Saturday, July 31, 2004
At Rest
After several years battling cancer, A.'s mother passed away yesterday morning. She was fifty years and forty-four days old and lived three years beyond the life expectancy predicted by her doctors. I only knew her with any depth during the last six months of her life, and only with any degree of true intimacy since last June. I can honor her tremendous spirit in two ways: in all her kindness in welcoming me into her family, she reminds me more than anyone else I have ever met of my own incredible mother; and so much of what I love about A -- grace, generosity, beauty, taste -- so obviously descends from hers. Therefore, I can say I loved her, too, and will truly grieve for her as I do for A, M (her father), and J (her brother). That she will not be able to witness and participate when A and I are married is maybe the sharpest tragedy in which I have ever been involved.
There has been remarkable support between all of us, and everyone is handling the situation well. Her passing was not a shock as the progression of her disease is known, and the doctors were able to prepare her family for what to expect. This does not diminish the amount of sorrow felt, but perhaps makes her death easier to immediately accept as the process of grieving commences. All expressions or prayers of support are appreciated.
[Note: I've been wondering whether to write about this event or to avoid it. On one hand, given its gravity, it seems almost insulting to mention between posts about my music/poetry or other trivialities. Then again, not mentioning it seems either like questionable avoidance or a downright lie to a format that is supposed to be about my life and those in it.]
After several years battling cancer, A.'s mother passed away yesterday morning. She was fifty years and forty-four days old and lived three years beyond the life expectancy predicted by her doctors. I only knew her with any depth during the last six months of her life, and only with any degree of true intimacy since last June. I can honor her tremendous spirit in two ways: in all her kindness in welcoming me into her family, she reminds me more than anyone else I have ever met of my own incredible mother; and so much of what I love about A -- grace, generosity, beauty, taste -- so obviously descends from hers. Therefore, I can say I loved her, too, and will truly grieve for her as I do for A, M (her father), and J (her brother). That she will not be able to witness and participate when A and I are married is maybe the sharpest tragedy in which I have ever been involved.
There has been remarkable support between all of us, and everyone is handling the situation well. Her passing was not a shock as the progression of her disease is known, and the doctors were able to prepare her family for what to expect. This does not diminish the amount of sorrow felt, but perhaps makes her death easier to immediately accept as the process of grieving commences. All expressions or prayers of support are appreciated.
Monday, July 26, 2004
This is how high we felt (nothing to do with drugs)
The parking lot in the upper right-hand corner is massive (prime for ultimate frisbee) and was empty when four of us were spontaneously drawn to the South Shore's Smith Point Beach after work today. Obstacles cost us a couple hours, but with a four-wheel drive jeep, a drive-on-the-beach-pass from Chris' father, our blue crate full of simple instruments, towels, camp walkie talkies, and Sean's portable everything computer, we sunk into a parking dune and ate waves for an hour. We recorded some written, then spontaneous, poetry and chanting. We rolled in the sand with charred logs and tried to jump and catch the gulls. The waves were violent and crashing close to shore with a violent diagonal rip-tide. I was in violent tumult within two different waves, one of which seriously backwashed my entire sinus/ear-canal system. Something wet is stuck behind my left ear. Something in the salt and sand got to us, I think. Sean and Chris and I always juggle this amazing creative energy, but this afternoon was dream reality. The colors and moods of the nearly empty beach, the sudden isolation from civilization. Sean filmed some of the darkening waves and some of our dancing. Had we arrived before six (or on a weekend) there would have been no such enthralling buzz in the lonely air, in which only we seemed to be running and falling.
We plan to cull the best free-associative licks from our spoken-word/poetry session and use them as song titles for our continuing BuddyCheck Sessions project. New material from last week was posted Friday: "twool" "zoolongo" and "qwah qwah". For these three new songs, we used the cavernous effect of the School gym and the bounties of its natural environment: two electric fans, a plastic trash bin, the camp sports/games equipment, the bleachers, and an awesome hollow plastic tube. We also imported our traditional stuff: drumsticks, woodblocks, mini-glockenspiels, recorders, and Chris's primal grunting. "Zoolongo" is particulary interesting.
I'll post some of these titles soon, once we have a working transcript.
Spontaneous Beach Escape Afternoon #1: Success.
The parking lot in the upper right-hand corner is massive (prime for ultimate frisbee) and was empty when four of us were spontaneously drawn to the South Shore's Smith Point Beach after work today. Obstacles cost us a couple hours, but with a four-wheel drive jeep, a drive-on-the-beach-pass from Chris' father, our blue crate full of simple instruments, towels, camp walkie talkies, and Sean's portable everything computer, we sunk into a parking dune and ate waves for an hour. We recorded some written, then spontaneous, poetry and chanting. We rolled in the sand with charred logs and tried to jump and catch the gulls. The waves were violent and crashing close to shore with a violent diagonal rip-tide. I was in violent tumult within two different waves, one of which seriously backwashed my entire sinus/ear-canal system. Something wet is stuck behind my left ear. Something in the salt and sand got to us, I think. Sean and Chris and I always juggle this amazing creative energy, but this afternoon was dream reality. The colors and moods of the nearly empty beach, the sudden isolation from civilization. Sean filmed some of the darkening waves and some of our dancing. Had we arrived before six (or on a weekend) there would have been no such enthralling buzz in the lonely air, in which only we seemed to be running and falling.
We plan to cull the best free-associative licks from our spoken-word/poetry session and use them as song titles for our continuing BuddyCheck Sessions project. New material from last week was posted Friday: "twool" "zoolongo" and "qwah qwah". For these three new songs, we used the cavernous effect of the School gym and the bounties of its natural environment: two electric fans, a plastic trash bin, the camp sports/games equipment, the bleachers, and an awesome hollow plastic tube. We also imported our traditional stuff: drumsticks, woodblocks, mini-glockenspiels, recorders, and Chris's primal grunting. "Zoolongo" is particulary interesting.
I'll post some of these titles soon, once we have a working transcript.
Spontaneous Beach Escape Afternoon #1: Success.
It's Sunday night and this is Elliot Smith...
Will you buy his new/posthumous album, From a Basement on the Hill, when it is released this fall? One side is that he recorded all the material before he committed suicide with the intention of creating this album. On the other side, even though Smith's friends and colleagues have cared for the album in its last stages of development, I'm dubious about the ethics involved in selling a product after the artist has recently, tragically, died. When Bradley Nowell suffered a fatal drug overdose, record companies milked as much out of the Sublime back-catalog as possible (live shows/rarities comps), and then they recycled its remaining members into the Long Beach Dub All-Stars. It felt slimy. Well, ok, not as slimy as when any music legend passes away and suddenly a rushed batch of their records appears prominently in Borders (ie George Harrison, Nina Simone, Johnny Cash).
Elliot Smith rocked.
Will you buy his new/posthumous album, From a Basement on the Hill, when it is released this fall? One side is that he recorded all the material before he committed suicide with the intention of creating this album. On the other side, even though Smith's friends and colleagues have cared for the album in its last stages of development, I'm dubious about the ethics involved in selling a product after the artist has recently, tragically, died. When Bradley Nowell suffered a fatal drug overdose, record companies milked as much out of the Sublime back-catalog as possible (live shows/rarities comps), and then they recycled its remaining members into the Long Beach Dub All-Stars. It felt slimy. Well, ok, not as slimy as when any music legend passes away and suddenly a rushed batch of their records appears prominently in Borders (ie George Harrison, Nina Simone, Johnny Cash).
Elliot Smith rocked.
