Excepting when I was a boy, when it was considered a justly earned right, I never was entirely comfortable with the notion of idleness, of indulging that legacy negotiated privilege of dragging oneself listlessly about, lamenting the deep and utter tragedy of having rather nothing at all to do. That is not to say that I have inured myself to her particular treacheries; on the contrary, I have on innumerable occasions found myself frequenting that gilded boudoir, finding that intoxication comes more swiftly and sinks deeper than from the headiest of wines, yet once lain there is little will to excise oneself from the soft sheets, to lose sight of the froufrou on the discarded dress, a reminder of last night’s gaieties, or to face the twin colossi entreating vigilantly outside the curtained door, that of left and right shoe. But as I now have wiped the opiated clouds from my eyes (and have since rejoined the mag- nanimous ranks of fellow rehabilitatees and their earnest twelve-step program), I unequivocally strive to never return to her bedchambers, to allow myself to wallow in that state of disinterested discontent, as if that, and not its antithesis, is some noble pursuit, and not the affect of, to be frank, a giant ass. I am learning the lesson of focus, and effort, and commitment, those paragons of industry, of contribution useful to me and mine; and that nothing is quite as unforgivable as believing you should be entitled to complain of boredom, or to, out of it, terrorize the hoi polloi, erroneously thinking that fighting for nothing is in fact standing for something (it’s not). Idleness’ diverse range of manifestations aside, the brand most, I suppose, native to me (or perhaps endemic to my trade) is the kind arising only when I am ulteriorly trying to get something done, which is to say deep in procrastination, inertia long having flatlined, almost having forgotten the task altogether, yet unable to go on with my day as my mental faculties are caught in a vicious holding pattern, the paradoxical result of having a queued up task luring my earnest if naïve brain into thinking it is being productive, combined with the tendency of my affliction du jour (or every jour really) to conjure some dalliance for my flip-flop wearing, mai tai enjoying attention span to wander hopelessly into. Read: I am never better at doing nothing than when I am supposed to be doing something; while my physical self is numbly engaged in tedium, my mind remains unfulfilled, and that torpor, that unholy un-ness comes creeping up to the placid surface, its hungry and dark intention of pulling me back under written plainly, gleefully on its dead-eyed face. There may have once been a time when I was content with such a misappropriation of my time and energy, but perhaps it is a direct consequence of a vague maturation that I demand more now, that I must give a quick look to the mirror of the bureau, throw some pants on in the dark, strap on those shoes celebrating my return as I exit into the world, no longer content among lotus-eaters, and swear to myself to never go back. That once elusive vitality is now my steed, the intense momentum of newfound, self-given purpose my bow, and work, of all its kind, my quarry – what ultimately must remain within us is that desire to fight back and to fight on against idleness, to always be curious and adventurous. Inspiration is the easiest escape from doldrums but sustainment is difficult, and it is only recently that I have begun to see that constant exercise, whether inspired or not, is perhaps the hardiest train to board; that practice does in fact make perfect, eventually; that daily impromptu beginnings are the surest way to endings; and that we must keep vigor at our nuclei.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Monday, January 09, 2012
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Friday, December 09, 2011
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Monday, October 31, 2011
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Romance and illusion
This past weekend, The Creators Project took up residence in DUMBO. The self-described "ongoing global arts and technology initiative" to "support visionary artists, musicians, and filmmakers who are using technology to push the bounds of creative expression" made recent appearances at this past year's Coachella in California and the N.A.M.E. festival in France, as well as making stops in Sao Paolo, Seoul, and Beijing, among others.
We moseyed on down to Brooklyn to see what was what. Food stalls, beer tents, and unreasonably sunny skies - a perfect day for arts and music.
Here's a sampling of what we saw:
SUPER PONG by SuperUber - basically pong meets foosball so, yeah, awesome.
SIX-FORTY BY FOUR-EIGHTY
SOIL by Cantoni + Crescenti - an interesting installation where panels of aluminum flooring are layered over springs, creating an undulating, seesaw-y experience. Lights placed around the room set an eerie, ethereal atmosphere.
MEDITATION by Minha Yang
A PHYSICAL MANIFESTATION OF LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, WE ARE FLOATING IN SPACE - light + musical installation that was simultaneously peaceful and maddening, a wicked bit of sense-fuckery.
My interest was primarily piqued by the music festival component of The Creators Project, which had a Saturday night headline of FLORENCE + THE MACHINE. The show was under an archway of the Manhattan Bridge, and had a diverse line-up of rock, hip-hop, and electronic artists.
Here's electronic artist FOUR TET doing his thing:
And of course, FLORENCE:
Several tracks off new album Ceremonials were played, and now I'm sufficiently amped for what sounds like is going to be an even better sophomore record. After having to give up my ticket to their show right around this time last year, you could say I was building up plenty of expectation in finally catching one of their live concerts. The long wait was worth it.
Fucking awesome show.
We moseyed on down to Brooklyn to see what was what. Food stalls, beer tents, and unreasonably sunny skies - a perfect day for arts and music.
Here's a sampling of what we saw:
SUPER PONG by SuperUber - basically pong meets foosball so, yeah, awesome.
SIX-FORTY BY FOUR-EIGHTY
SOIL by Cantoni + Crescenti - an interesting installation where panels of aluminum flooring are layered over springs, creating an undulating, seesaw-y experience. Lights placed around the room set an eerie, ethereal atmosphere.
MEDITATION by Minha Yang
A PHYSICAL MANIFESTATION OF LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, WE ARE FLOATING IN SPACE - light + musical installation that was simultaneously peaceful and maddening, a wicked bit of sense-fuckery.
My interest was primarily piqued by the music festival component of The Creators Project, which had a Saturday night headline of FLORENCE + THE MACHINE. The show was under an archway of the Manhattan Bridge, and had a diverse line-up of rock, hip-hop, and electronic artists.
Here's electronic artist FOUR TET doing his thing:
And of course, FLORENCE:
Several tracks off new album Ceremonials were played, and now I'm sufficiently amped for what sounds like is going to be an even better sophomore record. After having to give up my ticket to their show right around this time last year, you could say I was building up plenty of expectation in finally catching one of their live concerts. The long wait was worth it.
Fucking awesome show.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
I can feel they fall short
I keep coming across stories half-written, abandoned, only dimly remembered. Like everything else, unfinished.
I mean to find them endings, one day.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Where the boat leaves from
GOOD FISHIN':
Every now and again, work exposes me to a lifestyle that I'd otherwise not have the opportunity to experience. Which explains how I recently found myself as the second hand on a commercial fishing boat. It ain't Deadliest Catch (thankfully) and it ain't Forrest Gump (regrettably), but I still had a silly grin plastered to my face as I ran around on deck trying to scoop quickly fleeing fish into our catch baskets (flopping around vigorously, it turns out, can be an effective exit strategy).
The Grundéns don't just help you look the part; there's a reason everybody uses 'em.
The Cap'n bringing in the nets.
Don't let them fool you. Those fish still got fight left in 'em.
We were out for fluke, but the catch is always a mixed bag. Rays, mostly. "Lobster bait," I'm told.
Always a good day when it can start like this.
Every now and again, work exposes me to a lifestyle that I'd otherwise not have the opportunity to experience. Which explains how I recently found myself as the second hand on a commercial fishing boat. It ain't Deadliest Catch (thankfully) and it ain't Forrest Gump (regrettably), but I still had a silly grin plastered to my face as I ran around on deck trying to scoop quickly fleeing fish into our catch baskets (flopping around vigorously, it turns out, can be an effective exit strategy).
The Grundéns don't just help you look the part; there's a reason everybody uses 'em.
The Cap'n bringing in the nets.
Don't let them fool you. Those fish still got fight left in 'em.
We were out for fluke, but the catch is always a mixed bag. Rays, mostly. "Lobster bait," I'm told.
Always a good day when it can start like this.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Well I caught the beat
This past summer's concerts (excuse the general blurriness; one of these days, I'll take to carrying a real camera to shows):
Wednesday, May 4th 2011: The Naked and Famous, Freelance Whales, and Foals at Terminal 5
We cut out on the Foals set early, heading downtown to Pianos to catch a midnight (redux) set of The Naked and Famous. Totally worth it.
Monday, June 13th 2011: Company of Thieves at The Bowery Ballroom
These guys bring it everytime.
Thursday, August 11th 2011: Foster the People and Cut Copy at Prospect Park Bandshell
What a summer it's been.
Wednesday, May 4th 2011: The Naked and Famous, Freelance Whales, and Foals at Terminal 5
We cut out on the Foals set early, heading downtown to Pianos to catch a midnight (redux) set of The Naked and Famous. Totally worth it.
Monday, June 13th 2011: Company of Thieves at The Bowery Ballroom
These guys bring it everytime.
Thursday, August 11th 2011: Foster the People and Cut Copy at Prospect Park Bandshell
What a summer it's been.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Maybe on a Sunday night
In an ambitious bout of time-wasting a couple of weeks ago, I discovered that the earliest blog post I have still published online is dated the 31st of July, 2001. Ten years later, and it's still floating along quietly in the ether, tethered to the surprisingly enduring buoy that is Live Journal. Rifling through those early posts felt a little like sitting on the living room couch as your mother goes through the greatest hits collection of your family album, regaling your senior prom date with every nugget of mortification you thought long buried in the annals of your personal history. Except in this case, it's not your mother playing the role of proverbial humiliator, but your younger, idiot self.
But looking deeper at the questionable formatting, the predictably angsty teenage impudence, and the sheer dullness of most entries, I was struck by the complete absence of anything resembling a writer's bone in those halcyon entries. There wasn't any sort of voice there, at all. Which is embarrassing. In fact, I hesitated even linking to it because I'm terrified I just look really, really dumb.
Fast forwarding ahead a few months, I expected to see some sort of growth, some hint of at least attempting the artful task I am enamored with now. But, save a brief period where I posted probably the first short story I ever wrote outside of a classroom assignment, there wasn't anything to indicate that I showed promise in, or even enjoyed, writing. I eventually migrated away from Live Journal to Xanga, and in jumping formats, I finally started to see a few embers. But for someone who's always considered myself fairly interested in writing, it was bizarre to see no evidence of it in the one outlet where I was, for the most part, doing it purely for myself. I guess I was bugged by the question of when it actually happened then, that I stopped simply typing and actually started to write.
Historically, my posts have been far too erratic and inconsistent to yield any empirical data to chart this, but it does leave me wondering now, ten years later, how much exactly I've grown (if at all). I've never been able to quite capture the ability to write in a personal journal format, commonly finding myself at a loss whenever it comes to recounting my daily paces, or expounding on some minor thought. I find it just as hard now to write about myself as I did back then, except where youthful enthusiasm/vanity once pushed me to at least put something down, the older, more jaded vanity of my current self abandons the act altogether. I'm trying to change that now, with this incarnation of the blog.
I first attempted this when I moved to New York, registering a brand new username with blogger and making a grand total of one post which, excluding the title, amounted to five words (which was actually a misquoted line from an early Aughts pop song, no less). The blog sat dormant for a year before, deciding to give the ol' girl one more try, I got back in the saddle. I discovered that the original username that I had wanted on blogger but which had already been registered was, in fact, registered to me. 14-year old me, actually. Through some finagling and internet CSI-ing, I regained access and reclaimed the blog, archiving away the old posts to start carte blanche, this new era of actually writing. And though those posts technically predate that July 31st, 2001 Live Journal post, we'll cheat a little for the sake of this particular entry's theme.
For someone who can be as statistically obsessed as I am (come on, I know there are at least a few people out there who wonder about average and lifetime durations spent on the can, who fantasize about pie charts and bar graphs comparing personal consumption ratios of different brands of cereal, and other such trivial life box scores), it's been both fascinating and frustrating, trying to determine the line graph that represents my writing habit. But maybe the point isn't to keep looking back at what I have or haven't done, how far or short I've actually come, and to simply focus on just moving forward. Statistics don't tell the full story, and instead can give weight and significance to irrelevant tangibles while completely missing the essence of the statisticized. Besides, if you looked at my past at-bats, there'd be an alarming trend of, well, quitting.
The tricky thing about writing in this forum is that there's always an effort, conscious or not, to cater to a hypothetical audience. It's tough to stay honest in the face of something so daunting. That's the key issue I've struggled with in writing in a blog. I've always assumed the diary-esque nature of a blog meant there was an openness that was required in the writing, yet there has always been a guarded nature to how I approach blogging, specifically because I was aware any mook with a Net Zero account and a dial-up modem could access what was supposed to be kind of personal. This discord is what always inevitably killed any aspirations I had to keep writing, because I didn't want to be dishonest, but neither did I want to invite that kind of vulnerability. But what I've finally started to figure out is that writing, as with any art, needs an audience, whether the artist is thrilled about it or not. Otherwise, what's the point? The risk is, and has always been, exposing some fragment of the soul, and giving up to avoid having to filter or temper my thoughts isn't some noble attempt to avoid dishonesty; it's cowardice.
So maybe that's all I've learned in ten years of putting my writing up to a limited and probably partially imagined audience: the growth isn't just in the amount of ink spilled or witty phrases turned, but in the willingness to look dumb and be mortified, and still keep writing.
So even if I just high-dived face first into a pool full of pie (which, now that I'm picturing it, actually sounds kind of awesome), at least I can promise myself that there'll be another post after this. And another after that.
And another, and another.
(And yes, there's an unsubscribe button for a reason)
But looking deeper at the questionable formatting, the predictably angsty teenage impudence, and the sheer dullness of most entries, I was struck by the complete absence of anything resembling a writer's bone in those halcyon entries. There wasn't any sort of voice there, at all. Which is embarrassing. In fact, I hesitated even linking to it because I'm terrified I just look really, really dumb.
Fast forwarding ahead a few months, I expected to see some sort of growth, some hint of at least attempting the artful task I am enamored with now. But, save a brief period where I posted probably the first short story I ever wrote outside of a classroom assignment, there wasn't anything to indicate that I showed promise in, or even enjoyed, writing. I eventually migrated away from Live Journal to Xanga, and in jumping formats, I finally started to see a few embers. But for someone who's always considered myself fairly interested in writing, it was bizarre to see no evidence of it in the one outlet where I was, for the most part, doing it purely for myself. I guess I was bugged by the question of when it actually happened then, that I stopped simply typing and actually started to write.
Historically, my posts have been far too erratic and inconsistent to yield any empirical data to chart this, but it does leave me wondering now, ten years later, how much exactly I've grown (if at all). I've never been able to quite capture the ability to write in a personal journal format, commonly finding myself at a loss whenever it comes to recounting my daily paces, or expounding on some minor thought. I find it just as hard now to write about myself as I did back then, except where youthful enthusiasm/vanity once pushed me to at least put something down, the older, more jaded vanity of my current self abandons the act altogether. I'm trying to change that now, with this incarnation of the blog.
I first attempted this when I moved to New York, registering a brand new username with blogger and making a grand total of one post which, excluding the title, amounted to five words (which was actually a misquoted line from an early Aughts pop song, no less). The blog sat dormant for a year before, deciding to give the ol' girl one more try, I got back in the saddle. I discovered that the original username that I had wanted on blogger but which had already been registered was, in fact, registered to me. 14-year old me, actually. Through some finagling and internet CSI-ing, I regained access and reclaimed the blog, archiving away the old posts to start carte blanche, this new era of actually writing. And though those posts technically predate that July 31st, 2001 Live Journal post, we'll cheat a little for the sake of this particular entry's theme.
For someone who can be as statistically obsessed as I am (come on, I know there are at least a few people out there who wonder about average and lifetime durations spent on the can, who fantasize about pie charts and bar graphs comparing personal consumption ratios of different brands of cereal, and other such trivial life box scores), it's been both fascinating and frustrating, trying to determine the line graph that represents my writing habit. But maybe the point isn't to keep looking back at what I have or haven't done, how far or short I've actually come, and to simply focus on just moving forward. Statistics don't tell the full story, and instead can give weight and significance to irrelevant tangibles while completely missing the essence of the statisticized. Besides, if you looked at my past at-bats, there'd be an alarming trend of, well, quitting.
The tricky thing about writing in this forum is that there's always an effort, conscious or not, to cater to a hypothetical audience. It's tough to stay honest in the face of something so daunting. That's the key issue I've struggled with in writing in a blog. I've always assumed the diary-esque nature of a blog meant there was an openness that was required in the writing, yet there has always been a guarded nature to how I approach blogging, specifically because I was aware any mook with a Net Zero account and a dial-up modem could access what was supposed to be kind of personal. This discord is what always inevitably killed any aspirations I had to keep writing, because I didn't want to be dishonest, but neither did I want to invite that kind of vulnerability. But what I've finally started to figure out is that writing, as with any art, needs an audience, whether the artist is thrilled about it or not. Otherwise, what's the point? The risk is, and has always been, exposing some fragment of the soul, and giving up to avoid having to filter or temper my thoughts isn't some noble attempt to avoid dishonesty; it's cowardice.
So maybe that's all I've learned in ten years of putting my writing up to a limited and probably partially imagined audience: the growth isn't just in the amount of ink spilled or witty phrases turned, but in the willingness to look dumb and be mortified, and still keep writing.
So even if I just high-dived face first into a pool full of pie (which, now that I'm picturing it, actually sounds kind of awesome), at least I can promise myself that there'll be another post after this. And another after that.
And another, and another.
(And yes, there's an unsubscribe button for a reason)
Friday, July 22, 2011
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Are you in?
Nothing embodies the best bits of summer like the Fourth of July (beach weather, watermelon, bbqs, leisure time with friends and family, fireworks, more watermelon, an open-ended allowance for guilt-free consumption of fried foods, etc.), and to kick things off in the seasonal spirit, here's a collection of my current summer dalliances.
Song:
Bombay Bicycle Club - Shuffle by Bombay Bicycle Club
Because it's upbeat and urgent and fun.
Video:
Mates of State bring a little VHS retro to the video for their new single "Maracas." Look for their new album Mountaintops in September.
Show:
Because Catching Up On Shows I Should've Been Watching During The Regular Season is one of my favorite summer past times.
Food:
I mean, obviously.
Drink:
If it's good enough for Hillary, it's good enough for me.
Book:
Back to a gothic 1920's Barcelona with the author of The Shadow of the Wind? Yeah, okay.
Look:
I'm about as far removed as you can be from a purveyor of fashion or style sensibilities, but I'm particularly digging The Hundreds' latest collaboration with iconic surf apparel company Katin. Summer nostalgia goes hand in hand with California surf culture for me.
Timesuck:
Animals being dicks. The title pretty much sums it up.
Be well, my friends. Looking forward to another stretch of sunny skies and endless afternoons.
Hello, Summer. Why don't you stay awhile?
Song:
Bombay Bicycle Club - Shuffle by Bombay Bicycle Club
Because it's upbeat and urgent and fun.
Video:
Mates of State bring a little VHS retro to the video for their new single "Maracas." Look for their new album Mountaintops in September.
Show:
Because Catching Up On Shows I Should've Been Watching During The Regular Season is one of my favorite summer past times.
Food:
I mean, obviously.
Drink:
If it's good enough for Hillary, it's good enough for me.
Book:
Back to a gothic 1920's Barcelona with the author of The Shadow of the Wind? Yeah, okay.
Look:
I'm about as far removed as you can be from a purveyor of fashion or style sensibilities, but I'm particularly digging The Hundreds' latest collaboration with iconic surf apparel company Katin. Summer nostalgia goes hand in hand with California surf culture for me.
Timesuck:
Animals being dicks. The title pretty much sums it up.
Be well, my friends. Looking forward to another stretch of sunny skies and endless afternoons.
Hello, Summer. Why don't you stay awhile?
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Georgia on my mind
In the wake of the tornadoes that hit the Southern U.S., my buddy Colin and I were dispatched to follow a crew of electric linesmen down to Georgia to capture their part in the relief efforts. In emergencies like these, linesmen from all over the country stream into the disaster areas to repair downed power lines and to get the electricity working in homes again. In fact, if you ever wander into areas recently hit by storms or hurricanes, all you'll find are linesmen and policemen (or, in some cases, the army/national guard). It's something I never really thought about or considered, but these guys are the lead-off hitters in breathing life back into flattened towns and cities.
It was an eye-opening experience, seeing that kind of devastation first hand. Despite all the damage, the Southern hospitality still showed through. There wasn't a day when we were out in the field where locals ranging from high school students to retired seniors didn't drive by to offer the crews food, drinks, and heartfelt words of thanks.
We were pretty busy everyday, but I managed to sneak in some shots during the occasional downtime:
Colin and I standing by while one of the linesmen crews goes over plans. These guys are all characters. It takes a particular breed to do this kind of job. When the displaced are evacuating storm-hit areas, these are the guys going in to turn the lights back on.
Despite the upturned tree, the house behind it was in surprisingly good condition.
It was an eye-opening experience, seeing that kind of devastation first hand. Despite all the damage, the Southern hospitality still showed through. There wasn't a day when we were out in the field where locals ranging from high school students to retired seniors didn't drive by to offer the crews food, drinks, and heartfelt words of thanks.
We were pretty busy everyday, but I managed to sneak in some shots during the occasional downtime:
Colin and I standing by while one of the linesmen crews goes over plans. These guys are all characters. It takes a particular breed to do this kind of job. When the displaced are evacuating storm-hit areas, these are the guys going in to turn the lights back on.
Despite the upturned tree, the house behind it was in surprisingly good condition.
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