prokofiev

October 23, 2011

Yesterday I was holed up in the basement theorizing why someone thought it was a good idea to find chord structures that align with each sign in the zodiac. Geminis are supposedly G major and minor. In the margins of my book, they had listed a few classical pieces that predominantly featured each sign’s assigned chords, which is how I came across Martha Argerich. Argerich is one of the most amazing concert pianists I’ve ever heard. (Not that I can remember many by name, only Jean Yves Thibaudet and Aldo Ciccolini; because they recorded Satie and Debussy, respectively.) Martha is a fascinating human being, and completely transfixing to watch. I have never seen someone feel piano like she does.

Yesterday evening, I was watching her play the end of Prokofiev’s third piano concerto and bawling like an infant. It was gorgeous. It’s quite rare that I’m moved to tears by a work of art, which got me thinking: what other things (consumable via teh ewe-tubez) have made me lose it? Here are a few that I remember…

Sylvie Guillem dancing part of Wet Woman, choreographed by Mats Ek.

Ella Fitzgerald, Caterina Valente, and Perry Como singing Avalon. 

Traveling through Tokyo on the metro at sunrise. (Music by Yoshinori Sunahara).

…and lastly, Martha Argerich playing Prokofiev.

polacolor 108

October 21, 2011

I recently acquired a Polaroid Automatic 100.

Normally it shoots gorgeous things like these:

However, the following is titled:

HOW TO FUCK UP A ROLL OF POLAROID FILM

(A photo essay by Mac.)

This is my first picture! It’s of my house.

This is my second picture. It’s also of my house.

This is a picture of a lamp.

This is a picture of another lamp.

This is a picture of my cat.

In my defense, this film is 50 years old, and I’d imagine the developer has performance anxiety.

cough.

October 19, 2011

I’m sick. Not the kind of sick where you’re completely KO’d from life, the kind where the rest of your body is fine, save the excess mucous in your face and an upper respiratory system that refuses to behave. The kind of sick where you spend all day wheezing like an asthmatic, but really you’re fine. Really. 

I cant decide which kind of sick I prefer. Sprawled out in your bed, (or couch in my case, hello unemployment!) clearing the terrible movies out of your netflix queue by watching them all in succession, bundled up in your comforter that could have used a wash a few weeks ago, and only being able to tell time based on which newscasters are trapped in your television. We’ve all been there.

Right now I have “rest of my body is behaving properly” sickness. The kind that annoys you more than sidelines you. I have yet to realize that no amount of whining will keep the snot from dribbling out of my nose. (TMI?) Whatever. Nostrils, in my opinion, are one of the more preferable orifices. I’ve been consuming unhealthy amounts of coffee, (what else is new, honestly…) staying up too late, and cuddling more with my dwindling roll of emergency toilet paper than I have with any gentleman, ever. It’s just been that kind of virus.

Later on in life, I’ll probably get cancer and long for the days of a small viral infection. Until that happens,

I AM DYING HERE. 

misty canyon.

October 12, 2011

You know what? Fuck everything. That’s kind of how I’ve been feeling the past few days. It helps my process as an “artist”. Why you ask? Because fuck everything, that’s why. Fuck if that line’s going to go where it’s supposed to, fuck if I’m going to change the album I’ve been listening to for the past two hours, and fuck if I’m going to finish this pot of tea in a reasonable amount of time.

But why Misty Canyon?  You may be asking yourself (or maybe not)~ in the same vain as my last post– it’s still Rainy Season, I’m still fortunate enough to be living a perpetual Miles Davis Sunday, and life is fucking awesome. Still though- Misty Canyon? What the fuck does that even mean? Well dear person who has seen my stream of consciousness this far: let me tall you about an Australian/Norwegian dude named Sven Libaek. He’s basically the baddest mothershutchomouth since Shaft. I really dig ambient 60’s/70’s impressionist Jazz. (Normal people would call it Elevator Music.) Don’t care. Love it. Lush string sections, vibraphones, harpsichord– if you’re lucky. Sven Libaek is like the king of the impressionist scene.

Have you ever pictured yourself, circa ’65, sipping brandy out of an antique snifter in your chic, chill toned bachelor pad while watching people shuffle below under dim city streetlight? That’s Sven Libaek.

Misty Canyon’s been stuck in my head for days……and I fucking love it.

Also, Inner Space with V.O. from William Shatner. (Totally fucking sexcellent.)

(f bomb count: 9.)

(This has been a post.)

(Derp!)

kind of blue.

October 9, 2011

I’m thinking maybe I should write more. Really. I got a degree in it after all… I haven’t got anything of interest to say, nothing has been notable in the last week or so; aside from the fact that rainy season has officially started. Perhaps I’ll talk about that:

Rainy season in the PNW lasts about ten months out of the year. (Save “Summer” which is usually mid-July through September.) Winters in P-Town are cold. The numbers may tell you otherwise; but the insufferably thick moisture that saturates the air is enough to chill out even the most uptight of dudes. Why am I telling you this? I dunno.

The other day I had the fleeting desire to paint. Before you assume that I’m being some pretentious a-hole who pretends to have talent let me clear the air by saying the following: A. Fuck you, and B. I’m terrible at it, so nyah. I had been on an extended gallivant, admiring the gloom and doom in the sky while chirping through most of the vintage stores in Southeast. (Village Merchants, WHERE YOU AT.) I passed up a perfectly tacky Mary-Beth Lacey mug in favor of a longer walk. I love when the skies grow more ominous. You can tell the rain is approaching, though you’re not exactly sure when it will hit. You continue to either dodge stray droplets, or embrace them along with the inevitability of an impending torrential downpour. That day, I was thankful for the plastic bag that housed my watercolor paper, and took part in the latter.

The first time I ended up at Hipster central, (AKA Southeast Grind) was after a long flight from New York. Fif insisted that I be kidnapped for the evening, and though my body was an exhausted lack of conversational ability, I obliged. Her and her boyfriend decided that we should all go to the beach that evening. Those plans were later scrapped.

After I’d finished walking from I’ve Been Framed, the rain had hit, I passed the “How’s it Oregooooin” sign which made me snicker, and I kept my pace dampening my jeans– every step closer to a warm cup of joe. It was awesome. Of the five people I saw out on my walk, not one of them had an umbrella, the residual splash of stagnant car water was met with nonchalance. I made it to Southeast Grind, had a cup of coffee, and partook in one of my favorite activities: the Miles Davis Sunday. Regardless of the day, Miles Davis Sunday’s are when you are free of physical obligation, it’s raining; and all you want to do is have some steamy java, put on Kind of Blue, and stare out the window. I’d been working on a convoluted piece of “art”, and it needed some TLC. Voila, Miles Davis.

I don’t even care if this counts as overstating it: when it rains, and you are inside watching drops cascade down the windows, and people don’t really give two shits that it’s raining, (unlike New York where I’m scared for my life because I’m eye level with pokey umbrella ends), it’s awesome. Not like, “I just watched a movie where a lot of shit blew up and then two unrealistically hot people did it” awesome, like “all is right with the world and fuck everything because I feel so good in my bones” awesome.

That’s what rainy season is to me.

Miles Davis Sundays for ten straight months.

rainy season

October 5, 2011

It’s officially rainy season in the Northwest.

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Surprise! I’ve been holed up in coffee shops pondering the meaning of existence. NOW it’s 2am, I’m on my blergh, and listening to Stravinsky’s L’Adoradtion de la Terre. Happy fall everyone!