Madness/Miraculous...

Well, I have an excuse to move to New York...an internship. I'm uber excited and amazed and nervous and over-emotional, but mostly excited. Time to become all that is starving artist!

Whatever & Ever...

So I attended church for the first time in four months today. Maybe that's not quite accurate. I mean, I visit this church every Sunday. But today I guess was the first traditional church service I've attended since January.
At any rate, I knew this would be a change, that it would be a difficult thing to get through, this reintroduction to the traditional, normal worship service. Because I don't attend my parents' church on a regular basis, this makes the transition back into this part of "real life" all the more difficult, as people really don't know me, don't recognize me, and have little to say to me, except for the casual "Oh, is your sister back from college, too?"
I'm sorry, I'm rambling. It really was a good day, but for untraditional reasons. I didn't really find God at church today. I found him this morning after the thunderstorm that crashed into our house last night. I found him later, in that same house when I was alone and free to pray aloud with no one but the dog (and God, of course...ha) to hear. I found him in this Nada Surf song that I re-stumbled across this evening, reminding me of the true reasons embedded in the last half-year or so, what I've been learning all along. Like the Hornby story I read a few weeks ago, Jesus is where you find him, and perhaps where he finds you.
I've just begun the journey of processing all I have learned, and I feel that getting back into this church culture will be the most difficult. I was a jagged piece before all this happened, and I've become rougher still. I fear I may not fit in here again, and it's a fear that fuels and doesn't extinguish...whatever that means.

Tips For Going Home...

Don't panic. Don't stare out the window for eight hours of silent scenery, wishing you weren't moving at all. Don't play Joni Mitchell as you unpack the boxes and suitcases that seem to have made it back more intact than you. Don't sob when you're confronted with a million memories of the place you left. Don't find comfort in this becoming new normalcy. Don't get over what has happened to you. Don't forget it. Don't let it go. Let it become a part of you, even though it seems to have left a terrible hole. This is significant and will continue to be so for as long as it is remembered. God, don't let me forget.

Rock is Dead. Long Live Hip Hop?

Through a recommendation, I've been reading a lot of Bob Lefsetz recently. This isn't really related to any of his newsletters, but it's a conglomeration of musical thought that has been running through my brain this past week. Maybe because I've been thinking about music's place and progression as inspired by Mr. Lefsetz all these abstract ideas have been floating around. Who knows if it will actually make sense...

Our community meets weekly for a critical listening session. We talk about rock 'n' roll's history, key artists whose emergence gradually influenced music as it is today, and sometimes about where music is going. I was thinking about how rock has slowly died out and how I wasn't even around for the death rattle. Instead, it is the era of urban music, rap music. My thirteen-year-old brother abhors The Beatles but loves any hip-hop artist he hears.

And this disturbs me on a certain level. Will this generation of a-la-carte music purchases and Guitar Heroes forget rock 'n' roll altogether? Will the next great era of music be shaped by the history of hip hop, or will it fade out like the 80s scene? Will my brother's generation discuss the dichotomy of sampling and remixes instead of guitar riffs and bass lines? As the music dilutes into sub-genre after sub-genre, will it become edgier than ever and rock 'n' roll become analogous to the Lawrence Welk of our grandparents?

I thrive off of rock 'n' roll and to tell you the truth don't know the history of urban music quite as well. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy the genre, but would love to dig deeper into its roots. I've looked on the 60s and 70s too long and ignored my current era. Perhaps my children will ask me one day what I was doing when important rap albums dropped or hip hop exploded onto the scene as I question my parents about Woodstock. To not have good answers for these hypothetical offspring daunts me.

Who knows where the industry is going? Hip hop and rap could die out in five years, but I don't think so. On the other extreme, it could go the other direction. A good friend predicted once that he saw urban music spawning its own dialect in another eighty years. It will probably pan out to be somewhere in the middle. At any rate, I hope rock makes another appearance on the scene. It deserves to see another day.

Beatnick Scribbling

While I was in New York I had the privilege of going to the library. A conglomeration of manuscripts centered around the 1950s beat poet movement were on display. The focus was on Jack Kerouac, but photos shot by Alan Ginsburg as well as loose leaf or typed pages from cohort William S. Burroughs were also scattered among the display.

I felt a certain excitement in seeing all this work in its birthplace (New York) and an admiration for the library to accolade authors who were largely rejected and feigned during their lifetimes. The manuscripts were preserved like rare pieces of art, seven rooms worth, browned and yellowed, tattered and bloody. Kerouac's harsh New York experience put up and finally given the recognition it deserves.

I was most excited for the jammed-about original thought that papered the walls of the historic building and the tribute to the community that surrounded Jack. He was friends with crazy people, of course, because only the mad ones were for him. Together they clawed for words to live by.

By no means do I want to emulate Kerouac's personal life, forfeiting years to alcohol; or Burroughs', trading decades for smack. But their writing is another thing entirely, and the community they devoted to art and words and thought and experience makes me envious in the worst way.

This is what I long for - a Greenwich-esque life circled by friends creating and destroying and recreating themselves and their ideas. This is the way I want to live, and I think my recent trip to NYC has helped me redefine what I want my life to be, despite my location, occupation, et. al.

I wrote this poem last semester as a sordid ideal of what the CMC community would be like; what I see for my life after the CMC. And, yes, it is in sonnet form...

Greenwich

I've found a place where I can dream and drift
And gypsy friends who beg me not to leave
They are the sieve and I the sand they sift
Their stories are the yarn with which I weave.
The lights dim on this run-down beat-up shack
And pennies made do not provide a crumb
But I am free from all that may attack
Cause comfort's in my neighbor's constant drum.
My chances for survival may be slight
And winter may be cold with clothing torn
But we are clinging onto dreams so tight
To follow paths of risks that pain has worn.
To look back on the past would be to brake
In every life so many roads to take.

Tell It Slant?

I was introduced to the art of Kevin Gilbert this week. A brilliant musician, Gilbert was successful in collaborations with The Tuesday Music Club. I spent roughly an hour listening to his rock opera "The Shaming of the True" with friends, and afterwords launched into a discussion about this elusive thing we call art.

The album follows the saga of wannabe musician Johnny Virgil as he tries to make it in LA. Laced with vivid, if explicit, images set against a melange of amazing musicianship, you can taste Gilbert's bitterness for the industry in every measure. He takes the listener on a step-by-step journey of Virgil, but in the end, it is clear "Shaming" is autobiographical.

The conversations that occurred after the record stopped spinning were challenging, emotional, and important. We talked about the content of the album - its "shock value" - and if "Shaming" would have the same impact on the listener if formatted to FCC standards. Some of us thought the album could exclude some of the unpleasant imagery and have a similar impact. Others were convinced that, though you could make the record "cleaner", it wouldn't have the same value, and certainly wouldn't leave the same impression.

I sided with the latter of opinions. So often art is used to tell the truth, to show vulnerable moments on screen, cameos of brutality through audio, a single snapshot of pain on canvas. Artists see the world in a way that many cannot; therefore, it is a gift to show how we see the world through media. With the gift comes a responsibility to portraying an integral world: the truth in its entirety as it relates to the moment or story the artists attempt to capture.

As the discussion explored the implications of art, I was reminded of that poem by Emily Dickinson, "Tell all the truth, but tell it slant," and I wondered if she was valid in this advice. She argues that being confronted with the whole truth head-on is too overwhelming. The truth must be given in small fragments of light; otherwise, the world would go blind. Perhaps she has a point, but I cannot agree with her. The truth shouldn't be some puzzle one should have to piece together or some shadowed element one hopes to see in the right light.

Truth through art should be presented in purity - holistically, and not on its side. That is not to say art has to be obvious. Sometimes the artist is vague, leaving conclusions to be drawn by the observer. Elements used by the artist often shock, often challenge the consumer to think about something in a different context or unique form. But artists should never feel the pressure to compromise the means by which they present the truth they see to avoid offending an audience.

Art is an invitation, after all. Some will accept art and be challenged by it, and others will dismiss it, if only for content. Reaction should never inhibit artists from expressing the truth they see, for they would be doing a disservice to both their audience and, more importantly to themselves.

Art should be an abstract catalyst for truth, and the two should work in tandem.

As an artist, it's a daily struggle, a constant questioning if I'm actually getting it, if the way I use art to show the world images of itself is proactive or inhibiting. Therein lies the rub of art and how it feverishly and neurotically drives the artist in this struggle of becoming and becoming and becoming....

If I Have To Age....

...I'd like to do it this gracefully:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/england/london/7275861.stm