Somehow I'm always listening to Air's soundtrack to The Virgin Suicides, Sofia Coppola's 2000 film based on Jeffrey Eugenides' novel. The book, film and soundtrack all captured something unnameable and pretty frightening. Horrifying, really. [Side note: the Latin horror has its root in 'veneration' or 'religious awe' -- the idea that something could be so powerful and/or inexplicably beautiful that it causes intense fright. Though, as I see it, not necessarily in a bad way, if that makes any sense.] It's kind of like looking in on this massive, gooey thing that's not quite of this planet, except when you get closer you can tell that all the ghostly little pieces that add up to the whole are pretty familiar.
Also the album artwork by Mike Mills (not the REM bassist, the other famous Mike Mills) might be my favorite ever.
30 January 2012
25 January 2012
Jackie Wilson
Somebody somewhere at some point in time once said, "When it comes to singers, there's Jackie Wilson, and then there's everybody else."
Sputnik Sweetheart
"Who can really distinguish between the sea and what's reflected in it? Or tell the difference between the falling rain and loneliness?"
-Haruki Murakami, Sputnik Sweetheart
-Haruki Murakami, Sputnik Sweetheart
20 January 2012
Nouvelle/Nouveau
I liked these paragraphs from a new thing:
Silence. Then eerie whispering. The room felt dank with something dark and unknown. Danny thought of a massive hundred-legger, hanging upside down from the corner of an empty room, slowly cleaning its legs, waiting. He felt a hand on his knee and didn’t look up to see who it was. Whoever it was started to say something but didn’t get past a “he”-sounding syllable.
More eyes vectored on Danny, or so it seemed. His anger was fading into nothingness. He might have felt it if you pinched his bottom. Maybe. All the other drummers around him were either crying or had their heads in their hands, but Danny felt zero. Rien. Only his own anxiousness at feeling nothing, which was somehow receding, too. How do you describe nothing? He was there, witnessing the tears and grief, but felt neither bad nor good. He thought very briefly of a fresh piece of chalk pulled slowly from a full pack, one that hadn’t broken in transit.
Silence. Then eerie whispering. The room felt dank with something dark and unknown. Danny thought of a massive hundred-legger, hanging upside down from the corner of an empty room, slowly cleaning its legs, waiting. He felt a hand on his knee and didn’t look up to see who it was. Whoever it was started to say something but didn’t get past a “he”-sounding syllable.
More eyes vectored on Danny, or so it seemed. His anger was fading into nothingness. He might have felt it if you pinched his bottom. Maybe. All the other drummers around him were either crying or had their heads in their hands, but Danny felt zero. Rien. Only his own anxiousness at feeling nothing, which was somehow receding, too. How do you describe nothing? He was there, witnessing the tears and grief, but felt neither bad nor good. He thought very briefly of a fresh piece of chalk pulled slowly from a full pack, one that hadn’t broken in transit.
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