return
Son las mismas que alumbraron/They're the same lights that illuminated
con sus pálidos reflejos/ with their pallid reflections
hondas horas de dolor./ hours of profound pain
Y aunque no quise el regreso/And although I do not want it back
siempre se vuelve/it always returns
al primer amor./to that first love
La vieja calle/ The old street
donde me cobijo/where I took refuge
tuya es su vida/(yours is your life
tuyo es su querer./yours is your love)[?]
Bajo el burlón/ under the mocking
mirar de las estrellas/gaze of the stars,
que con indiferencia/ which with indifference,
hoy me ven volver./ watch me return today
Volver/ Returning
con la frente marchita/ With my forehead shriveled
las nieves del tiempo/ The snows of time
platearon mi sien./ have silvered my hair
Sentir/ Feeling
que es un soplo la vida/ That life is but a (murmur/gust/breath)
que veinte años no es nada/ That twenty years is nothing
que febril la mirada/ how feverish the look,
errante en las sombras/ faraway in the shadows,
te busca y te nombra./ It calls you and names you
Vivir/ Living
con el alma aferrada/ With soul clinging
a un dulce recuerdo/ to a sweet memory
que lloro otra vez./so I cry once again
Tengo miedo del encuentro/ I fear the encounter
con el pasado que vuelve/ with the past (now returning)
a enfrentarse con mi vida./ facing my life
Tengo miedo de las noches/ I'm afraid of the nights,
que pobladas de recuerdos/ peopled with memories,
encadenen mi soñar./ that chain my dreams
Pero el viajero que huye/ But the traveler who runs
tarde o temprano/ early or late
detiene su andar./ [inevitably] stops his running
Y aunque el olvido/ And although forgetting,
que todo destruye/ which destroys everything,
haya matado mi vieja ilusión,/ has killed my old dream
guardo escondida/ I secretly guard
una esperanza humilde/ a humble hope,
que es toda la fortuna/a hope that is the only treasure
de mi corazón./ of my heart.
Volver/ Returning
con la frente marchita/ With a withered forehead
las nieves del tiempo/ the snows of time
platearon mi sien./ have silvered my hair.
Sentir/ Feeling
que es un soplo la vida/ that life is but a breath
que veinte años no es nada/ that twenty years is nothing
que febril la mirada/ how feverish the glance
errante en las sombras/ hiding in the shadows
te busca y te nombra./ it looks for you and names you
Vivir/ living
con el alma aferrada/ with my soul clinging
a un dulce recuerdo/ to a sweet memory
que lloro otra vez./ so I cry once again.
Real version by Estrella Morente: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=upsF0jpz4kg&feature=related
There's also a terribly lip-synced but more visually appealing 1:32 long version by a sexy Penelope Cruz in Almodovar's "Volver." Short version from the film here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b_NODJbKyZ4
Yo adivino el parpadeo/I see the flicker
de las luces que a lo lejos/of the faraway lights
van marcando mi retorno./that mark my return
Son las mismas que alumbraron/They're the same lights that illuminated
con sus pálidos reflejos/ with their pallid reflections
hondas horas de dolor./ hours of profound pain
Y aunque no quise el regreso/And although I do not want it back
siempre se vuelve/it always returns
al primer amor./to that first love
La vieja calle/ The old street
donde me cobijo/where I took refuge
tuya es su vida/(yours is your life
tuyo es su querer./yours is your love)[?]
Bajo el burlón/ under the mocking
mirar de las estrellas/gaze of the stars,
que con indiferencia/ which with indifference,
hoy me ven volver./ watch me return today
Volver/ Returning
con la frente marchita/ With my forehead shriveled
las nieves del tiempo/ The snows of time
platearon mi sien./ have silvered my hair
Sentir/ Feeling
que es un soplo la vida/ That life is but a (murmur/gust/breath)
que veinte años no es nada/ That twenty years is nothing
que febril la mirada/ how feverish the look,
errante en las sombras/ faraway in the shadows,
te busca y te nombra./ It calls you and names you
Vivir/ Living
con el alma aferrada/ With soul clinging
a un dulce recuerdo/ to a sweet memory
que lloro otra vez./so I cry once again
Tengo miedo del encuentro/ I fear the encounter
con el pasado que vuelve/ with the past (now returning)
a enfrentarse con mi vida./ facing my life
Tengo miedo de las noches/ I'm afraid of the nights,
que pobladas de recuerdos/ peopled with memories,
encadenen mi soñar./ that chain my dreams
Pero el viajero que huye/ But the traveler who runs
tarde o temprano/ early or late
detiene su andar./ [inevitably] stops his running
Y aunque el olvido/ And although forgetting,
que todo destruye/ which destroys everything,
haya matado mi vieja ilusión,/ has killed my old dream
guardo escondida/ I secretly guard
una esperanza humilde/ a humble hope,
que es toda la fortuna/a hope that is the only treasure
de mi corazón./ of my heart.
Volver/ Returning
con la frente marchita/ With a withered forehead
las nieves del tiempo/ the snows of time
platearon mi sien./ have silvered my hair.
Sentir/ Feeling
que es un soplo la vida/ that life is but a breath
que veinte años no es nada/ that twenty years is nothing
que febril la mirada/ how feverish the glance
errante en las sombras/ hiding in the shadows
te busca y te nombra./ it looks for you and names you
Vivir/ living
con el alma aferrada/ with my soul clinging
a un dulce recuerdo/ to a sweet memory
que lloro otra vez./ so I cry once again.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Jacques Brel
This, I think, is the best sad song on the face of the earth (...or rather, the best I've heard), and very probably one of the best, or at least most expressive performances as well. Really excellent stuff. I think it'd be impossible not be affected. Evocative and beautiful, pure and poetic without the pretentious bullshit. Enjoy!
And, if you did enjoy, I might also recommend Amsterdam (a place he really doesn't seem too fond of) and Le Moribond, which, coupled with the last two, makes me rather convinced that the beloved Brel had some very serious women issues. But then again, don't we all...(granted, some more than others). May none of us live the painful lives that alone can produce the gut-fire and hell-deep anguished songs of Jacques Brel! That said, I'm glad he did, because he made some damn good songs out of it.
P.S. the link to Amsterdam has English subtitles but gets cut off a bit short. Here's a link to a version with Russian subtitles but a fuller recording with the end and a few shots of the crowd. The music is great by itself, but the words are great too. Now you can have both!
And, if you did enjoy, I might also recommend Amsterdam (a place he really doesn't seem too fond of) and Le Moribond, which, coupled with the last two, makes me rather convinced that the beloved Brel had some very serious women issues. But then again, don't we all...(granted, some more than others). May none of us live the painful lives that alone can produce the gut-fire and hell-deep anguished songs of Jacques Brel! That said, I'm glad he did, because he made some damn good songs out of it.
P.S. the link to Amsterdam has English subtitles but gets cut off a bit short. Here's a link to a version with Russian subtitles but a fuller recording with the end and a few shots of the crowd. The music is great by itself, but the words are great too. Now you can have both!
Friday, December 5, 2008
Once in a Lifetime
This has been one of my favorite songs for the last couple of weeks or so. Actually, it became one ever since I saw David Byrn perform it at a show at the Michigan Theater (in Ann Arbor, MI), complete with an all white-clad dance crew, brilliantly lighted set, much hip shaking, and the whole crowd dancing on their feet about a month ago. I can't help but smile every time I here it. 'Hope you enjoy.
"I Hate World Music" - by David Byrn
David Byrne: "I Hate World Music"
“I Hate World Music”
by David Byrne
The New York Times,
October 3, 1999
I hate world music. That’s probably one of the perverse reasons I have been asked to write about it. The term is a catchall that commonly refers to non-Western music of any and all sorts, popular music, traditional music and even classical music. It’s a marketing as well as a pseudomusical term — and a name for a bin in the record store signifying stuff that doesn’t belong anywhere else in the store. What’s in that bin ranges from the most blatantly commercial music produced by a country, like Hindi film music (the singer Asha Bhosle being the best well known example), to the ultra-sophisticated, super-cosmopolitan art-pop of Brazil (Caetano Veloso, Tom Zé, Carlinhos Brown); from the somewhat bizarre and surreal concept of a former Bulgarian state-run folkloric choir being arranged by classically trained, Soviet-era composers (Le Mystére des Voix Bulgares) to Norteño songs from Texas and northern Mexico glorifying the exploits of drug dealers (Los Tigres del Norte). Albums by Selena, Ricky Martin and Los Del Rio (the Macarena kings), artists who sell millions of records in the United States alone, are racked next to field recordings of Thai hill tribes. Equating apples and oranges indeed. So, from a purely democratic standpoint, one in which all music is equal, regardless of sales and slickness of production, this is a musical utopia.
So Why Am I Complaining?
In my experience, the use of the term world music is a way of dismissing artists or their music as irrelevant to one’s own life. It’s a way of relegating this “thing” into the realm of something exotic and therefore cute, weird but safe, because exotica is beautiful but irrelevant; they are, by definition, not like us. Maybe that’s why I hate the term. It groups everything and anything that isn’t “us” into “them.” This grouping is a convenient way of not seeing a band or artist as a creative individual, albeit from a culture somewhat different from that seen on American television. It’s a label for anything at all that is not sung in English or anything that doesn’t fit into the Anglo-Western pop universe this year. (So Ricky Martin is allowed out of the world music ghetto — for a while, anyway. Next year, who knows? If he makes a plena record, he might have to go back to the salsa bins and the Latin mom and pop record stores.) It’s a none too subtle way of reasserting the hegemony of Western pop culture. It ghettoizes most of the world’s music. A bold and audacious move, White Man!
There is some terrific music being made all over the world. In fact, there is more music, in sheer quantity, currently defined as world music, than any other kind. Not just kinds of music, but volume of recordings as well. When we talk about world music we find ourselves talking about 99 percent of the music on this planet. It would be strange to imagine, as many multinational corporations seem to, that Western pop holds the copyright on musical creativity.
No, the fact is, Western pop is the fast food of music, and there is more exciting creative music making going on outside the Western pop tradition than inside it. There is so much incredible noise happening that we’ll never exhaust it. For example, there are guitar bands in Africa that can be, if you let them, as inspiring and transporting as any kind of rock, pop, soul, funk or disco you grew up with. And what is exciting for me is that they have taken elements of global (Western?) music apart, examined the pieces to see what might be of use and then re-invented and reassembled the parts to their own ends. Thus creating something entirely new. (Femi Kuti gave a great show the other night that was part Coltrane, part James Brown and all African, just like his daddy, Fela Kuti, the great Nigerian musical mastermind.)
To restrict your listening to English-language pop is like deciding to eat the same meal for the rest of your life. The “no-surprise surprise,” as the Holiday Inn advertisement claims, is reassuring, I guess, but lacks kick. As ridiculous as they often sound, the conservative critics of rock-and-roll, and more recently of techno and rave, are not far off the mark. For at it’s best, music truly is subversive and dangerous. Thank the gods.
Hearing the right piece of music at the right time of your life can inspire a radical change, destructive personal behavior or even fascist politics. Sometimes all at the same time.
On the other hand, music can inspire love, religious ecstasy, cathartic release, social bonding and a glimpse of another dimension. A sense that there is another time, another space and another, better, universe. It can heal a broken heart, offer a shoulder to cry on and a friend when no one else understands. There are times when you want to be transported, to get your mind around some stuff it never encountered before. And what if the thing transporting you doesn’t come from your neighborhood?
Why Bother?
This interest in music not like that made in our own little villages (Dumbarton, Scotland, and Arbutus, Md., in my own case) is not, as it’s often claimed, cultural tourism, because once you’ve let something in, let it grab hold of you, you’re forever changed. Of course, you can also listen and remain completely unaffected and unmoved — like a tourist. Your loss. The fact is, after listening to some of this music for a while, it probably won’t seem exotic any more, even if you still don’t understand all the words. Thinking of things as exotic is only cool when it’s your sister, your co-worker or wife; it’s sometimes beneficial to exoticize that which has become overly familiar. But in other circumstances, viewing people and cultures as exotic is a distancing mechanism that too often allows for exploitation and racism.
Maybe it’s naive, but I would love to believe that once you grow to love some aspect of a culture — its music, for instance — you can never again think of the people of that culture as less than yourself. I would like to believe that if I am deeply moved by a song originating from some place other than my own hometown, then I have in some way shared an experience with the people of that culture. I have been pleasantly contaminated. I can identify in some small way with it and its people. Not that I will ever experience music exactly the same way as those who make it. I am not Hank Williams, or even Hank Jr., but I can still love his music and be moved by it. Doesn’t mean I have to live like him. Or take as many drugs as he did, or, for that matter, as much as the great flamenco singer Cameron de la Isla did.
That’s what art does; it communicates the vibe, the feeling, the attitude toward our lives, in a way that is personal and universal at the same time. And we don’t have to go through all the personal torment that the artist went through to get it. I would like to think that if you love a piece of music, how can you help but love, or at least respect, the producers of it? On the other hand, I know plenty of racists who love “soul” music, rap and rhthym-and-blues, so dream on, Dave.
The Myth of the Authentic
The issue of “authenticity” is such a weird can of worms. Westerners get obsessed with it. They agonize over which is the “true” music, the real deal. I question the authenticity of some of the new-age ethnofusion music that’s out there, but I also know that to rule out everything I personally abhor would be to rule out the possibility of a future miracle. Everybody knows the world has two types of music — my kind and everyone else’s. And even my kind ain’t always so great.
What is considered authentic today was probably some kind of bastard fusion a few years ago. An all-Japanese salsa orchestra’s record (Orquestra de la Luz) was No. 1 on the salsa charts in the United States not long ago. Did the New York salseros care? No, most loved the songs and were frankly amazed. African guitar bands were doing their level best to copy Cuban rumbas, and in their twisted failure thay came up with something new. So let’s not make any rules about who can make a specific style of music.
Mr. Juju himself, King Sunny Adé, name-checks the country and western crooner Jim Reeves as an influence. True. Rumor has it that the famous Balinese monkey chant was coordinated and choreographed by a German! The first South African pop record I bought was all tunes with American car race themes — the Indy 500 and the like. With sound effects, too! So let’s forget about this authenticity bugaboo. If you are transported by the music, then knowing that the creators had open ears can only add to the enjoyment.
White folks needed to see Leadbelly in prison garb to feel they were getting the real thing. They need to be assured that rappers are “keeping it real,” they need their Cuban musicians old and sweet, their Eastern and Asian artists “spiritual.” The myths and clichÚs of national and cultural traits flourish in the marketing of music. There is the myth of the untutored, innocent savant whose rhymes contain funky Zen-like pearls of wisdom — the myth that exotic “traditional” music is more honest, more soulful and more in touch with a people’s real and true feelings than the kid wearing jeans and the latest sports gear on Mexican television.
There is a perverse need to see foreign performers in their native dress rather than in the T-shirts and baggies that they usually wear off stage. We don’t want them looking too much like us, because then we assume that their music is calculated, marketed, impure. Heaven forbid they should be at least as aware of the larger world as we are. All of which might be true, but more important, their larger awareness might also be relevant to their music, which in turn might connect it to our own lives and situations. Heaven forbid.
La Nueva Generación
In the last couple of years, there have been any number of articles in newspapers and magazines about how Latin music in particular was finally going to become hugely popular in the U.S. of A. Half — yes, half — of the current top 10 singles in Britain, that hot and sweaty country, are sort of Latin, if you count Geri Halliwell’s “Mi Chico Latino,” and why not? The others are watered-down remakes of Perez Prado’s hits from the 50’s and 60’s. The Buena Vista Social Club record is the No. 1 selling record, in any category, in funky Germany. Les Nubians, a French-African group, is getting played on urban (translate as “black”) radio in America. So is this a trend or what? Are these more than summer novelty tunes for anglos? Are we really going to learn to dance, or is this some kind of aberration?
But what about the alterna-Latino bands that are touring the United States and Europe in increasing numbers. The Columbian band Bloque (which, I confess, is on my label) was named best band of the year by a Chicago critic; Los Fabulosos Cadillacs won a Grammy last year. Both bands, and many, many others, mix the grooves of their neighborhoods with the sounds and attitudes of the North American tunes they also grew up with. They are a generation with a double heritage, and their music expresses it.
It’s tough for this bunch to crack the American market: they’re not always cute, safe or exotic. Their music is often more innovative than that of their northern counterparts, which is intimidating. And as cool as they are, they insist on singing in their own language, to an audience that identifies completely with them, thereby making it more difficult to gain a foothold in the States.
These bands are the musical equivalent of a generation of Latin American writers, including Gabriel García Marquez, Isabel Allende, José Amado and Mario Vargas Llosa, that was referred to as the Boom. These musicians are defining their generation, finding a unique voice, and will influence countless others outside their home countries. Here, I believe, is where change will happen. Although they don’t sell very many records yet, these and others (for things analogous to this are happening everywhere, in Africa, in Morocco, in Turkey) will plant the seeds, and while I enjoy hearing Ricky Martin’s merengue on the radio, these others will change my life.
“I Hate World Music”
by David Byrne
The New York Times,
October 3, 1999
I hate world music. That’s probably one of the perverse reasons I have been asked to write about it. The term is a catchall that commonly refers to non-Western music of any and all sorts, popular music, traditional music and even classical music. It’s a marketing as well as a pseudomusical term — and a name for a bin in the record store signifying stuff that doesn’t belong anywhere else in the store. What’s in that bin ranges from the most blatantly commercial music produced by a country, like Hindi film music (the singer Asha Bhosle being the best well known example), to the ultra-sophisticated, super-cosmopolitan art-pop of Brazil (Caetano Veloso, Tom Zé, Carlinhos Brown); from the somewhat bizarre and surreal concept of a former Bulgarian state-run folkloric choir being arranged by classically trained, Soviet-era composers (Le Mystére des Voix Bulgares) to Norteño songs from Texas and northern Mexico glorifying the exploits of drug dealers (Los Tigres del Norte). Albums by Selena, Ricky Martin and Los Del Rio (the Macarena kings), artists who sell millions of records in the United States alone, are racked next to field recordings of Thai hill tribes. Equating apples and oranges indeed. So, from a purely democratic standpoint, one in which all music is equal, regardless of sales and slickness of production, this is a musical utopia.
So Why Am I Complaining?
In my experience, the use of the term world music is a way of dismissing artists or their music as irrelevant to one’s own life. It’s a way of relegating this “thing” into the realm of something exotic and therefore cute, weird but safe, because exotica is beautiful but irrelevant; they are, by definition, not like us. Maybe that’s why I hate the term. It groups everything and anything that isn’t “us” into “them.” This grouping is a convenient way of not seeing a band or artist as a creative individual, albeit from a culture somewhat different from that seen on American television. It’s a label for anything at all that is not sung in English or anything that doesn’t fit into the Anglo-Western pop universe this year. (So Ricky Martin is allowed out of the world music ghetto — for a while, anyway. Next year, who knows? If he makes a plena record, he might have to go back to the salsa bins and the Latin mom and pop record stores.) It’s a none too subtle way of reasserting the hegemony of Western pop culture. It ghettoizes most of the world’s music. A bold and audacious move, White Man!
There is some terrific music being made all over the world. In fact, there is more music, in sheer quantity, currently defined as world music, than any other kind. Not just kinds of music, but volume of recordings as well. When we talk about world music we find ourselves talking about 99 percent of the music on this planet. It would be strange to imagine, as many multinational corporations seem to, that Western pop holds the copyright on musical creativity.
No, the fact is, Western pop is the fast food of music, and there is more exciting creative music making going on outside the Western pop tradition than inside it. There is so much incredible noise happening that we’ll never exhaust it. For example, there are guitar bands in Africa that can be, if you let them, as inspiring and transporting as any kind of rock, pop, soul, funk or disco you grew up with. And what is exciting for me is that they have taken elements of global (Western?) music apart, examined the pieces to see what might be of use and then re-invented and reassembled the parts to their own ends. Thus creating something entirely new. (Femi Kuti gave a great show the other night that was part Coltrane, part James Brown and all African, just like his daddy, Fela Kuti, the great Nigerian musical mastermind.)
To restrict your listening to English-language pop is like deciding to eat the same meal for the rest of your life. The “no-surprise surprise,” as the Holiday Inn advertisement claims, is reassuring, I guess, but lacks kick. As ridiculous as they often sound, the conservative critics of rock-and-roll, and more recently of techno and rave, are not far off the mark. For at it’s best, music truly is subversive and dangerous. Thank the gods.
Hearing the right piece of music at the right time of your life can inspire a radical change, destructive personal behavior or even fascist politics. Sometimes all at the same time.
On the other hand, music can inspire love, religious ecstasy, cathartic release, social bonding and a glimpse of another dimension. A sense that there is another time, another space and another, better, universe. It can heal a broken heart, offer a shoulder to cry on and a friend when no one else understands. There are times when you want to be transported, to get your mind around some stuff it never encountered before. And what if the thing transporting you doesn’t come from your neighborhood?
Why Bother?
This interest in music not like that made in our own little villages (Dumbarton, Scotland, and Arbutus, Md., in my own case) is not, as it’s often claimed, cultural tourism, because once you’ve let something in, let it grab hold of you, you’re forever changed. Of course, you can also listen and remain completely unaffected and unmoved — like a tourist. Your loss. The fact is, after listening to some of this music for a while, it probably won’t seem exotic any more, even if you still don’t understand all the words. Thinking of things as exotic is only cool when it’s your sister, your co-worker or wife; it’s sometimes beneficial to exoticize that which has become overly familiar. But in other circumstances, viewing people and cultures as exotic is a distancing mechanism that too often allows for exploitation and racism.
Maybe it’s naive, but I would love to believe that once you grow to love some aspect of a culture — its music, for instance — you can never again think of the people of that culture as less than yourself. I would like to believe that if I am deeply moved by a song originating from some place other than my own hometown, then I have in some way shared an experience with the people of that culture. I have been pleasantly contaminated. I can identify in some small way with it and its people. Not that I will ever experience music exactly the same way as those who make it. I am not Hank Williams, or even Hank Jr., but I can still love his music and be moved by it. Doesn’t mean I have to live like him. Or take as many drugs as he did, or, for that matter, as much as the great flamenco singer Cameron de la Isla did.
That’s what art does; it communicates the vibe, the feeling, the attitude toward our lives, in a way that is personal and universal at the same time. And we don’t have to go through all the personal torment that the artist went through to get it. I would like to think that if you love a piece of music, how can you help but love, or at least respect, the producers of it? On the other hand, I know plenty of racists who love “soul” music, rap and rhthym-and-blues, so dream on, Dave.
The Myth of the Authentic
The issue of “authenticity” is such a weird can of worms. Westerners get obsessed with it. They agonize over which is the “true” music, the real deal. I question the authenticity of some of the new-age ethnofusion music that’s out there, but I also know that to rule out everything I personally abhor would be to rule out the possibility of a future miracle. Everybody knows the world has two types of music — my kind and everyone else’s. And even my kind ain’t always so great.
What is considered authentic today was probably some kind of bastard fusion a few years ago. An all-Japanese salsa orchestra’s record (Orquestra de la Luz) was No. 1 on the salsa charts in the United States not long ago. Did the New York salseros care? No, most loved the songs and were frankly amazed. African guitar bands were doing their level best to copy Cuban rumbas, and in their twisted failure thay came up with something new. So let’s not make any rules about who can make a specific style of music.
Mr. Juju himself, King Sunny Adé, name-checks the country and western crooner Jim Reeves as an influence. True. Rumor has it that the famous Balinese monkey chant was coordinated and choreographed by a German! The first South African pop record I bought was all tunes with American car race themes — the Indy 500 and the like. With sound effects, too! So let’s forget about this authenticity bugaboo. If you are transported by the music, then knowing that the creators had open ears can only add to the enjoyment.
White folks needed to see Leadbelly in prison garb to feel they were getting the real thing. They need to be assured that rappers are “keeping it real,” they need their Cuban musicians old and sweet, their Eastern and Asian artists “spiritual.” The myths and clichÚs of national and cultural traits flourish in the marketing of music. There is the myth of the untutored, innocent savant whose rhymes contain funky Zen-like pearls of wisdom — the myth that exotic “traditional” music is more honest, more soulful and more in touch with a people’s real and true feelings than the kid wearing jeans and the latest sports gear on Mexican television.
There is a perverse need to see foreign performers in their native dress rather than in the T-shirts and baggies that they usually wear off stage. We don’t want them looking too much like us, because then we assume that their music is calculated, marketed, impure. Heaven forbid they should be at least as aware of the larger world as we are. All of which might be true, but more important, their larger awareness might also be relevant to their music, which in turn might connect it to our own lives and situations. Heaven forbid.
La Nueva Generación
In the last couple of years, there have been any number of articles in newspapers and magazines about how Latin music in particular was finally going to become hugely popular in the U.S. of A. Half — yes, half — of the current top 10 singles in Britain, that hot and sweaty country, are sort of Latin, if you count Geri Halliwell’s “Mi Chico Latino,” and why not? The others are watered-down remakes of Perez Prado’s hits from the 50’s and 60’s. The Buena Vista Social Club record is the No. 1 selling record, in any category, in funky Germany. Les Nubians, a French-African group, is getting played on urban (translate as “black”) radio in America. So is this a trend or what? Are these more than summer novelty tunes for anglos? Are we really going to learn to dance, or is this some kind of aberration?
But what about the alterna-Latino bands that are touring the United States and Europe in increasing numbers. The Columbian band Bloque (which, I confess, is on my label) was named best band of the year by a Chicago critic; Los Fabulosos Cadillacs won a Grammy last year. Both bands, and many, many others, mix the grooves of their neighborhoods with the sounds and attitudes of the North American tunes they also grew up with. They are a generation with a double heritage, and their music expresses it.
It’s tough for this bunch to crack the American market: they’re not always cute, safe or exotic. Their music is often more innovative than that of their northern counterparts, which is intimidating. And as cool as they are, they insist on singing in their own language, to an audience that identifies completely with them, thereby making it more difficult to gain a foothold in the States.
These bands are the musical equivalent of a generation of Latin American writers, including Gabriel García Marquez, Isabel Allende, José Amado and Mario Vargas Llosa, that was referred to as the Boom. These musicians are defining their generation, finding a unique voice, and will influence countless others outside their home countries. Here, I believe, is where change will happen. Although they don’t sell very many records yet, these and others (for things analogous to this are happening everywhere, in Africa, in Morocco, in Turkey) will plant the seeds, and while I enjoy hearing Ricky Martin’s merengue on the radio, these others will change my life.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Voting Problems
I just voted at the University of Michigan - South Quad Polling station in Ann Arbor, Michigan and there seem to be problems with the tally machine (i.e. it's not counting votes). Upon inserting my filled-out ballot into the machine (I think it was an optical-scan machine made by Sequoia Voting Systems), the number listed at the bottom (the tally) did not change. Moreover, it was 99 lower than the number on my ballot, which seems problematic, since I saw the table where they were handing out ballots and the ballots are handed out in numerical order (the person next to me got 368 while I got 369). I brought these issues to the attention of the poll worker, who looked flustered, paced nervously for a moment, and then dismissed me with a totally unreassuring smile, saying, "We'll figure it out." What does that mean? Who's going to figure it out? Not her, I suspect. 15 minutes after I left, a friend of mine stopped me in the library. She'd just come from the same polling station, though I hadn't seen her because she was further back in line. She said they were now having a huge discussion at the station and that there were apparently problems with the machines not counting votes and I relayed my experience.
I've waited a very long time to be able to cast this vote. To say I'd be disappointed if my vote didn't get counted would be a grave understatement. I have very little faith in the adequacy of our system and the integrity of those involved in putting together the finer details and making sure it runs smoothly.
I've waited a very long time to be able to cast this vote. To say I'd be disappointed if my vote didn't get counted would be a grave understatement. I have very little faith in the adequacy of our system and the integrity of those involved in putting together the finer details and making sure it runs smoothly.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Homeward Bound
I'm in Dublin now, come back from the Cairngorm Scottland Highlands. The most mystical spot on this round earth, that I've seen anyway. Tomorrow I head to Shannon at dawn to catch my plane back to the states.
All things must come to an end. This past year has been the biggest and most fulfilling adventure of my life to date. I have learned about love and self, seen foreign lands, spoken strange languages, read the lines on thousands of faces, taken risks, made mistakes--so many wonderfully hard and beautiful mistakes--learned that mistakes aren't the end but junctions where we are allowed to choose how we go forward. I've walked along rivers and taken deep gulps from cold streams and burns (pronounced Byurns), run naked across Scottish mountainscapes with nothing but a pack on my back and mud under my feet, bog mud, and even there, in the muck, the blooming heather manages to penetrate and sweeten the air. I've discovered the bothy, made so many fruitful connections with other humans it will take time to process. I spent Christmas on a carfree and carefree Greek isle where the water was clearer than , went the way of the Berber through the largest desert in the world, drove along expansive beaches, tread over trillions of grains of sand, and spelunked through caves leading to what I can only describe as ecstasy. I have sat at a desk at 6 p.m., in a room that looks like a prison cell, trying to write, and been inspired by the nearby sound of 900 year-old cathedral bells clanging in the heavy evening air, bouncing down the ancient curving streets, across the Plaza Nueva, off the proud buildings and into my bedroom window. I have seen and heard and felt and smelled so many things. Wonderful things. Life-changing things. Awesome things. The people I have met, however, and the relationships forged, are what have made this trip most memorable.
The first thing that happened to me upon arriving in Scotland was a theft. They've stolen my camera. It was my fault. The one time I turned my back on that thing which I've protected with a paranoia probably diagnosable, an opportunist was there waiting, and when I returned, it was gone. Climbing the William Wallace monument in Aberdeen with Carson seemed a fantastic idea, and it was. We had all of our stuff--rucksacks, backpack, and my camera bag. When I left our gear at the bottom, a thought flashed through my head--probably not a good idea--but for whatever reason, this time I dismissed that shrill voice. There were people sitting on the bench, watching us, it was the middle of a beautiful, green and blue, sunny the day. We were standing 4 meters above our stuff. The view was beautiful. The swath of perfectly maintained green grass below, with people strewn about enjoying the warm weather; the spire of the 2nd largest granite building (that of Marshall College) in the world, dominating the skyline. Stunning. I'm not sure if it was as stunning as clambering down that large block of stone and bronze to find myself one bag short. I came down to take a picture of Carson's massive, cat-like frame managing Wallace. It wasn't to be.
We were going to the mountains. We made a detour to the police department to report the theft. I was at once frantic and strangely at ease. My camera had been stolen. My camera had been stolen. I said those words out loud and silently to myself. That was it. My camera had been stolen and I was going to the mountains. Alex has pointed out on a pair of occasions what she sees as my invincible, "it can't happen to me" attitude. It happened to me. Oh the irony of having protected it with my life the entire trip, only to have it taken at the very end. No tears have been shed, there is no anger--frustration with myself and some regret--though my heart clenches when I think of the dollars that bag contained, and my Spanish cell phone, with all of my friends' numbers. The truth is, it was liberating. I have never lived more in-the-moment, at any point in my life. Nor do I think I've created such strong and detailed mental images since I allowed myself to become obsessed with documenting every important experience in my life by standing behind that heavy black object. I wish my decision to give up photography for a while had been more voluntary, but I think that ultimately, this experience, more than some others, has taught me and led me, quite forcefully, to another junction. I think I will stick with writing for now and give myself a break from being the camera guy. It had become a bit of a burden, a mild obsession, and a source of constant frustration ("They're not GOOD enough!") Now there is nothing to do but live, and live I will. I'm so ready to come home. I thought it would be terrible, soul crushing. No so. Not so at all. I miss everyone very much and can't wait to see your faces and hear your voices again. Get ready, home, I'm coming.
-The luckiest guy in the world.
All things must come to an end. This past year has been the biggest and most fulfilling adventure of my life to date. I have learned about love and self, seen foreign lands, spoken strange languages, read the lines on thousands of faces, taken risks, made mistakes--so many wonderfully hard and beautiful mistakes--learned that mistakes aren't the end but junctions where we are allowed to choose how we go forward. I've walked along rivers and taken deep gulps from cold streams and burns (pronounced Byurns), run naked across Scottish mountainscapes with nothing but a pack on my back and mud under my feet, bog mud, and even there, in the muck, the blooming heather manages to penetrate and sweeten the air. I've discovered the bothy, made so many fruitful connections with other humans it will take time to process. I spent Christmas on a carfree and carefree Greek isle where the water was clearer than , went the way of the Berber through the largest desert in the world, drove along expansive beaches, tread over trillions of grains of sand, and spelunked through caves leading to what I can only describe as ecstasy. I have sat at a desk at 6 p.m., in a room that looks like a prison cell, trying to write, and been inspired by the nearby sound of 900 year-old cathedral bells clanging in the heavy evening air, bouncing down the ancient curving streets, across the Plaza Nueva, off the proud buildings and into my bedroom window. I have seen and heard and felt and smelled so many things. Wonderful things. Life-changing things. Awesome things. The people I have met, however, and the relationships forged, are what have made this trip most memorable.
The first thing that happened to me upon arriving in Scotland was a theft. They've stolen my camera. It was my fault. The one time I turned my back on that thing which I've protected with a paranoia probably diagnosable, an opportunist was there waiting, and when I returned, it was gone. Climbing the William Wallace monument in Aberdeen with Carson seemed a fantastic idea, and it was. We had all of our stuff--rucksacks, backpack, and my camera bag. When I left our gear at the bottom, a thought flashed through my head--probably not a good idea--but for whatever reason, this time I dismissed that shrill voice. There were people sitting on the bench, watching us, it was the middle of a beautiful, green and blue, sunny the day. We were standing 4 meters above our stuff. The view was beautiful. The swath of perfectly maintained green grass below, with people strewn about enjoying the warm weather; the spire of the 2nd largest granite building (that of Marshall College) in the world, dominating the skyline. Stunning. I'm not sure if it was as stunning as clambering down that large block of stone and bronze to find myself one bag short. I came down to take a picture of Carson's massive, cat-like frame managing Wallace. It wasn't to be.
We were going to the mountains. We made a detour to the police department to report the theft. I was at once frantic and strangely at ease. My camera had been stolen. My camera had been stolen. I said those words out loud and silently to myself. That was it. My camera had been stolen and I was going to the mountains. Alex has pointed out on a pair of occasions what she sees as my invincible, "it can't happen to me" attitude. It happened to me. Oh the irony of having protected it with my life the entire trip, only to have it taken at the very end. No tears have been shed, there is no anger--frustration with myself and some regret--though my heart clenches when I think of the dollars that bag contained, and my Spanish cell phone, with all of my friends' numbers. The truth is, it was liberating. I have never lived more in-the-moment, at any point in my life. Nor do I think I've created such strong and detailed mental images since I allowed myself to become obsessed with documenting every important experience in my life by standing behind that heavy black object. I wish my decision to give up photography for a while had been more voluntary, but I think that ultimately, this experience, more than some others, has taught me and led me, quite forcefully, to another junction. I think I will stick with writing for now and give myself a break from being the camera guy. It had become a bit of a burden, a mild obsession, and a source of constant frustration ("They're not GOOD enough!") Now there is nothing to do but live, and live I will. I'm so ready to come home. I thought it would be terrible, soul crushing. No so. Not so at all. I miss everyone very much and can't wait to see your faces and hear your voices again. Get ready, home, I'm coming.
-The luckiest guy in the world.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Frankfurt, do you know?
Jesus Christ. They said it was sketch, but how could a neighborhood change so much in 400 meters? My heart is still pounding in my throat and my lungs feel like they’re full of helium. KaiserstraBe is the main street that leads out of the Frankfurt train station. It is the home of Frankfurt Hostel. MoselstraBe is the first street branching off from it. I left the hip comfort of Frankfurt Hostel, which was perfect, but full, and turned the corner in search of Easy Bed24, on Mosel, a name that is in no way explicitly or otherwise referring to beds for sex or shady business. The internet reviews said it’s in the middle of the red light district, populated by drug addicts, hookers, and people with hollow eyes. But Frankfurt hostel too, which is both safe and clean and a block away, is flanked by Wos, World of Sex, and a porno shop, so I was certain these reviewers were exaggerating or not aware of the alternatives. But I was wrong. I just saw my first bloody heroin arm, raised blue vein, faced cringed in pain, long raggedy hair under a blue baseball cap and missing teeth. He was kneeling on the sidewalk next to a car and the tainted blood trickled down to his wrist as the fire shot into the mainline. Oh my god. Next to him was a youngish woman in black bending down at a ledge near street level, looking through her purse, "for her phone," I thought. Then I saw the silver crack pipe resting on the concrete ledge. She was so young and so fair. She could have been anyone. She was someone. This is a world of pain and misery, horror, goosepimpled skin and handshake transactions. That’s how the money and the drugs are traded, I've seen it, through the handshake. But who trades in the lives and the bent faces? Who keeps that business running strong? I moved from the sidewalk and into the street. I wanted to cry. I can see them from out my bedroom window now. They stand in a diffused group and are very heterogenous. People from all walks, ages, skin colors, levels of attractiveness, life stories. I want to talk to them, to hear there stories, but I don’t think I will. I will just stand here and watch the bulging, bloodshot eyes, the smiles turn to grimaces, and the fast-action transactions in money, drugs and hungry faces that is life in the little community on Mosel Street. It is 1:56 p.m.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
The boy writes an update!
So I'm feeling exhausted again and furious with myself. I just made a huge mistake, wasted an entire day, and lost 70 euros on an overnight train that I was unable to make because of my mistake (a confusion of days, times and numbers). I want to tear my hair out. I had an extra day at San Fermin, but one was sufficient. I didn't want to be there. Turns out, I wasn't supposed to be. My train left without me and now I'm stuck for the night in Barcelona, exhausted and did I mention pissed off? It sucks when you don't have anyone else but yourself to blame for an unideal situation. But it's something that should be done, when that's the case. The first thing that happened in Pamplona was that I lost or somebody stole my European resident card, so now I look like an illegal holder of an interail pass (for EU residents only) and I'm about to head into France, that country famous for it's American sympathies. Okay, I should go take care of business instead of procrastinating by writing in the blog. Wish me luck.
So I'm feeling exhausted again and furious with myself. I just made a huge mistake, wasted an entire day, and lost 70 euros on an overnight train that I was unable to make because of my mistake (a confusion of days, times and numbers). I want to tear my hair out. I had an extra day at San Fermin, but one was sufficient. I didn't want to be there. Turns out, I wasn't supposed to be. My train left without me and now I'm stuck for the night in Barcelona, exhausted and did I mention pissed off? It sucks when you don't have anyone else but yourself to blame for an unideal situation. But it's something that should be done, when that's the case. The first thing that happened in Pamplona was that I lost or somebody stole my European resident card, so now I look like an illegal holder of an interail pass (for EU residents only) and I'm about to head into France, that country famous for it's American sympathies. Okay, I should go take care of business instead of procrastinating by writing in the blog. Wish me luck.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Saturday, July 5, 2008
A thought.
An assertive action followed by a successful outcome leads to the a powerful sense of greatness and satisfaction. The first instance taught me that it's worth trying. I'm hoping with this next one under my belt and hopefully more to come, I'll become addicted.
As a side note, I think some might appreciate this list from McSweeney's that Alex just sent me. 4 simple steps to becoming more decisive:
1. Eeny
2. Meeny
3. Miney
4. Mo
Haha.
The prompt for this update was the following (p.s. don't get used to consistently frequent updates...knowing me, though I may be changing, that would still be delusional...) I've just decided to stay another night in Burgos, a truly fantastic city with a river running through it and fiesta running through its veins. I have organized my hostel stay for this fiesta night and a suicide mission fit only for a student traveling through Europe that will allow me to see the best part of the San Fermin festivals and get a direct train from Barcelona to Turin, passing through France and sleeping on the train, which will be the only sleep be able to get after about 36 of constant san fermin frenzy and train hopping. Omg. brrrrr.
That's a shiver of excitement folks. Wish me luck. Happy fourth of July to all. I hope it was a...blast.
As a side note, I think some might appreciate this list from McSweeney's that Alex just sent me. 4 simple steps to becoming more decisive:
1. Eeny
2. Meeny
3. Miney
4. Mo
Haha.
The prompt for this update was the following (p.s. don't get used to consistently frequent updates...knowing me, though I may be changing, that would still be delusional...) I've just decided to stay another night in Burgos, a truly fantastic city with a river running through it and fiesta running through its veins. I have organized my hostel stay for this fiesta night and a suicide mission fit only for a student traveling through Europe that will allow me to see the best part of the San Fermin festivals and get a direct train from Barcelona to Turin, passing through France and sleeping on the train, which will be the only sleep be able to get after about 36 of constant san fermin frenzy and train hopping. Omg. brrrrr.
That's a shiver of excitement folks. Wish me luck. Happy fourth of July to all. I hope it was a...blast.
Scenes from European Travels: Madrid to Toledo to Madrid to Burgos
July 2nd
10 to 2 p.m.
AVE to Madrid. Todo ya va a empezar. A ver lo que hay. I'm giddy with excitement. 'Would love to capture this moment of anticipation, positive tension but my words fail me, probably because I won't try. I catch myself thinking "some day [I will try to capture experiences with words]" and remember that it is exactly that attitude I'm trying to eliminate. I suppose I can pardon this incident. I only have two hours. Life of Pi instead. Good book.
It's around 10p.m. in Toledo and I'm utterly exhausted and feeling a little broken, very much like when I arrived in Sevilla. Everything seemed grim then ("What the hell are these palm trees doing here?!? What is this, a joke? The difference now though is that I know the feeling now and that it can be beaten. I'll give myself rest.
Note to the potential backpacker: Everything in Toledo is uphill.
July 3rd
Leaving Toled on a bus with a busted front end. Before we've finished pulling out of our parking space, the bus driver, a man just past middle age with light-toned and thinning hair and a short sleeved button-up tucked tight around his belly into his pants, has brought the bus to two sudden halts (like, oops, didn't see that BUSslamonthebreaks), and he smiles. I look at the man sitting next to me and can see that he too is remembering the cracked windshield and fractured corner panel. But there's no more time to think of escape. With two unmeasured stomps on the accelerator, we're out of the block and rolling into the out. God save us.
Last night, in Toledo, I wanted to ask the Argentinian woman working at Bar Nicholas (in Toledo_ to come sit with me. I don't know why really. I just wanted someone to talk to I suppose and she was there, shuffling about, and so bent. But we merely exchanged the normal words, the words we always mutter when we're not really speaking, "Hola cómo estás. De donde eres? Cómo está la comida. etc..." and a few weary glances with half-forced smiles.
Later...
Bus to Madrid, tren to tren.
I recycled food in the Madrid train station. Somebody left perfectly good fries on the table, so I took advantage of the situation and squashed my hunger. It feels good being anonymous, liberating. All of the unimportant social rules (not to say that all rules are unimportant, but some, like keeping up appearances) suddenly slip away into meaninglessness when one is traveling with nothing but a bag and a notebook. It's liberating. My plans to get to Bilbao or San Sebastian were foiled by lack of available seats. I was dreading having to spend the night in the capital city, so I improvised. I would go north to Burgos o Vitoria. I feel much better than I did 30 minutes ago.
Reading Life of Pi I'm filled with both admiration, wonder, and envy. I am 20 years old and I want to be as good as or better than everyone. I know it's ridiculous. Perhaps I should stop worrying about my future and focus on being as happy and open to growth as I can be in the moment. And maybe working once in a while.
Later on the bus to Burgos/Vitoria...
I've finally met someone! A hip-looking chaval wearing thick glasses (slightly thinner than his ruler-like sideburns) and a black Ramones shirt sits down next to me on the train as we stop in Ávila, the highest point in Spain, which is also lays claim to one of the more beautiful countrysides I've seen so far, surrounded by mountains and patchwork plots of earth, rolling and melding together to form a perfect picture. Miguel teaches Spanish to English students who are, of all places, from Eastern Michigan University. ¡Que mundo más pequeño! The conversation started as I commented on the book, "High Fidelity" he had in his lap. Have you seen the movie? Sí, uno de mis favoritos. That's all it took. I had life of pi in my lap. Neither of us opened our books for the next 5 hours. Even better, he was going to Burgos and knew of a cheap hostel where I could stay. Score. Paulo Cohelo writes that when we really want something, the universe conspires to help us achieve our goal. This past year has led me to believe on countless occasions that this is true.
3 July 11:00 p.m. At Bar Miami's counter (I would stay in the hostel/pension above).
The first thing I saw upon arriving in Burgos was a wide old street flanked by two lanes of trees that formed a canopy of branches and leaves that looked like an arthritic woman's interlacing fingers. That and a giant crowd in uniform blue-shirt, white-pant dress (casi todos manchados) making brass sounds and shouting with smiles on their faces. The first thing that happened to me in Burgos was that one of these queerly dressed folk approached me with a funny-looking leather pouch, made a "tip back your head motion," and squeezed delicious red wine into my mouth. "Hola," he said as I swallowed that warmth and smiled. I immediately decided that I would like Burgos.
Later, I walked to my hostel. basically an apartment above the Bar Miami, and at 15 euros a night, not a bad deal at all. I came downstairs to the bar after leaving my stuff in my room. My shoulders jumped to life again, finally relieved of the burden of Tabitha. I wanted to find out the details about the fiesta. Miguel had told me there would be concerts. The bartender hadn't been very friendly when I arrived. ¿Me pones una cerveza, porfa? He pours me a beer from the tap. It's nice. Somebody orders a tinto. How much is the red wine, I ask. 1.30. Vale, ponme una copa cuando pueda. He pours me a glass of wine, and looks at me a bit differently. There were three other people next to me, standing. They were older, and one was a bit red in the face. I spoke with the woman briefly. She was friendly. The men were speaking, when suddenly, the one with redder face began singing. No humming, not whistling, but whistling. For those who do not know, it is not unusual for people drinking in a bar in Spain to break into song. But this was different. It wasn't a phrase or two. This man wanted to sing, and soon the other man was with him, and then the barkeeper, and then the woman next to me and they were there, in a bar on calle vitoria in Burgos, Spain, right next to me in 2008, singing neither sweetly nor beautifully but happily, and I too was happy. "This is what I love about Spain," I said. They laughed. Where are you from, you sound like an Andaluz. The States. They don't sing there? the woman asks. Sure they sing, but it's not quite like this. (details later, I hope...).
I filmed most of this experience, thanks to my new investment, and while the audio quality is pretty splotchy and not equalized, it's pretty cool to have that moment, though I remember it quite vividly. They continued singing. I was starving. Moments after the hunger hit me, the woman who runs the rooms upstairs brought out two and a half sandwiches from behind the bar. Eat, she said. The barman poured me another glass of wine. Nobody goes thirsty here. The songs continued, and I sat and watched, unable to wipe the smile off my face. I had found my concert, good people, food, drink, and shelter. In those moments, Burgos became my second favorite Spanish city.
4 July 10:02 a.m. Cafeteria Elba. Round table, window.
Burgos is fantastic. It's fista here--patron saint, hence the revelry of last night. I had wanted to go out last night to see things, parades, and concerts, and I did, but not before I was enraptured by the crowd and bartender of Miami who gave me much more authentic and gratifying improvised renditions of Spanish songs--a real Spanish bar concert--and free sandwiches, tortilla española and red wine. God I love this place. I couldn't wipe the smile off my face. We talked, I filmed them, and will store this as a fond memory and consider it to be the real beginning of my European adventure. This is what I was dreaming of.
Sat. 1:04 p.m. in Buenas Noches Burgos.
Excellent tortilla and red wine. Today I've wandered around the city, taken a shower (finally), met and photographed an old beggar woman who called me peregrino, mago y guapo, watched an old hunched woman wage an uphill battle against ancient stairs with bags in her hands, cloudy blue sky above and soaring cathedral behind. I've climbed a castle, been to an impressive vagon and met with so many nice eyes and smiling faces that say, "Mira. Este tiene acento Andaluz." I worry that I'll be lonely when I leave Spain and become just another native language-dumb English speaker. But for now, I'm in a bar that plays classical American tunes and very much enjoying the moment. From here, if I can manage, I'll catch a train to San sebastian, or maybe I'll just stay and try to get to Pamplona to see the famous beginnings of San Fermin at noon on the 6th. A ver.
Later...
Today I watched fireworks burn the sky like musical torches. Bam ba ba ba BOOM. Ba!ba!ba!baDA! They flashed in the sky, brilliantly burning ferns and palm trees, very frondy, then a green tortoise, a magical ocean green blue creature swimming through the air, bathed in smoke and propelled by awe coming from below. I saw that when I left the bar. I sat on a castle, I watched love turn official and stately. I caught a young girl in a dress hurl a unicorn balloon up to the sky and men in ties whistle across a plaza with a fountain at bride passing beneath the cathedral. A cathedral that's seen centuries of life and death and war and strife and greedy hands and eyes and stolen riches. Seen more humanity than any human could bear. I climbed hills of tall grass and poppies. I spoke with a beggar woman on the steps of a cathedral and tried to capture her face, though I was embarrassed. I asked for permission, she asked for money. Both were given. She called me pilgrim, majo, guapo. I called her an image of beauty.
Now I go to Pamolona...
10 to 2 p.m.
AVE to Madrid. Todo ya va a empezar. A ver lo que hay. I'm giddy with excitement. 'Would love to capture this moment of anticipation, positive tension but my words fail me, probably because I won't try. I catch myself thinking "some day [I will try to capture experiences with words]" and remember that it is exactly that attitude I'm trying to eliminate. I suppose I can pardon this incident. I only have two hours. Life of Pi instead. Good book.
It's around 10p.m. in Toledo and I'm utterly exhausted and feeling a little broken, very much like when I arrived in Sevilla. Everything seemed grim then ("What the hell are these palm trees doing here?!? What is this, a joke? The difference now though is that I know the feeling now and that it can be beaten. I'll give myself rest.
Note to the potential backpacker: Everything in Toledo is uphill.
July 3rd
Leaving Toled on a bus with a busted front end. Before we've finished pulling out of our parking space, the bus driver, a man just past middle age with light-toned and thinning hair and a short sleeved button-up tucked tight around his belly into his pants, has brought the bus to two sudden halts (like, oops, didn't see that BUSslamonthebreaks), and he smiles. I look at the man sitting next to me and can see that he too is remembering the cracked windshield and fractured corner panel. But there's no more time to think of escape. With two unmeasured stomps on the accelerator, we're out of the block and rolling into the out. God save us.
Last night, in Toledo, I wanted to ask the Argentinian woman working at Bar Nicholas (in Toledo_ to come sit with me. I don't know why really. I just wanted someone to talk to I suppose and she was there, shuffling about, and so bent. But we merely exchanged the normal words, the words we always mutter when we're not really speaking, "Hola cómo estás. De donde eres? Cómo está la comida. etc..." and a few weary glances with half-forced smiles.
Later...
Bus to Madrid, tren to tren.
I recycled food in the Madrid train station. Somebody left perfectly good fries on the table, so I took advantage of the situation and squashed my hunger. It feels good being anonymous, liberating. All of the unimportant social rules (not to say that all rules are unimportant, but some, like keeping up appearances) suddenly slip away into meaninglessness when one is traveling with nothing but a bag and a notebook. It's liberating. My plans to get to Bilbao or San Sebastian were foiled by lack of available seats. I was dreading having to spend the night in the capital city, so I improvised. I would go north to Burgos o Vitoria. I feel much better than I did 30 minutes ago.
Reading Life of Pi I'm filled with both admiration, wonder, and envy. I am 20 years old and I want to be as good as or better than everyone. I know it's ridiculous. Perhaps I should stop worrying about my future and focus on being as happy and open to growth as I can be in the moment. And maybe working once in a while.
Later on the bus to Burgos/Vitoria...
I've finally met someone! A hip-looking chaval wearing thick glasses (slightly thinner than his ruler-like sideburns) and a black Ramones shirt sits down next to me on the train as we stop in Ávila, the highest point in Spain, which is also lays claim to one of the more beautiful countrysides I've seen so far, surrounded by mountains and patchwork plots of earth, rolling and melding together to form a perfect picture. Miguel teaches Spanish to English students who are, of all places, from Eastern Michigan University. ¡Que mundo más pequeño! The conversation started as I commented on the book, "High Fidelity" he had in his lap. Have you seen the movie? Sí, uno de mis favoritos. That's all it took. I had life of pi in my lap. Neither of us opened our books for the next 5 hours. Even better, he was going to Burgos and knew of a cheap hostel where I could stay. Score. Paulo Cohelo writes that when we really want something, the universe conspires to help us achieve our goal. This past year has led me to believe on countless occasions that this is true.
3 July 11:00 p.m. At Bar Miami's counter (I would stay in the hostel/pension above).
The first thing I saw upon arriving in Burgos was a wide old street flanked by two lanes of trees that formed a canopy of branches and leaves that looked like an arthritic woman's interlacing fingers. That and a giant crowd in uniform blue-shirt, white-pant dress (casi todos manchados) making brass sounds and shouting with smiles on their faces. The first thing that happened to me in Burgos was that one of these queerly dressed folk approached me with a funny-looking leather pouch, made a "tip back your head motion," and squeezed delicious red wine into my mouth. "Hola," he said as I swallowed that warmth and smiled. I immediately decided that I would like Burgos.
Later, I walked to my hostel. basically an apartment above the Bar Miami, and at 15 euros a night, not a bad deal at all. I came downstairs to the bar after leaving my stuff in my room. My shoulders jumped to life again, finally relieved of the burden of Tabitha. I wanted to find out the details about the fiesta. Miguel had told me there would be concerts. The bartender hadn't been very friendly when I arrived. ¿Me pones una cerveza, porfa? He pours me a beer from the tap. It's nice. Somebody orders a tinto. How much is the red wine, I ask. 1.30. Vale, ponme una copa cuando pueda. He pours me a glass of wine, and looks at me a bit differently. There were three other people next to me, standing. They were older, and one was a bit red in the face. I spoke with the woman briefly. She was friendly. The men were speaking, when suddenly, the one with redder face began singing. No humming, not whistling, but whistling. For those who do not know, it is not unusual for people drinking in a bar in Spain to break into song. But this was different. It wasn't a phrase or two. This man wanted to sing, and soon the other man was with him, and then the barkeeper, and then the woman next to me and they were there, in a bar on calle vitoria in Burgos, Spain, right next to me in 2008, singing neither sweetly nor beautifully but happily, and I too was happy. "This is what I love about Spain," I said. They laughed. Where are you from, you sound like an Andaluz. The States. They don't sing there? the woman asks. Sure they sing, but it's not quite like this. (details later, I hope...).
I filmed most of this experience, thanks to my new investment, and while the audio quality is pretty splotchy and not equalized, it's pretty cool to have that moment, though I remember it quite vividly. They continued singing. I was starving. Moments after the hunger hit me, the woman who runs the rooms upstairs brought out two and a half sandwiches from behind the bar. Eat, she said. The barman poured me another glass of wine. Nobody goes thirsty here. The songs continued, and I sat and watched, unable to wipe the smile off my face. I had found my concert, good people, food, drink, and shelter. In those moments, Burgos became my second favorite Spanish city.
4 July 10:02 a.m. Cafeteria Elba. Round table, window.
Burgos is fantastic. It's fista here--patron saint, hence the revelry of last night. I had wanted to go out last night to see things, parades, and concerts, and I did, but not before I was enraptured by the crowd and bartender of Miami who gave me much more authentic and gratifying improvised renditions of Spanish songs--a real Spanish bar concert--and free sandwiches, tortilla española and red wine. God I love this place. I couldn't wipe the smile off my face. We talked, I filmed them, and will store this as a fond memory and consider it to be the real beginning of my European adventure. This is what I was dreaming of.
Sat. 1:04 p.m. in Buenas Noches Burgos.
Excellent tortilla and red wine. Today I've wandered around the city, taken a shower (finally), met and photographed an old beggar woman who called me peregrino, mago y guapo, watched an old hunched woman wage an uphill battle against ancient stairs with bags in her hands, cloudy blue sky above and soaring cathedral behind. I've climbed a castle, been to an impressive vagon and met with so many nice eyes and smiling faces that say, "Mira. Este tiene acento Andaluz." I worry that I'll be lonely when I leave Spain and become just another native language-dumb English speaker. But for now, I'm in a bar that plays classical American tunes and very much enjoying the moment. From here, if I can manage, I'll catch a train to San sebastian, or maybe I'll just stay and try to get to Pamplona to see the famous beginnings of San Fermin at noon on the 6th. A ver.
Later...
Today I watched fireworks burn the sky like musical torches. Bam ba ba ba BOOM. Ba!ba!ba!baDA! They flashed in the sky, brilliantly burning ferns and palm trees, very frondy, then a green tortoise, a magical ocean green blue creature swimming through the air, bathed in smoke and propelled by awe coming from below. I saw that when I left the bar. I sat on a castle, I watched love turn official and stately. I caught a young girl in a dress hurl a unicorn balloon up to the sky and men in ties whistle across a plaza with a fountain at bride passing beneath the cathedral. A cathedral that's seen centuries of life and death and war and strife and greedy hands and eyes and stolen riches. Seen more humanity than any human could bear. I climbed hills of tall grass and poppies. I spoke with a beggar woman on the steps of a cathedral and tried to capture her face, though I was embarrassed. I asked for permission, she asked for money. Both were given. She called me pilgrim, majo, guapo. I called her an image of beauty.
Now I go to Pamolona...
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Immigration in Europe
Notice the points that mention things like healthcare even for illegal immigrants and the logic that it is actually beneficial to allow individuals currently residing in your country to be included as normal, valued citizens. It's amazing what a little bit of understanding and a little less racism and fear can do. What the hell is wrong with us? Did you read the article about the hundreds of working Mexicans who were deported this week after RAIDS? What ARE we doing? Is deporting working individuals really a matter of top concern in the land of the free and the home of the brave; the land that is, more than anything else, a land of immigrants? I just don't understand it.
Anyway, this is a good article, because it's about Spain. It would be interesting to read an article that addressed the social issues (like how people in Spain really feel about immigrants.) It's actually not all that different in that there is a very wide range of opinions and passionate beliefs. Fortunately, they have a responsible government that is willing to give the individual, and not fear, the benefit of the doubt. Here's the article
Anyway, this is a good article, because it's about Spain. It would be interesting to read an article that addressed the social issues (like how people in Spain really feel about immigrants.) It's actually not all that different in that there is a very wide range of opinions and passionate beliefs. Fortunately, they have a responsible government that is willing to give the individual, and not fear, the benefit of the doubt. Here's the article
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Johnny Cash
I just heard this song on my room mate's computer, and I'm a fan. It's called, "A Satisfied Mind," by Johhny Cash, someone whose music I've been wanting to look into for a while now.
How many times have
You heard someone say
If I had his money
I could do things my way
But little they know
That it's so hard to find
One rich man in ten
With a satisfied mind
Once I was waitin'
In fortune and fame
Everything that I dreamed for
To get a start in life's game
Then suddenly it happened
I lost every dime
But I'm richer by far
With a satisfied mind
Money can't buy back
Your youth when you're old
Or a friend when you're lonely
Or a love that's grown cold
The wealthiest person
Is a pauper at times
Compared to the man
With a satisfied mind
When my life has ended
And my time has run out
My friends and my loved ones
I'll leave there's no doubt
But one thing's for certain
When it comes my time
I'll leave this old world
With a satisfied mind
How many times have
You heard someone say
If I had his money
I could do things my way
But little they know
That it's so hard to find
One rich man in ten
With a satisfied mind
How many times have
You heard someone say
If I had his money
I could do things my way
But little they know
That it's so hard to find
One rich man in ten
With a satisfied mind
Once I was waitin'
In fortune and fame
Everything that I dreamed for
To get a start in life's game
Then suddenly it happened
I lost every dime
But I'm richer by far
With a satisfied mind
Money can't buy back
Your youth when you're old
Or a friend when you're lonely
Or a love that's grown cold
The wealthiest person
Is a pauper at times
Compared to the man
With a satisfied mind
When my life has ended
And my time has run out
My friends and my loved ones
I'll leave there's no doubt
But one thing's for certain
When it comes my time
I'll leave this old world
With a satisfied mind
How many times have
You heard someone say
If I had his money
I could do things my way
But little they know
That it's so hard to find
One rich man in ten
With a satisfied mind
NYT Articles of Interest
Perhaps this is Old Testament God coming back. Or, perhaps we've just horribly abused and violated our earth for the last two hundred years and are now paying the consequences lump-sum. In either case, it is clear to me that serious change is in order and that waiting simply isn't an option. If anybody is aware of movements or has contact with people fighting for emissions control and responsible business and agriculture practices, please feel free to post in the comments.
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/05/31/opinion/31blow.html
Interesting article in the times on bullfighting. I'd say it more or less captures the essence and ambiguity of bullfighting in Spain. Long, but worth at least reading the first 2 or 3 pages.
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/05/31/opinion/31blow.html
Interesting article in the times on bullfighting. I'd say it more or less captures the essence and ambiguity of bullfighting in Spain. Long, but worth at least reading the first 2 or 3 pages.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Borges y yo
Borges and I (translated from the Spanish)
Jorge Luis Borges
It is to that other one, to Borges, that things happen. I walk through Buenos Aires and I pause, one could say mechanically, to gaze at a vestibule’s arch and its inner door; of Borges I receive news in the mail and I see his name in a list of professors or some biographical dictionary. I like hourglasses, maps, eighteenth-century typefaces, etymologies, the taste of coffee and the prose of Stevenson; the other shares these preferences, but in a vain kind of way that turns them into attributes of an actor. It would be an exaggeration to claim that our relationship is hostile; I live, I let myself live so that Borges may write his literature, and this literature justifies me. It poses no great difficulty for me to admit that he has put together some decent passages, yet these passages cannot save me, perhaps because whatsoever is good does not belong to anyone, not even to the other, but to language and tradition. In any case, I am destined to lose all that I am, definitively, and only fleeting moments of myself will be able to live on in the other. Little by little, I continue ceding to him everything, even though I am aware of his perverse tendency to falsify and magnify.
Spinoza understood that all things wish to live on in their own essence; the stone wishes to be eternally a stone and the tiger a tiger. I will endure in Borges, not in myself (if it is that I am someone), but I recognise myself less in his books than in those of many others, or in the well-worn strum of a guitar. Years ago I tried to free myself from him by moving on from the mythologies of the slums to games with time and infinity, but those games are now Borges’ and I will have to conceive of other things. In this way, my life is a retreat and I lose everything and everything is turned over to oblivion, or to the other.
I do not know which of us is writing this piece.
Jorge Luis Borges
It is to that other one, to Borges, that things happen. I walk through Buenos Aires and I pause, one could say mechanically, to gaze at a vestibule’s arch and its inner door; of Borges I receive news in the mail and I see his name in a list of professors or some biographical dictionary. I like hourglasses, maps, eighteenth-century typefaces, etymologies, the taste of coffee and the prose of Stevenson; the other shares these preferences, but in a vain kind of way that turns them into attributes of an actor. It would be an exaggeration to claim that our relationship is hostile; I live, I let myself live so that Borges may write his literature, and this literature justifies me. It poses no great difficulty for me to admit that he has put together some decent passages, yet these passages cannot save me, perhaps because whatsoever is good does not belong to anyone, not even to the other, but to language and tradition. In any case, I am destined to lose all that I am, definitively, and only fleeting moments of myself will be able to live on in the other. Little by little, I continue ceding to him everything, even though I am aware of his perverse tendency to falsify and magnify.
Spinoza understood that all things wish to live on in their own essence; the stone wishes to be eternally a stone and the tiger a tiger. I will endure in Borges, not in myself (if it is that I am someone), but I recognise myself less in his books than in those of many others, or in the well-worn strum of a guitar. Years ago I tried to free myself from him by moving on from the mythologies of the slums to games with time and infinity, but those games are now Borges’ and I will have to conceive of other things. In this way, my life is a retreat and I lose everything and everything is turned over to oblivion, or to the other.
I do not know which of us is writing this piece.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Well, it's been a while.
Things I'm especially fond of or interested in these days: This American Life on NPR, Cat Stevens' "Peace Train," writings of Jack Handy for the New Yorker and various other publications, anything by Julio Cortázar, love song mixes, love, hope, excitement, outside, cooking pasta and making guacamole, breaking old habits, the idea of growth. Also, universal health care, world economic systems, change, and running for ICC president next year. Food.
So much for writing a blog keeping people informed on happenings in Spain. I think that out of all of the blog posts I've written, probably only 4 or so are really about Spain. As usual, it's great here, though this semester has been very different from the last. For a while I felt that I had fallen off the face of the planet, as I was no longer seeing many of my Spanish friends, nor going out and being spontaneous as I had in the beginning. That was distressing. I think I've managed to strike more of a balance now between romance and...everything else (that's kind of how the categories tend to exist for me in practice at the beginning of a serious relationship. There's that one other person person (Alex), a little bubble in which the two of you fit, and then everything on the outside). But that's no good for anybody. Balance in all things.
School is wrapping up, which means exam season has arrived. Next week Friday, instead of taking an exam, I will be performing (as Vulcano, the lead role) in an 300 Millones, a play by the Argentinian writer Robert Arlt. I have a 15 minute monologue and am essentially an oafish Satan figure. Needless to say, the part comes naturally. I'm nervous, as I still haven't perfected my lines, but I'm also excited--we'll be performing in front of a large crowd of students, hopefully. We've worked hard on this project, and though I did my fair share of complaining in the beginning, it's turing out to be something I'm really proud of. Hopefully somebody will tape part of it. That'd be a cool thing to have, even if it ends up being a disaster, which I really don't expect. Oy, I'm procrastinating and not writing a very interesting post. I'll try to come up with some good observations or reflections on Spain and post them in the near future. Here's something to chew on, from my friend Chelsea last night. Spaniards have a tendency to dress like they're much older than they are when they're young (e.g. that 10-year old girl walking down the street wearing something out of a bad MTV video at half past midnight looking like she's about to go to the club, or dance on the pole), and act like they're much younger than they are for a very long time, for example, the 29-year-old who still lives with his mom because she does his laundry and cooks for him. It's actually less common here for a university student (most of them are older than American university students) to NOT still live with her parents. Not a bad thing, but certainly very different. Actually, if you ask most of the students still living with their parents, it tends to be more of a bad thing than a good thing, and yet that's just the way it works (unless you're very wealthy, in which case you probably share an apartment with other university students and just go home every weekend so you can get your laundry done and pick up a week's worth of already prepared food, like my master violinist roommate, Omar). Okay, that's all for now. Sorry for the weak post. I'll come back with more stuff, of better quality, in the near future.
Love,
Aaron
And now with a word from my good friend, Cat Stevens...
Peace Train
by Cat Stevens
Now I've been happy lately,
thinking about the good things to come
And I believe it could be,
something good has begun
Oh I've been smiling lately,
dreaming about the world as one
And I believe it could be,
some day it's going to come
Cause out on the edge of darkness,
there rides a peace train
Oh peace train take this country,
come take me home again
Now I've been smiling lately,
thinking about the good things to come
And I believe it could be,
something good has begun
Oh peace train sounding louder
Glide on the peace train
Come on now peace train
Yes, peace train holy roller
Everyone jump upon the peace train
Come on now peace train
Get your bags together,
go bring your good friends too
Cause it's getting nearer,
it soon will be with you
Now come and join the living,
it's not so far from you
And it's getting nearer,
soon it will all be true
Now I've been crying lately,
thinking about the world as it is
Why must we go on hating,
why can't we live in bliss
Cause out on the edge of darkness,
there rides a peace train
Oh peace train take this country,
come take me home again
Things I'm especially fond of or interested in these days: This American Life on NPR, Cat Stevens' "Peace Train," writings of Jack Handy for the New Yorker and various other publications, anything by Julio Cortázar, love song mixes, love, hope, excitement, outside, cooking pasta and making guacamole, breaking old habits, the idea of growth. Also, universal health care, world economic systems, change, and running for ICC president next year. Food.
So much for writing a blog keeping people informed on happenings in Spain. I think that out of all of the blog posts I've written, probably only 4 or so are really about Spain. As usual, it's great here, though this semester has been very different from the last. For a while I felt that I had fallen off the face of the planet, as I was no longer seeing many of my Spanish friends, nor going out and being spontaneous as I had in the beginning. That was distressing. I think I've managed to strike more of a balance now between romance and...everything else (that's kind of how the categories tend to exist for me in practice at the beginning of a serious relationship. There's that one other person person (Alex), a little bubble in which the two of you fit, and then everything on the outside). But that's no good for anybody. Balance in all things.
School is wrapping up, which means exam season has arrived. Next week Friday, instead of taking an exam, I will be performing (as Vulcano, the lead role) in an 300 Millones, a play by the Argentinian writer Robert Arlt. I have a 15 minute monologue and am essentially an oafish Satan figure. Needless to say, the part comes naturally. I'm nervous, as I still haven't perfected my lines, but I'm also excited--we'll be performing in front of a large crowd of students, hopefully. We've worked hard on this project, and though I did my fair share of complaining in the beginning, it's turing out to be something I'm really proud of. Hopefully somebody will tape part of it. That'd be a cool thing to have, even if it ends up being a disaster, which I really don't expect. Oy, I'm procrastinating and not writing a very interesting post. I'll try to come up with some good observations or reflections on Spain and post them in the near future. Here's something to chew on, from my friend Chelsea last night. Spaniards have a tendency to dress like they're much older than they are when they're young (e.g. that 10-year old girl walking down the street wearing something out of a bad MTV video at half past midnight looking like she's about to go to the club, or dance on the pole), and act like they're much younger than they are for a very long time, for example, the 29-year-old who still lives with his mom because she does his laundry and cooks for him. It's actually less common here for a university student (most of them are older than American university students) to NOT still live with her parents. Not a bad thing, but certainly very different. Actually, if you ask most of the students still living with their parents, it tends to be more of a bad thing than a good thing, and yet that's just the way it works (unless you're very wealthy, in which case you probably share an apartment with other university students and just go home every weekend so you can get your laundry done and pick up a week's worth of already prepared food, like my master violinist roommate, Omar). Okay, that's all for now. Sorry for the weak post. I'll come back with more stuff, of better quality, in the near future.
Love,
Aaron
And now with a word from my good friend, Cat Stevens...
Peace Train
by Cat Stevens
Now I've been happy lately,
thinking about the good things to come
And I believe it could be,
something good has begun
Oh I've been smiling lately,
dreaming about the world as one
And I believe it could be,
some day it's going to come
Cause out on the edge of darkness,
there rides a peace train
Oh peace train take this country,
come take me home again
Now I've been smiling lately,
thinking about the good things to come
And I believe it could be,
something good has begun
Oh peace train sounding louder
Glide on the peace train
Come on now peace train
Yes, peace train holy roller
Everyone jump upon the peace train
Come on now peace train
Get your bags together,
go bring your good friends too
Cause it's getting nearer,
it soon will be with you
Now come and join the living,
it's not so far from you
And it's getting nearer,
soon it will all be true
Now I've been crying lately,
thinking about the world as it is
Why must we go on hating,
why can't we live in bliss
Cause out on the edge of darkness,
there rides a peace train
Oh peace train take this country,
come take me home again
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