Sedaris On Undecided Voters

What attracts me to politics so much? It’s like that Cock and Bull Story. Egotistical individual worn down by complexities. I’m no neo-sophist but surely I’ve had a hand in my share of clever yet fallacious arguments.

This election contains a certain urgency. I think it must be a high-priority for us to rise from one administration’s failed eight years and revamp our integrity.

In actuality I’m at one’s wits to get out of this country and live as an expatriate. Even if it’s for a year. A natural, unpretentious life somewhere on the Italian countryside sounds pleasant. Morcote maybe. Casablanca. Nantes. The Greek Isles. Christ. I’m revealing titillating details about my own ivory tower and flights of fancy.

American politics have me engrossed back here nonetheless. Hence to be illusory is to be politically-minded. One can’t help but try and make a difference–by casting a vote for president.

David Sedaris (who I’ve been reading extensively) writes a comic article on undecided voters and their relation to chicken.

There’s a world of difference between the two candidates, which makes these fickle people so hampering. Is it not a distress signal when a group of people seriously can’t make up their mind on suchlike things? We’re talking conservative versus liberal; War in Iraq versus withdrawal; universal health care versus something proposed at random by McCain (he gave our basic human right a pink-slip). These people are like an air of befuddled unworldliness.

Yo-Yo Ma and Andrew Bird

Classical music icon and renowned cellist Yo-Yo Ma teamed up with (my favorite indie rock instrumentalist) the brilliant Andrew Bird in a one-on-one interview for MTVIGGY. The interview has yet to be released but here is documentation of Andrew Bird and Yo-Yo playing together. I might add neither musician has his “finger on the masterfade.” It’s double the beauty–reciprocated beauty.

Dead Verse

dying for a drink,
like the old fisherman
stuck at home in his villa,
in a cloudburst.

wanting a smoke,
like the highbrows
at coffee shops,
writing dissertations.

earnest to ravel bodies,
like the wintry wind
brushes with cordovan branches
on one cold afternoon.

dawdling with writing,
because of the drinks,
and cigarettes
and fantasy.

i’m not lonely,
but i’m alone
dragging my smoke,
thinking about writing.

Salad Days

Amidst the sports brannigans of North Philadelphia there lies me, chain-smoking a Lucky Strike in front of the J&H dorms. Several students, in a high-pitched shout, nearly undid my hearing. I don’t mind the exuberation. In fact, I think the stimulus will do wonders for the city. Maybe bring everyone together, like an Indian village that just hunted down a Balinese man-eating tiger. We’re on the trail to the World Series. We’ll be drinking Blue Moon beer until dawn, celebrating and copulating, in good fun.

Not all of us. I’m a lowly individual in regard to suchlike things. Sports are a pleasure, sure, but unless the Temple Women’s Fencing team sabres their way to the NCAA championship, I think I’ll take a seat. Observation can do no harm. The enthusiasm of Phillies fans brings joy to the city.

Not long ago Pittsburgh celebrated 250 years with fireworks, live music, and free food. I was not in attendence because I’m living in Philadelphia. This gravely affected me. I’m realizing my friends back home are truly dyed-in-the-wool, smitten individuals who care a lot about me. At least I’d like to think. At times I feel I’m in unworkable situations that don’t benefit me nor my desires; but I must begin to attest to the joys of my homelife, disparate and mundane as it appears to me.

My harrowing unability to nurture these friendships are surfacing, now that I’m meeting so many new people. I don’t want to hurt anyone. I don’t want to inflict with my zaniness, nor excite with false hope. I’ve been having a great time exploring the city, visiting the coffee shops, reading in the park; but still I’m reluctant to attach myself to anyone. Perhaps that is why I so often go alone. I endearingly wish I could prolong the most meaningful relationships I’m engaged in at Temple. To be adept is what makes this such a bugbear.

As the last of the World Series hype sleeps until the dawn of that day of the monumental event, that has encompassed thousands, I’m still chain-smoking under the Acacia trees on campus. My meditation has no outward presence but inside I’m striken to the core of my desires. My thoughts diverge into a stream that enviorns my body and brain. There’s a freshet of thoughts in my head. It’s like Niagra. The alluvion plummets until the storm hits. The post-storm. The lightning storm. The chronic headache. Perhaps I should rejoice with the city. Perhaps I should amend the friendships I wore down over the years. In reality, all I need to do is attach myself to someone and hope for the best. I don’t have the green thumb but I have the will. These are the salad days. The early harvest.

Big-Brother-In-The-Sky

My crazy, hedonistic ways are starting to become befuddling. If I’m such a pleasure seeker why do I have so many problems with the happiest people on the planet–the church? Maybe because I don’t believe in talking snakes or seventy-two virgins per martyr. Maybe because my palms ache from all the years of hand-clapping to a more up-tempo Amazing Grace. Maybe I’m just bitter. But I come to expect nothing but fault-finding from the church. I have been catapulted to religious dictation by a holier-than-thou pastor that is so goddamn lotus-eating he feels liable to all of Wilkens Township and beyond. That’s his livelihood, I suppose. Truly he did an excellent job of unhinging everything my father taught me about religion. I give ample enough acknowledgment to the man as he is au courant with pure sophistry, endless knowledge I only wish I possessed; though a large part of it I find to be fallacies, the parts that make up his occupation. False sagacity dampened my moods so long ago and if I ever rediscover credence behind God-fearing conglomerates I think the world might stop spinning on its axis. If that happens all Christians, Muslims, and Buddhists better still believe their contrasting gods will save the day. They better. Fuck the sanctimonious.

I then pose the question: does religion make people nicer? Ronald Bailey writes a fine piece on reasononline that I, alas, stole a line from. The line above about talking snakes and the like. My apologies. But it’s an interesting editorial. Big-Brother-in-the-Sky, as Bailey refers to it as, has his devout followers being so prudent, so circumspent that they might just believe they’ve reached peace on earth. Perhaps it is true. Serenity is everywhere. The Phillies are in the World Series, Barack Obama is going to be our next president, and oil prices are down. Minus the economy these are tailor-made times. Not really. Maybe the excitement that the Phillies have generated here is addling my perceptions. Ah, betwixt and between, life isn’t so splendid. Not to make this political, but until we take further environmental action and initiate some form of universal health care and then end this perpetual, unprofitable war our lives will continue to swindle to and fro. There is no balance.

So the church is content, I’m content with not being a member, and the majority of the country is thus far content with Barack Obama being our president–what’s the perplexity? What befuddles me? Well, as someone who dislikes inequality so much and feels disheartened by its burdens, I can’t help but, from time to time, rant about the cause of it all: religion. And to think that the religious dogmas are more morally set and principled upsets me. I like to think I have a good head on my shoulders. I’m a non-believer and I abhor a lot of the ethnocentrism of Christian America, but that makes me not less of an individual. If you, pastor, are right, let your God judge me. Don’t encumber me with contemptible looks. All is well on the atheistic front.

Hmph. Agnostics. Atheists. Anarchists. Aren’t they just scary words?

My Music Diversions

Just the other night I was having a conversation regarding jazz and, well, the greatness of it. I was implored to speak of Lester Young’s “The Jazz Giants ‘56″, for I’m a devoted aficionado to ‘Prez’ and much of the hipster ethos he popularized. That LP being a vinyl must. The kind one can lay on the living room floor to. Trust me, I’ve spent many hours sprawled out like the lacework of a spider, falling slowly to Lester–the cool tones and sophisticated harmonies.

I grew up listening to The Beatles, The Beach Boys, James Taylor, and the like. That’s perhaps the only imprint my father has made on me. Although I’ve veered, musically, to more long-established varieties like classical and jazz, that 60’s rock inscribe still holds it own. The contemporary artists I tend to favor can be associated with folk rock, Balkan gypsy, and some post-rock groups such as Sigur Ros and Godspeed You! Black Emperor. Add to the pot some Senegalese music, Swedish pop, and dark cabaret and that is the music mixture I relate to. Dancing to some sabar driven rhythms can be a lot of fun. It really is. So don’t call me weird until you listen to Thione Seck.

Back to jazz. I’m getting more into some of the exotic jungle tunes of Duke Ellington. On “Lament for Javenette” Johnny Hodges plays a beautiful melody. I had that spinning four times a day back at home, before I was swept away to college. I miss my records endearingly. For this reason I’m eager to return. I was told I’d miss the home-cooked meals, and in some measure I do, but it’s my music collection, furthermore my jazz albums that I pine for most.

I refrain somewhat from conversing with my closest friends at Temple over such music topics. Perhaps that is because I have obscure tastes. Or I don’t wish to get into the technicalities of things for they’re music majors and I’m not. In fact I consider myself unlettered, ignorant in this new circle of friends. Whereas at home I would almost consider myself omniscient. The truth? I’m somewhere in the middle. Nudged between the specialized knowledge of my college friends and the indie rock gurus back in Pittsburgh. I will say I have no desire to enter another bone-crushing mosh pit. Thus my high school friends should find some new means of entertainment. I’m fairly certain, however, they would take that as a suggestion to party more. Mmm. Whatever makes ‘em happy.

I have to hit up some jazz venues in the city soon. One of my friends, who I identify as a tribesman (long story, don’t ask), told me about a place that she frequents every Thursday night. I’m intrigued.

I’ve had such a splendid two weeks and because I don’t want to put the kibosh on it I’m going to end this post. Talking about my feelings and emotions, of sentimentality, on the web is weird. I won’t bend over backwards to get some blogger in Finland to show fellow feeling for me. I don’t want the sympathy of WordPress but with no other suitable outlet (journals are too mundane) I would not be surprised if I lost my grasp on all emotion and let it pour out on my blog like a lyrical river.

Last thing. I titled this My Music Diversions because I’ve spent more time tonight writing this and searching for Debussy videos on YouTube than I have doing my schoolwork. My Italian Lab shows.

Appalachia Drifting

The plumage of a sparrow
is brilliant;
orange salt colors
edged palely amidst
the holly and ivy
of a simple cottage.
they are
Appalachian wonders
burgeoning on sea-cliffs.

This to that,
that to this,
and avifauna is antiquity,
and masterfade is
a scientific courier.
the edgings are present
on westerly heights.

remember all was well,
and will be well
like the house bird
in the west,
who spread wings and now
accidentally dwelling
and thriving, and colorful too.

Sad, surly little creatures
so vivid in the day
and quiet in the night.
drifting along the sea
up rigid mountain steeps
to the other side
that’s as blue.

it all happened
when we were dreaming.
birds dreaming
their own schemes
to travel
cause it’s irresistible,
this land is irresistible.

now everyone is playing
hide and seek
with genetic drifting
and holy powers
and what’s not
and what is
and what’s not that is.

unknowingly
and erratically
papooses in child carriers
jump out and scream.
wild–we’re living
wild, growing so wild
unknowingly and erratically.

above the sea, nestled snugly
they were
and we are
accident after accident,
and dream after dream
Appalachia drifting.

Monkey Waiters In Japan

Just recently I read an article concerning some monkeys working in a Japanese restaurant. Read it here and watch the video, for a good laugh if nothing else. What an irrestible eat-out! To be served drinks and hot towels by a chimp–so staggering.

The Nobel Prize in Literature

The Nobel Prize in Literature goes to Jean-Marie Gustave Le Clezio.

Not surprised Philip Roth goes unnoticed in the Nobel Prize ring. I’ve been hearing unfortunate claims that America is too closed-in and isolated. That we don’t translate enough is recognizable ignorance that international literary committees, especially the Nobel ringmasters, seem to natter about a lot. All these dissenting views make American literature sound ethnocentric. The claims are not absurd but something to think about.

The last time an American author won the Nobel Prize was Toni Morrison in 1993.

AS Byatt and Sam Leith discuss why US writers do not win the Nobel Prize.

Unpraised Values Of Adam

I’m beginning to see myself deep-rooted in a lackluster existence. I abhor typical lifestyles yet I feel my own is unshakable. I’m conscious of spontaneity and I know I could be living such a life and that’s the most loathing part. Perhaps college wasn’t the answer. Am I the only one who sees the monotony of the college life? Am I the only one uninterested in settling down here? I could just be unhappy with the people I’ve met thus far, but that’s unfair of me. I’m no better than them and I don’t live more electrifying, though I might have more of a desire to. Blame my salacity. The faults of being fastidious are catching up to me. I’m belabored by this and I apologize to all those who I have afflicted.

I sound like a distressed whine. Christ.

In lighter news, I’ve made plans with my friend Jessica to visit her in New York this December. Without doubt that’s a high-priority because I’ve been a terrible friend that hasn’t kept up our correspondence. She probably feels the same, though it’s a more urgent get-together for me, as I’m harping on about it constantly. I suppose I just need that person who may be willing to be my best friend. I don’t have a best friend and really can’t allot that title to anyone. In retrospect, it’s possible I’ve never had such a friend. Maintaining congenial relationships seems impossible; however that’s speaking from my own experiences; I wouldn’t dare make such universal claims. I’m sure there are like-minded people out there as desperate as I to feel loved and to know happiness. So much for light news.

This entry has probably been the most despairing. I’m really not that whinging. Anxious-yes. Whinging-no. I want to clear up any misconceptions before I close. I enjoy the company of my friends and I’m loving every bit of Philadelphia. It’s simply that I’m aware there’s more. Until I uncover whatever it is I’m in search of, I need people to be there. I understand solitude and I know it is indispensable. What must happen in my life, what I must set out to endeavor, is that the people I befriend, the people closest to me, must know I’m needful of change but it has nothing to do with them. I prod my way out of meaningful relationships all too often. Alas it is my own flaw. When that person comes around, who enjoys my company as much as I enjoy theirs, I think I will know. This person might make me happy. I cannot be mentally isolated forever. Happiness is only worth it when shared.