Employee Picks

So, this is basically a "what I'm into these days kinda post". I'm giving these the G Wax Seal of Approval. And I thought I'd mix it up with the rest of the stuff I'm going to be posting soon.

MUSIC:

She & Him - Volume Two

Rating: Three pairs of big blue eyes out of Four

This one is kind of a no-brainer. Anything that involves really sweet and catchy lyrics with a sometimes bass-driven darker instrumentation ("In the Sun") makes me very happy indeed. This album sounds like eating dark chocolate in a sundress. Plus, the reference to the Orpheus myth in "Don't Look Back" tickled me. Ms. Deschanel has a really cute country-esque lilt to her voice that I really like. I'd put this on if I was babysitting.

Charlotte Gainsbourg - IRM

Rating: Four brain scans out of Four

I might be biased because I got to interview her (!!), but I really liked this. I'd heard a lot of Serge Gainsbourg thanks to my slightly off-kilter grade eight social studies teacher. Apparantly, dirty French pop is good study music for thirteen year-olds! Anyway, I really liked how everything was arranged on the album, and you can really hear Beck (both literally and a little less directly) in the production. When it translated live, it surprised me that it worked so well. It was really good to hear something different than the recording.

Mika - The Boy Who Knew Too Much

Rating: Two cartoon solar systems our of Four

Okay, so I'll probably need to give this another few go-rounds, but I wasn't blown away. Life in Cartoon Motion was a hard act to follow. It became my go-to cooking/cleaning/working out soundtrack for months, and I couldn't wait for his next one. The anticipation gave me huge expectations. The CD comes with a disk of live tracks, which do sound quite good.

BOOKS:

The Beautiful Miscellaneous by Dominic Smith

Rating: Four accidental geniuses out of Four

So, this is something I'm re-reading, so it qualifies as current AND I am also able to review it. The premise is that Nathan Nelson, a seventeen year-old who has so far not been able to live up to his parents' expectations, is in an accident that results in his ability to recall pretty much anything. He becomes a living encyclopedia. What I liked was that the book addressed the intelect and human virtuosity in any field by showing its utility and its beauty. It's just good.

TV/FILM:

Mad Men

Rating: Four chain smoking men in suits out of Four

This. Show. Is. Amazing. What I love is that it is so quiet. According to script analysis, which we've just studied, there are few events in this show. Characters tend to go through their own personal plotlines, but there are few things that completely change the world of the show. I adore the women of the show, and I actually like the sexism. The show doesn't hold back or make nice with how people were, and though we still have a long way to go, we've made major progress as a society. Don Draper is probably the best written character I've seen on television, perhaps ever. I think we need a break from getting dazzled by flash and action and look at people. This show does this the best of much of what I've seen or read recently.

Female pt.1

Through my work, I've met and spoken to plenty of women artists and producers, read countless articles about everything from sex toys to hate crimes, looked at nude photographs, seen beautiful art, become angry, felt shocked, and realized that I am a feminist.

Women's issues are now becoming issues, not just some backburner pseudo-story. People are becoming more articulate about what is happening in their own bodies, minds, hometowns and families, in every gender. Which is great. But I still think we need to get talking.

I saw a performance of the Vagina Monologues recently, and I'm reading it for myself now. What's great about it is what it has done: it's gotten people to talk. Women are realizing their potential and power, and men can learn to be less afraid.

It's funny: I was reading this on the plane, and I got quite a few reactions. Granted, the piece has gotten a bit of a reputation and has been parodied as well as celebrated. But it was interesting to see that the word "vagina" still made people uneasy.

In work, seeing women artists in the context of their male counterparts has been eye-opening. I've seen people dismiss playing a female artist or group and use a male one instead. To be fair, there are plenty of non-gender related reasons why this happens. But, I've caught the occassional comment to know my suspicions are somewhat valid. I overheard someone in a music store where I was shopping dismiss a CD because it was "pussy rock". It was Heart.
GRrrrRrrrr.

I didn't think I'd find this kind of perspective in a mainstream music artist, but here she is. Lady GaGa, in all her kitschy glory, said it pretty well:

"You see, if I was a guy. and I was sitting here with a cigarette in my hand, grabbing my crotch, and talking about how I make music because I love fast cars and f**king girls, you'd call me a rockstar. But when I do it in my music and in my videos, because I'm a female, because I make pop music, you're judgemental. You say that it is distracting. I'm just a rockstar."

**she does go on to say that she isn't a feminist because she loves men. I'll forgive her.

Terrified Forays into Iambic Pentameter

Inspired by The Ode Less Traveled by Stephen Fry. For lack of a better description, it is a how-to book for writing poetry. I’ve learned about enjambments, caesuras, end-stopping and some history as well.

Structure is often seen as restrictive to creativity, blocking out artists from achieving what they truly would like to accomplish. To paraphrase from the book, complete freedom is daunting and too scary to actually create.

The ten syllables per line of iambic pentameter gives you just enough structure to depend on, but frees you to write about anything. Below are the few little lines I have written. Again, as suggested by Mr. Fry, read these out loud, feel the heartbeat of the lines, sink into the ancient structure….

Terrified Forays into Iambic Pentameter:


Never could I share in the delight,
Of music, of complex shapes of light,
When fallen from the favor of your eye.

The darkest step in which I hide my soul,
Screams in protest with every strangers’ tread.
I alone must bruise the shattering wood;
Footfalls drown out stifled cries of agony.

I cannot believe you would leave me here!
Hit on, in a bar, with piss-water beer.

Can you hang on to my keys, just for now?
My hair is a messy, frightful tangle.

You right my wrongs, most beautiful lover.

The Grey Lady haunts her mother’s tower,
A Ravenclaw, never to leave the school.

Communication

How do you communicate? Really?

Most of us have a dependency on being able to speak and be understood. We'll use gestures and facial expression to emphasize what we are saying. Body language, tone of voice, movement and vocabulary are all important aspects of communication.
For most of us.

I've been fortunate to find a job at a little toy store, which brings in a greater variety of clientele than you might think. Of course, there are babies, children, parents and grand-parents, people who can see, hear and understand (or are begining to understand) English. The most memorable ones do not.

I greeted her as usual: "Hello! Can I help you with anything?"
No response.
In my mind, I automatically thought, 'Snob.' I tried again to make sure.
"Hello?"
She noticed me, and smiled as she held up a small doll, making a pulling gesture at her mouth. 'How much?'
She was deaf.
Through my embarrasingly tiny knowledge of sign language and with the aid of pen and paper, she was able to leave with exactly what she wanted.

Another one comes to mind. A man, who had obviously come off the streets, spent a great deal of time near a display after I directed him there. He had chosen a small black dog, a labrador, and had come to the counter to pay. He never met my eyes as he paid in nickles and dimes. One by one, he dropped them on the counter, giving me exact payment. He was completely blind and able to tell the coins apart by the sound they made on the counter.

I've had a few other encounters: tourists from Asia and Europe with very different ways of communicating through personal space, people who spoke only German, an Italian uncle who I was able to speak to....and of course, babies, who will respond with a smile and gibberish which I'm sure contains the meaning of life.

My question to you is this: what is within each human being that makes it possible to exchange information despite any kind of barrier? What makes this possible?

Let me know.

Salvaged III

Inanimate

Here I am.
Do you want me to sit here?
Oil on water.
Dust on a penny.
My amber gaze pierces your lies.
As I sit on this shelf;
My stealthy vantage point.

Trees

I put my trust in trees
I know what each knot
will support my fingerhold

I know if I slip in the mud
my foot will find a root
and I will walk again

I know each branch and
bramble catches and clings
but keeps me from going too fast

I put my trust in their shadows
I will never be without
something over my head

FeverBrain
Looking through a past entry
I begin to understand my anger.
It was no more significant than
a few grains of tea
but I still
I still
decided convention was
for all but me.


I led a friend into the
wrong part of the city
we became lost
I became lost especially in
embarassment,

I hid.
Because I am sick...

Salvaged II

Train Ride
One speeding refuge from baking on cement
My train home.
A dollar thirty for a twenty-minute trip
Whiz by houses, apartments.
Distracted momentarily by a smile and a wink
He has nicotine stains and mile-long arms
Thanks, but no thanks.

Yet another midnight journey.
But tonight, I cost sixty cents more.
I don't notice her sitting next to me until she sneezes
Barely human, she is all bones and cloth.
A hundred empty seats surround me.
Why here? Why me?!

She coughs again:
"Sorry, I have a cold." Her eyes are sunken.
She asks me where I'm going.
Lions Park.
"Sunnyside," she says.

We talk. She laughs quietly, with her eyes.
Her name is Pam, but she likes ‘Pigeon' better.
She leaves at her stop. Leaves me with a gift of a birthday candle.
It takes the world to lift her up.

I hate what I do next.
I check for my wallet, the quarters in my coat pocket.
Pigeon I can trust, not her needs.

On my train rides I have met hundreds of people:
Two Haitian sisters, a Russian woman with no English.
An Englishman with lung cancer.
Men in suits with sly smiles and low hands.
Bag ladies and bums with more class than business people.
The same people with glass eyes and too many words.

The train scares me,
Track rhythms soothe me.
Every ride is a fight.

Retrieval

A crash of thoughts
and a parliament of words
come wave after wave.
My silly blue bucket cannot
hope to catch a mouthful.

Benign understandings
of malignant concepts
seem much to common
and curiously over-used

A mermaid's glove
finally reaches out
and takes my vessel

Now it is mysteriously filled
and I leave satisfied.

Along with a discarded glove...

Powerless

Who am I

to tell you about

each dewy summer evening:

watching the sun cling

to every blade of grass?

How can I

tell you about

the smell of going out:

mother's perfume and father's shaving lotion

helping to attach the clasp

of a stubborn string of pearls?

When will I

tell you about

those secret morning runs:

the wind crushing your lungs

stopping to tie a shoe

with muddy laces?

Who am I

to tell you about

each sensory field:

one fruitless motion after another

taking your paper cup to fill it

with stale water?

Souvenirs

he echo in a seashell,
I have heard,
is not the ocean caught
in the smooth curvatures of
a vacated home:
but the rhythm of
life pumping in your ear

(For Mum)

Salvaged

Here are some poems from an old blog I had. The site is shutting down, so I'm moving everything. Next, I'll be putting up more self-contained pieces that I have on there.


Lenses
Note on the poem: I was experimenting with a fictional voice and watching the sunset go down, wondering what it would be like to feel a part of oneself die with the world. There are some violent images in the poem, and I would like to remind you that this isn't me, but a character I found and wanted to help.

Discouraging sunsets yell at me
gold and green gold and green
make-believe you know me
mysterious girl in gold and green
play me like every other one
and I really want to run
trip and fall and pick the scabs
get up and scream in your face
and the words are gold and green
pinch me and I bruise
but I never seem to wake up
I slap you and you stay asleep
and the blood is green and gold
I hug my arms against the wind
And your breath down my neck
is green and gold green and gold
And now I'm falling falling
falling falling falling falling
to the bottom and I close
my eyes and the shapes
are green and gold green
and gold green and gold

Gravity
Look at the little ones hiding near the wall.
The wall, so tall
It looms over their fragile heads
It has stolen their mothers
And its stolen their beds.
Look down,
Fold your hands,
They don't want to see you laugh
They don't want to see you cry
They just want to see you.

Deus Ex Machina
Tools from God, Heaven,
Divine flashlight to illuminate the farthest corner
Counter-weights, pulleys, curtains...
The cold machines that fool you!

To become oneself, in front of others,
So real, there is an imposition of truth.
We trick you, hide behind makeup and smoke
To tell you that this is life.

And you believe us.

We want to be immortal, if only for a second.
Because, you see,
we made God's hand weeks ago.

And the tools are our own.

I Have a Window
The energy is seated beneath my collarbone,
layers of skin do nothing to protect me.
So raw.

Outside my window people sit and talk
and talk and talk.
No parties, because of class.

I have met my home today, a baby labrynth in its own right.
And I must try and become:
A sexual vegetable.

I think a zucchini will do.

And I wait.

Root Bound

"Just a stone's throw from here, actually,"
she says. "A bit north. Can't miss it."

He thanks her for the directions,

buys some liquorice cigars to pay her back.

A bit north.

It is not worth it to keep moving now, he thinks.

Besides, it is very pretty here:

paintbox sunset rooted by a green hill.

I could just stay here, he thinks.

It wouldn't be so bad.

The cigars are stale.

Leathery and bitter. He eats them anyway.

A bit north.

He looks over his right shoulder and sees it.

Just a stone's throw.

It feels warm here. Comfortable.

The people are nice, he says to himself.

Too bad about their candy.

Can't miss it.

So why is it so unreachable?

He feels his feet begin to root.

Sunset becomes dusk, but he stays there.

He counts the stars. He makes new constellations.

For tonight, this is home,

for tonight.

Tomorrow, he must lift and continue.

Leave sweetness behind to go north,

find a somewhere on his own.