Movin' On Up

This blog no longer exists here! Check it out at:

www.warmevenings.com

Updates

In case there are those who still prefer to get things via Warm Evenings:

The New Man

Musical Map:

Part 3: Sublime

Part 4: Gram Parsons


Part 5: Doug Sahm

Part 6: Outkast

Wonderful Wednesday:

Tina!

Kentucky!

Texas Livin'


Sugary Sweet


Boozin' Duets

Just smiles and says, "I'll see you around"

More gooodies via HBH:

Pageant Judge:
Oh, what a beautiful thing

Musical Map of America:
Part I

Part II

Wonderful Wednesday:
To Willie

He smiles as he waves goodbye...

I've sort of given up regularly posting on Warm Evenings and am instead focusing on my work with The City Wire, Half Broke Hotel, and of course that silly book. I'll periodically be updating this site with links to posts that would otherwise have made it up here but instead are being posted on HBH.

Here are a few to get you started:


Dragon Chasing

Oh but it's fantasy baby


Accept it all bravely

Kiss Me. I'm Irish?

"Do you not get it, lads? The Irish are the blacks of Europe. And Dubliners are the blacks of Ireland. And the Northside Dubliners are the blacks of Dublin. So say it once, say it loud: I'm black and I'm proud."

Though I'm sure there are residual traces of it somewhere deep in the depths of my genetic make up, I'm not Irish. However, like every one else in this nation--heritage be damned--I'll be celebrating that hallowed saint. We've all appropriated the holiday to our own whims (much like the Welsh born St. Patrick was appropriated by the Irish themselves). An excuse to let loose has emerged.

As many might be able to deduce from the opening quote, my own little homage to the snake eradicator is one of film. Though I don't really hold a candle to my cinematic friend Bjorn Schey over at HBH, I'm going to give a small run down of my favorite Irish movies. My criterion is minimal. First, the film must have a plot line that in some way centers around Irish identity. Second, and in many respects the most important factor, the film must be great.

Though they are vastly different, there are five films that loom largest for me. Without further ado, here is my top 5:

There is, in my mind, one director that stands above any other in the annals of Irish cinema--Jim Sheridan. Perhaps it shows my shortsighted and uninformed nature to state this but his oeuvre does more to convince than my words could. He's been nominated for six Academy Awards. I'm not so simple to think that that alone is convincing enough but I would suggest any of his "Irish" movies to anyone and feel confident they would come back a believer. However, there are two that stick out above the others for me. 5) My Left Foot--powerhouse performance by Daniel Day-Lewis and 4)In America--an endearing tale of a family of Irish immigrants trying to make it in America.

Nestling itself in the middle of the pack at number 3 is Bloody Sunday. No issue is as attached to Ireland as much as the long fight for independence in Northern Ireland. This particular movie depicts a famously gruesome page in the long, strife filled history of that struggle. Like I mentioned at an earlier date to some folks who know of my disdain for the front man of U2, "even with Bono wailing over the ending credits, this film packs a serious punch." This Paul Greengrass directed film uses a documentary style to bring the viewer into the film, to authenticate the material to the viewer, and thus elicit every last ounce of emotion out of the audience. It works.

At a very close second is The Wind That Shakes the Barley. A Ken Loach directed film dealing with the Irish War of Independence and subsequent Irish Civil War, it won the Palm d'Or at Cannes in 2006. Known for his socialist views, Loach, for many, is as much a social and cultural commentator as he is a filmmaker (Raining Stones, A Fond Kiss, etc). Though he had never done a "historical" film, Mr. Loach certainly did not shy away from the sensitive material. His unflinching honesty imbues the movie with both gritty realism and transcendent beauty. In short, it mimics life in all it's brutal and sobering glory.

While most of the above movies deal with serious topics, my favorite Irish movie of all time is a humorous one. Though it is easy to dismiss humorous movies, it would be unwise to do so with this particular film. So often humor is created at the expense of realism. This phenomenon seems to have only grown in recent memory with the onslaught of absurdist humor at the box office. However, The Commitments achieves both social realism and genuine laughter.

Unemployment Official: Mr. Rabbitte, you've been collecting unemployment benefit for two years. Are you trying to tell me you can't get a job?
Jimmy Rabbitte: We're a third world country - what can you do?

This award winning film from the early 90s was directed by Alan Parker. It shows the harsh realities of Irish life (i.e., low living standards,unemployment) with acerbic wit. It's rife with some of the most intelligently hilarious quotes to grace a cinema (for those that didn't know, the opening quote is from the film). It's protagonist is Jimmy Rabbitte, an aspiring (and unemployed) young man seeking to create a soul band out of a rag tag group of Dublin misfits. Despite the great music they create, the end result wasn't what Jimmy Rabbitte wanted but like The Lips reminded him, "This way it's poetry."

And like the movie itself, there is a sense of that "poetry" attached to our perception of the Emerald Isle. Jimmy encapsulated Ireland. Despite the oppression, despite the economy, despite whatever ills might be tossed their way, the Irish are able to lift themselves "above the shite." With all that goes on in this world, an elevating disposition is a nice asset...So go ahead and kiss me. Damn straight I'm Irish.

Just Look What Thoughts Will Do

I've always been amazed at how much dedication people have for certain things. Whether it is fighting poverty in Appalachia, defending human rights in repressive lands, obsessively rooting for a team, planning parties, or simple participation in a church, there is always someone deeply involved. I'm not amazed at what they are dedicated to, just the dedication itself.

My amazement at this dedication stems from my own self-consciousness. Ironically, I think it also has a correlation to my previously stated issues with bumper stickers. Though I didn't exactly get deep into an explanation, a large (and perhaps silly) issue I have with bumper stickers is the perception it creates in others. I don't mean the perception having bumper stickers creates, but the statements they make. Perhaps it is ridiculous, but I feel that having a bumper sticker inadequately defines me as a person. And that people would incorrectly reach assumptions about me because of a bumper sticker I may display.

Of course I see the absurdity in worrying about what other people think or assume. Assumptions will be made no matter what. Refusing to display a bumper sticker isn't going to change that fact. It's my own neurosis rearing its mighty head once again.

The correlation with dedication is my own reluctance to be "involved" in things. Going even deeper, I worry that perhaps I'm afraid to invest myself too much...to open myself up to something outside my personal sanctuary. I'm not sure where or why, though. It certainly hasn't always been like this.

Involvement is a comfort. Fervent devotion to something larger than yourself, no matter the forum--religious, sporting, or political--is reassuring. We sense our own inadequacy, which is why we derive a sense of worth by putting so much into things we see as larger than ourselves.

Though I doubt I'll be slapping any bumper stickers on Golden Boy any time soon, I'm slowly figuring out how to allow myself to be involved. I'm slowly learning how to differentiate between things of consequence and those that are petty and inconsequential, particularly those good for nothing self-conscious thoughts. Like the Red-headed Stranger said, "watch those thoughts, they'll get you down."

Rambling Post About WWII Movies and Living Life

I have a predilection for World War II movies. I don't believe this was born of any innate penchant for violence. By and large I would consider myself a passive man. While I don't shun conflicts or violence, I certainly do not seek them out.

My own theory as to why I have a proclivity for WWII movies dates back to my sickly nature as a child. Home with a sore throat or ear infection, those days were largely spent on the couch in front of a television. Beyond Bugs Bunny, I wasn't really into cartoons. As a result I watched more episodes of Designing Women, Matlock, and Murder She Wrote than I should admit. Which, I guess goes quite a ways in explaining a lot about me. My television was glued to such stations as TBS or AMC on days there were (war) movies showing. I continue to regard many of these movies as some of my favorite of all time.

Confined to the couch, it wasn't the war that attracted me. It was the adventure. It was the camaraderie. The fighting underdog spirit that was imbued in each film. Two particular movies especially epitomize these characteristics. The Dirty Dozen (starring Lee Marvin, Telly Savalas, Jim Brown, Donald Sutherland, Charles Bronson, and John Cassavetes) was the film that manifested itself first. However, it was Kelly's Heroes, somewhat later in my childhood, that truly came to pass as a passionately revered film. It's a simple tale. A group of men advance behind enemy lines to steal $16 million in gold bullion from the "Krauts." It is a journey of self-interest and adventure above all.

This will probably always remain my favorite Clint Eastwood film. His taciturn role is comically offset by the supporting cast. It is, in my eyes, one of the most quotable films of all time ("To a New Yorker like you, a hero is some type of weird sandwich, not some nut who takes on three Tigers"). This is thanks largely to the supporting efforts of actors like Donald Sutherland, the very antithesis of truculence, as perhaps the first hippie in the history of man. His philosophical outbursts ("Always with the negative waves Moriarty, always with the negative waves") pepper the movie with a necessary comic edge. The cast is filled out with notable actors like Don Rickles & Telly Savalas who further the movie in their own ways. Rickles with his usual acerbic wit, and Telly Savalas as the somewhat reluctant and stern conscious of the rag tag outfit (having Uncle Leo himself, Len Lester, is just a nice cherry on top).

Burning Bridges, a song performed by the Mike Curb Congregation, is one of my favorite of all time. It is the theme song for Kelly's Heroes. Not only was hearing it on my way home from work the impetus for this post, but I also feel it goes a long way in explaining why I enjoy these WWII movies so much. The lyrics, in a way, mirror the driving force behind the plot in the film. The narrator details how his "friends all tried to warn" him but he passed them by. It is ultimately a song about forging your own path in the face of those who doubt you. The upbeat, almost cavalier song has a deceivingly tragic ending though. You are given the impression that this person will succeed. That despite the warnings of friends, he will over come and be victorious. But the last verse belies this sentiment--"Years have passed and I keep thinking what a fool I've been/I look back into the past and think of way back then/I know that I lost everything I thought I that could win/I guess I should have listened to my friends"

I don't think it's always advisable to toss away the advice of friends. They are often the people with the best perspective on the problems and issues in your life. But, for me, the song is truly the best way to live life. Perhaps it is irresponsibly cavalier to live life without concern for the possible repercussions. For me, however, it is worse to live life with a glaze of fear tinting your decisions. I can live with the repercussions of my mistakes. I don't think I could live with the profound regrets of a fainthearted and truncated existence.

The Path

My posting frequency has been unacceptably low of late. Of course, I have plausible reasons for this. Not matter the situation, there are always excuses.

With a somewhat "normal" forty hour a week job, writing six columns a month, fumbling my way through writing a "book", learning Spanish, and maintaining a somewhat functional social life, it often seems that Warm Evenings has been squeezed from it's natural spot at the top of my list of priorities.

I seem to have the exact opposite problem of Hugh Grant in About A Boy. His entire life was one of leisure. Now, granted, I just got back from an amazing trip to Hawaii so I suppose there are parts of my existence that could be construed as "leisurely." The difference, I like to think, between myself and Will is rather large. While his daily plan is to simply take up chunks of time during the day until it is over, I seem to run out of those chunks. He visits the record store or the movies for something to do. I've begun to feel as if I have too much to do. Anytime I get to sneak off for a movie is a treat.

All of this is such a stark contrast to my life at this time last year...in truth it's in stark contrast to the majority of my life. Not much ever got in the way of me doing as I pleased, very much similar to the way Will lives in the film. In the past I was too content to "float on," like the song implores. It's a mindset that in many ways I still think I have. I can all too easily shut out the problems of the world around me. It is both a gift and a curse. It's hard to push yourself to accomplish something when you possess a general sense of ambivalence towards life.

So it is all very odd for me to truly care about something outside myself--to generally and openly seek to become something. My past was consumed with finding something to do to finance the things I wanted to do. After spending almost a year here, I have finally realized the futility in this sort of behavior. Without actively seeking the life you want for yourself, you'll never attain a sense of pleasure in your life. I'm not there yet but I feel I'm at least on the path. And that is certainly better than wandering aimlessly in the woods.

Dark is the Night

(This is a rough excerpt from One Good Year, a book about life, love, and traveling that I'm trying to finish)

It's harder at night to keep a rein on my mind. Lying their in darkness I can almost feel her next to me. Her head resting against my chest, a leg strung across my thigh, as she lay tightly against me. It's the night--the pure and unalterable emptiness of the night--that is the most difficult.

When the sun is up it's not as much of a challenge. Your life is in effect, there is activity, there is work. These distractions can only momentarily be broken—by a day dream or an inquisitive friend. Life takes hold again and you are forced from the lonely thought. In the darkness there is no one to distract you from your own mind. You're forced to bear what weighs on your heart.

I fought against this emptiness. I sought comfort in the companionship of others. I distracted myself to the point of exhaustion trying to avoid any chance of dealing with the devil of the darkness.

The irony is that the more we seek to distract ourselves from something, the more we encounter it. It's an endless struggle, one that is constantly fought. Inevitably this silly battle of distractions will fail and the more fully we'll experience it as a result.

Now my life is spent feeling the emptiness beside me. Often I return home secretly hoping she might be there, another sly surprise like the one so long ago. A flood of happiness overtakes me when I see that she has sent me an email. These little naïve hopes are manageable. Though despairingly embarrassing, they are minor. Just small bumps patiently waiting to be smoothed in time. It's the night—the reality of the longing, the void born from our separation—that seems unmanageable.

Night after night, each evening was traded for morning next to my love. A constancy was created. Now this expected certainty has vanished. My only companion in the darkness are those long ago memories of tender nights.

The Leisure in Our Days

It occurred to me at some point within the past few weeks how far we as a society have progressed. Though there have undoubtedly been major advancements in a variety of areas,I'm speaking specifically about our survival (when I refer to "our" survival, I'm speaking of the idea of the "first world").

Leisure was a grand contribution of the 19th Century. For the first time, people could forget about merely surviving and expect free time in their daily life. As technology improved, the idea of "leisure" expanded. What was once the exclusive right of the well to do, began to seep into all levels of society.

With this expansion (and continued scientific advancement), the conceptualization of "leisure" began to shift. Leisure time had always been about seeking out entertainment. This goal slowly morphed. With the emergence of personal entertainment, from phonographs down to computers, the onus of entertainment shifted from something sought to something received. Catered enjoyment is the expectation. Life has become nothing more than a series of distractions. Our needs are largely solved so we strive against boredom. Mr. Cobain said it best in his cultural anthem of the early 90s, "here we are now, entertain us."

The Morning View

There are countless millions of people who wear disposable contact lenses. The guidelines state that you should replace them every two weeks. It seems everyone chooses to forgo the protocol, myself included. And while you are supposed to take them out every night for cleaning, there are some who even eschew this procedure and can go months without cleaning. I'm not in this second group. Even at the height of inebriation I always seem to remember to take out my contacts before bed. As for replacement, I have no set schedule. Tonight, however, was an exception. I tossed away my contacts on purpose. I want a new pair to put in tomorrow morning.

Tomorrow is an important day. I've lived a relatively short life. I have, however, witnessed numerous events that affected the globe in some form. Somehow I remember Kirk Gibson's home run in the 1988 World Series. I remember the bay series earthquake in 1989 and yet have no recollection of the fall of the Berlin Wall. I remember the 1st Gulf War, Clinton's win in 92, the OJ chase, Princess Diana's crash, and the Lewinsky fiasco. As a semi-adult I experienced the elections of 2000 & 2004, the Patriot Act, the invasion of Iraq, and the Red Sox's break the curse. None of these events can compare to January 20th in importance. It is, without a doubt, the second most important event that has occurred during my lifetime. When viewed in terms of possibility or positivity, it has to be the single most important event that has transpired in my short life.

The impact of Obama's election can't be calculated in statistics. It is felt in the emotions of the people. And even though the affect of tomorrow isn't personal for me,per say, it is enormously personal to millions upon millions of others. No matter the politics, January 20th is an event without comparison. A day that surely deserves a new pair of lenses. The world will never look the same.

Mercurial Goals for the New Year

1-3-09 (it took me awhile to get this up)

Another year is here. One year seems to just blend into the next and the most noticeable effect on my life is how often I have to scratch out "08" and scribble in "09" when I'm writing dates. I'm certain it will take a month before I'm able to correctly write those dates with any regularity.

There are many who disdain the New Year. For instance, a close friend hates the first months of the year because the gym parking lot is always so crowded. The irony of his discontent is palpable.

I've never been quite so negative about the first of the year. Despite this, it's hard for me to be excited about the passing of time. Perhaps I too easily see the morbid reality of the new year. The dire inevitability of our existence.

Putting me at further odds, I've never been much of a New Year's resolution man. It mayn't be the best book by which to live one's life but, at least in a way, I abide by Calvin's system of resolutions. While Calvin's noticeable egotism is on full display throughout the Calvin & Hobbes series, it is truly crystallized in strips dealing with New Year resolutions. In his eyes resolutions are meant for everyone else. Unfortunately, I'm not that self-centered. While Calvin rejects the idea of resolutions for himself, I instead reject the confining structural limits of New Year's resolutions. My own trite outlook, be the change you want to see, is not meant to be dictated by the calendar.

Though he is, like us all, a flawed individual, I've always envied Calvin. Not for his imagination, or his astute feline friend, or even for the adventure he sees in every day life; instead I envy him for his clarity. That's the one truly attractive benefit of living a self-centered life. Everything in the world makes sense when you are at its center (which is of course why most struggle to find it).

So, if I was pressed to provide a resolution for this new year, it would be a simple one. It is of course my deepest desire, the one that forever seems just out of my reach. In 2009, just like the years that came before it, my resolution is finding clarity, the elusive goal for all of humanity.

The Eve's of Our Life

This will be my final post of 2008. The new year sort of snuck up on me. Even when one is unwrapping presents on Christmas morning, that next year still always seems a year away. I suppose it's just in the human mentality to not "count on tomorrow" and "just live for today," as Mr. Shaver sung.

It's always a little mind boggling to look back on a year. In terms of unexpectedness, really on any system of scale, this has been a unique year. Last year I was in a castle on the northwest coast of France. Three days after landing in Paris I was driving three Parisians (none of whom knew how to drive) in a rented Citroen down the A-11 towards Bretagne. Though quite frankly it was a bit awkward in the castle, it was one hell of an experience. When one looks at these sorts of things, perspective is always important. I know a lot of people that haven't even seen a castle much less spent an evening in one.

This year, despite possessing the requisite champagne, I'm far from Bretagne and far from any castles. It seems as if this New Years Eve will be a relatively quiet one, comparatively speaking of course. Given the stature of the "holiday," this seems almost sacrilege to many.

Ironically, only three former New Year's Eve really stick out in my mind over the last eight years. These were all memorable for who they were spent with as much as anything else. That said, distinct events happened in each that makes them stand out. There were the massive fireworks courtesy of H in 2001-2002. Drunken tears and screaming always stand out no matter the night. Then of course 2003-2004 provided no end to drama. Getting left at a house party by my girlfriend, trying to pick a fight with a kid I poured beer on the previous summer, walking home in the rain, and then the requisite happy Hollywood ending with Kash, temporary as it was. 2006-2007 brought the inaugural Roost New Year's Eve party. There wasn't much going on there beyond general Roostness, questionable decisions in search of female companionship, and of course the bad/good? decision to put a roast in a the crock pot at 2AM so it would be ready for consumption when we awoke (These great ideas always seem to end up biting you in the ass, metaphorically speaking of course). All of which brings us back to the castle, which beyond the horrible music granted an unforgettable experience, one I was able to share with someone special.

I saw a lot in this intervening year. I'm not sure I'll ever figure out how I got from France to Fort Smith, from a life of somewhat hedonistic gallivanting to static pragmatism but here I am. Tonight, like much of our existence on this earth, should be a somewhat staid affair. Some dinner at home, some effervescent wine, and a party at a good friend's new Fay Jones designed home. Though we might forget them, it is often the quiet nights with close friends that are most affirming for our spirits.

Chocolate and Ice

Every year around this time I began to obsessively listen to a small set of "holiday" songs. My use of quotations is perhaps perplexing. Most assume a song is either a Christmas tune or not. Gray areas don't really exist with quotations. Until I first heard My Morning Jacket's 2000 EP, My Morning Jacket Does Xmas Fiasco Style, I saw holiday songs in black and white.

When one speaks of anything regarding taste or personal preference, there is always an attempt to draw a correlation with something else. A comparison is required so one can adequately and descriptively give an idea as to what one might expect (Dick in High Fidelity grants us a classic example of this pursuit: "She's kind of Sheryl Crow-ish crossed with a post-Partridge Family pre-L.A. Law Susan Dey kind of thing, but, you know, uh, black").

Despite my adoration for My Morning Jacket, I've always struggled in my attempts to relate their sound. As luck would have it, I struck on something close to an apt description for the experience of listening to this particular EP. It is reminiscent of a rebellious Gregorian Monk starting an expansive rock band.

Though there are only six songs (including the bonus track), the record clocks in just shy of thirty-five minutes. What sets it apart--and keeps me interested each year--is the edgy nature inherent in the EP. In the opening track, Xmas Curtain, Jim James tells us about reluctant shoplifters and salacious hypocrites--"hey! The Christmas curtain falls on lawbreakers that pave the way for thoughtless folks like me and J who'd pay, but cant afford the finer things in life so we heist them all..."

This catchy (yet ironically bleak in content) tune is followed with I Just Wanted To Say. It's elegantly stark--"I just wanted to say, happy holidays, today. I just wanted to be just a little part of your cheer. There comes a time in everyone's life when everything shines like a star that falls from the sky"

Utilizing their unique vocal talents, the band follows this with something a bit more traditional--Christmas Time Is Here Again--a song extolling the positively regenerative possibilities of the season. Reminding us that--"Christmas Time is here again. All this joy for girls and boys, life was bad but now is good. All is right, I think we should bring out the joy, light up the tree. Though time moves fast it's not too late, it's only Christmas Eve."

Not to get too engrossed in a traditional spirit, the band opts for Nick Cave's New Morning. They adorn this post-apocalyptic proto eutopian song with lightly elegant instrumentation. In their hands it is transformed into a hopeful statement of the possibilities of our own future--"Thank you for giving this bright new morning, so steeped seemed the evening in darkness and blood. Let there be no sadness, no sorrow, Let there be no road too narrow. There'll be a new day, yes it's today, it's forever."

For good measure a cover of Elvis' "Santa Claus is Back in Town" wraps up the EP (though it is technically followed by a hidden track). This is naturally a rocker, with Jim James sounding a bit fuller than on any other track.

I read recently in the WSJ that we become bored with Christmas carols because the novelty has worn off. We know what will come next. The assertion was that a song must "balance predictability with surprise, familiarity with novelty." Irrationally I fear that fate for Fiasco Style. Fingers crossed, I hope to make it through at least one more season with the soaring vocals, teardrop lyrics, and expressive licks of My Morning Jacket Does Xmas Fiasco Style.

Youth and Young Manhood

Invariably when one sets out on a household clean up project or redecoration, some remembrance of times past rears its head. Though it perhaps should not be, it is usually an unexpected encounter. We cordon off our lives and expect our past to respect the boundaries. Our expectation is for the past to stand politely in the wings and appear only when expressly conjured.

This is out of practical necessity as much as anything else. What could be accomplished if one was to constantly mope over yesterday? Our mind creates these boundaries for self-survival. I think it is because of this that we are always so surprised at the strength of those innocent emotions that can blindside us at the drop of a hat.

Thus it was recently while I was straightening up my room that I came across a particular picture. It was one I've seen countless times without a second thought. Taken the day of my graduation ceremony at the University of Texas in May, 2005, I am standing in cap and gown with my arm around a dear friend (if it's possible, that might even be an understatement). Smiles on our faces, we stare into the camera. Confidence and security seems to emanate from us both.

It is ironic how innocent this all seems in retrospect. Everything undoubtedly seems to have been easier then. This is a false recollection. Our worries then seem minuscule only because we are privy to their resolution. However, I was struck by the ferocity of the emotions that overtook me--a yearning to live again those years of "youth," a desperate guilt at decisions and indecision, and finally a resigned smirk at the circumstances of the day (getting yelled at by the women in my life for wanting to wear shorts under my gown, realizing that I had "outgrown" the slacks I had, having to rush to Old Navy with Kasia for new pants, and finally, tearing down Red River at 60MPH to get to the ceremony).

People use phrases like a "misspent youth" from time to time. Youth is simply spent. Unfortunately, we spend it in a confused haze of vacillation. It is only upon a second look that we confuse the situation and see it as misspent instead.

Hidden Inside

Films are a magical thing. There is no end to the possibilities, no cessation to their delights. Most movies are enjoyed for their ability to mesmerize. Through melodrama, comedy, or action, we are given a chance to forget our reality and embrace an alternative experience wholeheartedly. On lucky occasions that experience will leave indelible marks on those who view them.

I recently watched Cedric Klapisch's sequel to the wonderful and sublime L'Auberge Espagnol (The Spanish Apartment). Though Russian Dolls, is ostensibly a sequel, I must admittedly disagree with Stephen Holden of the New York Times that it "has not much on its mind beyond updating the lives of the characters in his 2002 comedy L'Auberge Espagnole."

There is so much more on the mind. It attempts to explain the vagaries of love through the experience of the main character, Xavier. Though the film is indeed visually delightful, it was a piece of monologue by Xavier that really stuck with me. I hesitate to summarize so I'll just quote:

"If I think about all the girls I've known or slept with or just desired, they're like a bunch of Russian dolls. We spend our lives playing the game dying to know who'll be the last, the teeny-tiny one hidden inside all the others. You can't just get to her right away. You have to follow the progression. You have to open them one by one wondering, 'Is she the last one?'"

I can't add any more to that sentiment. The depth of those seemingly innocent words are, to me at least, a perfect summary of the human experience.

Fruits of Fantasy

The clementines are here. My preference to fresh fruit has been a relatively recent phenomenon. It began with a few apples here, a handful of oranges there. Soon enough I was delicately handling kiwi, discussing the relative merits of johnagolds, and generally craving tangelos.

Looking back this all seems to be rather pedestrian. Though the produce was always around, it wasn't until my time in France that I begun to really see the merits of fruits outside the flowering trinity of apples, bananas, and oranges. My idea of branching out had been buying a handful of kiwi or a carton of blackberries to supplement my pulsing desire for summer strawberries.

Litchis opened my eyes. The second night I was in Paris, a bowl was set out and filled to the brim with brittle, scaly little pale ovals. I was honestly surprised to find that these oddities were commonplace. Though I was apprehensive, those feelings dissipated after I peeled the outer shell and plucked the translucently pinkish fruit into my mouth. At the center of the fruit is an inedible seed. Both the appearance of the fruit as well as that inner seed reminded me of a peach, though the litchi was much sweeter and less dense than a peach. Before the evening ended I had consumed at least a dozen or more. I was officially a fan of litchis.

Though they were my gateway, litchis would not remain my fruit of choice while abroad. That station was won by the mango. My revelatory experience with the mango came early in my travels as well. Though I do not recall the exact circumstances of the evening, I believe I was walking in the Marais with my girlfriend and her friend. It was well after 10PM when we stepped into a Japanese restaurant for something to eat. Because of the late hour I was not interested in eating much more than a few pieces of sushi while the girls had full meals. For dessert Morgane ordered fresh mango (I must admit that I found humor in this. Beyond the fact that one would actually choose to have fruit for dessert, why on earth would one expect there to be fresh mango of all things? Evidently most Asian restaurants there serve mango for dessert).

When I first bit into the cubed fruit my derisiveness dissipated. I've been lucky enough to eat quite a few mangoes since that night in the Marais but none could reach the perfection of that first mango. For some reason the produce across the ocean seemed so much more fresh, it seemed to enliven my mouth. Now, every watery out of season clementine, each mealy mango just makes me shake my head in disgust and wish for the produce at the fruit stand on Avenue Pasteur in Courbevoie.

Perhaps it is unfair to constantly compare the fruit of my present to that of my past. Though these comparisons never live up to the imagined past, it seems ingrained in human nature to examine their correlation. With fruits or otherwise, we always catch ourselves doubting our present.

Taking Hold of the Scene

I must admit that I have been struggling to write this particular post for quite some time. This has been a result of circumstance as much as anything else. Life has seemed to speed up a bit over the past weeks. Since I am fond of ease and leisure this "speed" would seem to be something I might bemoan. However, it has been largely a result of positive life events occurring rather than tedious responsibility.

As I've mentioned before, I am certainly cognizant of my tastes. I find pleasure in the simplicity and (perceived) purity of an older generation of musicians. I feel as if I'm more critical of the "moderns" than I am older artists. Perhaps it's easier for me to excuse the blemishes of a different era.

There are some who are lucky enough to work in an environment or industry that keeps them abreast of the changing music scene. But for most, myself included, the task of staying current is impossible--between the cost of legally purchasing new music, to the amount of new material out there, it's like a second job. As a result the number of modern artists I consider integral to my existence pales in comparison to those of an older generation.

In reality, it is no small wonder to connect to a new band. This was certainly my own experience with Okkervil River. Though I rarely listened to them, Okkervil River had been on my radar for quite some time. This wasn't out of distaste but out of negligence. They were given a short and half-interested initial listen and largely forgotten. At some point in the past two years they were granted more attention.

Since I love words--their interaction, how they sound, their subtleties--it was the intricate lyrics of front man Will Sheff that first began to attract me. Songs like "Listening to Otis Redding at Home During Christmas" and "A Stone" contained not only a well of emotion but a poignancy rarely accomplished in any medium smaller than the modern novel. Out of that, the majesty and grandeur of songs like "The War Criminal Rises and Speaks" and "Our Life" hit me in a new way. Further and further the flames of my fan-hood spread as I saw the arc of their body of work--the flashes of genius that were coalesced into their two most recent records.

Of course writing about this is a somewhat futile exercise. Those who enjoy Okkervil River already do so in their own private way. Each experience of music is unique to oneself. It might pique the interest of one who hadn't yet been privy to the joys of the band. But, until the body of work is consumed, my words exist only as an empty approximation of my feelings.

The Curse of Memory

A month ago I had the realization that September was ending. Now I've had that same realization about October. I suppose my wonder at the passing of time either belies a touch of inner boredom or the creeping effects of age.

"Now the days go by so fast"

The passing of time is a subject laden with trite expressions and worn out sentiments, neither of which truly obtain an exact perspective on the subject. Our collective inability to truly pierce the heart of the matter doesn't prohibit us in any way, in fact it seems to cause more attempts--each trying to get their horseshoe closer to the stake.

An argument can be made that photographs (and recording technology in general) have invariably weakened our memories; however, I'm not sure where I would be without them. It is somewhat unbearable to think that there are occurrences in our life whose only chance of "survival" relies on our own mental capacities. As unreliable as we are as humans, it helps to have an aid. I am, therefore, quite thankful to have so many photographs from all stages of my life (these usually bring back a rush of emotions and memories when I see them).

Despite this I have been known to scoff at certain types of picture takers, especially those who replace the experience by way of lens. This tendency is most notable in tourists (the best example being those who take pictures of pictures, i.e. hanging works of art). I am overly self-conscious and as a result I unfortunately tend to behave the opposite. Because of this I often neglect to take pictures of certain things or have my own picture taken by others. It is regrettable ridiculousness on my part.

"I can't remember all the times I tried to tell my myself to hold on to these moments as they pass"

My own goal in life is to simply remember well. It seems at times to be an impossible task. Each passing day grants new experiences that serve to block out the more dated memories. As these new memories crowd the edges of your mind, the older ones meld together and form a jumbled mess. Hazy uncertainty reigns in place of clarity. Despite the hazy uncertainty of memory, the over all feeling is usually retained. These are most often summarized in basic emotions--a smile, an exclamation of discord, or even a sense of general ambivalence. And then there are also those exceptional memories that are so ingrained, so real despite the passing of time, they remain tangible. It is unfortunate but those seem to be the exception and not the rule.

Often we are filled with longing to relive moments, to reconnect with people or places. This ability to remember certain things in the face of the present is the curse of memory. As such it seems to me that the oddity of our existence is in fact the present. Invariably, like the above quote attests, we lament our inability to derive the appropriate sense of fulfillment out of the moments we live. In a sense we are not truly living our life but living the memories to come and are thus forced to derive most our joy retroactively.

Under My Thumb

My presence here in Arkansas seems an oddity to many. Though it has been explored countless times already in this medium, I always seem to find myself returning to it. I would venture to guess that it stems from the confusion of life. It's natural to reach out for something known in times of unknown, like a favorite pub or a particular bench in the park. Your life isn't exactly centered around it but you feel centered while you're there.

When I left France I jumped from what had become home back to what was once home. It is perhaps confusing and a bit complicated to phrase it thus but I felt adrift. As such I did derive a sense of comfort out of my familiar surroundings. After Clint's death and my separation from M. it was perhaps the best thing for me. Admittedly though there seemed to be an undercurrent of doubt, one that perhaps mentally tagged on "for now" to my response when asked if I was "back." I'm not sure why, but even after being off in the world, I seemed to associate a slight sense of failure with being back home. It is absurd, I know.

The reaction to my "return" depends largely on the person I might be talking to. There seems to be a duality of opinion here, one that is undoubtedly the case in many towns across America. There are those that see the place as the center of something larger, a destination of perfection. Lying opposite to this are those that only know the place by a negative moniker that keeps the "Fort" but replaces the "Smith" with something my sister referred to as the "S word" when we were younger. Both camps express disbelief at my return. For the former my return is natural but they can't believe that I took so long to come to my senses.

While many see the town as a pleasant comfort, the other half seems to view the town as a mother's thumb--something that binds and chafes, something to escape. With this set there is usually a touch of envy at my fortune, envy that I had gotten out. Theirs is an incredulous disbelief that I would even contemplate a return.

So here I am, ironically stuck between the two halves. Squarely under that comfortingly oppressive thumb, I am once again seeking answers to questions that can't really be answered, only lived.