My closest friend loves antique birdcages. I never noticed any sort of birdcage before she professed her love for them, but I can understand their appeal: there is a certain beauty in the tarnished silver and intricate, whirling metal craftsmanship of yesteryear. I began to secretly share her love of antique birdcages; I plucked my fingers over the corroded metal while I mulled over any collection I came across. The musical echo of empty cages rockets my imagination to a world of beauty that doesn't answer to practicality or necessity (due, in large part, to the fact that I would never own a bird).
She took me by surprise one morning during one of our cherished strolls to the nearest coffeehouse when she mentioned that she used to love spray painting her antique birdcages gold.
My heart sank. I thought of the scores of exquisite antique birdcages I'd seen dying a slow, cheap death to metallic varnish; a denial of their history, of my dream of beauty for its own sake.
I didn't say anything, but couldn't help feeling betrayed. How could she, my best friend, an artist, a literature fanatic, not see the beauty I had secretly admired? She, who never fails to notice even the most intricate details, had somehow overseen the perfection and beauty of imperfection that I adored.
I wish I could spray paint my imperfections gold; hide them beneath gleaming enamel and make them pretty--or at least acceptable. Unlike my revered birdcages, I've never believed that I have a right to beauty. Even in the best of times I only like myself half as much as I should.
But I hold my dream of birdcage beauty close. I embrace it in secrecy and nourish my aspiration to delight in an imperfect beauty that is my own.
8.30.2009
8.16.2009
sound garden
My favorite aspect of driving is a satisfying chunk of alone time. An empty car creates a perfect concert hall to which I can dedicate my most revered music. During my solitude I revel in the uninterrupted beauty of elaborate drum solos, catchy guitar riffs, colorful bass lines, and a soulful, melodious piano. I can max out the volume, I can repeat, and three-peat, and I can bust out the drum beat.
And I can sing along.
And I do. I follow in the highest highs and the lowest lows. I am as faithful to a gyrating vibrato as I can be. I scat, hum, whistle, rap, shout, serenade, and harmonize. My musical warship blooms the ripest fruits of happiness and fulfillment; I sit in a garden of awe.
To me, music is as close to perfection as beauty can be. With every opportunity I strive to envelop myself in the warm cloak of symphony.
I thought everyone felt the same as me--until I was twelve. As sat in my mother's Chevy passenger seat peering at the drivers by; there seemed to be a distinct, yet vague something missing. When I finally figured out what the something was, I sat appalled: I couldn't hear even the slightest evidence of an enchanting melody amongst the cavalry of vehicles. Drivers sat alone, staring at the road. Their open windows shared nothing but air.
And it wasn't only on this one occasion; I began to witness an ever-repeating pattern of music-less, joyless drivers on virtually every excursion I made into the public driving arena. Even my mother's answers to my ceaseless whys did nothing to satiate my curiosity. I had yet to share the same fanatical obsession with music with another person (other than my family, my most beloved congregation of fellow freaks).
I have, since my moment of clarity as a child, observed strangers with a distracted interest in music--as something to live around, not in. But what I find truly perplexing is that I have never seen someone sing along--not even silently. I was convinced that the technological advancements that brought new frontiers to the portability of music might coerce the slightest peep out of even the most conservative individual; yet, nothing. The same dreary monotony.
It's time to stop speculating, I've decided after too many unanswered wonderments. Though I feel a tinge of regret for the unfortunate souls who cannot embrace the aweinspiring beauty of music, I suppose there is little I can do for these people but hope that they have the opportunity to witness the freak show that is me, alone, in my car, fully in bloom.
And I can sing along.
And I do. I follow in the highest highs and the lowest lows. I am as faithful to a gyrating vibrato as I can be. I scat, hum, whistle, rap, shout, serenade, and harmonize. My musical warship blooms the ripest fruits of happiness and fulfillment; I sit in a garden of awe.
To me, music is as close to perfection as beauty can be. With every opportunity I strive to envelop myself in the warm cloak of symphony.
I thought everyone felt the same as me--until I was twelve. As sat in my mother's Chevy passenger seat peering at the drivers by; there seemed to be a distinct, yet vague something missing. When I finally figured out what the something was, I sat appalled: I couldn't hear even the slightest evidence of an enchanting melody amongst the cavalry of vehicles. Drivers sat alone, staring at the road. Their open windows shared nothing but air.
And it wasn't only on this one occasion; I began to witness an ever-repeating pattern of music-less, joyless drivers on virtually every excursion I made into the public driving arena. Even my mother's answers to my ceaseless whys did nothing to satiate my curiosity. I had yet to share the same fanatical obsession with music with another person (other than my family, my most beloved congregation of fellow freaks).
I have, since my moment of clarity as a child, observed strangers with a distracted interest in music--as something to live around, not in. But what I find truly perplexing is that I have never seen someone sing along--not even silently. I was convinced that the technological advancements that brought new frontiers to the portability of music might coerce the slightest peep out of even the most conservative individual; yet, nothing. The same dreary monotony.
It's time to stop speculating, I've decided after too many unanswered wonderments. Though I feel a tinge of regret for the unfortunate souls who cannot embrace the aweinspiring beauty of music, I suppose there is little I can do for these people but hope that they have the opportunity to witness the freak show that is me, alone, in my car, fully in bloom.
8.14.2009
no big deal
I need to have an obsession. A fixation. A favorite color or food du jour.
"phenomenal" was my most recent obsession; my preferred adjective. The taste, color, sound, and smell of anything: all phenomenal. I wore phenomenal like a watch, constantly consulting the time. When my 24 hours were up, I moved on to "amazing."
Though words compose a more ephemeral genre of my fixations, I proudly display the rest like iridescent scales. They create an integral, yet decorative aspect to my personality. A Corinthian column of composite passions.
My initial forage into the vast world of caffeine began innocently enough-- until the occasional milky, chocolate-drizzled creations bred a fervent need for double espressos and a twoandthreecupaday habit that left me crushing my gas pedal and exploring colorful new territory in my use of expletives. A passion I could never leave behind, even the smell of coffee seems to brighten my smile and dilate my pupils. It is the exclamation point to an ordinary day, the cool side of the pillow. It is my favorite song.
I could not call myself a caffeine addict with any accuracy; my body's ambivalence to its non-presence proves that I do not need to carry on in this characteristic zeal of mine--but why stop? Who would I be without my quirky compulsion to fixate on the minutia of everyday life?
I'll consider it over another cup of coffee.
"phenomenal" was my most recent obsession; my preferred adjective. The taste, color, sound, and smell of anything: all phenomenal. I wore phenomenal like a watch, constantly consulting the time. When my 24 hours were up, I moved on to "amazing."
Though words compose a more ephemeral genre of my fixations, I proudly display the rest like iridescent scales. They create an integral, yet decorative aspect to my personality. A Corinthian column of composite passions.
My initial forage into the vast world of caffeine began innocently enough-- until the occasional milky, chocolate-drizzled creations bred a fervent need for double espressos and a twoandthreecupaday habit that left me crushing my gas pedal and exploring colorful new territory in my use of expletives. A passion I could never leave behind, even the smell of coffee seems to brighten my smile and dilate my pupils. It is the exclamation point to an ordinary day, the cool side of the pillow. It is my favorite song.
I could not call myself a caffeine addict with any accuracy; my body's ambivalence to its non-presence proves that I do not need to carry on in this characteristic zeal of mine--but why stop? Who would I be without my quirky compulsion to fixate on the minutia of everyday life?
I'll consider it over another cup of coffee.
8.10.2009
my muse
music is my best friend
my true friend
my blues
soul
and rock n r o l l
friend.
ties up all my loose ends
and doesn't
pretend.
it sends me
a w a y
sets a beat while I pray
thank the heavens
to know such a blessing
as
melody and beat
hear it when I speak
skip the track
play it back
reverse the sound
and im
abound
joypleaseuretears
and awe
I hold it close
turn it up
and take another dose
my true friend
my blues
soul
and rock n r o l l
friend.
ties up all my loose ends
and doesn't
pretend.
it sends me
a w a y
sets a beat while I pray
thank the heavens
to know such a blessing
as
melody and beat
hear it when I speak
skip the track
play it back
reverse the sound
and im
abound
joypleaseuretears
and awe
I hold it close
turn it up
and take another dose
8.06.2009
expecting
What a daunting task it is, to begin. And here I am, at the very beginning of something hoping to stumble on some combination of success, catharsis, and an artistic expression in which I can take pride.
In the webbed corners of my mind I secretly consider myself a writer, but face the same agonies as any author: the hatred of writing. The constant reconsiderations, rereadings, deletions, consultations of the thesaurus, and trying to find balance amidst that fine line of following the rules and making up my own (though I prefer the latter). AS with any creative pursuit, self-evaluation (and the discovery of imperfection) is a frightening inevitability--even more so when looking through the window of creation. I have wondered, more than a few times, "did that come from my mind?" It is both alarming and awesome to be able to surprise yourself--to discover an almost impossible incongruence between the personslity that manifests your creations, and the personality that drives to work.
A rampant fear of myriad and vast UNimportances has fueled an inordinate (and quite frankly, embarrassing) hiatus from my writing. I would like to consider myself a writer again--in the forbidding judgment of the real world, and not just in my mind.
In the webbed corners of my mind I secretly consider myself a writer, but face the same agonies as any author: the hatred of writing. The constant reconsiderations, rereadings, deletions, consultations of the thesaurus, and trying to find balance amidst that fine line of following the rules and making up my own (though I prefer the latter). AS with any creative pursuit, self-evaluation (and the discovery of imperfection) is a frightening inevitability--even more so when looking through the window of creation. I have wondered, more than a few times, "did that come from my mind?" It is both alarming and awesome to be able to surprise yourself--to discover an almost impossible incongruence between the personslity that manifests your creations, and the personality that drives to work.
A rampant fear of myriad and vast UNimportances has fueled an inordinate (and quite frankly, embarrassing) hiatus from my writing. I would like to consider myself a writer again--in the forbidding judgment of the real world, and not just in my mind.
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