Cor ad cor loquitur

“Mick frowned and rubbed her fist hard across her forehead. That was the way things were. It was like she was mad all the time. Not how a kid gets mad quick so that soon it is all over--but in another way. Only there was nothing to be mad at. Unless the store. But the store hadn't asked her to take the job. So there was nothing to be mad at. It was like she was cheated. Only nobody had cheated her. So there was nobody to take it out on. However, just the same she had that feeling. Cheated.

But maybe it would be true about the piano and turn out O.K. Maybe she would get a chance soon. Else what the hell good had it all been--the way she felt about music and the plans she had made in the inside room? It had to be some good if anything made sense. And it was too and it was too and it was too and it was too. It was some good.

All right!

O.K!

Some good.” 

The Heart is a Lonely Hunter; Carson McCullers

5:00PM Daily

I Am Not I

I am not I.
I am this one
walking beside me whom I do not see,
whom at times I manage to visit,
and whom at other times I forget;
the one who remains silent while I talk,
the one who forgives, sweet, when I hate,
the one who takes a walk when I am indoors,
the one who will remain standing when I die.

--Juan Ramon Jimenez

My Body Is A Cage - Arcade Fire (live)

Nonaphonogelia

"...à la jalousie, rien n'est plus épouvantable que le rire."

--Francoise Sagan

Ennui

"Knowledge would be fatal. It is the uncertainty that charms one. A mist makes things wonderful."
"One may lose one's way."
"All ways end at the same point, my dear Gladys."
"What is that?"
"Disillusion."

- The Picture of Dorian Gray; Oscar Wilde

***

(Chapter 18 is is one of my favorite chapters from the book, and yet it wasn't even included as it is today in the very first edition.)

Getting high

"Some people read for instruction, which is praiseworthy, and some for pleasure, which is innocent, but not a few read from habit, and I suppose that this is neither innocent or praiseworthy. Of that lamentable company am I. Conversation after a time bores me, games tire me and my own thoughts, which we are told are the unfailing resource of a sensible man, have a tendency to run dry. Then I fly to my book as the opium-smoker to his pipe."

The Book-Bag; Somerset Maugham

(READ IT)

For argument's sake

Now it is such a bizarrely improbable coincidence that anything so mindbogglingly useful could have evolved purely by chance that some thinkers have chosen to see it as a final and clinching proof of the non-existence of God.

The argument goes something like this: "I refuse to prove that I exist," says God, "for proof denies faith, and without faith I am nothing."

"But," says Man, "the Babel fish is a dead giveaway isn't it? It could not have evolved by chance. It proves you exist, and so therefore, by your own arguments, you don't. QED."

"Oh dear," says God, "I hadn't thought of that," and promptly vanishes in a puff of logic.

"Oh, that was easy," says Man, and for an encore goes on to prove that black is white and gets himself killed on the next zebra crossing.

- The Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy; Douglas Adams

Started off this morning (very early this morning? last night? I'm not sure; the current state of my head and eyes tell me what little sleep I got wasn't in any way what could be considered the marking end point to a day and the start of another) rereading The Long-Lost Teatime of the Soul, and even had opportunity to quote it before breakfast. My sister and I used to quote all of Adams' books extensively to each other, as part of another, but this time accidental, bonding ritual and it's amazing how you can find pretty much an appropriate one for any situation.

There are worse ways to ease into a weekend.

I am the warrior

"Real war is not fought when two imbecile powers decide to drop a bomb. Real war is fought in the field of uncontrolled love and hatred, especially when the battle is over. Gio, the battle has left your mind and heart lacerated by a very bad wound: but the others are unaware of it, because you still look outwardly the same. Leave them in ignorance. Don't tell them you're changed, don't tell them about the battle that changed you. The tribe you belong to doesn't know what to do with martyrs or heroes. They don't conform to the rules, they trouble the conscience of simple people, they're the mad element in world of sensible folk. You must keep silent or lie, if you don't want to alarm them."

- Penelope Goes To War; Orianna Fallaci

Fallaci's work--and Fallaci, herself, especially after an interview with the Shah--was quite popular back home, especially in the couple of years leading up to the revolution, when several of her books were translated (and very well) into Farsi and published during the last hurrah of the Shah's attempt to allow freedom of publication. (He himself was not fond of her. For good reason.) I read most of her published books ( except 'The Man') in Farsi; they made quite an impression on me, especially this book and 'To A Child Unborn'. English translations of her works are near impossible to come by (in some cases, they don't exist), but I did finally track down an old paperback copy of 'Penelope..' a few years ago. Whether it's because I've now lived for nearly two decades in the country that was idolized by Gio, the protagonist, and am less likely to be charmed by her naivete, or because I find the feminist slant less original and more tired, being an older woman compared to the teenage girl who first read it, or because my youthful impression of Fallaci as a free spirited, strong-minded, and independent woman has been influenced by my changed perception of her as result of her actions in the last decade, or simply because the writing is, realistically, not as tantalizing in English (or, perhaps, even in general) as it appeared to my 14 year old eyes; whatever the reason, I am far less enamored of this book than I was twenty some odd years ago.

And, yet, it is not without its charms still, and in Gio I still sense a familiarity after all this time. I also can't deny that the title and the concept behind it still calls to me: I, too, never was, never am, and never will be a Penelope who sits placidly and sagely at home, weaving intricate deceptions and awaiting fate. I'll go, enthusiastically and possibly foolishly, with no sleight of hand but just straight intentions, into battle to face it.

Punching out

"Is there in the whole world a being who would have the right to forgive and could forgive? I don't want harmony. From love for humanity I don't want it. I would rather be left with the unavenged suffering. I would rather remain with my unavenged suffering and unsatisfied indignation, even if I were wrong. Besides, too high a price is asked for harmony; it's beyond our means to pay so much to enter on it. And so I hasten to give back my entrance ticket, and if I am an honest man I am bound to give it back as soon as possible. And that I am doing. It's not God that I don't accept, Alyosha, only I most respectfully return him the ticket. "

- The Brothers Karamazov; Fyodor Dostoyevsky

I wouldn't do it respecfully, though. I'd spit on it, tear it up, and throw it in his fucking face.

Whom the gods love

"How much [mercy] had you for me when your lies drove me out to be slave to them on the sugar-plantations? You shudder at that--ah, these tender-hearted saints! This is the man after God's own heart--the man who repents after his sins and lives. No one dies but his son. You say you love me--your love has cost me dear enough! Do you think I can block out everything, and turn into Arthur at a few, soft words? I, that have been dishwasher in filthy half-caste brothels and stable boy to Creole farmers that were worse brutes than their own cattle? I, that have been zany in cap and bells for a strolling variety show--drudge and Jack-of-all-trades to the matadors in the bull-fighting ring; I, that have been slave to every black beast who cared to set his foot on my back; I, that have been starved and spat upon and trampled underfoot; I, that have begged for mouldy scraps and been refused because the dogs had the first right? Oh, what is the use of all of this? How can I tell you what you have brought on to me? And now--you love me! How much do you love me? Enough to give up your god for me? Oh, what has he done for you, this everlasting Jesus--what has he suffered for you, that you should love him more than me? Is it for the pierced hands he is so dear to you? Look at mine! Look here, and here, and here----"

He tore open his shirt and showed his ghastly scars.

"Padre, this god of yours is an impostor. His wounds are sham wounds, his pain is all a farce! It is I that have the right to your heart! Padre, there is no torture you have not put me to; if you could only know what my life has been! And yet, I would not die! I have endured it all, and have possessed my soul in patience, because I would come back and fight this god of yours. I have held this purpose as a shield against my heart, and it has saved me from madness, and from second death. And now, when I come back, I find him still in my place-this sham victim that was crucified for six hours, forsooth, and rose again from the dead. What are you going to do with me? What are you going to do with me?"

- The Gadfly; E. L. Voynich

Mix it up

"I know people for whom music is just background noise. They don't listen to it. They just consume it. These people have never made a mix-tape for anyone. These people are not my friends. These people have no soul."

- Love Is A Mix-Tape; Rob Sheffield

I've written before about the first time I ever made a mix tape. Everything about it was right: the delight of finding new music and trying to take it all in, the very real awareness, and not implied, of bootlegging because of the restrictions back home, the heightened sense of needing to achieve perfection because of the scarcity of cassette tapes, necessitating the need to sacrifice an existing one. It was exhilarating and challenging and I was hooked.

***

"The mix tape is a list of quotations, a poetic form, in fact: the cento is a poem made up of lines pulled from other poems. The new poet collects and remixes. Similarly an operation of taste, it is also cousin to the curious passion of the obsessive collector. Unable to express himself in 'pure' art, the collector finds himself in obsessive acquisition. Collecting is strangely hot and cold, passionate and calculating."

- Mix Tape: The Art of Cassette Culture; Matias Viegener (edited by Thurston Moore)

I started listening differently to music after that first mix tape. Always, somewhere in the back of my mind, there was a separate train of thought that listened to, and appraised, music--especially songs--separate of its own merit and as part of a bigger possibility. I'd now subconsciously start to cross reference artists and their songs for their compatibility, for their divisiveness. It was as if I was hosting different parties of songs and trying to decide who to invite, based on the party's theme: a quiet Sunday dinner? A rambunctious cocktail party? Candlelit small tables by the river? Who could come? Who would come? How would they be seated? And how would the party turn out?

***

"To me, making a tape is like writing a letter — there's a lot of erasing and rethinking and starting again. A good compilation tape, like breaking up, is hard to do. You've got to kick off with a corker, to hold the attention (I started with "Got to Get You Off My Mind", but then realized that she might not get any further than track one, side one if I delivered what she wanted straightaway, so I buried it in the middle of side two), and then you've got to up it a notch, or cool it a notch, and you can't have white music and black music together, unless the white music sounds like black music, and you can't have two tracks by the same artist side by side, unless you've done the whole thing in pairs and...oh, there are loads of rules."

- High Fidelity; Nick Hornby

I adhere to some of the better known rules of the game, and I have some of my own, which have seen changes over the years. (Up until a few years ago, every single mix I ever made contained a Queen song. Somewhere along the way, it became an either/or situation with songs by Elliott Smith. This year? I tried to do neither and see where that would take me.) I don't slice and dice the choices very much, though; for me, a mix happens or it doesn't. Similarly, I almost never listen to a mix all the way through, even in sample mode (i.e. playing the beginning or end snippet of a song to see how it flows). Maybe because that first mix was made for me, and not someone else, I've always continued to feel that way, even when I have a definite theme or person in mind. I still like to be a little surprised by my own creation.

***

"I do recognize that not everyone feels as bound by the implicit playlist-exchange code of conduct as I do. That's why the code is probably implicit only to me.

She must not understand. Greater even than my desire for her to consider me [...] is my desire--no, my need--to hear, in great detail, her every single thought about each single song, each artist, each lyric: Which songs did she like, and why? Which ones has she listened to most and which ones does she find herself skipping over automatically? The order of the songs, did she notice the flow? Admire the transitions? Feel my beating heart inserted into each track?

Or am I asking too much?"

- Naomi And Ely's No Kiss List; Rachel Cohen & David Levithan

My speciality is personal themes--that is, any theme but always, somewhere in the back, there is a 'someone' in mind. Even when doing large mix exchanges, there is still that sense of sending it to someone. Mostly because I think a person's music choices, and then especially a mix, is a calling card of sorts. An invitation, however subtle, to take a little peek into them. Of course, when you issue an invitation like that, you're not content with someone just stopping by, spending a little while, and then moving on without a word. You want some sort of guarantee that you didn't just waste your time entertaining them at your very own, personal expense.

So you wait. You hope. And when you hear back, you mostly feign nonchalance and pretend to almost miss it, to preserve some sense of dignity. Because sometimes you won't hear back.

There are rules, you see.

***

"I thought you had a rule never to use the same song twice."
"Not if the mix has a completely different theme and recipient."

- Memories Of A Teenage Amnesiac; Gabrielle Zevin

I noticed over the last few months a reluctance in me to finish a lot of the mixes I'd started. Usually, I am good for one or two every couple of months; the past 12 months, quota fell far shorter of that. It seemed that every time I'd decide on a song or a certain arrangement or theme, I'd get a sense of deja vu. It took a while (I'm not always quick on the uptake for everything!) to realize that this space had become, in my mind, a little mix project of its own, albeit with a lack of [deliberate] desire to share. Even so, and despite the little to no feedback solicitation, I couldn't easily shake a sense of been there, done that. It seemed too much of a challenge to have different perspectives for the same view.

Too much of a challenge. I'm hooked again.

***

This mix came about in the best way possible: prompted by another mix, some late night exchanges, and reactions to events in a very particular point in time. When it's effortless, that's the best.

Isn't that the truth.

Back Chat Mix

That's what it's all about

"Other bands, it's about sex. Or pain. Or some fantasy. But The Beatles, they knew what they were doing. You know the reason The Beatles made it so big?"

"What?"

" 'I Wanna Hold Your Hand'. First single. Fucking brilliant. Perhaps the most fucking brilliant song ever written. Because they nailed it. That's what everyone wants. Not 24-7 hot, wet sex. Not a marriage that lasts a hundred years. Not a Porsche or a blowjob or a million-dollar crib. No. They wanna hold your hand. They have such a feeling they can't hide. Every single successful love song of the past fifty years can be traced back to 'I Wanna Hold Your Hand'. And every single successful love story has those unbearable and unbearably exciting moments of hand-holding. Trust me. I've thought a lot about this"

" 'I Wanna Hold Your Hand,' " I repeat.

"And so you are, my friend. So you are."

- Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist*; Rachel Cohen & David Levithan


I Wanna Hold Your Hand - The Beatles




I Wanna Hold Your Hand (cover) - T.V. Carpio (from 'Across The Universe')
How perfectly does this capture it? Also, if you do not like this movie, do not talk to me about not liking it.



*P.S. An end to end N&N review--meaning book, movie, and soundtrack--coming soon as part of a regular series I thought might fit well in this space. Stay tuned...

G&T to the rescue

Actually, given that I am at this very moment enjoying a generously sized and absolutely sublime G&T, perhaps this quote from Life, The Universe, and Everything, which directly precedes the previous one, would have been much more appropriate to post:

"I thought you must be dead ..." [Arthur] said simply.
"So did I for a while," said Ford, "and then I decided I was a lemon for a couple of weeks. I kept myself amused all that time jumping in and out of a gin and tonic."
Arthur cleared his throat, and then did it again.
"Where," he said, "did you ...?"
"Find a gin and tonic?" said Ford brightly. "I found a small lake that thought it was a gin and tonic, and jumped in and out of that. At least, I think it thought it was a gin and tonic."
"I may," he added with a grin which would have sent sane men scampering into trees, "have been imagining it."

Stay sane

"The point is, you see," said Ford, "that there is no point in driving yourself mad trying to stop yourself going mad. You might just as well give in and save your sanity for later."

(Life, The Universe, And Everything; Douglas Adams)

P.S. Stay sane was my universal signoff--both written and spoken--for my four years in college. I cannot lay claim to originating it, though; a guy I only remember by our nickname for him (Guy Smiley) actually said it to me and a friend, when he was plastered out of his mind during a party very early on in the semester. I appropriated it and ignored him.

Turgenev said it better

than I did :

"Never had he felt such weariness of body and of spirit. He had passed the whole evening in the company of charming ladies and cultivated men; some of the ladies were beautiful, almost all the men were distinguished by intellect or talent; he himself had talked with great success, even with brilliance ... and, for all that, never yet had the taedium vitae of which the Romans talked of old, the 'disgust for life,' taken hold of him with such irresistible, such suffocating force. Had he been a little younger, he would have cried with misery,weariness, and exasperation: a biting, burning bitterness, like the bitter of wormwood, filled his whole soul. A sort of clinging repugnance, a weight of loathing closed in upon him on all sides like a dark night of autumn; and he did not know how to get free from this darkness, this bitterness. Sleep it was useless to reckon upon; he knew he should not sleep."

(The Torrents of Spring; Ivan Turgenev)

***
Possibly, one of my greatest desires was the ability to read the Russian classics in their native language. I can only imagine how something that translates with so much feeling into English must sound as originally written.

Calling card inscription

"Damaged people are dangerous. They know they can survive."

(Damage; Josephine Hart)