Music That Moved Me When I Was 27

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Move to California - Times New Viking

Hint hint.

Testament - the Wake

This is one of my favorite songs from the past few years. Beautiful music. Beautiful lyrics. The entire tone is just perfect.

The Ghost - James Yuill

Tones of protection of and optimism that made this song a good companion for the Fall 2008 election season when everything looked rather peachy and hopeful.

Olympic Airways - Foals

I remember watching this video at the library when I was inundated with work but dreaming of freedom, and then feeling that freedom over the summer as I drove on Highway 89 along Lake Tahoe - the same song blaring from my stereo.

Plays John Cassavetes, Pt. 2 - DJ /Rupture v. Ekkehard Ehlers

Since I began listening to him in 2002, DJ /Rupture has matured a great deal. Like a marriage or friendship, I am happy to be sharing part of my (musical) life with him.

"The Gregorian"

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(2 intros to the same story... for my fiction class.)

His speech at the Northern Front had been a success, and he knew it. From flashing his now trademark smile to throwing his muscular arm from above his six-foot frame and crashing it against the unsuspecting podium, he had controlled the separatist audience as a conductor would a symphony. When he first began calling for deurbanization, his Ivy-shaded vernacular and Boston accent betrayed him. But he had learned a lot from those failed campaigns. Rather than speak on the presumption that the separatists would listen to his like-minded ideas of revolution in spite of his pedigree, he now spoke as if all that his pedigree provided him was spite; ideas had become an afterthought. Now, when he demanded that the Metropol bombers be executed, he heard the heckling and the threats from his first campaign; when he ordered that capita-maximums be enforced throughout the Central Territory, he saw his commanding officer killed in the failed mutiny; when he called for mandatory immigrant deportations to Canada, he felt the pangs of Maryanne breaking their engagement; when he denounced the Treaty of Cincinnati, he smelled his son’s burnt flesh from the South Side bombing. Only by wearing his past as if it were a crown of thorns, he knew, could Gregory Bender succeed in winning over New America. Now, as he waved to the adoring crowd from his helicopter, six days before the Territorial Councils would choose a new president, he delighted in sensing that the punctures were deepening. There was no turning back.

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The hardest part about pulling the trigger, I knew, would be that he remembered my daughter’s name. It’s always what’s worst about undercover work, having to get to know the guy, realizing that they personally aren’t that bad as they say back home. But this is war and I have my duty. There are three separatist leaders competing for control over New America and Gregory Bender is the only one who has the power to inspire its permanent disillusion from the Union. No doubt, with his experience, intelligence, and presence on the stage, he is the most dangerous man in either country. His conviction is astounding and his intense face and large build makes it seem that he is willing to take on the Union with his bare hands. With all the fighting and sacrifice that these people have gone through, they need to believe in someone like Gregory; what’s worse is that he knows this better than anyone and is perfectly willing to exploit it. If I could not see the destruction he’s causing, I’d say there was a beautiful dependence in their symbiosis. The trouble is, after having been in his inner circle for the past two years, I can see that he has given up on any reconciliation between New America and the American Union. It doesn’t matter if he’s discussing military operations with a general or rallying a hall full of widowed housewives, he’s only concerned with making them an extension of his will, a means by which he can satiate his torment. He has witnessed too much and lost too much because of this war to see anything past it. He is beyond compromise. Like me, he is on a suicide mission. That’s is why I must kill him. I just wish the poor bastard would stop asking about my daughter.

Today's Sharp Sparkle, or Say It Plain

I think there's too much burden placed on the orgasm, you know, to make up for empty areas in life.
- Woody Allen, Annie Hall

It's the Wednesday morning after the inauguration. Depending on whom one asks, the party is over or the party has just begun.

School began last week, but I feel as if today is the first day. There is a lot of work to do, from here on out.

I felt many emotions during the inauguration. For some reason, I began the day thinking that something extraordinary was about to occur; whether it would be good or bad, I did not know. I packed a lunch that I did not eat; I packed a phone charger, which I did not use, in case there was some catastrophe; I brought my iPod shuffle in case I was stuck in the immovable crowd that never appeared. For some reason, I thought that sensationalism was the name of the day.

Instead, everything happened without surprise, without mysticism.

The potentially groundbreaking message I assumed would come from our new president was muted by pragmatism, history, and wisdom. Although I never thought negatively of the speech, critics said that it lacked the "umph" that other inaugural addresses contained. Maybe, for us who pray to messiahs and bow to the shock and awe, withholding the "umph" was exactly what we needed. Much of what Obama promises is far-fetched and could be construed as pandering. What he does less of, though, is promise that solutions will be easy. Instead of creating the catch phrase, he chose to retell our story with a comprehensiveness that we have not seen in a long time. Obama could not start out with fantastic solutions because his plans for us first require us to reacquaint ourselves with our past, with our identities. Only by knowing ourselves, both individually and as a nation, can we begin to consider what we need to accomplish to reach greater heights. President Obama invoked Lincoln and Washington; he referenced slavery and the hopes our relatives had when they came to this continent. He tried his best to reintroduce us to ourselves, which can only be accomplished by remembering that we are not mainly 9/11, Pearl Harbor, the Super Bowl, the season finale, or the orgasm. Instead, as the inaugural poet laureate Elizabeth Alexander said:

Say it plain: that many have died for this day.
Sing the names of the dead who brought us here,
who laid the train tracks,
raised the bridges,
picked the cotton and the lettuce,
built brick by brick the glittering edifices they would then keep clean and work inside of.

Instead of shiny solutions, maybe we need to relearn what a solution looks like and for what reason it's sought.

Maybe we need to relearn that it is us, not Him, who should do the striving.

"Soar, Loser"

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I am trying to get into this awesome looking (legal) fiction writing class. The assignment for next week is to write a 100-word story. Here are some initial attempts:


Gregory did not know what to expect when the plane landed. Last time, reporters outnumbered supporters. Still, he thought that his chances here were good: Many of the candidates were relatively unknown in Phoenix. Gregory’s vocal support of the Cleveland riots won him appeal among separatists, but he had much to prove to the Western Frontier. There was greater fervor here. He thought that he had done enough by calling for Chicago’s immediate conversion to Urbtowns, but his obvious pedigree betrayed his statements supporting the Yeomen.

When his entourage reached the terminal, Gregory was shocked to find General Scarve waiting.

Reflections on the Curious Case(s) of Benjamin Button

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***Warning: Potential spoiler for both the film and short story***

First, I want to go over what I did like from the film, then the differences and similarities between the short story and cinematic versions of Ben Button, and then critique the relationship between Daisy and Benjamin.

If the film was called anything but the Curious Case..., it would be a rather fine Hollywood film. (I would call it Titanic meets Forrest Gump, except much better written than both.) It was consistent and beautiful. It tried to tell a complex story that spanned through what might be the United State's lifespan as the source of influence, innovation, and ideals that make us all, to some extent, patriotic. Beginning on November 11, 1919, the final day of WWI, and ending just as Hurricane Katrina hits NOLA, it evoked thoughts of innocence and reflection that made the United States such a strong country. Coming into its own after WWI and clearly having lost it's way in the wake of Katrina, Ben's life (and the backwards clock, a great image) could simply be a statement that the United States became and remained great for its wisdom of an elder nation, yet maintaining the innovative spirit of youth. This is reinforced by the final image of the backwards-moving clock being submerged in flood water.

Smear

This is the beginning of a short story I started in February 2006 and have probably not touched since then (except the last paragraph, which I just wrote). I am going to try to finish a respectable draft in the coming weeks.

Smear

This is what you get when you mess with us.

I.

“Hold my calls for the next hour, Alicia.”

“But what if he calls, Senator Augustine?”

“I don’t imagine him calling, but if he does just tell him that I have nothing to say that he wants to know.” It’s touching that she thinks that the President—that anyone—has anything left to say to me or want from me, except my head.

Before I close the door to my office, I consider something; I turn back to my loyal secretary of eight years.

“Actually, Alicia, there’s really nothing left for you to do here. How about you take the rest of the day off. I am sure Leo would be elated if you picked him up from school.”

“Are you sure, sir?”

“I am.”

“Okay. Senator Augustine?”

“Yes?” For the first time during the conversation I look directly at Alicia and notice that her glasses are foggy. Her lips are quivering.

“I am very sorry that this all happened.”

“I know. Me, too.” I muster a half-smile, faintly patting her shoulder, hoping to relate my appreciation for her kindness. She is probably the only person left in this city who truly feels sorry.