sonic friday

Last Friday, thousands of Bloomingtonians flocked to Indiana University's Assembly Hall to hear presidential hopeful Hillary Clinton speak. I left town and drove over five hours to hear Sonic Youth play an incredible show in Nashville, Tennessee.

It was fantastic to see Thurston, Kim, Lee and Steve (plus Mark Ibold, who helped Kim on bass) in the flesh. The Youth played songs that spanned every era of the Sonic Youth catalog, from "Shaking Hell" to "Do You Believe in Rapture?" Each band member played with a zest and enthusiasm few would expect from a band that's nearly three decades old.

Thurston annihilated the willing crowd with sonic sounds of chaos, force-fucking his myriad of guitars into amplifiers, speakers, anything that would transform his axe into a weapon discharging glorious distortion.

Kim was subdued and rather quiet when the band wasn't playing, but as soon as sound filled the stage, her switch was flipped. She commanded her bass when she played. She controlled the stage when she sang.

Lee was great. He really seemed to enjoy himself. His interaction with the audience was limited, but it was obvious he was very appreciative of the crowd's fervor.

And Steve. Steve Shelley. Wow. It's said that a drummer is the heartbeat that keeps the band alive. Steve played with an energy and intensity that could have given life to a million bands. It was amazing to watch him; he was a locomotive -- pumping out beats, smacking toms, cracking the snare, riding cymbals and snapping the hi-hat.

It was an amazingly flawless performance by one of the great American rock bands and well worth the trek.

(I assumed the security staff wouldn't allow cameras into the venue so I left mine behind. I was wrong. Camera's were allowed. If you want to view some photographs from the show, visit this Flickr page for some great shots.)

xx

roquentin's epiphany

Another excerpt from Jean-Paul Sartre's Nausea:

I looked anxiously around me: the present, nothing but the present. Furniture light and solid, rooted in its present, a table, a bed, a closet with a mirror -- and me. The true nature of the present revealed itself: it was what exists, and all that was not present did not exit. The past did not exist. Not at all. Not in things, not even in my thoughts. It is true that I had realized a long time ago that mine had escaped me. But until then I believed that it had simply gone out of my range. For me the past was only a pensioning off: it was another way of existing, a state of vacation and inaction; each event, when it had played its part, put itself politely into a box and became an honorary event: we have so much difficulty imagining nothingness. Now I knew: things are entirely what they appear to be -- and behind them . . . there is nothing. . . .

I exist, I am the one who keeps it up. I. The body lives by itself once it has begun. But thought -- I am the one who continues it, unrolls it. I exist. How serpentine is this feeling of existing -- I unwind it, slowly . . . If I could keep myself from thinking! I try, and succeed: my head seems to fill with smoke . . . and then it starts again: "Smoke . . . not to think . . . don't want to think . . . I think I don't want to think. I mustn't think that I don't want to think. Because that's still a thought." Will there never be an end to it?

My thought is me: that's why I can't stop. I exist because I think . . . and I can't stop myself from thinking. At this very moment -- it's frightful -- if I exist, it is because I am horrified at existing. I am the one who pulls myself from the nothingness to which I aspire: the hatred, the disgust of existing, there are as many ways to make myself exist, to thrust myself into existence. Thoughts are born at the back of me, like sudden giddiness, I feel them being born behind my head . . . if I yield, they're going to come round in front of me, between my eyes -- and I always yield, the thought grows and grows and there it is, immense, filling me completely and renewing my existence.

excerpt

From Jean-Paul Sartre's Nausea:

There is a white hole in the wall, a mirror. It is a trap. I know I am going to let myself be caught in it. I have. The grey thing appears in the mirror. I go over and look at it, I can no longer get away.

It is the reflection of my face. Often in these lost days I study it. I can understand nothing of this face. The faces of others have some sense, some direction. Not mine. I cannot even decide whether it is handsome or ugly. I think it is ugly because I have been told so. But it doesn't strike me. At heart, I am even shocked that anyone can attribute qualities of this kind to it, as if you called a clod of earth or a block of stone beautiful or ugly.

a letter from sarah

Dearest William,

I hope this letter finds you, and if it does, I hope you are well.

I'm writing you in a time of need. I wish this weren't the case. Why are we compelled to seek out the friendly faces from our past during moments of distress? Perhaps we long for something familiar . . . a desire to relive an invulnerable moment in time and hide there, take refuge in that sacred memory . . . a snapshot from the past. But unlike photographs, people change, such is the pull of time, and we never find what we are searching for in those faces. We collect scars. And the scars metamorphose us. Eyes change. Personalities transform. It's the pain that changes us. Not the contentment. Not the joy.

I hope the weight of time hasn't significantly changed you, William.

As for me . . .

My head is a hive of wild bees that refuses to settle. Their plastic wings flutter and flap, and my brain flashes like Xmas lights. A man dressed in white -- he smelled like a dentist's office -- prescribed me some medications to address the thoughts (and actions) that landed me in the hospital. He said that the meds and therapy would make me happy. Normal. Like everyone else.

(Little did he or those Nazi nurses know, I never took a single dose of their fucking medication.)

Because of my "positive attitude" and "eagerness to participate in group activities," I accumulated enough "points" to leave the hospital every other day. Yesterday I visited an old friend who lives downtown. I took the bus, and as I stared out the window, everyone looked like actors. Costumes and scripted lines. Stage directions and a well-lit set complete with authentic props.

I got off at Michigan and Tenth and joined the afternoon bedlam. The people, the actors were everywhere. The smell of cotton candy and the distant sound of music wafted over the lunchtime chaos. The carnival must be in town, I thought. But the carnies and Ferris wheels don't come here. Not anymore.

A well-dressed man reciting biblical passages stood at a street corner. He spoke of the Antichrist. Serpents and seven seals. Sinners drowning in a sea of flames. He was waging a holy battle against the forsaken. His weapon was his words. His shield, a weathered bible. A gold-plated cross swung violently around his neck as he pointed east, west, north and south. He fervently condemned the transgressors of god's word -- and the trespassers were everywhere. Stoplights turned red, yellow, green. Turn signals flashed left, right. ". . . So avoid hell and repent today!"

A businessman squawked indiscernible orders into a cell phone. With a look of contempt carved into his clean-shaven face, he waded through the crowded sidewalk. His hair was perfect. Fingernails clipped and clean. An immaculately pressed business suit was his uniform -- a symbol of status. Leather wingtips and a leather briefcase -- survival of the fittest. He was a general commanding troops and dollar signs, fighting to maintain his financial position. ". . . He'll have hell to pay if he doesn't close that fucking deal!"

Two denim-clad teenage lovers passionately embraced in front of a vacant office space. Her arms were folded over his neck. His blind hands scoured her body, searching (quick and fast) for the simple sensation of contact. Their lips were one: an organic device exchanging passion, love, the ineffable force of the cosmos. Car horns screamed. Street vendors shuffled. Pedestrians passed. The teenage lovers' obliviousness was holy and profound. They were battling against an unstoppable force: time. ". . . Wish we could stay here . . . forever."

I got lost among the actors and before I knew it, my two hours of freedom had expired. I was supposed to catch the 42 bus back to the hospital, but I decided not to return. (I walked to Richard's, that old friend I mentioned earlier, and this is where I'm writing this letter.)

I learned something from watching the preacher man, the businessman and the two lovers: we're all fighting, battling against something greater than us . . . an objective none of us will achieve. We fight others. We fight time. We fight faceless forces that lack meaning and therefore do not exist. And, as is my case, we fight ourselves. All of us are engaged in an unending battle. So how am I different from everyone else? Why should I be institutionalized and fed medications? And contrary to what that psychiatrist said, there is no happiness. No sadness. No normalcy. Just the act of existence and the experience of collecting memories.

I haven't forgotten you, William. Maybe someday we'll see each other again . . . someday soon, I hope. Despite the passage of time, I can still taste you. Feel you. Smell you. The psychiatrist and therapists told me to forget you, move on, build a new foundation and start anew. I tried. I tried to erase you. But some things, some people can't be erased, regardless of your attempts.

And maybe you shouldn't erase the snapshots of your past. Our history is our life. We don't live in the future. And we don't live in the present because the moment is always escaping, slipping though our fingers. Our history is our life. This is why we keep journals, diaries, home movies, souvenirs and photographs. These things remind us of who and what we are. This is why grave markers bear our name and lifespan -- to remind others of who and what we were. We are products of our past; our past is a product of our existence. It's this symbiotic relationship that makes us human.

Some people touch you. Kiss you. Or simply look at you. And it's over. That person becomes an intangible memento in your mind. A forever floating particle of your past.

A scar.

A blemish.

A mark you will cherish until your memory evanesces and your existence evaporates.

Forever Yours,

Sarah

XOXO


xx

poor mother

Last night, I received a phone call from mother. As soon as she began speaking, I knew something was amiss. A hoarseness in her quivering voice told me she had been crying, and I prepared to hear the worst. I immediately thought sister was in trouble but such was not the case. Mother was simply overwhelmed by current -- and rather frivolous -- events in her life. I calmed her nerves, helping her realize that the source of her stress and anxiety was mostly trivial.

I found myself speaking as a nihilist, telling her to "let go" of the conflicts and frustration that have encompassed her mind because we have no choice, no control over the events that occur in our lives.

A digression . . .

And what -- or who -- defines the meanings to such events? The answer is obvious: we do. But before we define these occurrences, we must make the choice (a subconscious decision) to do so. What is it in the human psyche that obligates us to apply value, meaning to virtually everything in our lives? Are we afraid to face the mirror as a naked being stripped of reason and truth? Are we afraid to face the stark reality that our lives are essentially meaningless?

Before we said our goodbyes, mother thanked me for offering a fresh and soothing perspective on her troubles. "I knew if I called you, you would calm my nerves," she told me. (Ever since "The Sister Situation" years ago, I've been an invaluable support system for mother.)

Hearing her speak those words saddened me greatly. If I were to commit an act of self-annihilation, I fear what would become of mother.

During our conversation, she asked me how I was doing . . . was everything OK? After a brief pause, I lied and said things were fine. Poor mother, she knows nothing of my desolate state . . . no idea of the thoughts . . . the fatalistic desires that constantly consume my consciousness.

And once again, I find myself existing not for my own sake but for the welfare of mother, father and sister.

xx

song of the moment

Dash Berlin's remix of Vantem's "You Never Said" is an irresistible slice of trance. Once you've heard the chorus, the song lodges itself inside your head.

Vantem "You Never Said" (Dash Berlin remix)

perhaps you're right

If you want to disappear again, fine. I have my doubts too. I mean, I know there's a slim chance of a real future with you anyhow. I'm already tired of walking on eggshells with you. There is always something I say or do that pisses you off. I'm sick of this back and forth game with you. Maybe you are right. Perhaps you are better off dead. I can't help you and you are filled with too much hate and anger for me to even want to try anymore. So yeah, just fucking forget it.

L via text message, 3 April 2.49AM

Don't call me. Don't text message me.

Ever again.

xx