This Friday I found myself sitting in Bagel Sphere, waiting for my bagel and thumbing through the Eugene Weekly, when I chanced upon this subtly patronizing article by a Mr. Brett Campbell about an upcoming concert at the Hult Center: Play! A Video Game Symphony. As I watched the author simultaneously bemoan modern orchestras for selling out (by playing "crass" things like, say, video game music) and for being out of touch (by mostly performing things that were written centuries ago), I quickly realized that I was missing the point: there was a video game symphony on Saturday, at decent prices! Putting Mr. Campbell's hapless hypocrisy aside for a moment, I rang up my friends Alex and Bau and made plans for a night of not-quite classical music with the Eugene Symphony and Choir.
The cheap tickets were fifteen dollars, but even though we showed at the box office up several hours before show time, they were all sold out, and we had to upgrade to twenty eight dollar seats. Not being used to symphony prices, I have no idea if that's a lot, but it sure felt like it, all things considered.
After a wine-and-steak-fueled pre-party, we rolled back to the Hult Center an hour and a half before the show to observe the festivities in place. As expected, the nerds were out in force: many people of all ages had arrived in costume, and the winner of the evening's costume contest was to be awarded (among other goodies) a Nintendo Wii. Apart from the obligatory horde of Marios and Luigis, there was some really impressive cos-play action from people who had obviously heard about the show more than a day in advance. Alongside an epic Cloud Strife costume and a comically odd Ape Escape pairing, there were a few young Links and (for some reason) a Sailor Moon mixed into the bunch. For our part, we wore the clothes we'd been wearing all weekend, a state of affairs that clearly elevated us to a whole new level of class.
With an hour to go, most of the people were either waiting in line to play Mario Kart, or waiting to be interviewed by the bewildered local news cameras. Not especially eager to do either, we devoted our attentions instead to chicken wings and a pitcher of High Life across the street, where we somehow managed to get Jessie's Girl stuck in our heads.
The concert organizers desperately wanted us to buy their super-special ten dollar souvenir programs in the lobby, but we opted for the free ones because to hell with that. With a turnout like that, Play! doesn't need to rely on swag sales to get by.
The conductor for the evening was Andy Brick, a nice fellow with a substantial background in game music. In fact, one of his own compositions (from the SimCity 4 soundtrack) was listed on the program, but for whatever reason it was passed over. Perhaps he felt self-conscious about it? One doesn't exactly play SimCity for its fabulous music.
Exposition complete! Let's get on with this review!
This was our first time at the symphony, and it was fairly obvious that this was true for many of the attendees present. Brick surely knew this, and acknowledged it by giving the audience permission from the start to cheer whenever they wanted to, since they were probably going to anyway. The mob took this advice to heart, and obtrusively applauded at least six times during the performance of the Mario music. It wasn't the music they generally reacted to: each round of applause was generally associated with the appearance of new game play footage on the giant screens above the orchestra's heads. A word to my fellow concert-goers: I know the conductor said it was OK, but some of us came to hear music.
That said, Mario (music by Koji Kondo) was an excellent choice to start things off. The main theme of Super Mario Bros. is probably the single most famous piece of game music ever composed, and never fails to capture the attention of gamers with the first few bars. It's a real tribute to the composer that the effect of hearing this music is virtually the same in 8-bit MIDI and full-scale orchestration: it's really, really fun. The story of game music begins for all practical purposes with Kondo's work, and it's a treat to see it in action.
The next piece came straight from Battlefield (music by Joel Eriksson), and was primarily notable for being completely forgettable. You really can't follow the Mushroom Kingdom with World War II, and if you're going to try, it had better sound more interesting than the background music of a generic History Channel documentary.
Things got much more interesting for the second set, when one of the bassists laid his instrument down and took up the electric guitar to play some melodies from Silent Hill (music by Akira Yamaoka). Silent Hill is a horror series, and in light of the rather disturbing visuals and the presence of small children in the audience, the giant screens didn't show any video. This was just as well, as the audience would only have cheered each time something vaguely interesting happened on screen, and it was nice to just enjoy the music for a while.
Up until this point, the choir had been waiting patiently for something to do, perhaps thinking silently about how exactly their careers had brought them to this particular repertoire. The conductor finally called upon their services for Castlevania (music by Michiru Yamane and others), for some creepy medieval harmonies. The medley was easily one of the early highlights of the show, and I was especially pleased to see the electric guitar used tastefully, without descending into gratuitous metal nonsense (as so often happens).
The final set of the first half began with Kingdom Hearts (music by Yoko Shimomura) and a medley centered on Passion (known as Sanctuary in the U.S.), the main theme from Kingdom Hearts II. This was a good choice, as it is by far the better of the two main themes; it was also interesting to hear the erstwhile pop tune sans-vocals. I am a very big fan of Kingdom Hearts, but the music has never been the primary reason why. Still, it was very pretty, and I wouldn't ask for more than that.
The set closed with selections from The Legend of Zelda, another classic Nintendo game with music by Koji Kondo. The potential was ripe for an epic conclusion, but the result was instead a better-than-average medley interspersed with more inappropriate cheering from the gallery. The nerd in me winced a little to see a conventional flute intro where an ocarina would certainly have been more appropriate, but maybe it's hard to get a hold of a concert-caliber ocarina on short notice? More could definitely have been done to capture a broader section of the series' rich melodic tradition, but time is of the essence, and soon it was time for the band to take a break.
We lost sight of Bau in the crowd during intermission, so Alex and I took a step outside for a breather. I chatted for a little bit about World of Warcraft with a girl while her non-gamer boyfriend stood by, looking vaguely perplexed. Then a man in a kilt and his friend "Joliet" Jake Blues came out for a cigarette, and I wondered if they had realized just what exactly the theme of the costume contest was.
Speaking of the contest, back in the theater two somebody-or-others introduced us to the five finalists, who were now to be selected via the most appropriate method, given the nature of the crowd: loud cheering. Justice was served, and the first prize went to the little kid in the Link costume, while the guy dressed as Cloud Strife with way too much time on his hands looked vaguely, but graciously, disappointed.
The orchestra leaped back into the swing of things with the main theme from The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion, after the conductor pointed out that the composer, Jeremy Soule, was seated among us in the audience. He evidently had much better seats than we had, so we couldn't quite find him, but the spotlight did, and there was much rejoicing. Soule is known as "the John Williams of video game music," and the Oblivion theme is as strong a piece of evidence as one could hope for to make that case, with that special brand of cinematic grandeur that could be called, yes, Williams-esque. Having only a passing familiarity with Oblivion (I bought it for twenty dollars about a year ago, part of a double-pack with Bioshock), I was surprised by how much I enjoyed this part of the show.
The most lovely performance of the night was a medley of themes from Chrono Trigger and Chrono Cross (music by Yasunori Mitsuda), with a solo piano introduction that won me over completely with its grace. Trigger's main theme is a true classic of the genre, and one of the best works from a truly outstanding collection of great music released on Squaresoft games. Nobuo Uematsu deservedly gets most of the credit for that, but Mitsuda is clearly no slouch. It's this style of romantic, adventurous music that remains one of the sentimental favorites for many video game fans as the genre continues to move into the mainstream.
Up next came the theme from Halo (music by Martin O'Donnell), which was big, grandiose, and entirely unnecessary from my perspective, although the frat boys present loved it. Let's move on...
The Sonic the Hedgehog medley (music by Masato Nakamura) missed a golden opportunity to bust out the electric guitar once again, but was otherwise a welcome return to some lighter fare; the second half of the show was turning out to be much more serious than the first. Many of us fell in love with video game music way back when we were huddled around our Super Nintendo or Genesis, and as much as we love to see our beloved medium take such bold steps forward, it's good to remember where we come from, and how much fun we had while we were there.
Having said that, the theme from Shadow of the Colossus (music by Ko Otani) could have driven me to tears. Colossus is one of those cult games that few have heard of and fewer have played, and I regrettable count myself among the uninitiated. This regret was painfully acute as I heard the score reproduced on stage. The crowd evidently agreed with me, as they listened quietly throughout almost the entire piece (unless of course they were just too unfamiliar with the work to hoot for it).
The final piece on the program was from World of Warcraft (music by Jason Hayes and others), which I anticipated coolly; though I'd logged hundreds of hours on the game in my time, I had not actually listened to very much of it, preferring to turn down the volume and listen to rock instead. I was pleasantly surprised, and it worked well as a closing piece, but it still failed to make a deep impression on me, or my friends.
After the conductor left the stage, a few patrons began to leave their seats, for reasons I could hardly venture to guess. Anyone who glanced at the program would have immediately noted the distinct lack of works by Nobuo Uematsu, a living legend in the industry: the only contribution of his thus far had been a brief fanfare at the introduction, composed especially for the Play! concerts. Justice demanded an encore, and it was obvious what that encore would be. Sure enough, Brick returned to the stage shortly to lead the orchestra and choir through One-Winged Angel, the epic battle music from Final Fantasy VII. Choosing precisely which Uematsu masterpiece to play must have been agonizing for the organizers, since any choice was bound to disappoint a few fans, but Angel was probably the inevitable choice: it's one of the most dramatic, original, and immediately crowd-pleasing pieces of game music in history, and its madly rhapsodic structure positively glows with genius. It's also a bit scary, and if any of the people who left early were families with small children, they may have made the right choice after all.
It wasn't exactly a classical music show, if by "classical" we're talking about a part of our culture that hasn't been thoroughly de-legitimized as a childish waste of time. If you think the entire process was somehow sullied by the presence of a crowd which was largely there to be pandered to, you might have a point: most of those present, myself included, had never been to a symphony, and most of those would likely not be returning to hear Brahms any time soon. This is highly unfortunate, but apart from getting people to love Brahms, there's really nothing that can be done about it.
But I don't believe time spent listening to beautiful music is time wasted. The works of many game composers belong in the classical repertoire, and I look forward to the day when the great works first heard by dedicated gamers can be performed without special attention being drawn to their original context. Good music stands on its own as worth hearing, and I hope many others will take the opportunity to hear it themselves.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Monday, April 19, 2010
Dear Blog
I Miss You.
It is true, I have taken you for granted, Wave Function Junction. When I named you, I was perhaps too flippant, too unconcerned with whether the other blogs in blog-school would tease you when the blog-teachers weren't looking. But apart from that, you were established with the best of intentions. I would write things; you would show them to the world; the world, when it got around to it, would read them.
It was supposed to work so beautifully, but I neglected you. I really did! It's been hard on us both, but mostly on you, as you sit there in cyberspace, waiting for me to call. It's no excuse to say that my schooling has kept us apart. Even in my otherwise copious free time I occupied myself with consuming art rather than producing it, and you suffered alone for lack of updates.
We got a little jaded. We got a little complacent. We got a little fat. And yet you endured; you waited for my return, and never said a word to reproach me.
You are far too forgiving, Wave Function Junction.
That is why I want to take us back. Back, back to where we once belonged. Back to the land of California. Back to the future. Just, back. You and I, we're going to make some posts, we will! We'll make so many posts, people will be reduced to gaping in awe. So many posts, the internet will creak under their weight. So many posts, the boundary between what is and what is not a post will be blurred in the popular imagination. People will be drowning in our posts. Just as soon as they find the time to read them.
But you'll have to bear with me for a couple weeks, Wave Function Junction. Starting next Monday, they actually expect me to teach thirty-odd eighth graders about the Civil War for two weeks. This will require some buckling down. If these kids grow up with anything less than a complete and comprehensive education on this period of history, I could actually go to jail. I think. The consequences have not really been made clear to me. I'm sure you know what I mean.
So wait for me, wait for me just a little while longer, Wave Function Junction! I have the content you crave, and with it we will fill the existential void that gnaws at you ceaselessly in my absence. It will all have been worthwhile, just you see!
It is true, I have taken you for granted, Wave Function Junction. When I named you, I was perhaps too flippant, too unconcerned with whether the other blogs in blog-school would tease you when the blog-teachers weren't looking. But apart from that, you were established with the best of intentions. I would write things; you would show them to the world; the world, when it got around to it, would read them.
It was supposed to work so beautifully, but I neglected you. I really did! It's been hard on us both, but mostly on you, as you sit there in cyberspace, waiting for me to call. It's no excuse to say that my schooling has kept us apart. Even in my otherwise copious free time I occupied myself with consuming art rather than producing it, and you suffered alone for lack of updates.
We got a little jaded. We got a little complacent. We got a little fat. And yet you endured; you waited for my return, and never said a word to reproach me.
You are far too forgiving, Wave Function Junction.
That is why I want to take us back. Back, back to where we once belonged. Back to the land of California. Back to the future. Just, back. You and I, we're going to make some posts, we will! We'll make so many posts, people will be reduced to gaping in awe. So many posts, the internet will creak under their weight. So many posts, the boundary between what is and what is not a post will be blurred in the popular imagination. People will be drowning in our posts. Just as soon as they find the time to read them.
But you'll have to bear with me for a couple weeks, Wave Function Junction. Starting next Monday, they actually expect me to teach thirty-odd eighth graders about the Civil War for two weeks. This will require some buckling down. If these kids grow up with anything less than a complete and comprehensive education on this period of history, I could actually go to jail. I think. The consequences have not really been made clear to me. I'm sure you know what I mean.
So wait for me, wait for me just a little while longer, Wave Function Junction! I have the content you crave, and with it we will fill the existential void that gnaws at you ceaselessly in my absence. It will all have been worthwhile, just you see!
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Rabbit Season: An Easter Contemplation
Easter is often considered the most important holiday in Christianity, because it commemorates the fundamental miracle of the faith: the resurrection of the Christ after his sacrifice for the redemption of the sins of humanity. In spite of its obvious importance, it still manages to create significantly less cultural noise than Christmas, which is in its modern form more a celebration of capitalist values than strictly Christian ones. That's not to say there's no overlap between those sets of values, but they are absolutely not identical, and I don't think anyone could make a mistake as to which cultural paradigm is in the driver's seat each December.
Plenty of special commerce gets done on Easter, for sure. As I write, I'm happily enjoying the contents of a bag of Reese's Peanut Butter Eggs, and the country is awash in pastel marketing for flowers, eggs, and other springtime pleasantries. More candy will be consumed in the coming week than at any other time, apart from early November*. You can be quite sure, family friendly brunch establishments will do very well today.
* I assume.
And yet, nobody seriously believes Easter to be over-commercialized in the usual sense. Stephen Colbert has a hilarious graphic, but the vanishing of Easter's spiritual roots simply isn't a serious topic of discussion. At most, we wonder where exactly the colored eggs and rabbits come from, and then get on with our lives. As far as popular culture goes, Easter keeps itself low key, and Christians and secularists alike seem to prefer it that way.
Of course, Easter is simply too bizarre (what the hell is up with rabbits laying eggs anyway?) to avoid becoming the object of ironic discourse. Witness the rise of Easter's Facebook alter-ego, Zombie Jesus Day. A highly blasphemous and plainly heretical interpretation of the resurrection, it nonetheless has become a virtual synonym for Easter amongst the younger generation. Zombie Jesus has nothing to sell, apart from irreverence and T-shirts, and seems to reflect the fitful emergence of a (nearly) post-consumerist strain of America youth culture.
If you find yourself worried about the slackening of religion in contemporary pop culture, make no mistake: young people are quite familiar with Jesus Christ. You may not recognize the Anointed One these days: perhaps you've never seen him riding a Velociraptor, and perhaps you've never seen him as a Velociraptor, but your kids have, and the meme-smiths of the internet are working feverishly to make sure you do, too. This revelation will probably not comfort you.
However, the pill is not so bitter as you might think: mockery requires familiarity, and the cultural relevance of Christological absurdities requires knowledge of the original subject. Young people may have less time for Sunday school or the words of priests and pastors, but Jesus himself remains a powerful idea. Even South Park, a show that normally drives religious conservatives into apoplectic fits of rage, is known to use Jesus to voice arguments in favor of a more sensible, tolerant vision of religion. If he has to kill Bill Donahue with a shuriken in the process, chalk it up to artistic license. The raptors and zombies are a passing amusement, but they represent what could be an important movement: the separation of Jesus from organized religion, an institution with rapidly shrinking credibility.
There's no doubt that Jesus lives on in our culture, having accomplished yet another miraculous resurrection in the face of secularism. We should be thankful, because we need the ethics of Jesus more than ever: it's high time that turning the other cheek and loving your neighbor came back in style. Whatever happens to the Christian religion, the carpenter from Nazareth will keep coming back, and Lord knows what he'll be riding next.
Happy Easter, everybody!
Plenty of special commerce gets done on Easter, for sure. As I write, I'm happily enjoying the contents of a bag of Reese's Peanut Butter Eggs, and the country is awash in pastel marketing for flowers, eggs, and other springtime pleasantries. More candy will be consumed in the coming week than at any other time, apart from early November*. You can be quite sure, family friendly brunch establishments will do very well today.
* I assume.
And yet, nobody seriously believes Easter to be over-commercialized in the usual sense. Stephen Colbert has a hilarious graphic, but the vanishing of Easter's spiritual roots simply isn't a serious topic of discussion. At most, we wonder where exactly the colored eggs and rabbits come from, and then get on with our lives. As far as popular culture goes, Easter keeps itself low key, and Christians and secularists alike seem to prefer it that way.
Of course, Easter is simply too bizarre (what the hell is up with rabbits laying eggs anyway?) to avoid becoming the object of ironic discourse. Witness the rise of Easter's Facebook alter-ego, Zombie Jesus Day. A highly blasphemous and plainly heretical interpretation of the resurrection, it nonetheless has become a virtual synonym for Easter amongst the younger generation. Zombie Jesus has nothing to sell, apart from irreverence and T-shirts, and seems to reflect the fitful emergence of a (nearly) post-consumerist strain of America youth culture.
If you find yourself worried about the slackening of religion in contemporary pop culture, make no mistake: young people are quite familiar with Jesus Christ. You may not recognize the Anointed One these days: perhaps you've never seen him riding a Velociraptor, and perhaps you've never seen him as a Velociraptor, but your kids have, and the meme-smiths of the internet are working feverishly to make sure you do, too. This revelation will probably not comfort you.
However, the pill is not so bitter as you might think: mockery requires familiarity, and the cultural relevance of Christological absurdities requires knowledge of the original subject. Young people may have less time for Sunday school or the words of priests and pastors, but Jesus himself remains a powerful idea. Even South Park, a show that normally drives religious conservatives into apoplectic fits of rage, is known to use Jesus to voice arguments in favor of a more sensible, tolerant vision of religion. If he has to kill Bill Donahue with a shuriken in the process, chalk it up to artistic license. The raptors and zombies are a passing amusement, but they represent what could be an important movement: the separation of Jesus from organized religion, an institution with rapidly shrinking credibility.
There's no doubt that Jesus lives on in our culture, having accomplished yet another miraculous resurrection in the face of secularism. We should be thankful, because we need the ethics of Jesus more than ever: it's high time that turning the other cheek and loving your neighbor came back in style. Whatever happens to the Christian religion, the carpenter from Nazareth will keep coming back, and Lord knows what he'll be riding next.
Happy Easter, everybody!
Friday, April 2, 2010
Well, it sure is something!
Have you got forty five minutes to stare at something interesting? Of course you do!
First of all, my eternal gratitude to Scott McCloud (comic book author, theorist, and personal hero of mine) for spreading the word on all the coolest sequential art on the net. I've made my share of good decisions in the past few years, but I still believe that one of my best was going to see him speak at the University of Oregon in the spring of 2006. I left the room with a signed book and an imagination stimulated as it hadn't been in years, and since then I've only found more and more to be delighted with in the world of the popular arts.
This week Scott posted a real strange beast on his blog, and asked his readers to weigh in on the question of the ages: is it comics? The "it" in question, by the way, is the following video (be sure to watch it in full screen):
Holy hell, I know!
This strangest of beasts is essentially a prog-rock electronic tapestry, illustrated by one Ira Marcks, with music by an act called The Few Moments, alias Michael McQuilcken. The pictures serve as accompaniment for the band's album MARCH 3: His Forearms Were Tanks Now. With a name like that, it's just got to be good.
Scott's question (whether the video is "comics") is probably best answered using the definition of the form he proposed in Understanding Comics: "juxtaposed pictorial and other images in deliberate sequence, intended to convey information and/or to produce an aesthetic response in the viewer." This definition covers just about everything typically considered to be comics: the only notable outsiders are single panel cartoons (you can't very well juxtapose one image without another image, can you?).
At first glance, the illustration of MARCH 3 appears to fall into that very category, since none of its scenes are separated by panels or other devices found in comic art. The image is clearly exceptional, however, as it is over fifty feet long. There simply isn't a word for things like that, but it does juxtapose images in deliberate sequence, so I really don't see what's to sit on the fence about. If it fits the definition, I say claim it, and let the world marvel.
I'm at a loss to describe the music, which identifies itself on its website as "Eclectic Post-Pop," a term I take to be synonymous with "really weird piano-based shit." According to producer Jake Lodwick, the album's concept revolves around a boy:
It may certainly be about that, but if the illustrations have any bearing whatsoever, it also appears to be at least partially about warring interstellar crabs, knife-wielding baboon demons, and all manner of skeletons and sea creatures. Most of the time, you won't be able to understand a word of what the singer is trying to communicate, but if you've got the patience, I can almost guarantee you'll enjoy it.
Several of the images in the video are particularly disturbing: I wouldn't particularly recommend showing it to impressionable children. This piece is first-rate prog madness, and should therefore be handled with exceeding care.
First of all, my eternal gratitude to Scott McCloud (comic book author, theorist, and personal hero of mine) for spreading the word on all the coolest sequential art on the net. I've made my share of good decisions in the past few years, but I still believe that one of my best was going to see him speak at the University of Oregon in the spring of 2006. I left the room with a signed book and an imagination stimulated as it hadn't been in years, and since then I've only found more and more to be delighted with in the world of the popular arts.
This week Scott posted a real strange beast on his blog, and asked his readers to weigh in on the question of the ages: is it comics? The "it" in question, by the way, is the following video (be sure to watch it in full screen):
MARCH 3 from Jake Lodwick on Vimeo.
Holy hell, I know!
This strangest of beasts is essentially a prog-rock electronic tapestry, illustrated by one Ira Marcks, with music by an act called The Few Moments, alias Michael McQuilcken. The pictures serve as accompaniment for the band's album MARCH 3: His Forearms Were Tanks Now. With a name like that, it's just got to be good.
Scott's question (whether the video is "comics") is probably best answered using the definition of the form he proposed in Understanding Comics: "juxtaposed pictorial and other images in deliberate sequence, intended to convey information and/or to produce an aesthetic response in the viewer." This definition covers just about everything typically considered to be comics: the only notable outsiders are single panel cartoons (you can't very well juxtapose one image without another image, can you?).
At first glance, the illustration of MARCH 3 appears to fall into that very category, since none of its scenes are separated by panels or other devices found in comic art. The image is clearly exceptional, however, as it is over fifty feet long. There simply isn't a word for things like that, but it does juxtapose images in deliberate sequence, so I really don't see what's to sit on the fence about. If it fits the definition, I say claim it, and let the world marvel.
I'm at a loss to describe the music, which identifies itself on its website as "Eclectic Post-Pop," a term I take to be synonymous with "really weird piano-based shit." According to producer Jake Lodwick, the album's concept revolves around a boy:
...a boy who was born laughing and whose legs kicked relentlessly, whose movement was impossible to control, who could not sleep, whose parents "took shifts, a steady rotation of looking after him, while the other one would sleep out in the car," drumming on every conceivable surface, pounding the parents’ belongings to smithereens, immune to adult anti-psychotic medication … an individual incapable, by his nature, of being restrained; his bombastic inner fire and innocence; his relentless and violent quest for peace, and his eventual triumph.
It may certainly be about that, but if the illustrations have any bearing whatsoever, it also appears to be at least partially about warring interstellar crabs, knife-wielding baboon demons, and all manner of skeletons and sea creatures. Most of the time, you won't be able to understand a word of what the singer is trying to communicate, but if you've got the patience, I can almost guarantee you'll enjoy it.
Several of the images in the video are particularly disturbing: I wouldn't particularly recommend showing it to impressionable children. This piece is first-rate prog madness, and should therefore be handled with exceeding care.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Blog!
Really, if you think about it, "blog" is such a disgusting word. I never feel right saying it; it sounds like the kind of thing I might say if I were still in third grade, trying to gross out some girls.
But all the same, I have yet to receive my golden scepter in the mail, conferring upon me the right to remake the English language as I see fit. I've been waiting a long time, but I'm beginning to think some unscrupulous mailman stole it, and is now using it to wreak havoc in the form of asinine neologisms.
I have digressed before I've even started.
Readers will note that, while I have posted many times since I made my resolution to post at least once a week, it hasn't exactly worked out that way. Of course, I have made a handful of good posts amidst all the dreck and nothing, and I rather like most of the dreck, too. Such is the benefit of being a blogger: complete editorial freedom, without having to worry about whether your self-indulgence is affecting either revenue or circulation, as you have neither. Wait.
Self-indulgence factor one of late has been my much delayed Europe journal, which is unfortunately being delayed one final week, for the simple reason that I cannot justify sitting down and finishing it either tonight, tomorrow, or the night after that, or the night after that. I have two papers and a web assignment due in the next three days, along with a presentation, and I need to be in school for most of the day on Wednesday and Thursday. It would be irresponsible to waste any time talking about Europe, and if there's one thing the Wave Function Junction does not, stand for, it is irresponsible behavior.
Readers familiar with my schedule may now be thinking the following: "David just got off a week-long spring break, during which he did not travel further than three miles from his apartment, had precisely one important appointment to keep, and made plain in all forms of communication that he intended to do no schoolwork. Why didn't he finish the damn journal then and be done with it?"
Well you see, it's very hard to write when your friends are sitting on your couch for days on end playing Final Fantasy XIII, quite possibly the shiniest bit of shiny I have ever seen. You try being productive after letting something that shiny into your home!
For the record, I would let it into my home again, and again.
I did get some of it done, though. About half of it, actually. It's sitting in the Blogger-Netherworld as a draft, where some hacker could easily finish it with fanciful tales of stuff and nonsense (actual hackers, please don't do this). If I read the tea leaves correctly, I don't see why I could not finally make the post some time next week. Unfortunately, my tea leaves all come pre-packaged in tea bags, which are notoriously illegible.
Speaking of incoherent bags of tea (and otherwise), it is to my great satisfaction that Health Care Reform finally passed Congress, in spite of the best efforts of the Reactionary (as opposed to Revolutionary) Tea-Partiers of America. I like to call them the "R(aotR)TPA." Back in December, after the Senate passed its bill, I said on this blog that reform was basically a done deal, one that could only be stopped by determined shinobi assassins. Let it be known, I have learned to never count my chickens: you just never know when a Republican will win a Senate race in Massachusetts.
The R(aotR)TPA now intends to punish Congress for defying the will of the people, by which they mean their own will. Democrats will likely lose seats in both houses, which is shameful, but largely unavoidable. That's just how midterm elections go, unless you're FDR. I intend to do my part, by voting for the Democrat on my ballot. I might even register in Eugene, rather than waste my vote trying to dislodge the Duncan Hunter Dynasty again. I go where I am needed.
Now it's back to work on surviving grad school, hopefully bettering myself in the process. As a bonus, I will leave you with a few items from my current reading list, to let you know the sorts of things I'll be thinking about in the coming weeks/months. Some of them are quite a doozy:
But all the same, I have yet to receive my golden scepter in the mail, conferring upon me the right to remake the English language as I see fit. I've been waiting a long time, but I'm beginning to think some unscrupulous mailman stole it, and is now using it to wreak havoc in the form of asinine neologisms.
I have digressed before I've even started.
Readers will note that, while I have posted many times since I made my resolution to post at least once a week, it hasn't exactly worked out that way. Of course, I have made a handful of good posts amidst all the dreck and nothing, and I rather like most of the dreck, too. Such is the benefit of being a blogger: complete editorial freedom, without having to worry about whether your self-indulgence is affecting either revenue or circulation, as you have neither. Wait.
Self-indulgence factor one of late has been my much delayed Europe journal, which is unfortunately being delayed one final week, for the simple reason that I cannot justify sitting down and finishing it either tonight, tomorrow, or the night after that, or the night after that. I have two papers and a web assignment due in the next three days, along with a presentation, and I need to be in school for most of the day on Wednesday and Thursday. It would be irresponsible to waste any time talking about Europe, and if there's one thing the Wave Function Junction does not, stand for, it is irresponsible behavior.
Readers familiar with my schedule may now be thinking the following: "David just got off a week-long spring break, during which he did not travel further than three miles from his apartment, had precisely one important appointment to keep, and made plain in all forms of communication that he intended to do no schoolwork. Why didn't he finish the damn journal then and be done with it?"
Well you see, it's very hard to write when your friends are sitting on your couch for days on end playing Final Fantasy XIII, quite possibly the shiniest bit of shiny I have ever seen. You try being productive after letting something that shiny into your home!
For the record, I would let it into my home again, and again.
I did get some of it done, though. About half of it, actually. It's sitting in the Blogger-Netherworld as a draft, where some hacker could easily finish it with fanciful tales of stuff and nonsense (actual hackers, please don't do this). If I read the tea leaves correctly, I don't see why I could not finally make the post some time next week. Unfortunately, my tea leaves all come pre-packaged in tea bags, which are notoriously illegible.
Speaking of incoherent bags of tea (and otherwise), it is to my great satisfaction that Health Care Reform finally passed Congress, in spite of the best efforts of the Reactionary (as opposed to Revolutionary) Tea-Partiers of America. I like to call them the "R(aotR)TPA." Back in December, after the Senate passed its bill, I said on this blog that reform was basically a done deal, one that could only be stopped by determined shinobi assassins. Let it be known, I have learned to never count my chickens: you just never know when a Republican will win a Senate race in Massachusetts.
The R(aotR)TPA now intends to punish Congress for defying the will of the people, by which they mean their own will. Democrats will likely lose seats in both houses, which is shameful, but largely unavoidable. That's just how midterm elections go, unless you're FDR. I intend to do my part, by voting for the Democrat on my ballot. I might even register in Eugene, rather than waste my vote trying to dislodge the Duncan Hunter Dynasty again. I go where I am needed.
Now it's back to work on surviving grad school, hopefully bettering myself in the process. As a bonus, I will leave you with a few items from my current reading list, to let you know the sorts of things I'll be thinking about in the coming weeks/months. Some of them are quite a doozy:
- Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, by Ludwig Wittgenstein
- Either/Or, by Søren Kierkegaard
- Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass, by Lewis Carrol
- Charlotte Brontë: A Writer's Life, by Rebecca Fraser
- The Road to Middle Earth: How J.R.R. Tolkien Created a New Mythology, by Tom Shippey
- Master and Commander, by Patrick O'Brien
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Poetry Jam #3: The Munich Poems
At long last, I'm nearly done with my efforts to publicly document my European vacation, a project long delayed and marginally relevant so many months past. Revisiting the experience has been, for me, a source of inner smiles and fond memories. I don't happen to have a view of the Alps from my window, so it was wonderful to have occasion to dwell on the vistas impressed upon my brain. Describing natural beauty is not, unfortunately, my greatest strength as a writer, and so the images remain mostly in my head, and the words of my memoirs are written mostly to serve as a trigger for them. One day they will invent a cyborg enhancement that allows me to project my memories directly into the reader's head, and on that day, I shall duly blow your mind.
If I want to be a completist (and boy do I ever) then I really should include all the writings I created on that fateful trip. It's time for the five poems I completed in various moments of inspiration to see the light of day, and take their place in the David Miller Canon.
It is very exciting to get to decide what goes in my own canon.
The poems are called The Munich Poems, which like all great names is partially inaccurate. The first was written in Greece, and the fifth was written in Paris. The middle three, however, were written over the course of two days in my hotel room in Munich, and the third of these was set down in the midst of an actual "psychotic rage-a-thon," as remarked upon elsewhere. In spite of the disparate geography, it always seemed to me that "The Munich Poems" would be a great collective title, and since I do not often come up with great titles, it seemed pretty obvious what I had to do.
All five of them, sad to say, are downers. The truth is, I have never made much effort to write happy poems, because happiness is self evident in nature. When you're happy, you can't say why, and you haven't done anyone any good by trying. On the other hand, I have long been convinced that all great works of art are always somehow melancholy: indeed, it is sorrow that is the foundation of creation. That's not to say there isn't plenty of room for joy in beautiful poems. Just not in these ones.
As always, I'll give a little bit of analysis and self-critique at the end, for those who are into that sort of thing. Mostly myself, I guess.
Ionian Dream
I want to tell you, darling
What I'd lost, I almost found
Standing right before my eyes,
And then again, to no surprise,
It was gone
And I barely even cared
So let me tell you, darling
What a wreck you've made of me,
With your softly laughing eyes
And your unintended lies,
It was wrong
And I barely even cared
What you gave to me in all those times
And what you took from me,
What you said to me in all those nights,
Look what it's done to me,
I still talk about you when I think about her
When I think about you
When I think about you,
I still can't get over
What you did to me in all those nights
And why I'm lame today,
I want to tell you, darling,
I've been close so many times,
Been rejected out of hand
And then again, to no surprise,
I think of you
And I barely even care,
What kind of way is that to love?
___________________
לעולם לא עוד
When people died by bloody hands
We said, "never again,"
We worked so hard with all our hands
To make the killing end,
We held trials, we made speeches,
We laid wreathes upon their graves,
And the bravest stormed the beaches
On the longest summer day
When people turned their heads away
It happened once again,
Until it seemed like every day
A million lives would end,
But the monuments and ruins
Are still standing where they stood,
Humble monuments and ruins
Of decaying, painted wood
When people carved memorials
They said, "never again,"
And when they carved them on the walls
They prayed, "never again,"
And the prayers went to heaven
Where they echoed in the sky,
But the people kept on dying
And no one could tell us why
When people walked the ancient road
And saw those words again,
And even further down the road
The flowers in the sand,
What could any do but shudder
At the number that was lost?
Feeling guilty for our brothers
And the dreadful lines they crossed
____________________
Telepath
I see with my internal eye the secrets of a man
And hear his thoughts like whispers in my brain,
There's nothing he can hide from me, I'm sure you understand,
So make this easy, make your secrets plain,
It's only my obscenities, my skeletons,
You'll find when you are deep within,
You're better off as ignorant, indifferent,
And trust me when I say I love you,
I can keep you out of here
There's nothing there for me to fear,
And you'll be happy for my wall, my barrier,
You'll only hurt yourself in trying,
You underestimate my skill, my power over you
Cannot be kept, no matter how you strain,
If you love me you'll be honest, or I'll force it out of you
So listen, listen, please, just let me in your brain!
I am tired, you are tired, there is nothing gained by fighting,
And I love you, so you mustn't keep me out,
You'll only hear my horrid thoughts, my darker self,
If I should let you come inside,
And while you are omnipotent, to other ones,
I have the strength to keep you distant,
I can keep you out of here
But even so I want you near,
So don't endanger our romance, your sanity,
You'll only hurt me when you're crying,
Baby, please stop trying,
I cannot be denied, my love, to know just what you think,
But if you must, then surely I will die,
And even though the sun will rise I know my heart will sink
As your attitude is nothing but a lie,
I would never lie to you, but I cannot tell the truth,
Not the whole truth, but a part of it, to you,
I know you are not satisfied
But I'm ashamed of what I am inside,
I'm scared to let you in my mind,
I'm scared of losing you,
I'm scared of losing you.
____________________
Psychotic Rage-A-Thon
I felt like a fool in the crack of hell
With manic brain, and fevered brow
And the impulse of a frightened child
To run from all the monsters' smiles,
Singing songs that made me scream
In pitches high and imperceptible,
I was unable to be seen
Or heard, I was a rotted vegetable
In a slowly stinking gourd,
I tried so hard to pray the Lord, but
I felt like a fool in the depths of hell,
And all for that infernal smell,
And damn myself for going there,
Damn myself, myself, myself, myself.
____________________
Broken Wing
I met a broken little bird I couldn't keep from dying,
Because she didn't know she couldn't fly
Like the other little birds
In the trees and in the sky,
It broke my heart to see the bird and watch her trip and fall
I thought that I would take her home, I put her in a box,
And carry her back to her mother's nest
With the other little birds,
But her mother wasn't there;
I looked and saw that little bird, and saw her breathe no more
In the corner of the box
I met a broken little bird, I couldn't save her life,
Because she didn't know she couldn't fly
It was her destiny to die.
____________________
Hoo boy, where to begin?
The Ionian sea is really very beautiful, as seas go. I found myself there in somewhat surprising circumstances, with substantially more time for self-reflection than I had expected, and an Ionian dream was the result. I imagine we all long for timeless things, and the world transpires to make them impossible in the end. At least the sea will always be there.
The title of the second poem is "Never Again." I had it translated into Hebrew, and I don't know how it's pronounced, and I like it better that way. I think it speaks plainly for itself.
Poem number three is actually a spontaneous manifestation of a story that's been bubbling in my head since 2005 or so, concerning two people with super human powers and profound insecurities. Having meant to write it for years, I was seized suddenly with the desire to write one particular scene, and thought I might experiment by putting it in verse form.
I set the fourth poem in a different font because, in my journal, it appears in drastically different handwriting, with heavier, slanted letters and a few stray scribbles. It looks out of place because it is: unplanned, unwanted and almost purely emotional. The result is a mostly unorganized line blob. If I had to guess why I'd written it, I'd say I wanted something to feel ashamed about; something to hit me across the face and remind me that my life wasn't that bad, so quit whining already. I remain convinced, however, that hell is full to the brim with drunken Germans and tuba bands.
The last poem was inspired by a person I met on the tour, quite possibly the single most self-destructive personality I have ever known. If there was an awful, awful decision to be made, given enough time (ten minutes?) and enough wine (not a lot, and yet so much) she would make it. Nobody wants to see a stranger in such a state, and whenever our paths would cross I'd find myself amazed she'd lived as long as she had. I think she thought of me as a friend, and I can't say I wasn't, but I also knew I had nothing to offer her.
If I want to be a completist (and boy do I ever) then I really should include all the writings I created on that fateful trip. It's time for the five poems I completed in various moments of inspiration to see the light of day, and take their place in the David Miller Canon.
It is very exciting to get to decide what goes in my own canon.
The poems are called The Munich Poems, which like all great names is partially inaccurate. The first was written in Greece, and the fifth was written in Paris. The middle three, however, were written over the course of two days in my hotel room in Munich, and the third of these was set down in the midst of an actual "psychotic rage-a-thon," as remarked upon elsewhere. In spite of the disparate geography, it always seemed to me that "The Munich Poems" would be a great collective title, and since I do not often come up with great titles, it seemed pretty obvious what I had to do.
All five of them, sad to say, are downers. The truth is, I have never made much effort to write happy poems, because happiness is self evident in nature. When you're happy, you can't say why, and you haven't done anyone any good by trying. On the other hand, I have long been convinced that all great works of art are always somehow melancholy: indeed, it is sorrow that is the foundation of creation. That's not to say there isn't plenty of room for joy in beautiful poems. Just not in these ones.
As always, I'll give a little bit of analysis and self-critique at the end, for those who are into that sort of thing. Mostly myself, I guess.
Ionian Dream
I want to tell you, darling
What I'd lost, I almost found
Standing right before my eyes,
And then again, to no surprise,
It was gone
And I barely even cared
So let me tell you, darling
What a wreck you've made of me,
With your softly laughing eyes
And your unintended lies,
It was wrong
And I barely even cared
What you gave to me in all those times
And what you took from me,
What you said to me in all those nights,
Look what it's done to me,
I still talk about you when I think about her
When I think about you
When I think about you,
I still can't get over
What you did to me in all those nights
And why I'm lame today,
I want to tell you, darling,
I've been close so many times,
Been rejected out of hand
And then again, to no surprise,
I think of you
And I barely even care,
What kind of way is that to love?
___________________
לעולם לא עוד
When people died by bloody hands
We said, "never again,"
We worked so hard with all our hands
To make the killing end,
We held trials, we made speeches,
We laid wreathes upon their graves,
And the bravest stormed the beaches
On the longest summer day
When people turned their heads away
It happened once again,
Until it seemed like every day
A million lives would end,
But the monuments and ruins
Are still standing where they stood,
Humble monuments and ruins
Of decaying, painted wood
When people carved memorials
They said, "never again,"
And when they carved them on the walls
They prayed, "never again,"
And the prayers went to heaven
Where they echoed in the sky,
But the people kept on dying
And no one could tell us why
When people walked the ancient road
And saw those words again,
And even further down the road
The flowers in the sand,
What could any do but shudder
At the number that was lost?
Feeling guilty for our brothers
And the dreadful lines they crossed
____________________
Telepath
I see with my internal eye the secrets of a man
And hear his thoughts like whispers in my brain,
There's nothing he can hide from me, I'm sure you understand,
So make this easy, make your secrets plain,
It's only my obscenities, my skeletons,
You'll find when you are deep within,
You're better off as ignorant, indifferent,
And trust me when I say I love you,
I can keep you out of here
There's nothing there for me to fear,
And you'll be happy for my wall, my barrier,
You'll only hurt yourself in trying,
You underestimate my skill, my power over you
Cannot be kept, no matter how you strain,
If you love me you'll be honest, or I'll force it out of you
So listen, listen, please, just let me in your brain!
I am tired, you are tired, there is nothing gained by fighting,
And I love you, so you mustn't keep me out,
You'll only hear my horrid thoughts, my darker self,
If I should let you come inside,
And while you are omnipotent, to other ones,
I have the strength to keep you distant,
I can keep you out of here
But even so I want you near,
So don't endanger our romance, your sanity,
You'll only hurt me when you're crying,
Baby, please stop trying,
I cannot be denied, my love, to know just what you think,
But if you must, then surely I will die,
And even though the sun will rise I know my heart will sink
As your attitude is nothing but a lie,
I would never lie to you, but I cannot tell the truth,
Not the whole truth, but a part of it, to you,
I know you are not satisfied
But I'm ashamed of what I am inside,
I'm scared to let you in my mind,
I'm scared of losing you,
I'm scared of losing you.
____________________
Psychotic Rage-A-Thon
I felt like a fool in the crack of hell
With manic brain, and fevered brow
And the impulse of a frightened child
To run from all the monsters' smiles,
Singing songs that made me scream
In pitches high and imperceptible,
I was unable to be seen
Or heard, I was a rotted vegetable
In a slowly stinking gourd,
I tried so hard to pray the Lord, but
I felt like a fool in the depths of hell,
And all for that infernal smell,
And damn myself for going there,
Damn myself, myself, myself, myself.
____________________
Broken Wing
I met a broken little bird I couldn't keep from dying,
Because she didn't know she couldn't fly
Like the other little birds
In the trees and in the sky,
It broke my heart to see the bird and watch her trip and fall
I thought that I would take her home, I put her in a box,
And carry her back to her mother's nest
With the other little birds,
But her mother wasn't there;
I looked and saw that little bird, and saw her breathe no more
In the corner of the box
I met a broken little bird, I couldn't save her life,
Because she didn't know she couldn't fly
It was her destiny to die.
____________________
Hoo boy, where to begin?
The Ionian sea is really very beautiful, as seas go. I found myself there in somewhat surprising circumstances, with substantially more time for self-reflection than I had expected, and an Ionian dream was the result. I imagine we all long for timeless things, and the world transpires to make them impossible in the end. At least the sea will always be there.
The title of the second poem is "Never Again." I had it translated into Hebrew, and I don't know how it's pronounced, and I like it better that way. I think it speaks plainly for itself.
Poem number three is actually a spontaneous manifestation of a story that's been bubbling in my head since 2005 or so, concerning two people with super human powers and profound insecurities. Having meant to write it for years, I was seized suddenly with the desire to write one particular scene, and thought I might experiment by putting it in verse form.
I set the fourth poem in a different font because, in my journal, it appears in drastically different handwriting, with heavier, slanted letters and a few stray scribbles. It looks out of place because it is: unplanned, unwanted and almost purely emotional. The result is a mostly unorganized line blob. If I had to guess why I'd written it, I'd say I wanted something to feel ashamed about; something to hit me across the face and remind me that my life wasn't that bad, so quit whining already. I remain convinced, however, that hell is full to the brim with drunken Germans and tuba bands.
The last poem was inspired by a person I met on the tour, quite possibly the single most self-destructive personality I have ever known. If there was an awful, awful decision to be made, given enough time (ten minutes?) and enough wine (not a lot, and yet so much) she would make it. Nobody wants to see a stranger in such a state, and whenever our paths would cross I'd find myself amazed she'd lived as long as she had. I think she thought of me as a friend, and I can't say I wasn't, but I also knew I had nothing to offer her.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Who Wants to See Something Cool?
One thing I originally intended to do with this blog was to give a mini-micro-shout-out to nifty pieces of art that came my way. It's an aspect I haven't really paid much attention to, owing mostly to my general state of woeful neglect. The truth is, you don't have to go far out of your way on the internet to find something that makes you go "O_o," so I haven't felt much pressure to point them out.
But then again, I love to blather, and what better to blather 'bout than trivial things that chance to come my way? It's a time-honored* internet tradition.
*On the internet, three years counts as an honorably long time.
In any event, I'm going to proceed with significantly more than 140 characters, because everybody knows that more is, in fact, more.
Today's web curiosity came to me via an e-mail from my mom, and Lord knows from where it came to her. As far as I can tell it was made by a Russian person, and it is an animated sketch of a woman, drawn from the inside out.
(That's the link you're supposed to click.)
Pretty neat, eh?
It's worth going over the technical stuff for a bit, though I don't know a thing about drawing. Suffice it to say, it's a fine bit of sketch-ery, with an obvious focus on accurate anatomy and all those other things artist types think are important. At least, I think they think they're important. I've never really known what they're thinking.
I really like watching this thing for the tansformative theme it suggests. What starts as an anatomical exercize veers momentarily into eroticism, and just as quickly metamorphosizes into urbane sophistication. A sharper eye than mine might perceive more stages than these; what I felt fairly sure about seeing was a collection of several "women" within the single woman depicted. It could be a commentary on gender roles or female nature, or perhaps merely a clever way of phrasing the old truth that when it comes to human beings (male or female), "there's more than meets the eye."
What I really like about this particular type of presentation is the way it integrates the process of composition and construction into the final image. Most works of art are not accessible to most people beneath their outward appearances; we might imagine, for instance, that Da Vinci simply sat down and painted the Mona Lisa, when in fact a great deal of arduous compositional work was done, and at various stages of its actual construction, the painting would have barely resembled the image that now adorns everything from postage stamps to ironic T-shirts. Watching an artistic image actually come into being is dull for outsiders, but speed it up as an animation, and it becomes nearly miraculous to behold.
None of this has anything at all to do with anything, of course. I just thought we all might enjoy that. If you'd like to see more, there's a whole bunch of them to be found here.
But then again, I love to blather, and what better to blather 'bout than trivial things that chance to come my way? It's a time-honored* internet tradition.
*On the internet, three years counts as an honorably long time.
In any event, I'm going to proceed with significantly more than 140 characters, because everybody knows that more is, in fact, more.
Today's web curiosity came to me via an e-mail from my mom, and Lord knows from where it came to her. As far as I can tell it was made by a Russian person, and it is an animated sketch of a woman, drawn from the inside out.
(That's the link you're supposed to click.)
Pretty neat, eh?
It's worth going over the technical stuff for a bit, though I don't know a thing about drawing. Suffice it to say, it's a fine bit of sketch-ery, with an obvious focus on accurate anatomy and all those other things artist types think are important. At least, I think they think they're important. I've never really known what they're thinking.
I really like watching this thing for the tansformative theme it suggests. What starts as an anatomical exercize veers momentarily into eroticism, and just as quickly metamorphosizes into urbane sophistication. A sharper eye than mine might perceive more stages than these; what I felt fairly sure about seeing was a collection of several "women" within the single woman depicted. It could be a commentary on gender roles or female nature, or perhaps merely a clever way of phrasing the old truth that when it comes to human beings (male or female), "there's more than meets the eye."
What I really like about this particular type of presentation is the way it integrates the process of composition and construction into the final image. Most works of art are not accessible to most people beneath their outward appearances; we might imagine, for instance, that Da Vinci simply sat down and painted the Mona Lisa, when in fact a great deal of arduous compositional work was done, and at various stages of its actual construction, the painting would have barely resembled the image that now adorns everything from postage stamps to ironic T-shirts. Watching an artistic image actually come into being is dull for outsiders, but speed it up as an animation, and it becomes nearly miraculous to behold.
None of this has anything at all to do with anything, of course. I just thought we all might enjoy that. If you'd like to see more, there's a whole bunch of them to be found here.
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