So Much Beauty... I Can't Take It. It's Like My Heart's Going To Cave In.
I'm trying something out; an experiment. I've been allowing only grace, goodness and love enter in and out of my body for the last several days. By doing this, and it's not a willed feeling, it just is a choice, I have been experiencing the most delicious feelings looking at things that had been merely ordinary and mundane while in a "normal" state. Normal being the state in which we so often walk around - working, but not knowing why and often hating it, making money - but never enough, having friends but not being the best friend you can be. In other words: normal, in this society.
I am trying to live fully in the present. By that I think this quote I came upon online says it best:
..."The circumstances and challenges in your life are not the real you. To deal effectively with these external circumstances, we must be detached from them. Observe what is in your life without judging, without being for it or against it. Just let it be. Detach yourself from it and just be with it. The moment you are for it, the effort to hold onto it begins; the moment you are against it, the effort to run away from it begins. And both struggles take you out of the present moment and into the future, into worrying about the future. This divides you within yourself; this divides you against yourself. When you are detached from the "stuff" in your life, you can take responsibility for it. You can act upon it, or you can just let it go. You can even truly enjoy it. You can live undivided—in the present moment."
I've been having these wonderfully seredipitous moments lately. I'll have questions in my head concerning the ways I've operated in the past or just qualities about myself that I wasn't sure about. I'll happen upon things that help me in my search for self understanding. The answers come if I pay attention. Sometimes just plain wonderful things happen if I pay attention.
I had decided yesterday that it was going to be my own Fun Day. No one else was implicated. No one else was really invited. I was going through the toronto.com site for general event listings. I didn't want to see a movie. Decidedly not fun enough. The idea of going to see live theatre sent a jolt of utter distain through me, mostly because I'd been an actor. But bands... interesting... I could see a live band. So I'm scrolling down and I notice playing at Lee's is The Walkmen.
Oh... my... God!
I took the subway down to Lee's. It was such a marvellous journey. There was a woman @ my 11:00, black, 250lbs, head held between two hands, either chanting a prayer or crying to herself. Not softly. To my 2:00 there were two devotees of Beyonce, both black, both pretty, both shaking their necks trying to outdo the other with stories of how stupid boys are, sucking their teeth but resigning themselves to calling said boys as soon as they got home, away from each other's judgements. Looking back at my 11:00 the older woman had released her head to show me the full cataract in her right eye. It was ice blue, bulging, determined, like a steel marble. It was extraordinary housed in her face. To my 9:00 there was an empty paper take-out coffee cup rolling in an arc along the floor. To my 3:00 there was a Polish looking gent, in his 50's carrying a wrapped gift bag. He was lovingly fluffing the tissue paper adorning it. There was a woman in her late 20's in a cheap track outfit, cheap sandals, one polyester leg crossed over the other. One loose thread dangled from her pant leg. There was a young man, scruffy, would be seriously hot, to me, if he shaved and got a haircut. With the garb and the hair he seemed to be going for that Jesus look. It's a look. I met eyes with him for maybe three seconds. It's an eternity in a subway car. He spent the entire ride looking at my reflection through the window next to him. All of these incidents. All of these images are so incredibly dear and beautiful to me. And they happen all the time to everyone, but nobody really sees them.
The Walkmen are from Washington, D.C. A four piece outfit, solid band. Very tight in recordings. Less tight live. The singer is the weakest link. And I think he knows it. Visually he has a Chris Martin (Coldplay) look about him. Tall, lightly complected, pinstriped suit jacket, casual underneath, sings with all his might. But that's it. He's not really saying anything as much as he's screaming a lot, hyper-developing his massive jugular vein. He comes from the Bob Dylan meets Sepulchura school of vocal projections.
When he walked on stage the mike, which was previously set to "shoe-gazing" standards, was switched to Kareem-Abdul Jabar heights. This meant straining high into the mike while looking down at his audience. To him we were not his supporters. We were his enemies. He looked at us with both fear and loathing at the same time. One is often linked to the other. His band was so good, but his singing style doesn't allow me to play the album as much as I'd like. His lyrics are alright, but this protective stance of screaming what it is that needs to be said, leaves me a bit cold and a bit frightened. Still, I lost my mind during The Rat.
The opening band was called The Uncut. Toronto band. I wasn't going to see them. I was planning to time it so I'd arrive mid set. Saw the whole thing.
Shy. Shoe-gazers. Sweet. Really tight. Really good. I like when opening acts dazzle us, the audience. It's happened quite a few times in my life. Each time it happens I'm secretly thrilled. More votes for the underdog. They have a decidedly new New Order sound about them. Guitar and rhythm section deliciously rich and satisfying, not unlike Interpol; vocals merely a layer, understated, not emphasised, not enhanced, actually downplayed. Very Canadian. Please, God, make them successful. They're a nice bunch of lads.
Watching these two bands, wonderful each in their own ways, reminded me of a story on the CBC's Definitely Not The Opera. Canada's style vs. that of the U.S. The interviewee was saying that when one has a conversation with a Canadian the way things are phrased there is a lilt in the sentence, as if when giving a statement the statement is still up for discussion. It's more a questioning and from a musing perspective. With Americans they tend to state their "fact" and it's stated plainly, bluntly and not open for discussion. It just is. I was telling Jeremy about this and he asked if I was American. He thinks he's very funny.
There's nothing like seeing live music sometimes. I used to hate it, complaining about the *other* people. Secretly I'd once wished the bands I loved would just do a special show just for me. After going to a lot of pubs and listening to decent enough house bands, I realised there is a lot of pressure felt to respond in a positive manner to the musicians involved. Eventually I embraced my concert-going brothers and sisters mostly because it took the pressure off maintaining my enthusiasm for the band. Now I can allow the music to fully penetrate me, make my cranium, chest, and pant legs vibrate madly and just enjoy the moment. I can scream as loud as I want because the bodies absorb the sound. I can jump up and down, laughing and clapping my hands. I can just beam throughout while still maintaining my own anonymity, which is important to me as I've discovered. I like when no one looks at me sometimes.
Music is like good sex to me. Totally fulfilling, exhilerating, evocative of so much. Good live music, with an excellent sound system, is like being picked up, thrown down and being fucked hard. In the *best* way. And when it's that good you clammer for more and more and more...
I am trying to live fully in the present. By that I think this quote I came upon online says it best:
..."The circumstances and challenges in your life are not the real you. To deal effectively with these external circumstances, we must be detached from them. Observe what is in your life without judging, without being for it or against it. Just let it be. Detach yourself from it and just be with it. The moment you are for it, the effort to hold onto it begins; the moment you are against it, the effort to run away from it begins. And both struggles take you out of the present moment and into the future, into worrying about the future. This divides you within yourself; this divides you against yourself. When you are detached from the "stuff" in your life, you can take responsibility for it. You can act upon it, or you can just let it go. You can even truly enjoy it. You can live undivided—in the present moment."
I've been having these wonderfully seredipitous moments lately. I'll have questions in my head concerning the ways I've operated in the past or just qualities about myself that I wasn't sure about. I'll happen upon things that help me in my search for self understanding. The answers come if I pay attention. Sometimes just plain wonderful things happen if I pay attention.
I had decided yesterday that it was going to be my own Fun Day. No one else was implicated. No one else was really invited. I was going through the toronto.com site for general event listings. I didn't want to see a movie. Decidedly not fun enough. The idea of going to see live theatre sent a jolt of utter distain through me, mostly because I'd been an actor. But bands... interesting... I could see a live band. So I'm scrolling down and I notice playing at Lee's is The Walkmen.
Oh... my... God!
I took the subway down to Lee's. It was such a marvellous journey. There was a woman @ my 11:00, black, 250lbs, head held between two hands, either chanting a prayer or crying to herself. Not softly. To my 2:00 there were two devotees of Beyonce, both black, both pretty, both shaking their necks trying to outdo the other with stories of how stupid boys are, sucking their teeth but resigning themselves to calling said boys as soon as they got home, away from each other's judgements. Looking back at my 11:00 the older woman had released her head to show me the full cataract in her right eye. It was ice blue, bulging, determined, like a steel marble. It was extraordinary housed in her face. To my 9:00 there was an empty paper take-out coffee cup rolling in an arc along the floor. To my 3:00 there was a Polish looking gent, in his 50's carrying a wrapped gift bag. He was lovingly fluffing the tissue paper adorning it. There was a woman in her late 20's in a cheap track outfit, cheap sandals, one polyester leg crossed over the other. One loose thread dangled from her pant leg. There was a young man, scruffy, would be seriously hot, to me, if he shaved and got a haircut. With the garb and the hair he seemed to be going for that Jesus look. It's a look. I met eyes with him for maybe three seconds. It's an eternity in a subway car. He spent the entire ride looking at my reflection through the window next to him. All of these incidents. All of these images are so incredibly dear and beautiful to me. And they happen all the time to everyone, but nobody really sees them.
The Walkmen are from Washington, D.C. A four piece outfit, solid band. Very tight in recordings. Less tight live. The singer is the weakest link. And I think he knows it. Visually he has a Chris Martin (Coldplay) look about him. Tall, lightly complected, pinstriped suit jacket, casual underneath, sings with all his might. But that's it. He's not really saying anything as much as he's screaming a lot, hyper-developing his massive jugular vein. He comes from the Bob Dylan meets Sepulchura school of vocal projections.
When he walked on stage the mike, which was previously set to "shoe-gazing" standards, was switched to Kareem-Abdul Jabar heights. This meant straining high into the mike while looking down at his audience. To him we were not his supporters. We were his enemies. He looked at us with both fear and loathing at the same time. One is often linked to the other. His band was so good, but his singing style doesn't allow me to play the album as much as I'd like. His lyrics are alright, but this protective stance of screaming what it is that needs to be said, leaves me a bit cold and a bit frightened. Still, I lost my mind during The Rat.
The opening band was called The Uncut. Toronto band. I wasn't going to see them. I was planning to time it so I'd arrive mid set. Saw the whole thing.
Shy. Shoe-gazers. Sweet. Really tight. Really good. I like when opening acts dazzle us, the audience. It's happened quite a few times in my life. Each time it happens I'm secretly thrilled. More votes for the underdog. They have a decidedly new New Order sound about them. Guitar and rhythm section deliciously rich and satisfying, not unlike Interpol; vocals merely a layer, understated, not emphasised, not enhanced, actually downplayed. Very Canadian. Please, God, make them successful. They're a nice bunch of lads.
Watching these two bands, wonderful each in their own ways, reminded me of a story on the CBC's Definitely Not The Opera. Canada's style vs. that of the U.S. The interviewee was saying that when one has a conversation with a Canadian the way things are phrased there is a lilt in the sentence, as if when giving a statement the statement is still up for discussion. It's more a questioning and from a musing perspective. With Americans they tend to state their "fact" and it's stated plainly, bluntly and not open for discussion. It just is. I was telling Jeremy about this and he asked if I was American. He thinks he's very funny.
There's nothing like seeing live music sometimes. I used to hate it, complaining about the *other* people. Secretly I'd once wished the bands I loved would just do a special show just for me. After going to a lot of pubs and listening to decent enough house bands, I realised there is a lot of pressure felt to respond in a positive manner to the musicians involved. Eventually I embraced my concert-going brothers and sisters mostly because it took the pressure off maintaining my enthusiasm for the band. Now I can allow the music to fully penetrate me, make my cranium, chest, and pant legs vibrate madly and just enjoy the moment. I can scream as loud as I want because the bodies absorb the sound. I can jump up and down, laughing and clapping my hands. I can just beam throughout while still maintaining my own anonymity, which is important to me as I've discovered. I like when no one looks at me sometimes.
Music is like good sex to me. Totally fulfilling, exhilerating, evocative of so much. Good live music, with an excellent sound system, is like being picked up, thrown down and being fucked hard. In the *best* way. And when it's that good you clammer for more and more and more...
posted by Comrade Chicken at
1:37 a.m.
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