If I

It has been well over a year since I contributed to this little blog of mine. That’s well over a year too long.

In the long succession of apologies that might follow, I might instead just say: “School. School and Mexico. School and Mexico and regular mid-collegiate complexities. School and Mexico and small things and falling in love and making friends and trying my damndest to keep them. School and these things and simply forgetting.”

That’s all I would really have to say. But the insights gained from that past well over year or so are immense in comparison. And I hope I would have grown as a writer.

Put truthfully, I miss writing about the things in the world I love writing about (no real offense meant to Beowulf and Wordsworth and Tolstoy…)

I hope to jump back wholeheartedly into this writing thing that once came so naturally. I miss it quite a bit.


Shout It Out Loud

This makes me happy.

Much more on it later.

Gonna Take a Stab at This

In the midst of rewriting an essay on Arthurian romance and staring down a pile of books on African cinema… I return to this.

My offerings are measly, but I figure it is the attempt that counts.

In any case, the best thing that has happened in these first few months of my sophomore year of college (excluding of course, friends, going on zoo dates with an adorable boy, eating a lot of indian food, watching movies in various dorm rooms, red licorice, fancy ice cream, fancy cup cakes, etc etc etc) was seeing Grizzly Bear in the middle of October.

They played the beautiful Moore Theatre, beset by a stage full of upturned mason jars filled with Christmas lights that danced around them to the music. They sounded beautiful, looked wonderful and even talked to us after the show.

Things are well in Seattle.

(And there are other things to share…)

“Ready, Able”, among the many Grizzly Bear related things that almost make me cry:

Back to “Sir Gawain”, though I intend to return to this soon.

Understand Once and for All

My friend directed me to a band last night that I could not ignore.

It is not a band for everyone, but looking at them in specifically in artistic terms, they are a band for me.

Ambient, almost glitchy, noise under recordings of voices. Not necessarily singing, but speaking, and they create a symphony out of these words.

It’s like the musical equivalent of found art.

And it makes me want to go on long walks, find wide expanses of grass in a park on a windy day, and write something worth reading out loud.

And Everything You Are, You’ll See

John Hughes died yesterday.

Last night, being bombarded with the fact when I went online, I needed to take a moment to stop and reflect upon the significance of the filmmaker that this man was.

Middle-aged, white, and relatively well-off in the ’80s, John Hughes made a series of films in the years before my birth that have factored so importantly into my non-white, not-so-well-off, and distinctly non-male character development that it’s actually a little bit embarassing.

In his construct of the ideal movie heroine (as portrayed by Molly Ringwald), I know that I was not the first person to find a blueprint for acting out my adolescence.

Hughes’ hand can be seen in most teen dramas produced since his era, most notably the films that glorify the misfit, defining their journey as the journey that matters the most in the end-all experience of high school. In John Hughes’ world, there does not exist a place beyond 12th grade. That might explain a lot of my eighteen-year-old panic when I embarked out into the real world, being finally without my most worthy frame of red-haired reference.

I see a lot of John Hughes in Can’t Hardly Wait and 10 Things I Hate About You. More recently, there is something very Hughesian about Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist and Charlie Bartlett and especially, so much, in Juno. The love and care that a filmmaker is willing to spend on a character wearing black and unhappy with the state of their surroundings. The willingness of writers and directors to help these characters find each other against all odds, and maybe be happy at the end of a 95-minute film for having discovered the other.

Last week, desperate for a Pretty In Pink afternoon, I was remarking to my mother about how strange that filmmaking fact still seems to me. In high school (even in the ’00s), it was the demands of the blonde and beautiful that proved to be the rule. The margins in the high school experience operated quietly and begrudgingly. We wrote blogs with awful poetry, tried to get as far away from the HS campus as humanly possible, and came home to John Hughes movies. Because in those movies, those margins were still the heroes. Even in The Breakfast Club, Allison Reynolds (as played by the amazing Ally Sheedy) proves to be way more badass than the simpering princess played by Molly Ringwald (though she is still an excellent dancer.) John Hughes took the time to spread the margins across the screen, showing them in full color and movie lighting, not without flaws but yet eventually reigning over their own experience.

I am forever grateful for these escapes into a world where the beautiful are ignored for the marginally attractive, and where Sam Baker actually gets a red-plaid wearing Jake Ryan in the end. It’s apparent to me that these films were those that paved the way for Lindsey on Freaks and Geeks and that Julia Stiles as ’90s riot grrrl Kat owes much more to Andie Walsh in Pretty In Pink than she does to even Shakespeare.

So, John Hughes. I watched his films last night, watched them this morning, and will watch them when I am finished writing this. Because, even a year and more away from the confines of my high school, I still need to be reminded that my experience was not singular–and that stuck in the freeze frame with Simple Minds blasting, the misfits and geeks and crazy kids are still much more happy than the beautiful and stupid ones. At least for that one moment.

10 Reasons The Films of John Hughes Cannot Fade Away

Continue reading

And Slowly Dear

I have spent many hours drafting playlists and mix lists. Thinking of the perfect lyric to fit after the perfect song, constructing messages and moods and maybe painting a picture of a moment so it will last on a burned disc that won’t outlast time.

I love collecting songs from other people too. My roommate and I used to have conversations all the time, trading perfect songs for very specific moments.

One afternoon, we spent an hour or so with a back and forth of songs that reminded us of boys. Boys. We pointed out the lyrics that mattered, the memories tied to them, why the song lifted just so that it would be caught in our collective memory.

Months later, I downloaded one of the songs because when she played it on her iPod it made me want to cry. Making me want to cry isn’t necessarily a great feat, but the way that this song tugged around my lungs was so specific that I felt I needed it.

This song reminded me of people I have kissed, of people that I want to kiss, of people that I would later kiss, or never kiss no matter how badly I’d want to.

It was an all-encompassing map of even events that hadn’t passed, applicable to every moment and heartbreaking in the want that rises while the song plays.

It’s feels universal even with specific details of another man’s love for someone that I do not know. I can claim this lovely lilting, night-time song without considering the singer at all.

I desperately want this song to be able to fill out lists for ages and never get old.

“Part One” by Band of Horses:

the bottom the earth i have to fall
but you really caught me
you really caught me, dear
at the bottom where I’d fallen.

and slowly dear ask that you dance with me
here with the shades down
lights off

when i didn’t know you
and everything i do
done badly

now I’ll love you always
even when i say
you distract me.

and sit out tonight in some strange place
if we have no friends here
well i had a few to begin with

to wake next to you in the morning
and good morning to you.
how do you do?
hey, good morning to you!
more covers for you.
sleep soundly dear cause i have to go.

and I’ll love you always.
when we leave this place
and drive back to Carolina
and down to Savannah and

What You Find Out

I have established that this summer has been long and hot and slow and seemingly filled with dust (but that might just be due to working in a fruit stand.)

So, to combat the heat and the boredom, I love devoting some time to finding Yakima songs. “Sing! Captain” by the Handsome Furs, Beirut songs, most things by Modest Mouse. Things that make the time pass in more interesting and occasionally poignant ways. I chalk that up to the persistent eighth-grade nerd of a poet that my brain still hosts.

Imagine my delight when I stumbled across an 88.5 treasure on iTunes today while buying random things to fill up a fifteen dollar gift card.

And in finding it discovered in retrospect that a song I had been listening to at odd intervals over the past five years or so ended up being the perfect song for my summer now, nineteen years old and ready to leave.

“Car” by Built to Spill.

It’s an antidote, an anecdote, many of the things I have fought to express and forgot to include.

I rather appreciate it.

You get the car
I’ll get the night off
You’ll get the chance to take the world apart and figure out how it works
Don’t let me know what you find out
I need a car
You need a guide
Who needs a map
If I don’t die or worse I’m gonna need a nap
At best I’ll be asleep when you get back
I wanna see it when you find out what comets, stars, and moons are all about
I wanna see their faces turn to backs of heads and slowly get smaller
I wanna see it now

I want specifics on the general idea
I wanna think what I should know
Want you to do me what to show
I wanna see movies of my dreams
I wanna see it when you get stoned on a cloudy breezy desert afternoon
I wanna see it untame itself and break its owner
I wanna see it now