to a city on a hill

soccah October 21, 2007

So before I begin another week that’s sure to further empty my tank (man do I need a vacation), I just thought up this random thing while I was watching a soccer game on TV today. These things just come to me now. I don’t know where they come from, but I figure I should write them down before they’re lost in the annals of my already overcrowded brain. Did I mention I need a vacation?

Totti loaded the ball onto his right foot as an artist loads his brush with paint. He cocked his right foot backward, planting his left to the side of the ball and uncorked a vicious strike. It sizzled as it came off his foot, bounding end over end as it approached the top corner of the net with bullet speed. It was all the keeper could do to get a limp finger on the projectile, but it was clearly no use. The ball was destined for glory. Fatigued opponents gazed at each other in disbelief. As the keeper rested on his knees with two grass-stained hands clasped behind his head, his eyes fixed at nothing in particular, he looked like a wounded victim. A brief lull fell over the crowd before exploding in ebullient celebration. The 90,000 in attendance had clearly given up trying to explain away what had just occurred. The legend was born, and the sound was eardrum-popping. Totti’s right leg instantly converted from a game-changing weapon to a vehicle for celebration. It was the 93rd minute. It was the Champions League semifinal. It was over.

dissertations on religion September 16, 2007

So, wow. I’ve managed to neglect this thing to an obscene level. My busyness-factor has increased dramatically the last month, which SUCKS, but I think I should take some time for this thing every once in awhile. It’s got a healing quality about it.

He cleared the third turn with a dramatic flourish, nostrils flaring, molars grinding, fists clenched and pumping wildly, eyes narrowing against the stinging rain. The hounds of hell were behind him, their hot breath lapping at his ankles. He didn’t dare look back. Never back. Always forward, forever forward. Every ounce of his legs ached, every cubic inch of his lungs burning with renewed vigor at each agonizing breath. They were coming at him now with more tenacity. Foot pounding pavement, eyes fixed heavenward.

So that basically came to my tonight while I listened to a track from the new Smashing Pumpkins CD on my run tonight. I was dead on the last straightaway and I started this really cheesy recitation of something I might write as a lede for a track story or something. It gave me some extraterrestrial strength, so I went with it. Might become a habit.

So this was dissertations on religion, right? Maybe next time. Whoops. Anyway, I’m taking this class on Islam and it’s pretty neat. Eye-opening at the very least. I love seeing the interplay between religions… and I love the Islamic fundamental belief of knowledge as a cornerstone of their faith, not just of their own religion but of others as well. I’d liken it to learning another language. You can never really appreciate and understand your own language until you learn another one and see it through a different lens. After learning Spanish and bits and pieces of German I’ve learned a ton more about English. It’s helped my writing, too. Learning about other religions is a lot like that. It has strengthened my Christianity if nothing else.

Anyway, more on that to come. And not two months down the line this time.

it’s about time June 25, 2007

So I’ve finally co-opted a story idea out of a fascinating article I read in a National Geographic magazine while I waited to hear that my $250 phone has a corroded battery and is beyond repair at the Sprint store. Guess I got something out of the damage. I’m just happy I finally have a topic.

It’ll be set in a small Newfoundland fishing village which is slowly dying out due to a myrriad of outlying circumstances, one of which is the obvious lack of demand. It’s set to focus on a family that’s lived in the village for generations, where fishing’s kind of been the “it” currency. Typically authors write from experience and general knowledge of the subject matter (which is why it’s a wonder that I’m not starting with some cheesy sports novel — which, ironically is not far behind), but I wanted to dive into this. I love the area, and it’s rife with possible angles. It’ll take some research but I think the end result will be much more rewarding. I’m pretty excited about the project, so that’s what I’m working on. We’ll see what it morphs into.

worship June 18, 2007

Wading through my own personal struggles with faith and Christianity, none of which are titanic or massive roadblocks, I’ve been giving a lot of thought to the arbitrary nature of Christianity, namely “old Christianity.” By that I mean the traditional structures of the church… the robes, the incantations, the hymns… everything.

As my parents gradually pushed away from the table of this traditional format of churching over the past couple years, I found myself doing a bit of questioning. And most of it, I think, is pretty exciting stuff. How many centuries has the church relied upon the Lord’s Prayer… or a number of things that just “have” to be in a church service? And why? Why must you say, “the Lord be with you… and also with you” during the course of a service? And “in the name of tradition” isn’t good enough. Not for me.

What strikes me now is the arbitrary nature of all that and everything we’ve made Christianity to be. It’s too complicated… way too complicated. God’s gotta be saying to himself, “how do you mess this up that bad?” For one, that fact that certain sects of Christianity, namely the Catholics, believe that communion should be served to no one other than themselves is nothing short of heresy in my book. It’s a pollution of a scripture that’s been over-read and over-thought by a bunch of guys who think they have the divine authority — of which they have no more of than you or I.  What perplexes me the most, though, is these so called “higher thinkers” with their traditions seem to cite the Bible as proof that their methods are the correct ones more than anyone else. They’ll tell you that the reason they’ve been doing these things in church for all these years, the reason “church” is “church” to them, is because the Bible told them so. I’ve been wondering what Bible they’ve read. Because the Paul I know gathered with anyone and everyone and made their offering to God an unceremonious, casual affair that reached God’s ears just the same.

It all boils down to this: less church is more church. The more you bring the human element into play, the easier it is to screw things up. Give me a service with no “Order of Worship,” organ, robed out pastor or pews, please. That should all be in the periphery. It’s distracting. It’s an insult to the reason you’re there — to wash away the dust from everyday life, strip away your problems and make a humble connection with God. If you need an organ to connect with God, perhaps you should reevaluate your methods. You should need nothing more than yourself, a voice and a willingness to listen and learn. Aside from that, nothing else matters.

I mentioned the Lord’s Prayer earlier, and this is where I might lose some people. I was at a buddy’s wedding a week or two ago, and they read the Lord’s Prayer following the vows. It was nice, familiar and I fell into a groove speaking it. That was until I realized I probably hadn’t said the Lord’s Prayer in six months, and I hadn’t missed it. It seemed forced to me, and it was then that I realized I’m probably going to be on the fringe of Christianity for the rest of my life. I do not suggest that we strike the Lord’s Prayer from memory, but I do suggest a humble evaluation of why we say it, and whetsher or not it has any meaning anymore. It’ like anything — do it enough and it loses all meaning. Say a word 50 times and it will sound ridiculous. It’s a reason why I could never be a Catholic. The Lord’s Prayer itself is powerful, but I think so many of us (and I know this is the case with like 95% of teenage boys) just say it because it’s on the docket, not necessarily because it holds power over us. If you busted out with the LP in a casual prayer, that has altering power. Do it when somebody tells you to and you’re merely recanting some words on a page.

This is why I’ll never be able to go to a traditional service again and get anything “real” out of it. I appreciate that it’s the only way some people connect to God, which means it’s valid in it’s own right. But I can never accept that for myself. Call it a genuine factor, or whatever, but I need something more.

awash May 26, 2007

So after returning home from Cayman, which was great but less than I expected it to be, I am confronting a few inescapable truths which are just now coming into focus.

1. I can’t travel with my parents the same way I once could. Cayman is a great place, one which I certainly wouldn’t be able to afford on my own, so having parental backing in that respect is nice. But the entire time I couldn’t stop thinking about how much better the trip would have been had my friends tagged along. Don’t get me wrong, my parents are interesting people, but after dinner I’m like… “what now?” My parents are off to bed by 9:30 and I’m sitting on a beach chair staring at the ocean adrift in my own thoughts. Not where I wanted to be. Maybe a trip to Europe would be different, what with the whole regimented thing. But I can’t escape the feeling that I’m missing out on these trips without a peer group along for the ride. Here’s the plan — if you want to go to… I don’t know, Milan or something, let me know. We’ll do it up right.

2. Summer school doesn’t bum me out as much as it probably should. I thought about this on the beach. I’ll be sitting in a classroom learning nothing but medium level German for three hours — every day — and yet I can’t shake the “it’s summer” feeling. No work, only one class and nothing else? Guess it isn’t too bad. But it’s still school.

3. I’m not a fearless flier anymore. We went through a rough patch between Cayman and Cuba and I honestly thought we were going down. My pulse quickened and my knee starting going. I’m looking around thinking, “does anybody else see this?” Guess not.

The switch in my brain just turned off. I’ve got nothing else in there right now. Hopefully I’ll have something later. Maybe a new story. I just need, you know, a plot, characters and some twists.

cayman II May 3, 2007

I’ve decided I don’t like the direction this thing is going (because it doesn’t really have one), so I’m going to start anew with something else. This will be the last neurotic meanderings for this installment. Maybe I’ll come up with a plot next time. Maybe not.

I thumbed the rim of my glass and nursed a glassy stare through the floor. My legs splayed forward, I could hear the gentle ocean lapping at the white sand, the sound of nothing behind a beautiful caribbean night. I was starting to feel the rum and I put the glass down, focusing on what this new existence would look like, what I had just done and what I probably should not have just said.

I liked my corner of the island, my sanctuary from the heat and hurry. The beach led up to a bed of rocks, which took a steep upward turn to my place. It served to separate me from the tourists, Jack and Mary, aged 60, here for a week to suck the island dry and move on. The streets of this place twisted and howled, and the heat stuck at your back, weighed you down and forced you to carry it with you. Avoiding the sun’s awful glare became of utmost importance in the daytime, and finding the moon’s beckon call was all I could think about at night.

I raised to my feet, felt hot blood rush upward and heard a faint knock at my door. I could see through the glass. It was Bill.

Bill Housley was as close an ally as I had on this island. He had been here when I arrived three months ago and he resembled a bulldog, both in appearance and nature. Upon my arrival at the airport, I was told by Bill that I’d have to wrestle an insurance adjuster to get my rental car. There was no insurance adjuster. There was no car. Bill drove a motor scooter that, and I swear it but he denies it every time (“nah, Garmond — it’s vintage!”), was pre-World War II. It had no muffler and when he’d drive it you could hear the noise from about a five-mile radius. He sported a bushy mustache and enormous yellow-tinted sunglasses that placed him somewhere between 1979 and 1983 on the fashion time-line. I always gave Bill the benefit of the doubt because despite his wild, sometimes neurotic behavior, he was generally a good chap. What he had to tell me, however, briefly changed my opinion.

He stepped through the threshold and had a wild look in his eyes. There was fire, passion, anger. His hair was soaking, his shirt was soaking, he was out of breath.

“I’m leaving the newspaper. I’m leaving this godforsaken island.”

Bill went straight for the rum, clinked two ice cubes in the bottom of the glass and stared at it for what seemed like the most awkward 30 seconds of my life. I knew Bill, but not this well. I had all night, and Bill was not in a mood to exchange pleasantries.

“For god sakes, Garmond, this place is a snake pit! It’s a heathen’s den of iniquity and I won’t stand for it! I’ve given them my two weeks notice. I’m outta here.”

I knew he was lying. I’d seen Bill in this state at least once a month. He hadn’t given anybody notice of his departure. Hell, he probably didn’t believe it himself. I was less interested in what Bill was actually saying and much more interested in his disheveled appearance. I decided to pick my glass up again. The sweet serenade of the tide had lulled me into a passive state, and Bill’s misery wasn’t adding to it. This is why people don’t understand living on islands. It’s like communism — much better idea in theory.

Bill kept pacing and told me a lurid tale of how our magazine editor, a real character himself (a guy who I’m sure could convince Pavaratti to join the Harlem Globetrotters), had fired two more staffers in front of him to show him a lesson. I figured it was probably because they had shown up to work drunk for the third or fourth time that week — which, in the end, was indeed the case — but Bill was on a role. This was his show. He would intermittently pause to take a swig from his glass and then would continue on about each specific instance in which he’d been wronged over the past 15 months (“the longest 15 months of my life, Garmond! I’ve counted every day!”).

I’d had enough, and I didn’t have enough rum to satisfy his anger, so I politely ushered him out the door, promising to leave with him and burn down the magazine office in the morning. By that time I didn’t even care why he was wet. Bill had done his damage, so I slinked back to my perch atop the island, my place among the stars and sand and quiet surf. I returned to the siren song of the island.

music, a diatribe on the state May 3, 2007

Over the past year or so I’ve had the pleasure of finding this amorphous ‘post-rock’ genre. For those of you who aren’t familiar, it’s basically music without the chain of conventionality. There’s typically no lyrics, but that changes depending on the sub-genre. If there are, they serve mainly as a guide rail, a means to keep your balance while your feet strike down on the real concrete, stone foundation of the music, which is, of course, the music itself.

The ebbs and flows of the genre are epic. The moods are at once crushing and moving, silent and awe inspiringly loud. It’s as close as I’ve come to absolutely having no idea how to describe an entire genre of music, which is due in large part to the wide variety of music within it. The complexity, the sheer massiveness of it all is indescribable, which is frustrating for someone who makes a living describing things.

I don’t mean to demean other music, because my music taste is undeniably diverse. It’s not like this is all I listen to. But it’s the only genre I feel I can’t do without. Folk, acoustic, rock in all it’s variations, rap (the stuff you don’t hear on the radio and in dance clubs)… I can give that stuff up if forced to. But post rock — that’s not a negotiation.

A friend of mine recently described it like this:

Some people can relate to lyrics, because lyrics are words. You understand words, it’s a basic form of communication.

I find it just simply amazing, when I can listen to GY!BE or Mono and I am really moved by the music. All my sorrow, happiness, and everything in between can be found in a certain song or album, in the music, just the music. All of the intensity or sadness inside my brain is on the same frequency as the music, so to speak. I think it takes real talent to be able to do that as a musician. Talent based on the way you can convey a feeling through music, not the complexity of your playing.

I guess that’s the best I can explain it.

Two more opinions from a couple folks inside the industry:

“I like to think that the music that’s really amazing and emotional and personal and beautiful is the kind of music that people would make anyway–they aren’t actually thinking about how it’s gonna sell–they’re just compelled to make music” — Andee (Aquarius Records)

“It just seems like songs have become these little tiny commercials essentially, you know, where theres no room for anything…excessive, you know, they’ve gotta deliver a catchy verse and then a memorable chorus and there’s no room for anything else. And maybe people have just gotten tired of that and tired of being bombarded by overbearing vocalists” — Aaron Turner (ISIS)

I think as a whole, the people who think music has gone to pot in today’s society are more apt to misinterpret the music scene. There is no similarity to the way music was acquired and listened to 20, even 10 years ago. The music scene has become so diverse that a large portion of it has been driven underground. That means you’ve got to do some digging to find the things that really move you. One thing I would guard against is complaining about the scene without having researched. Music can be a little like school — you’ve got to do some work to get everything out of it. People don’t want to hear that. They want to hear that music is a shrinkwrapped package that’s delivered to their door. You can get it like that, but it’s rarely the stuff that moves you.

This all to say that music is what you take from it, but make it something meaningful. Music has the power to change everything.

silence April 26, 2007

I’m in the middle of writing these stupid articles for the yearbook that somehow got dumped on me at the last second, but I just had a thought I felt I needed to get out as my drunk roomies stumble out the door.

I used to consider myself an anomaly of an only child. After I got over that awkward young phase where only children have trouble sharing and playing well with others, which I certainly struggled with, I felt it sort of balanced itself out. I was fine in high school, and even the first year or so of college wasn’t really an issue. I did my thing, hung out with friends on the weekends and everything was gravy. But the older I get, the more observant I become (both about my own mental state and that of others), and I begin to realize that my traits as an only child have not “died hard.” Quite the contrary.

I value alone time. Like… a lot. Being a legal 21 year old American citizen, I take advantage of my status at times, and I have no problem with others doing the same. But at times, I need to be away from drunk, belligerent idiots — come to think of it, I don’t ever want to be around drunk, belligerent idiots. But especially when I’m in “only child mode.” I need to have some time to consolidate thoughts, to feel the silence on my back, to hear nothing and think. I need to center myself. I think I come off as short to some folks because I’m not always in the mood to talk. I didn’t grow up with siblings to rib. I didn’t have somebody there to talk to all the time. For part of my adolescence I felt like it was me and the old people that I lived with. That was it. I live next to six people living in an apartment with three bedrooms. That would drive me up the wall. When you mix in the stress that I’m feeling right now, pressure cooker doesn’t begin to describe it. People who consume magnanimous amounts of cheap alcohol don’t add to the experience.

So the more I learn about myself, the more I understand and appreciate these things. Parties are fine because I know I have the capacity to leave. When that isn’t the case — well, let’s say I’m none too happy. Back to work. Kill me now.

cayman I April 26, 2007

I rustled under the covers, stung by rays of white, hot light. It was early, I just didn’t know how early, and I didn’t care to look. I’d awoken with a strange feeling that something was wrong, but it was probably the apartment. Sounds of machinery, civilization, gravel, metal filtered through the poorly decorated walls, through the windows that looked smaller every day. I’d lived there for three years and spent maybe three minutes decorating.

I called up Fellows and headed down to Chimay’s. Fellows greeted me with a righteous indignation I wasn’t prepared for. I groped for my watch. It was 8:43. I was early.

“You’re late.”

I shrugged and sat down, looking for the waiter. “Maybe.”

“These guys don’t mess around, Garmond. You want to take your goddamn time, be my guest, but don’t expect me to keep sticking out for you. This is your shot.”

Fellows had always been wound up. I finally found the waiter, ordered two coffees.

“I’ve already got one.”

“The second one’s for me.”

“Awright, listen,” Fellows started his speech, and you always knew because he’d sit forward in his chair and start flopping his hands on his knees like dead fish. He had that air of New York impatient arrogance, and he was never late. Not once in his life. This started badly, and I didn’t need it to start badly. “This is what’s going to happen. You’re going to get a call, and you’re going to say yes to everything the guy says. You won’t know him. You won’t want to. This guy’s done some bad stuff, worse than you’d expect from a magazine entrepeneur.”

Fellows made a joke. I didn’t laugh.

“He might ask you if you’re willing to do things for him. Don’t think. Say yes. Trust me on this, kid. The guy owns half of the island. The other half is connected up to the top, and he owns the top.”

I looked down at my hands, studied the lines and unfocused my eyes, looking through the ground, wishing I was anywhere but here.

“Yeah. I’ll do it.”

Twenty minutes later I was back in my uncomfortable apartment, drinking in my excess.