Looking In The Bowl

I've been creatively constipated for the last few weeks. Has it been months? The words just don't come. I can feel them building up, a heavy clog, slow moving. Leaden. Damned. Congealed with broken thoughts, unraveling projects and empty promises. This might be what depression feels like- a yearning glance at the light. From the darkness.

The inexplicable part is that everything has been perfect lately. I couldn't be happier. Quality time with my family, relaxing days and open nights. A light mind, empty of stresses.  Every time I sit on the pot, the words dry up and disappear. Tomorrow night, I will write the post about surfing. I will get back to my book this weekend. I'll scratch out a poem just after....

Writing seems to have lost meaning. What is the point? I haven't the energy to spend with the words much less the thoughts, or these paper images dancing in my mind before I sleep. They trickle out as Tweets, a lackluster storm. Leaving me damp, but not satisfied. I lie to myself, suggesting that I need merlot and a smoky room, fully aware that this only made it worse.

This is not for you. Not for me either. This isn't the plain girl declaring she is ugly to be told she is pretty. This is just me sitting and pushing and working through a clog.

Looking in the bowl and hoping to see any little turd that might float to the top. Letting me know that we can get back to the business writing.

cc licensed ( BY NC SA ) flickr photo shared by catheroo (cat edens)

Minutes later, I saw this. It helped a lot. 

Come Down Machine

I've been a huge Strokes fan since I returned from Africa in 2002. I have written about them here and here. Their first three albums will always be in the top three places I go when I need to feel young and hip and relevant and bad ass.

There are a few songs on Julian Casablanca's solo album that I love- Out Of The Blue? Forget about it! I also have spent quality time with Hammond's first solo effort. I have seen them perform as a band several times in NYC, Boston and San Francisco. It's safe to say that I love The Strokes.

cc licensed ( BY NC ) flickr photo shared by kate.gardiner 

So why have I not more excited about the release of their latest effort, Come Down Machine? Honestly they lost me a bit after Angles. That album's lackluster appeal could have has something to do with this

Singer Julian Casablancas largely removed himself from the other four Strokes during the recording process, going so far as recording his vocals remotely at Electric Lady Studios and sending them to the band via email. Likewise, most communication between Casablancas and the rest of the band took place via email, and, according to guitarist Nick Valensi, most of the singer's ideas and suggestions were written "in really vague terms", leaving the others without much to go on. Casablancas' literal distance was a deliberate attempt at forcing the other members to take control of the band's creative process, a task which he had hitherto dominated. In an interview with Pitchfork, Casablancas stated: "When I'm there, people might wait for me to say something. I think it took me being a little mute to force the initiative". While Casablancas’ disengagement may have been by design, Valensi found the whole experience deeply dissatisfying. "I won’t do the next album if we make it like this. No way. It was awful– just awful. Working in a fractured way, not having a singer there. I’d show up certain days and do guitar takes by myself, just me and the engineer.

Whatever the case, that album was a major departure from their original style and sound. Don't get me wrong, I respect their experimentation and growth.  They have always been pegged as a one-trick-pony, so it is refreshing to see them play with sounds and styles, but for whatever reason I did not click with Angles. It must have been the residue from Angles, that kept me from getting exited about their latest.

That is until a few days ago; some friends sent me their gut reaction report cards. They were not impressed. I had to listen for myself. Here is my first (second actually) listen, gut reaction report:

Tap Out= B+ I kind of love this song. Weird 80's bass line and Blondie like harmonies. Love the falsetto voice and layering of baritone. This is a repeating theme of this album. Pleasantly surprised. Guitar work, opening riff and solo is lame.

All the Time= C-  Meh, I will probably never listen to this song again, like many of the songs I have already forgotten from Angles. (Stop with the guitar solos)

One Way Trigger= B-  Weird Japanese game music and falsetto voice again? Yes please! The guitar works here. I wish I knew what he was talking about. Ummm. never mind. I wish I didn't know what he was saying. I can dig this song. I like this sound. It is different, but I can respect it.

Welcome to Japan= B I can groove to this. Great opening bass line and feel. I like the build up and tension that is built through the first minute. I don't listen to David Bowie, but I am pretty sure this is what he sounds like. I wish there was a weird dance club scene in Lost in Translation that featured this song. The last minute of this song is amazing. More of this please.

50 50 = D+ I will get my "hard rock" from other bands. No thanks Juicebox remix. I want sardonic moody rock from The Strokes. Too loud. The driving riff is lame. I gave this song the obligatory second listen, but doubt I will give it too many more chances.

 80s Comedown Machine= B This song starts has so much potential. Dreamy synth pop, weird layers. I'll take all of it.  It's no Thom Yorke, but it tries to be. I imagine this is what I think the Psychedelic Furs sound like. I like this song a lot.

Slow Animals= B+  This song weirdly reminds me of Diamond and Pearls era Prince. There is an awesome soulful harmony. It holds my attention and has plenty of room for exploration. There is a lot here I like. The guitar finally works. Could be my current favorite!

Chances= D Too many different sonic things happening here. Nothing special. Another random Strokes song that will get lost in the shuffle and blend into all the other songs that sound the same. Sounds like a bad song off Julian's solo record. It's just kind of boring. 

Partners in Crime= D Too many thing I don't like, but can't pinpoint them all. That opening guitar  riff for starters, feels like someone shat in my mouth. Hard to move on from there.

Happy Ending= B+  Love the opening riff and yes the robot voice. Clap track? Okay. I can play with this. Has so much potential. Matches the mood I am liking from the whole album. It gets lost in itself, but that's okay because you can help it find itself again.

Call it Fate Call It Karma= C+  This is the Bugs of this album for sure. WTF? In a good way?  Is he imitating Billie Holiday? They are trying some weird Tom Waits stuff here. Not sure they executed it well, but got to give it to them for thinking they can get away with it.

This album has already grown on me after the second listen.  Over all I give it a solid B- What I love about The Strokes, is that their songs are not easy to digest on a first listen These songs are not the three minute rock pop jams we expect from the pretty boys from NYC. They have grown. They have changed. Not necessarily for the better, but you have to admire bands that evolve. This album is even making me thinks that perhaps I missed some gems on Angles.

As long as The Strokes keep making music, I will keep exploring.

yellowed

Every time I have brushed my teeth for the last few weeks, I have listened to a strange internal narration running through my head. I see the shots, feel the words, even hear the music.

Tonight, I made it come true:

Music by CSoul

yellowed

Your teeth will yellow
and appear crooked in your face.
They'll tell you about this,
but you won't believe them

Blindfolded by the invincibility of youth
the future feels so far away.
The present spiraling in circles and webs.
Wisdom, a distant luxury.

Your dreams will not come true
The "When I grow ups" will come and go
leaving you with some "what I am's"
or worse "what I should have beens."

One day the end feels closer than the beginning
and you have already forgotton so much.
A voice screams from within,
a stranger now
pleading for you to remember the promises

The places you could have gone
replaced with the place where you are.
The life you live.

Don't fret. Your mind will drift and dance through time.
You are everywhere, everyone all the time

Your teeth maybe yellow
but you brush anyway
They may identify you by them
when you are gone. 

 It was a fun way to spend Friday night. Hope you like it.

Choice Is The Key

People don't often take an active interest in your life choices, until you tell them you are vegan, then suddenly your dietary choices become the most important topic of conversation.

I wrote an intro here, but then took the tangent of writing about why I choose not drink-- this post is meant to be a follow-up to the vegan question. This is usually how it starts:

"What do you eat?"

"Oh well, you know....mumble, mumble....." I just want deflect the attention from myself, but I never seem to be able to find the right words.

"What do you eat?"

"Food. I eat food. I eat simple food free from violence. I like how it makes me feel to know that I am eating deliberately and not out of habit. I like that every time I eat it is my choice to remove myself from the cycle of death, violence and destruction. I like that with every bite, I choose to stand up for a plethora of species who cannot stand up for themselves.

cc licensed ( BY NC ) flickr photo shared by Intrepidteacher

 

The thing is, I don't want to sound like a flippant, pretentious bastard. I don't want to sound like anything. Last thing I want to do when I sit to eat with friends is make a big deal about what I choose to eat or choose not to eat. But everyone has an opinion....Sometimes you just want to say:

I eat anything that isn't a dead carcass or a secretion from a dead carcass. Anything that wasn't once a tortured sentient being that was brutally killed for my ice cream. I eat lots of things, but I tend to stay away from things that if when over-fished could destroy the very ocean that we need to survive.The same things as you, but without the blood and flesh and death.

I eat fruit and nuts and vegetables. Yes, I know I need protein, but thanks for caring. I got it covered. I eat food that never walked or thought or dreamed or felt pain. I eat food that I couldn't pet or love. I eat food without eyes or lungs or hearts or brains. I eat food without a family, food that never snuggled or showed affection. I eat food that was not tortured. I eat food without violence.

I could write a massive essay justifying my thinking, but I would rather keep it simple. I choose to be vegan, because it is part of my practice. It is part of my journey toward peace. Because I am ready,  and for me, right now it makes sense.

cc licensed ( BY NC ) flickr photo shared by Intrepidteacher

I find the notion of eating flesh grotesque. For years, dairy and eggs were okay, but as time passes the very idea of milk is becoming pretty gross. So please don't worry about me. Don't make a big deal every time we eat. Don't think I am missing out. Don't pity me. I know what I am doing and I am happy.

cc licensed ( BY NC ) flickr photo shared by Intrepidteacher

I choose not to eat dead things. That is all. Choice is the key. People act as if this decision has somehow been inflicted upon me. That if I just thought clearly and came to my senses I could escape this terrible fate, but I do not feel deprived. I feel empowered. Every time, I choose life over death, I enjoy my food that much more.

What's more my choices are not some hidden indictment toward you.  I do not secretly think less of you because you are not vegan. You are on your path and you are making your choices.

Here is some advice, when you are talking to your vegan friends. Leave them alone. They have thought long and hard about their dietary choices and chosen not to eat that bacon because they do not want it. It is okay for you to love it, but remember no amount of professed love for pork is going to change our mind. You enjoy your food and let us enjoy theirs.

Why Don't You Drink?

Have you ever not done something that most people do? Have you ever made a choice that was contradictory to most cultural customs? Have you ever felt the need to explain your choices to  everyone with whom you eat and drink ? Have your choices become the center of attention at nearly every meal? Well let me tell you; it sucks.

I get it. People are interested:

What? You don't drink? Anything? Wow! I couldn't live without wine.
What? You don't eat meat? Not even fish? Wow! I couldn't live without bacon.
What? You don't eat dairy? Not even cheese? Wow! I couldn't live without cheese.

No. Nope. I don't. I don't drink alcohol of any kind. I have been vegetarian for some time now, nearly ten years and I recently, after reading Eating Animals, chose to become vegan. 

Once the shock abides and their pity wanes, most people want to know why? Why would anyone choose such an austere life choice, one devoid of such comfortable habitual safety blankest as food and booze.

How do you live?
What is the point?

I can see it in their eyes, as they nervously take a sip of their drink and gnaw on a chicken wing or some other flesh. I often try and cobble together some kind of philosophical clap-trap, but the truth is that they are not looking for reasons; explanations are not what they want to hear. They do not really want to know why I do not drink or eat meat or dairy. They just want to be assured that their choices are still okay. That somehow, what I am choosing to do, does not in anyway affect what they choose to do.

I often feel that my choices are made to seem so abnormal, borderline hysterical really, that any defense of them will only make me feel like a pompous douche-bag. I mean who wants to hear the real reason why someone would give up alcohol after a lifetime of drinking when they are having a good time at a bar? Who wants to consider the torture and murder of billions of sentient beings when they are sitting down to eat them?

Yet, they ask. Perhaps their morbid curiosity wants to watch me stumble and fail in my reasoning, so as to prove that their choices are the right ones and mine the bizarre. If I could really answer their questions, it would sound something like this:

My childhood wasn't a sad one. There were moments of joy. I am sure. Many of them. My parents loved me. I loved them. I had enough food. Money. Toys. Food. Attention. I was happy. I am sure.

And so but when I look back why does it feel so grey? Why does it feel alone and empty and wanting? Yearning? Addictive? Perhaps it was the fact that I was from a far away land. An immigrant in a land of wealth. Wearing the wrong shoes. Donning the wrong style. Perhaps cuz I usually felt wrong. Maybe it was the divorce. Or the car accident? Or the business. Or the darkness that is seldom mentioned in public.

Whatever the case, this emptiness was replaced with a low-grade rage as early as I can remember. Stewing. Rumbling. Boiling. I can remember feeling the manifestation of this anger from when I was eight. Third grade. From that time, I carried this anger and emptiness with quiet servitude, like a feral animal that I could control but feared. It morphed into various forms:  disdain for teachers, pity for peers, and a disgust with much of what I saw. Carrying this wrath gave me comfort until I leashed it with alcohol when I was fifteen.

By the way, wouldn't this be a great chat to have with someone at a bar, when they are drunk, teetering in place?  

Junior year two things changed. I found friends and we drank together. We got lost together. We escaped together. We found each other.  Friendship, indignation and alcohol were the perfect elements for a new compound that would fuel me for most of my life. I didn't have to carry the wild animal  anymore. I could unleash it on society. And he could do anything he pleased. He was invincible. He had no fear and no expectations.

He took the anger and the lonelinesses and the angst and mixed it with booze to create: passion and personality and charm and attitude. He scoffed at authority. He pierced his flesh and inked his skin. He devoured books and music and women and life. His appetite was insatiable. His outrage morphed and changed into the pleasure and joy and bliss found only from a drunken escape into oblivion.

I have no regrets about my life in my twenties in the nineties. I needed alcohol and it helped me. It helped me break myself down and rebuild new possibilities. My life was not all like the shower scene from Leaving Las Vegas. There were moments of indescribable perfection. There was love. There was work and writing and a degree and travel. There was learning, so much learning. There was growth and building and evolving. The anger dissipated, but the booze remained.

This new world and the identity who inhabited it was no longer escaping, he had moved into a life dominated by blurry lines and comfortable drunkenness. The fuel that had ignited my re-birth had become an embalming fluid. I had navigated through a lonely angry tunnel, but found myself in a boring drunken light. What next?

I searched in the only place I knew. Moved to Africa and looked at the bottom of bottles. Met Mairin, but kept looking in New York and Malaysia. Alone in rooms with wine and Leonard Cohen. I was becoming him. My dad. I had learned of clarity, of mediation, of life and focus, but the wine was all I had ever know and so but that is where I went. I had dressed my identity in being that guy. The alcohol, as far as I was concerned had saved me from myself. It had created me. Who could I be without it?

Then, just like that, the choice was easy. We were having a baby. I saw my dad. Drunk. Happy. Drunk. Angry. Drunk. Present. Drunk. Loving. Drunk. Distant. Drunk. Whatever he was for me, and he was many things, he was/is a loving and devoted father. He inspired me. Taught me to be a man. Taught me to be myself and to question and to be kind and to be creative and to be myself but he did it all through a haze of drunkenness.

The most important lesson he taught me, was that I would not be drunk around my kids. Whatever baggage I carried as a father, would not be further weighed down by the weight of alcohol. That's it. I quit. That was seven years ago. Not a sip. Not a drop.

My journey brought me here. There is much to be said about sobriety, but who knows if you are even reading, or if I have any energy left. Maybe, the next time someone at a bar asks me why I don't drink, I can pull this post up on my phone and have them read it.  Or maybe I will just let them roam in their own drunken head and contemplate their own journey. 

New Strings

I was told to go down to Coleman Street in Singapore if I wanted to buy a new guitar. It has been a few years since I bought a new instrument, and while my fingers may be a bit more dexterous, and I may be able to jump slight more lithely from chord to chord, my knowledge of guitars and woods and sound is still very amateur. I had no idea what I was looking for. I was hoping that a guitar would feel right in my arms and sing to me. Very romantic I know.

I have had a Takamine for several years, and I know very little about this instrument. I know that it is black, which I no longer like; it is twangy and trebley and sounds crooked and rusted. As far as I know, it is none of these things, but the sound feels hallow and old and I knew that I needed a new guitar.  I parked the car and began exploring the various shops of the area, of which there were several.

I am looking for something warm and rich with a full sound. I mostly strum and I want the Em chord to linger and echo and be felt rather than heard. I like to finger pick a bit, so I would like some crisp high tones too. I can spend about $700-$1000. What have you got? 

I had a few hours to kill, and I couldn't help but think how pleasant it was to walk into store after store, sit on one of those tiny stools and be handed guitar after guitar to play. I began to learn that the wood matters. Rosewood, Spruce and Mahogany created fuller sounds. Solid wood is a factor as well. Before embarking on my quest many people told me to look for Taylor guitars, but I wasn't sold on any brand. I just wanted to find the right instrument for me.

I must have been on my fourth or fifth shop when I walked into Maestro Guitars. The place was quiet and felt of wood. A calm and gentle guy came up to me and asked me if I needed help. After giving him my "warm and rich with a full sound," spiel, I noticed that all the guitars were the same brand. A signature M identifying the maker.

After speaking with the salesman, seems too cheap of a name for the guy, I found out that Maestro was indeed some thing different:

Maestro is the only Singaporean brand that handcrafts guitars and ukuleles. Since 2004, we have been providing quality handcrafted guitars and ukuleles to discerning players that are very particular with tone, playability, and craftsmanship. Through the years, we have established a strong presence in Singapore, even drawing crowds from the region just to experience our instrument.

The more time I spent there, the more I realized that my new guitar would be found here. I played a few and they were perfect. I played a several in my price range and a few slightly beyond, and as luck would have it--my favorite was right in the middle and on sale.

Traditional sound fused with the Maestro Signature projection is what the Beta & Omega is all about. Constructed from the ever dependable combination of Spruce and Mahogany, these Full Solid guitars offers the classic sweet and woody Mahogany sound, with good volume, projection, and depth of which Maestro instruments are known for.

The body itself is as light as air and so delicate. Untarnished by lacquers and chintzy decorations it feels from the earth. As if pulled from a tree and strung up and ready to play. The neck is a more solid and the girth fits my hand perfectly. After years of hating the steely sound of my Takamine, this guitar is perfect. I knew after a few chords that it was the guitar for me.

The salesman was super chill and not pushy at all. I couldn't decide if I wanted to add pick-ups, but he said I could take it back later and they can add it. (Do I want pick-ups? I still don't know. If I ever play live, I can just mic it right? Why pick ups? Please sell me in the comments.) The guitar comes with a lifetime guarantee. I felt like I was being inducted into a family. A movement. Upon further research, when I got home and read this message from the founder of the company, I couldn't be more pleased. Not that it matters but the website is a pleasure to navigate as well.

After a day of roaming the streets of Singapore, I found the perfect instrument for me. I could have bought some factory guitar with a well known name, but instead I feel I found the guitar that I know I should have at this point in my life. Who knows, this may be the first of several Maestro guitars that I own.

Bonus, because the guitar was only $700 and a bit under my budget, I also picked up a hand-made starter Ukulele that is a beauty in her own right. Here are my new babies.

cc licensed ( BY NC ) flickr photo shared by Intrepidteacher

 

I am off to Thailand tomorrow, so you have to wait for recordings in a few days. Although I am taking the Uke with me to learn a few chords and who knows I may record some island tune.

Thanks Maestro. You guys rock.

Shared Lives

I've watched the Ze Frank clip you will find below, at least five times since I first saw it two days. It  latched on and has burrowed deep inside me. Causing minor bleeding as it dislodged and scraped its way deeper and deeper, forcing me to eventually react and write something. 

Watch the clip and meet me on the other side.

If you are here--and reading and you are bored or skimming or on a phone, then please come back later when you can spend some quality undistracted time. I am here to tell some stories. I am here to delve into emotions and memories and explore places I haven't explored in a while. I need your attention. Not sure where we are headed, but I ask that you sit, relax, grab a cup of tea, play a soft song-- one that fills you with joy and angst, bliss and ennui, one that leaves you perplexed and disoriented--and take the ride.

I felt very alone after I watched this clip. Perhaps it was Ze's somber tone, or his high-lighting of how we (I) often overlook something as essential as my friendships. Ever since I first watched this clip, I have been trying to (re)define friendship. Who are my friends?

I have three very close friends. They are my brothers. That is what I have always said. I have known Anthony, Jason and Ari since we were about fifteen. We have been through two near death experiences, we have shared tears, confessions, drinks, memories--we have walked through fires together. The first ten years of our friendship was intense. We lived together, talked together, worked together, learned from each other, travelled and laughed together. Built and grew and forged a friendship that felt like family. The next ten years, we began to physically drift apart. Spread across continents, we saw each other less and less, but the bond was strong and every time we met things were as if we had never parted. Every few years, we would meet and re-evaluate where we were, satisfied that the friendship had made it.

We stay in touch via email and the occasional Skype. Not one of my closets friends is on Twitter, Instagram, or Facebook. (Ari is a recent convert and Jason is on Facebook, but from Africa, so it is a spotty connection at best)

Where are we now? This the question I am left to ponder after watching Ze's clip. How do we maintain friendships when separated by physical space and time? Are we still close with friends, if we do not see them for years at a time and only maintain minimal contact? I miss you guys terribly everyday, but what do we really know about each other? Sure we know that the core of what connected us as friends twenty years ago is there and that will never change, but do we need day to day understanding of each other to really remain close? Can friendships last without contact? On faith and memory alone?

This is when things got really depressing, because I realized that many of the relationship I have built online, lack that tight confessional, no secrets strength that I have with Jason, Ari and Anthony. There is little those guys don't know about me. They have seen me at my worst and at my best. No amount of Facebook updates or Instagram shots will change that.

Here is my dilemma:

• True friendships built over time and forged in experience are difficult to maintain across time and space without direct contact. 

• Online friendships that are hyper-connected, lack the depth and meaning of friendships build over time.

When put like this, I feel like I have no friends. I feel like I am drifting away from the close friends I  had before the connected, digital, "Always On" age, but I do not feel I am getting any closer to my online friends.

The answer I hear you saying is to strengthen the friendships with the people I see everyday on and offline. That is easier said than done. At some point in one's life, it feels uncomfortable to front load your history to new friends. I know we must sit with new friends and share past stories and like Ze says, "Allow a friendship to grow, " but as an adult approaching middle-age, I didn't think I would have to start the slow build again. I didn't want to face the flush or the fear of allowing another person inside the spaces we reserve for friends. 

It is becoming clear to me that no amount of status updates, instagram pics, Tweets or even verbose confessional blog posts can take the place of the hard work it takes to build friendships. When we were young, exposing our fears and dreams and ourselves was easy and done often--we walked and drank and talked and bled and scarred, but how can we do that now and with whom? Who is ready for our stories? Who is ready to share theirs with is?

I pride myself on how much I share online, but I am starting to see that this constantly vomiting of identity online is not about friendship, it is not about we. It is about me. Friendship is about listening just as much as it is about sharing. It is interactive. Friendship is more than liking snippets of a life. Friendship is the interaction of lives and the beauty of the bonds that are made and how they ebb and flow through shared lives. Friendship should nor feel perfromative. Frank says that friendship is the place where we are who we are in front of each other. It is a rhythm. I feel out of rhythm with old and new friends alike.

If you are reading this through Facebook and consider me a friend, what can I do to be a better friend? Are we friends? Were we ever? What changed? What stayed the same? Can we use Facebook to connect in more substantial ways?

If you are here from Twitter, do you have any tips on how you handle your friendships? Who are your friends? Where does your relationship find its rhythm? Do you dance on or offline?

If you are reading this and you see me everyday and you work with me and consider me a friend, I need you. I need to feel the rhythm of friendship. What can we do to move beyond talking about work and only liking what we do or who we are online? Or is this the slow build and I just can't see it yet. More parties, dinners, long walks along the beach?

If you are Jason, Ari or Anthony, I miss you. What do we need? More email? Skype? Physical letters? Do you feel us drifting? What next? What can I do? I need to see you soon.

Getting that out felt good, although I feel I have offended and upset old friends and new.  I have a knack for that. Thanks Ze Frank for pushing me and making me think and feel.