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September 22, 2005
Carrot Juice and Coffee
The birds is out and the skies is blue, the wind-up world wakes up and what to do?
Uh.
Just read a fairly stellar short story by the amazing Haruki Murakami in the New Yorker. His descriptive kung fu is superior. And he has this magic, this understated way of creating a sense of longing for a life, or an environment that you never knew existed. Does that make any sense? His writing seems to be getting a little less sentimental and less pop-culture fixated. But he hasn't lost that sensitivity to weirdness and random, just-beyond-conscious-perception psychic mystery that I really loved about all his novels. Duder is on a Level.
Plus, if you go to his "official" site, there's rad Sigur Ros-style ambient music in the background (note to self: get hip Japanese author to commission new Night Night material).
Read a local review of the new Deathray, plus a mention about the podcast I've started (and neglected). Just a couple of sentences really, but one common subtext in both blurbs seemed to be that we're (both D-ray and the poopcast, etc) getting less, shall we say, accessible. O-K. Look, I'm an unapologetic weirdo. I can't fully speak to the Deathray 'criticism', as that's a collaborative effort, but I'm certain that much of what I do or say or write could be considered pretentious. At the least narcissistic. I mean, having a blog, not to mention a rock band or or lap-pop project or ANY creative effort out there is asking for (desperately begging for?) some level of scrutiny. But you know, I truly Just. Don't. Care.
(much)
I can't. It's like, you want the Noose or the Ladder while yr up there on the soapbox? I've got enough self-loathing stored up, dudes, please, thank you. I'm alright, nobody worry 'bout me.
I've never fit the mold of the artist-rebel archetype. And I've never been good at being a populist either. I guess if I had to find a compartment for my creative mind and spirit, it would be the one labeled "File under: Can't Find The Filing Cabinet". Which is all to say, I wanna calmly embrace the square pegs and the freaks. The REAL freaks, the ones who don't look the part, or who FULLY look the part, who need more than a circumspect surface scratch or a sweet pair of jeans or a rad bookshelf.
Oh, I'm totally rambling. Like I said, the Eternal Freedom Fighter Artist pants don't really fit, so this silly "I'm-a gonna do what I WANT and everyone else can just S MY D!" rant might seem a bit gauzy. I guess I'm just trying to paraphrase what our beloved President Bushy has said so succinctly: "You're either with us or you're against us."
And by 'Us', I mean 'My Nuts'.
What? Goulet. I'm sorry, what was I writing about?
Anyway, WHAT I MEAN TO SAY: This is for me. If yr IN, I'm totally happy to have you. Emergency exits are located at the top of the vehicle. Read the above disclaimer.
Maybe I'm feeling a mite defensive. And insecure. I dunno. The aforementioned Deathray album has been roundly rejected in label-land, and more significantly, the band isn't really doing anything right now: no shows or real future plans. I know that this should not matter one bit, should not factor into anything, and getting bummed about such a thing is contradictory to, well, EVERYTHING I've just written. But. It's just an odd sensation to emerge from an almost three-year period of pouring everything we had emotionally and otherwise into a bunch of songs, going through a chaotic storm of addiction, madness, fistfights, bitterness, recovery, forgiveness, rad studio joy/pain freakouts - just the whole dirty kitchen sink. All the eggs. And then - it's over and done with! Three years = a small pile of CDs in my living room and some mailing envelopes. It's just weird. No, I'm not crying over my inflated sense of entitlement - this isn't about "Oh, those poor guys, they really deserved better!". It's just strange - I never thought about what I'd do next if/when we finished this record. Is it like waiting for the applause after singing yr guts out, but the only thing you hear is the sound of footsteps on the sidewalk? Yeah, maybe a little. But again, I so need to get out of my own head about this and just keep moving. That is the hard thing. The EMO thing (as the most excellent M. Ritchey would put it).
I guess sometimes, I just want to find the filing cabinet. I want to figure out what the mystery is, what it is that I'm doing. Understand the mechanics of inspiration a little bit more. Wind the bird up and let it go, along the plumb line and up, out, away.
YOUR FRIEND,
DANA
posted by dana at September 22, 2005 01:33 PM
