There are sounds that I hear every day at my house. The birds chirping with excitement when the sun comes up, Mister meowing that it's breakfast time, the band practising across the street (they are getting quite good!). And underneath it all, the constant hum of vehicles.
There is one vehicle in particular whose sound I hear every day, and it is the neighborhood ice-cream truck. Ice-cream trucks usually have a melody that is amplified just enough to entice the children to it, a modern day pied piper of sorts. But our melody is Fur Elise, one of the saddest, most haunting tunes on record. I don't get it. This is a tune that evokes images of lost love, friends whose ghost lingers, the tragedies of human existence. And someone decided that it would go well with ice-cream. Wouldn't The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies be better? Or the Sesame Street theme song? Perhaps the strategy is to gently sway the children into such a state of woe, that ice-cream is truly the only medicine, like in Harry Potter with the chocolate. I must say that vanilla with chocolate sprinkles sounds pretty good right about now.... excuse me, I must run after that truck.....
31.5.07
30.5.07
today...
Today I am in a funk, and I don't feel like talking about it so I''ll just write a few things.
Someone said that they don't like to watch movies and it got me to thinking about what motivates people to go to the movies. What do they get out of the experience? Do we watch movies differently, just like we listen to music differently, using different parts of the brain, allowing different parts to be stimulated, allowing others to rest?
I developed the music theory a few years back when I realised that two of my closest friends had the same strange resistance to listening to music they'd never heard. I would try again and again to introduce them to something new that I was sure they would love, to no avail. They continue to this day to listen to the same music over and over again. And I think it's for nostalgia. They listen to music to reconnect with feelings or events from the past, and that is their primary reason for listening. They listen to music with their memory. I do this also, but it is more often that I listen to music to have a new experience, to reach for new emotion. I like to hear new sounds, new note and chord combinations, new style combinations, new voices. Not necessarily new time-wise, but new to me. And eventually, if I like something enough to incorporate it into my daily life, it becomes nostalgic. Like Electrelane's The Power Out will always remind me of a certain summer and my sister Penelope and a lot of garage sailing. There are lots of other ways that people listen, I'm sure as many ways as there are different people who listen.
And movies, well I haven't yet put much thought into this theory, but I can speak for myself. I actually enjoy some really bad movies. I really enjoy good movies, too. I try my best not to pay for bad movies, and to spread the word when I see a good one. Like Paris, Je T'aime. This film is for everyone. Go see it, that's all I'm saying. I know that I am usually completely absorbed, especially when in the theatre, and so I can say that I go to escape my own world and to enter another. I go to travel, to have adventure, to be shown new ways to sympathise with unsympathetic people, to laugh, to cry, to be frightened... I used to enjoy really disgusting and horrible movies, the more gory and graphic and horrifying the better. In my old age I'm less drawn to those stories. Perhaps I'm becoming more like my mother, that's a good thing.
I'm going to start asking people about thier own experiences in visiting the theatre. What are your reasons for going, and what do you get out of it?
Someone said that they don't like to watch movies and it got me to thinking about what motivates people to go to the movies. What do they get out of the experience? Do we watch movies differently, just like we listen to music differently, using different parts of the brain, allowing different parts to be stimulated, allowing others to rest?
I developed the music theory a few years back when I realised that two of my closest friends had the same strange resistance to listening to music they'd never heard. I would try again and again to introduce them to something new that I was sure they would love, to no avail. They continue to this day to listen to the same music over and over again. And I think it's for nostalgia. They listen to music to reconnect with feelings or events from the past, and that is their primary reason for listening. They listen to music with their memory. I do this also, but it is more often that I listen to music to have a new experience, to reach for new emotion. I like to hear new sounds, new note and chord combinations, new style combinations, new voices. Not necessarily new time-wise, but new to me. And eventually, if I like something enough to incorporate it into my daily life, it becomes nostalgic. Like Electrelane's The Power Out will always remind me of a certain summer and my sister Penelope and a lot of garage sailing. There are lots of other ways that people listen, I'm sure as many ways as there are different people who listen.
And movies, well I haven't yet put much thought into this theory, but I can speak for myself. I actually enjoy some really bad movies. I really enjoy good movies, too. I try my best not to pay for bad movies, and to spread the word when I see a good one. Like Paris, Je T'aime. This film is for everyone. Go see it, that's all I'm saying. I know that I am usually completely absorbed, especially when in the theatre, and so I can say that I go to escape my own world and to enter another. I go to travel, to have adventure, to be shown new ways to sympathise with unsympathetic people, to laugh, to cry, to be frightened... I used to enjoy really disgusting and horrible movies, the more gory and graphic and horrifying the better. In my old age I'm less drawn to those stories. Perhaps I'm becoming more like my mother, that's a good thing.
I'm going to start asking people about thier own experiences in visiting the theatre. What are your reasons for going, and what do you get out of it?
29.5.07
hollandaise
I've been thinking about imagination. Specifically, how does our tendency to color things in our minds affect the actual experience?
Let's begin with cooking. A few weekends ago, I became curiously hell-bent on making eggs Benedict with smoked salmon for a Sunday brunch. The idea came early in the week, and I spent the rest of it researching fish markets in the area and scanning recipes on the Internet. I'd made a hollandaise sauce before, and although it is tricky, with the right amount of care it will come out well. I talked it up to the victim, my boyfriend, for days on end. I imagined us sitting on the patio with mimosas, and him tearing up for joy over my perfect creation. Well, the reality was not as sweet as my fantasy. I tried a new hollandaise recipe (stupid!) and forgot the blanc de blanc. We ended up being in a rush to get somewhere and somehow the whole point of doing something like this was missed. Not for him, he loved it, especially the o.j. he squeezed himself from my orange tree. But for me, the fantasy won.
Are the two at odds? Or are they places that should be kept separate, and each valued for their own intrinsic worth?
How about idols? The idea of idolizing people who we don't know is not a foreign one in our culture. In fact, it is encouraged. It keeps the pop-media-machine running smoothly. It sells movies, it sells health and beauty products, it sells lifestyles, it sells politicians; idolatry sells. I remember meeting an idol of mine and it changed my perspective. This was a musician whose music I'd listened to since I was a teenager, and I had held her work in high regard for years. I had held her in very high regard, placing her up there with the Greats. And when, by some chaotic luck, my band got to open for her band, I was in a state of severe mental turmoil. As I listened to the sound check, all of the emotion that her music had stirred in me before was amplified and I was shaken; I am that affected by it. But when I met her, I was disappointed. She seemed bored, listless, vapid. Nothing even closely resembled the passion that her music expressed. I don't know what I expected from the encounter, but I couldn't listen to her music for a while after that. It seemed, well, boring. But now I'm thinking: perhaps the music has a life of it's own and the musician is simply a conduit for something that already existed, only lacked communicable form? And also we should consider the importance of the chemical reaction in our own heart when the music hits it... how much of the musician is there at that moment? Ever since, I've tried not to idolize people whose work I admire, and to recognise that my relationship with their work is not a relationship with them at all. In fact I am frightened to meet those people in anticipation of my relationship with the art changing.
And so, if fantasy wins out when it comes to expectation, where does that leave life? Is this the curse of the optimist, to be constantly disappointed? But, optimism and expectation are not one and the same. Neither pessimism, for that matter. I should let go of a vision that is colored by fantasy at the moment that experience begins, and let life bestow the blessings of suprise and learning. For it is more often than not that I learn the most about myself through my reaction to situations that don't turn out the way I imagined them. And these are the moments that sometimes end up being sweeter than what my imagination has the capacity to convey. Like love.
Let's begin with cooking. A few weekends ago, I became curiously hell-bent on making eggs Benedict with smoked salmon for a Sunday brunch. The idea came early in the week, and I spent the rest of it researching fish markets in the area and scanning recipes on the Internet. I'd made a hollandaise sauce before, and although it is tricky, with the right amount of care it will come out well. I talked it up to the victim, my boyfriend, for days on end. I imagined us sitting on the patio with mimosas, and him tearing up for joy over my perfect creation. Well, the reality was not as sweet as my fantasy. I tried a new hollandaise recipe (stupid!) and forgot the blanc de blanc. We ended up being in a rush to get somewhere and somehow the whole point of doing something like this was missed. Not for him, he loved it, especially the o.j. he squeezed himself from my orange tree. But for me, the fantasy won.
Are the two at odds? Or are they places that should be kept separate, and each valued for their own intrinsic worth?
How about idols? The idea of idolizing people who we don't know is not a foreign one in our culture. In fact, it is encouraged. It keeps the pop-media-machine running smoothly. It sells movies, it sells health and beauty products, it sells lifestyles, it sells politicians; idolatry sells. I remember meeting an idol of mine and it changed my perspective. This was a musician whose music I'd listened to since I was a teenager, and I had held her work in high regard for years. I had held her in very high regard, placing her up there with the Greats. And when, by some chaotic luck, my band got to open for her band, I was in a state of severe mental turmoil. As I listened to the sound check, all of the emotion that her music had stirred in me before was amplified and I was shaken; I am that affected by it. But when I met her, I was disappointed. She seemed bored, listless, vapid. Nothing even closely resembled the passion that her music expressed. I don't know what I expected from the encounter, but I couldn't listen to her music for a while after that. It seemed, well, boring. But now I'm thinking: perhaps the music has a life of it's own and the musician is simply a conduit for something that already existed, only lacked communicable form? And also we should consider the importance of the chemical reaction in our own heart when the music hits it... how much of the musician is there at that moment? Ever since, I've tried not to idolize people whose work I admire, and to recognise that my relationship with their work is not a relationship with them at all. In fact I am frightened to meet those people in anticipation of my relationship with the art changing.
And so, if fantasy wins out when it comes to expectation, where does that leave life? Is this the curse of the optimist, to be constantly disappointed? But, optimism and expectation are not one and the same. Neither pessimism, for that matter. I should let go of a vision that is colored by fantasy at the moment that experience begins, and let life bestow the blessings of suprise and learning. For it is more often than not that I learn the most about myself through my reaction to situations that don't turn out the way I imagined them. And these are the moments that sometimes end up being sweeter than what my imagination has the capacity to convey. Like love.
28.5.07
a new place
After some persistant prodding, I have formed an official blog. Not that I really know what that means- Public Diary? Opinion Page? Reason For Writing? What I do know is that I am continually rejuvinated by the writings of my friends. I love to read about what they are reading, what films they enjoy, what recipes are hits, what style they are rocking, what music inspires them.
As this is my first entry, I feel a certain amount of pressure. I want my writing to be good, although I know that it is not. I want my friends to read it and laugh, although I know from experience that I'm always the one laughing the hardest at my own jokes. I want to communicate the truth of what my life is, without wallowing in the "depths of despair" as I'm often wont to do. What a conundrum. I suppose I shall have to keep my written journal for those dismal moments, and use them later for hit pop songs.
So. welcome to my new place. Here I will write about my days, and the thoughts that plague me. Let me begin...
I just finished reading Dickens' "David Copperfield", and if you've read Dickens, then you already know what a delight it truly is. The next book on my list was "The Picture Of Dorian Gray", a novel given to me by my sister Penelope, by Oscar Wilde. I'm about half-way through, and my goodness gracious, if the two aren't night and day against each other. They were both written around the same time, but the lives of the authors were obviously spent in pursuit of quite different philosophies. Or were they? (to be continued once I've finished the book...)
My new thing (if you know me at all then you know that I've ALWAYS got a new "thing") is working out. And my favorite way to do this is to get on the elliptical machine and read. There are pros and cons on either side, as with everything else, the balance, the ying and yang, etc. I love running. My sister Emma turned me on to it years ago, 1997, I believe. I remember she convinced me one morning to wake up at 7 am and watch teletubbies. Then we ran the bike path along the waterfront, and she talked me through the side stiches and panic that would set in for me when my heart rate got too fast. She would say "breathe like this!" and go into a lamaz-style routine. Or she would say "raise your arms!" and magically the pain subsided... ever since then, I've loved to run, especially alone. I'll get a rythym going and have some inspirational mantra-chant in my head that has something to do with what I'm going through, and just run and run until I've done a respectable route. But I have bad knees. And I'm really scared of surgery, so I've decided not to run any more. Therefore: elliptical = good.
But the atmosphere at the gym is anything but inspiring. And it's hard to focus on a mantra with top 40 pop vs. fox news going head to head in the same room. So, reading helps. I can go for quite a while and not even feel fatigue! Is this bad? Something like eating in front of the television? Or, am I simply doing 2 good things at once? Oscar Wilde would not be supportive of today's exertion. I was bouncing up & down so much that I'm sure I quite missed the fluidity and poetic nuance of the chapter I read. Perhaps the gym should be sequestered to action-packed fast-paced adventure-romance novels, like Dickens!
I also made cookies. Chocolate chip with chopped walnuts. NOT VEGAN. And I was talking to my best friend Alexis while mixing, and I blame her for what happened next. Instead of 1 cup flour I put 1/2 cup flour. I meant to take a picture of them but I'll have to describe to you that every batch came out as one flat, holey, buttery cookie-mass-thing. Taste=great. Form=failure. The next batch will be perfect.
As this is my first entry, I feel a certain amount of pressure. I want my writing to be good, although I know that it is not. I want my friends to read it and laugh, although I know from experience that I'm always the one laughing the hardest at my own jokes. I want to communicate the truth of what my life is, without wallowing in the "depths of despair" as I'm often wont to do. What a conundrum. I suppose I shall have to keep my written journal for those dismal moments, and use them later for hit pop songs.
So. welcome to my new place. Here I will write about my days, and the thoughts that plague me. Let me begin...
I just finished reading Dickens' "David Copperfield", and if you've read Dickens, then you already know what a delight it truly is. The next book on my list was "The Picture Of Dorian Gray", a novel given to me by my sister Penelope, by Oscar Wilde. I'm about half-way through, and my goodness gracious, if the two aren't night and day against each other. They were both written around the same time, but the lives of the authors were obviously spent in pursuit of quite different philosophies. Or were they? (to be continued once I've finished the book...)
My new thing (if you know me at all then you know that I've ALWAYS got a new "thing") is working out. And my favorite way to do this is to get on the elliptical machine and read. There are pros and cons on either side, as with everything else, the balance, the ying and yang, etc. I love running. My sister Emma turned me on to it years ago, 1997, I believe. I remember she convinced me one morning to wake up at 7 am and watch teletubbies. Then we ran the bike path along the waterfront, and she talked me through the side stiches and panic that would set in for me when my heart rate got too fast. She would say "breathe like this!" and go into a lamaz-style routine. Or she would say "raise your arms!" and magically the pain subsided... ever since then, I've loved to run, especially alone. I'll get a rythym going and have some inspirational mantra-chant in my head that has something to do with what I'm going through, and just run and run until I've done a respectable route. But I have bad knees. And I'm really scared of surgery, so I've decided not to run any more. Therefore: elliptical = good.
But the atmosphere at the gym is anything but inspiring. And it's hard to focus on a mantra with top 40 pop vs. fox news going head to head in the same room. So, reading helps. I can go for quite a while and not even feel fatigue! Is this bad? Something like eating in front of the television? Or, am I simply doing 2 good things at once? Oscar Wilde would not be supportive of today's exertion. I was bouncing up & down so much that I'm sure I quite missed the fluidity and poetic nuance of the chapter I read. Perhaps the gym should be sequestered to action-packed fast-paced adventure-romance novels, like Dickens!
I also made cookies. Chocolate chip with chopped walnuts. NOT VEGAN. And I was talking to my best friend Alexis while mixing, and I blame her for what happened next. Instead of 1 cup flour I put 1/2 cup flour. I meant to take a picture of them but I'll have to describe to you that every batch came out as one flat, holey, buttery cookie-mass-thing. Taste=great. Form=failure. The next batch will be perfect.
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