Scannin' my archives, the earliest mention of the Pixies on my blog was on 5.21.03 (see OUT ON A LIM 5.21.03), when I did a list of ranked top 5 favourite Beatles related fanaticisms, like "Top 5 Fifth Beatle" (number one bein' George Martin), "Top 5 Misheard Beatles Lyrics" (number one bein' "I get high" ("I can't hide") from "I Want To Hold Your Hand"), and "Top 4 Beatles Songs With 5/4 bars" (number one bein' "Don't Let Me Down"). Anyways, even if I'm lyin' to you 'bout bein' a fan of the Pixies durin' the early '90s, the datestamps on my online journal prove that I've been listenin' to 'em for at least the last 8 years as the number one "Top 5 Beatles Song Covers" is "Wild Honey Pie" by the Pixies.
And maybe there's some credence to the cliche that the audience/public creates its own great rock bands/gods outta necessity, but for what it's worth, the Pixies were my contemporaneous Beatles/gods and goddess as I was born 2 years after the Fab Four broke up, but was college aged, which seems to be a fertile time to worship ideas that're springin' up in psychological theories and consumer culture studies whilst hopped on hormones and herbs, 3 years before Black, Kim, Joey, and Dave separated ways. I gotta admit, their music's blastin' from the past, cause there's a distance between me and early Dylan/Beatles called "time". I'm hearin' 'em thru whoever's writin' the history of rock. And Radiohead's another era.
Believe it or not, but there would be no Larry McFeurdy without the Pixies. Even the idea of an obtuse pseudonym comes from Black Francis. And although I ain't kneelin' for any religion at the moment, the closest metaphor I've got to be in awe of the "divine" is thru music. I've got no communicateable idea how it works beyond the melody, harmony, and rhythm. However, I've some faith in hopin' that music's not loaded with trace amounts of negatively collapsed wave functions. Anyways, my blog's filled with Pixies references. If I may footnote two, there's 5.10.04 when I wrote 'bout their reunion and 9.28.04 when I saw 'em live at my alma mater UCSD. The latter blabbers 'bout goin' "full circle". Here we go again.
(11.14.11)
My brother once generalized that people who drive Audi automobiles're assholes. I never bothered to ask him to elaborate any further since I didn't take his claim too seriously. I mean, he probably'd some bad luck with a few of 'em and thus exaggerates the probabilities. And I'm not gonna go so far as to agree with him, but lately it's been in my experience that he seems eerily close to some truth. Not all Audis manoeuvre like maniacs on the road, but more often than not, those that do're Audis.
There're two new television shows, which I won't advertise by namin' 'em, that on paper're perfect premises for me. One's got dinosaurs and the other a once favourite actress of mine. Whilst I understand my lack of interest in the latter as she's a former "favourite" who seems to be playin' the same quirky character tiresomely, my dispassion for the dinosaurs're more of a mystery. I mean, as a species I'ven't outgrown 'em, but somehow they really'ven't improved much CGI-wise in the last 18 years.
(11.16.11)
Today I felt like I'd woken up in some other quantum universe. It was Hallowe'en and even though I'd arranged the bulk of music for this year’s show, it got postponed at the eleventh hour 'til the followin' holiday due to "technical difficulties", which wasn't so freaky, but I did imagine along another parallel timeline that the songs were gonna be performed.
Anyways, so I spoke with a friend who previously seemed enthusiastic 'bout me doin' the Pixies next year, but somehow flipped his opinion. Not that anythin' he said convinced me otherwise, but I do suspect that he's been influenced by my ex-first violinist, whom at this point I just wanna erase from my world. I'm just waitin' for her to graduate.
Cause I figured out that, for lack of a better term, I'm "happy" in the sense that I'm not sufferin' any of the classic torments, like injustice or torture. However, any dip whatsoever in my "happiness" is not only noticeable, but if I can help it, avoidable, especially if I can see it approachin' from a light year away. I mean, I don't need luxuries like love and purpose.
The older I get, the more I laugh at words like "legacy". I hear it thrown 'round, like so-and-so head of the library is renovatin' a buildin' as his "legacy". Which is fine for anyone who cares 'bout such things, but to me, it's ultimately pointless. Sure a few generations might enjoy what you left behind, but then time moves on and what's important now ain't then.
Askin' 'round, none of the current students that I'm in contact with, includin' my string quartet, know who the Pixies were. That's fine with me, as their exoticism stock rises, and it gives me some breathin' room as expectations're blinded. Perhaps I'm hypin' 'em too much. Maybe they'ren't as cool as I thought. Regardless, I ain't changin' my mind.
It's not as if I'm makin' any grand statement with these little concerts. There's absolutely no reason why I should be doin' 'em. I'm just creatin' an excuse to collaborate with some cute musicians. I've got no message other than "look at me havin' fun up here playin' the music that you might not care 'bout but I like". And if that's my purpose in life, that's fine with me.
I kinda knew her answer before I texted a friend who said she wanted to check out my Hallowe'en musical tonight. Even though it got scrapped, they were gonna do a show from the past along with one new number as a preview for next year. She was sick and couldn't make it. And I don't wanna say I wished it to happen, but it's convenient how things turned.
(11.18.11)
I'm in biker scout mode, checkin' out the chicks, and waitin' for better moments to mingle'n'single out. I sat in on a master class taught by the Calder Quartet'n'heard my new 'cellist for the first time acknowledgin' her status as such. I mean, I've listened to her playin' in recitals'n'concerts before, and I've always admired her for her artistry, but that was before I enlisted her. And I'd my eye on the second violinst.
I granted permission to someone askin' to translate a portion of my webpage into Estonian. Essentially I said "knock yourself out". Likewise, I've been sayin' "yes" to a bunch of requests to rebroadcast some of my images on other internet sites promotin' a coffee table book. If all vice versas're true, then it shouldn't come as a surpise that I don't care 'bout anybody stealin' my copyrights. I guess it's only polite.
To ask. Immediately that night, after the master class, I arranged "Cecilia Ann". I'd envisioned my 'cellist pluckin' away on the bassline, my violins rhythmin' the chords, and my violist takin' the lead. Meanwhile, I've got my ears on a certain singer that might fit Kim Deal's vocal role. She's gotta sweeten my screams. I didn't bother her cause she seemed preoccupied with her piano part at the master class.
(11.21.11)
I'm brinin' a chicken tonight.
Yesterday, at work, a book crossed my desk that I immediately mentally flagged as bein' topical for my first violinist's dissertation. I dissolved some salt and brown sugar.
But instead of rememberin' to tell her later, I emailed her 'bout the new acquisition right away. On the drive back from a piano recital, I sketched in my head a string quartet arrangement for "Rock Music". I'm followin' a citrus recipe, so I tossed into my dutch oven with a viscera removed chicken a squeezed lemon, orange, and grapefruit.
She replied gratefully and requested that I put a hold on it after it gets catalogued. That song's lyrics were never transcribed onto the original pressin' of the CD, but on my vinyl copy, they're printed, so I'm goin' by that text when I scream it. Oh, and she noticed that we'ven't been bumpin' into each other lately, to which I suggested that we eat our lunches together sometime next week. And that's why I'm brinin' a chicken tonight.
It's so that I can roast it tomorrow. The reason for that is twofold. The first bein' I've been replicatin' rice'n'bean dishes that've been callin' for chicken stock. And suspectin' that it's probably not too difficult to concoct my own, I looked up how online. Of all which resulted, I'm adherin' to one that requires the carcass of a roasted chicken, thus the brinin'. And secondly, I wanna make some chicken burritos with frijoles de la olla, Mexican rice, and avocado ranch dressin' on a flour tortilla, all homemade. The rice'll be cooked in chicken stock.
I like the way she uses commas. They're like musical bars, with the full sentence bein' the phrase, as she shifts between interrelated chords without losin' the subject. I've also been testin' out various hot sauces, as rice'n'beans seem to call for some dowsin'. My favourites so far've been the ones with garlic or chipotle flavourin'. Anyways, in the unlikely even that she decides to endure me durin' lunch, I think I oughta bring to the table somethin' that I both, hopefully'll, enjoy eatin' and can brag 'bout in regards to how I assembled it, which in the end is all that I probably should dream 'bout at this universe splittin' moment, so goodnight. Encatuse.
(11.22.11)
The CD player in my car's been skippin'. Now, this could be the result of several possible conditions, such as the roads these days'ren't bein' maintained, the air pressure in my tires need to be adjusted, or the disc I burned was a faulty product. It's especially noticeable when I'm tryin' to sing along.
So here's my solution. I bought an MP3 player. Don't worry, I'm loadin' it with WAV files, cause it's got plenty of memory. I mean, the last time I bought a Walkman, it'd half the capacity and was twice the cost. And I'll plug it into my car stereo to listen to unskipped tracks. But there's another benefit.
I uploaded my MIDI simulations of my Pixies string quartet arrangements and played along with my guitar. I found myself walkin' 'round my apartment strummin' to the sampled violins, viola, and violoncello. I closed my eyes and entered the music. I'm definitely gonna practice likewise from now on.
(11.23.11)
It's obvious to anyone who's been readin' along to my blog that any setlist from a live performance of Pixies music'll include "Letter to Memphis", although it ain't so for the actual band as I can't seem to find any "bootlegged", I put that word in quotes cause anyone with a semi-recent cellphone can commit digital piracy, version of the song uploaded yet. And second to that number, I'd add "Velouria", which's been represented in the current repertoire, I mean, I personally've heard 'em play it onstage. Don't get me wrong, I've found the early '90s concert renditions of "Letter to Memphis", but I'm curious as to how they'd interpret it now, post reunion-style. I don't know if "Velouria" lives up to today's standards of contemporary popular music, cause one, I'm not versed in the modern scene, two, I'm way too biased to give an objective calibration, and three, even if I could say that it's one of my all-time favourite tracks in my limited collection of history, I wouldn't know where to begin other than I sense that each bar's got its own world, with a chorus that's got the simpilest, yet yet to be overused, gimmick in the rock'n'roll formula of progressin' from the I to the IV, slide into those chords from a half-step below. Kim's vocals overfill its impossibility to ever hate hearin' it.
Today was when I got confirmation from a singer to join my string quartet. My violist took her doctoral qualifyin' exam in the seminar room of the music library, so I helped her afterwards with a minute to spare at five fifty-nine, ploppin' books into her professor's suitcase, and elevatorin' 'em down to the basement studio. We unofficially closed 'round fifteen after eight, a quarter of an hour later than officially posted hours, cause the circulation student whom I supervise on Tuesday nights found some lingerin' scores to shelve on the mezzanine. So nearabouts eight twenty I locked up the library, kept the lights on cause a facilities crew were fixin' the fluorescents, unhooked the key to the media room, grabbed my guitar, unlocked the media room, turned on half of the two electrical switches, opened my guitar case, tuned up, strapped on, and cued up my latest MIDI string arrangements. As of this writin' I’m five songs into Bossanova. I like how the Boston Paradise DVD misspells "Allison", like Jefrey with one F Jeffery. I also emailed my first violinst regardin' the hold I put on a book for her. I'm bottom heavyin' it on the power chords heavy arrangements. The next chair that needs fillin' is the second violin. I've got some subconscious applicants.
(11.28.11)
Wishes'n'curses were bein' hurled thru the infinite fishnet when I remembered that members of the homeless and pornographic societies're contactin' me via their mediums of beggin' at the bottom of the corner of a freeway exit and strip teasin' mannerisums in a modernly styled digital manor. The other night, as I drove to the market to pick up some oranges to squeeze for breakfast juice, there was a bum jammin' on a violin. I would've stopped to listen and/or make a generous donation if the light wasn't green as cars'll've backed up my rearview. I mean, he could've been an undiscovered drunk virtuoso. Or he might've been a discovered sober idiot, I'll never know. The point is the violin.
Now, I personally don't download porn, however my buddy Larry does, and he said that he doesn't either, but heard that there's this one where a star's undressin' and in the background's an abstract oil with a bunch of black outlined shapes, but in the bottom lefthand corner, or so McFeurdy claims, is a non-abstractly rendered violin. So I asked him the obvious, "What 'bout the foreground?" Strike two. Or three if you count the one hangin' off the shoulder of my first violinist. She came in grey clothed and to pick up her requested-to-be-held material, of which there were three items shelved under her name at the circulation desk. That little compressed chit-chat was the highest point of today.
Next up on my arrangement table is the acrostic "Ana". Tonight, I ran out of very light grey 1 x 1 plates for the commissioned portrait that I've gotta finish before Xmas. I did place an order whilst on the reference desk this afternoon as I was bein' pelted with negative vibrations from my ex-first violinist who defiantly sat within ocular range. But tomorrow night, barrin' any end-of-the-galaxy scenarios, I should be able to switch constructive gears and begin sketchin' out, in my opinion, the Pixies most beautiful song. Yeah, generally when I think of that band I don't think of "beauty" per se, but I'd go out on a speed limit and say that nothin' in there catalogue's as "beautiful".
And perhaps by equatin' "Ana" with "beauty" I'm definin' my perceived ideal, musically speakin'. Well, at the most basic, the rhythm's not too fast, allowin' for a slower intake of what's bein' enchanted. The poetry's lyrical to my ears. Come on, any song that begins with "She's my fave undressin' in the sun" is an instant karma police classic in my bookend. And the chord progression is insane, changin' keys horizonatally'n'vertically, and yet so compact in chromatic simplicity that those alone would be cause for induction into inspirationality. But the melody, by my wager, belongs up there with the most celebrated romantic lines of all time. Then again, I could be imaginin' it all.
(11.29.11)
On a night cold enough to nurse a cup of warmed sake held in both hands, I maximized the volume on the other end of my headphones and pulled up the twenty three minutes that I've got arranged so far of the Pixies for string quartet.
The first eight songs of Bossanova. A few nights ago, two buddies and I were drivin' to a 50's diner after an early music concert at the university library rotunda. Behind the wheel, my friend cued his CD player and quizzed us.
"When do you think this was recorded?" It was a track by Lightnin’ Hopkins. "1958?" the shotgun rider replied. "This is the Rosetta Stone for all of rock'n'roll," the musical instrument conservationist by trade offered as a clued.
"1954," was the answer. "Is he playin' the guitar and singin' at the same time?" I asked back. "Yeah." "Nice." Meanwhile, the recordin' engineer up front wondered how many microphones were used to get that drum reverb.
Last night, like most, I had multiple unrelated dreams, other they usually involve me interactin' with some widescreen landscape and often a related to reality character from my awakened life, but there was one that I keep returnin' to.
It's a chilly midnight in a vividly lit upper floored hotel room. The sake is bein' heated. I'm conversin' with my deceased aunt 'bout infinitely numbered parallel universes a millimeter away from this dreamt space and time.
(11.30.11)
"I'm lookin' for a new violinist," I added.
There've been six musicians rotatin' in my string quartet over the last three years as college students graduate or move to other cities. And this upcommin' ensemble's gonna see two new faces appearin' on 'cello and violin.
"Oh," she raised her hand and said "pick me."
I'm lucky in that so far I've gotten all my first choices. Or rather, I've played with the musicians that I think'ren't bad at the school. Some others've even asked to be in my group, which is flatterin', but the lineup's already set.
"Do you wanna join my string quartet?" I double checked.
Last week, at the library, I was up on the mezzanine and peered over the edge. Below were every member of my string quartet includin' my singer. This was the first time I'd seen 'em all in the same room. Like puzzle parts.
"Yes," she answered.
(12.2.11)
Sacrificin' the theremin for an expanded power chord, my justification is that "Velouria", at the song's core, demands the latter more than the former, otherwise the Pixies would have a theremin player with 'em at every gig. Last night, I was holdin' Xmas lights as two of my oldest friends from elementary school wrapped roof beams with memories of our shared childhood.
"Why're you cookin' so many Mexican dishes?" my sister wondered. "Is there some Juanita?" We'd Thanksgivin' at her house, with my brother's family, a year since I'd seen his son, who's now walkin', but not yet talkin', although he's capable of vocal sounds. Another musical variable that I don't hold sacred is the octave. Those notes're moveable.
Yes, I know that some older folks've got longer lastin' friends, but over thirty years ain't short, especially since none of my string quartet'n'singer're close to that age. It's weird, but I'm not runnin' to see the new Muppet movie. I don't think I've matured since the first time I saw Kermit on the big screen, way back for their motion picture debut. I'll know when my time's up.
(12.5.11)
Let me be the last person to determine whether a keel's even or not, but today every finalized raindrop of doubt 'bout my ignorin' my ex-first violinist was windshield wiped away. Granted, I'ven't lost any sleep over her, but the mere act of pretendin' we don't know each other not to mention kickin' her outta my string quartet rubbed me kinda wrongly, enough to rethink thoughts that up 'til today I could've reconsidered. One of the questions I had was how to end "The Happening". On the recordin', it fades out. Initially I sketched a landin' on the root of the chorus, which sounded super cornball, cause those chords're already cheesy, outta context they're your standard '50s doowop harmonies, however it's imbedded in some psychotic screamin' 'bout Area 51. Anyways, so yeah, there was this line at the library circulation desk. I verbally assessed the patrons. There was a student behind her who wanted to check out one book. And without losin' a beat she reaffirmed her position in line and demanded somewhere 'round fifty CDs. Seriously, I should've been kind to the next customer, but the first person in line's always right, right? So I concluded that if she'd've shown a shred of courtesy to the next guy I'd worry 'bout justifin' my actions towards her. I mean, I'm fine with her abusin' the library staff, that's my job. But when there's collateral cruelty, well, that finally crystallizes my conscience. There was some lame internet list of "truths" 'bout life that I skimmed, like "fashions fade, style is forever", "lyin' is bad", "no one's perfect", etc. Nevertheless, one of 'em, to paraphrase, said "mean people are always gonna be mean, take note when they're the first time, and the second time get away from 'em". I dabbled with addin' a ninth or a major seventh, but they still didn't sound right. So I found a kinda rare, in that they don't play "The Happening" these days, of the Pixies performin' the song. They ended on the V chord. It sounded so much cooler than the root. Thus, I'm gonna follow that route.
(12.6.11)
I got summoned to jury duty, or as I like to call it, "time to read a book", which's currently appropriate as I'ven't'd the opportunity to finish Dick's The Divine Invasion after startin' it at the end of summer. Not that it's not any good, I mean, I dig the continuation of the VALIS thread, but with Hallowe'en composin', portrait buildin', photo shootin', burrito cookin', and Pixies arrangin', the last thing I want to do often gets put off 'til later. I did sneak in a few chapters over Thanksgivin' weekend, and I kinda didn't wanna put it down, not to mention I was relieved that I didn't need to reread any pages to reacquaint myself to the story, cause it itself shifts between memory states, if only I didn't need any sleep.
Anyways, I did my orientation online a day after I was eligible to do so in conjunction with miscellaneous other media absorbin', cause the videos dragged on with what's probably aimed at the elderly styled editin', like five second chapter segues and judges speakin' slower than the subtitles, so that I could read what they were sayin' fast enough to simultaneously listen to vintage Kim Deal interviews, check my email, search for rice'n'bean recipes, catch up on entertainment blogs, look up images of a cute actress, map out a route to a museum, network socially, watch the latest episode of a television comedy, and still answer the questions correctly 'bout jury duty, if only books didn't need so much attention.
(12.7.11)
A few days ago I went into a soda relapse, whereby bein' too lazy to walk to the store a couple of blocks away from my office to purchase a bottle of sparklin' apple juice, I dropped my spare change into a vendin' machine in the closest courtyard to my desk and bought whatever was cheapest, namely a can of cola. And like a rat in an electrocuted maze, I immediately remembered why I don't drink soda as my teeth began to buzz with hurt the followin' day. Likewise, cut the cola and the toothache disappeared. Gee, I wonder what I'll drink tomorrow...
A few astute of you might've noticed that today (12.1.11) I didn't post a blog entry. Well, that's cause I took the day off from work and attended a George Harrsison museum exhibit. I mean, I could've posted somethin' today, but I was too lazy to wait thru my dial-up connection at home, as I can update my webpage from work in mere seconds, which I normally due on my Reuben sandwich lunch breaks, thus one skipped day ain't the end of the world, right? My favourite artifact was his 12-string Rickenbacker. I wonder how many dreams it's strummed....
(12..8.11)
Speakin' of which, I'm goin' on winter break. If the spider doesn't kill me, I'll be back in 2012...
(12.9.11)
So the very first entry of my blog is date stamped (2.12.03), and as I've often alluded to my "I'm callin' it quits after ten years" designation, I'm aware that we're roundin' the approximately final fourteen months.
The freckled Asian 'cellist asked where the oversized section of books on music teachin' in the library was. I pointed to the back regions of the ground level stacks. Tonight's dinner was a chili cheeseburger.
Three nights ago my dinner was a chili cheeseburger. And four nights ago my dinner was a chili cheeseburger, all from the same joint located within diagonal walkin' distance to the beach location where I housesat.
All winter break, plus some extra vacation days, I followed a fairly regular schedule of wakin' up at noon, readin' for a several hours, eatin' a chili cheeseburger, and jammin' in the cold basement on Pixies songs.
In between, I'd hang out with my second violinist. Two night ago we ate at a Singapore dinner before we watched an animated 3D movie. Afterwards, we drank milkshakes at a '50s themed cafe on Santa Monica.
Five nights ago we ate at a ramen restaurant in Little Tokyo. Anyways, tonight I'm done housesittin' and am back at my pad, bakin' rye bread, arrangin' string quartet music, rememberin', and back to bloggin'.
(1.17.12)
As an employee of a public university, it's a pain to receive, after jumpin' thru a labyrinth of red tape, financial compensation for doin' a job outside of my unit, within the department, on my personal time, and for the online benefit of the school's image. For example, if some offshoot of the math department hired an independent photographer, that photographer'd get, barrin' any weird legal restraints, a check cut easily. Whereas when I get "hired", a check can take two years to squeeze outta the university's stash. Luckily, there're some more immediate informal loopholes.
Like when the library associates unit published some photos that I took of a football player for their fund raisin' flyers. Rather than pay me with a check, they gave me a generous gift certificate to a camera store. Or last month, which was December, when the undergraduate library "hired" me to do some portraits of their staff which could be displayed on their social network page. I mean, truthfully, I don't expect to be paid for my extracurricular jobs, which outnumber those that I get compensated for. Cause I enjoy takin' pictures irregardless of my gettin' "paid" in any way.
That bein' said, a friend's asked me to give her a price quote on my doin' her weddin' photographs. I consulted those that I know who're whores in that sector, took what they charge, and halved it for my friend. She's gonna talk it over with her fiance and we'll fly if it sees. Anyways, my point was I got an email from the publicity department of the undergraduate library sayin' their staff'd a holiday present for me as a "thank you" for my photographs. Of course, I accepted it. It was wrapped in white wrappin' paper. And was 'bout the size of a 900 page hardcover novel.
I mean, I knew it was a book without openin' it. If you've ever held one, you know how they feel, with the spine, the overhang of the cover, and the pages indented inside. Not to mention, it was from the undergraduate library. If they gave anythin' other than a book, they'd be hypocrites. I carried the wrapped present to the student store where I bought a bottle of sparklin' apple juice to accompany my homemade burrito. As I walked back to my office, I bumped into my second violinist. And the next thing I knew, she was somehow at my desk, lookin' at photos that I took of her.
(1.18.12)
Previously on OUT ON A LIM...
Henry receives a book shaped gift from the undergrate library for takin' their staff photos. While walkin' back to his office, he meets his second violinist, who ends up at his desk, lookin' at pictures that he took of her...
I'm not into braggin' anymore. Especially 'bout the plastic toy brick episode of my life, which's fame, for better or worse, seems to continue beyond my embarrassment. And I especially feel uncomfortable when a friend brings it up in a conversation with a third party that's unaware of my past. It's been ten years since I built anythin' crazy.
The photos were of her string quartet when they performed in the music library. Apparently no one passed 'em on to 'em. But that's not what matters. We were scrollin' thru the ten images, the zoom angles that I got from the mezzanine, and all I heard her say was how much she loved to read books by Haruki Murakami. In her palms was a pocket paperback edition of one of his books which she'd checked out from the East Asian Library.
However, I don't mind when I'm bein' featured in a coffee table book. Especially one that's located on the shelves of the bookstore that my second violinst and I browsed thru after watchin' an animated 3D movie. Cause I was able to say "Hey, check this out," as I flipped to the six pages that indexed me. Try that trick and spin it, yeah...
"Have you read any of his books?" she recommended. "Nope," I fumbled. "You should read his books," she repeated. "I'll check the library catalog," I half committed. I mean, I've got other things I wanna read at the moment.
The book shaped gift was a novel by Haruki Murakami.
(1.19.12)
"What if we meet a monster?" she wondered.
"Then I'll've to protect you," I joked, "unless I faint." I pretended to go limp just before we went subterranean as her laughter bounced off the reflective surfaces of the stairwell.
Once below, she more than twice expressed the coincidental match that took place three crossroads ago.
"This is just like a Murakami novel," she pointed.
Two weeks ago, whilst housesittin' durin' the holidays, I read the gift that I received from the undergraduate library, the hardcover English translation of Murakami's 1Q84. All 925 pages, in five days, which is extremely fast for me. However, I forgot to report that even though I got summoned to jury duty, durin' the week that I was on-call, I never got asked to wake up early in the mornin' and drive my self, with readin' material in hand, to court. I never got a chance to finish Dick's The Divine Invasion before I blasted thru the Murakami, although, after IQ84, I not only completed The Divine Invasion (I recommend readin' it if you'ven't yet, it's got some cool time/memory warps), but I also sailed thru The Transmigration of Timothy Archer (another, in my opinion, thumbs up book).
Two nights ago, we drove over the hill, saw the electrically illuminated valley, and appreciated warm sushi. Afterwards, we alternated bites dividin' up a chocolate marble cake. She drank coffee, me tea.
"Have you ever explored the steam tunnels?" I conversed.
"No," she suggested, "what are they?"
I semi-guided her to the bridge. I mean, it's been nearly six years since I've been down there, and my short term memory kicked the directions to the underground campus landmark out of my head long ago, but was able to find it thanks to the graffitied directions, like the arrows pointin' the way scribbled with "bridge". There was one turnin' station where we held hands as I helped her down a ledge. That was a fun section.
"That was a fun section," she read and said.
Not to mention, I not only but also absorbed the words of two Pixies books. One was an oral history. The other was an analysis of Dolittle. I've found several quotes online from Black Francis himself, who as late as within the last decade, answered the interview question "What's your favourite album?" with Bossanova. I'm friends with the lead guitarist of the Pixies on a social network. And I can trace a published article from last year that agrees with the lead singe'’s accessment. Kim Deal was the only Pixie to not participate in the Doolittle book. There's a HILARIOUS commercial for a video game system that uses a sappy rendition of "Where Is My Mind". Search for it on tube you effect kinect.
So the pages turned with vacationin' ease.
And there's a major character in 1Q84. Her name's the same as my second violinist's.
"This is just like a Murakami novel."
(1.20.12)
This afternoon, I finished readin' Murakami's After Dark. Although significantly shorter than IQ84, I enjoyed it more in that it was better at bein' "succinctly poetic".
Today, I also put the final adjustments (a minor/major correction) on my Pixies string quartet arrangements. Now all I gotta do it edit them on my notation software.
We're gonna be performin' 24 songs. All 14 tracks from Bossanova, plus 10 from the other albums and B-sides. We've got two possible dates for the concert.
But it's up to my second violinst to pick which one we'll go with, cause after she finds out when her master's recital is, then we can figure out a convenient concert date.
Tonight, I fried some oysters. Yes, I'm aware that I'm on my last four and a half months of eatin' beef, and I should be eatin' more chili cheeseburgers, but I took a break.
(1.23.12)
For dinner I had a fake chili cheeseburger. It's obviously not better than any of the worstly made real ones, but due to laziness and far away distances I drove to the nearest fake chili cheeseburger joint instead. Or maybe I'm just resettin' my taste receptors, you know, with a fake chili cheeseburger mouth wash which'll clear my senses in anticipation of experiencin' the next real one.
I gather that the Pixies were highly self aware of their style of dynamics, I mean, they created it. So I find it kinda cool that in their lyrics there're references to both the Mariana Trench and Olympus Mons, the lowest underwater point on earth and the highest mountain in the Solar System, respectively. The latter's 'bout 14 miles tall and the former's nearly half as much miles deep.
I'm tryin' my best to not use the "N" word. Ever since Cobain generously name dropped the Pixies as a significant influence, I don't wanna seem desperate whenever I find someone who's never heard of the band that starts with a "P" and I gotta sell 'em based on who came up with the formula and who copied it. And the more I listen to both bands, the less similarities apply.
(1.24.12)
My reusable lunch bag was wearin' out. It'd a tear on one side, which didn't render it unusable, but its end was near. And on the day that I decided to purchase a replacement, a coworker offered me a new reusable lunch bag. It'd been in the lost and found bin for over a year. No one claimed it, so it became mine.
As always whenever I housesit, I overdosed on television, usually whatever's on past two o'clock in the mornin', like stand-up comedy, cartoons intended for mature audiences, and music videos. Cause I figure I might as well do I what I can't do when I'm in the comfort of my own place, or at least what I won't do.
I'm aware that documentaries'ren't necessarily depictin' the whole story. Characters get ignored if they don't serve the director's thesis. I kinda can relate cause I know of innovative sculptors that got overlooked for a book that features some of my work, some of which were doubtlessly influenced by said persons.
I drove a Lexus last night for the first time in 'bout a long while. The ride was just like I remembered it if not grippin'ly sharpened due to the fondness enlarged in absentia. Some things'ren't inconsistent in their simplicity to ever bore me no matter how often I abuse 'em. Like tuna fish sandwiches or coincidences.
I've been rentin' documentaries. I saw one on origami that my brother recommended and liked the genre so I followed it with one on the font Helvetica, its history, its champions and its haters. There's a shot of the White Album cover as a prime example. And in contrast was a closeup of the Pixies typography.
(1.25.12)
Obviously, my share of television viewin' included commercials, of which one in particular, in my opinion, is the most depressin' product that's bein' sold right now. It's an energy drink. Now, I've never touched the stuff, let alone have I ever drank more than a dozen cups of coffee in my life, but to me it seems otherworldly to take somethin' to keep oneself awake.
The advertisement underscores some mid-afternoon feelin' with scenes of office workers yawnin'. Granted, I don't get to work by noon, yet if I do the math, assumin' the typical person's nine to five schedule, accordin' to the announcer, I ought to feel groggy 'round 5:30. But nope, that'd only happen if I was up all night. And no, I don't need a pill to put me to sleep.
Rather I get plenty of dreamin' time. Enough to get me thru the day without takin' a nap. I won't go so far to say I'm "awake" in any metaphysical sense, but physically I think I'm doin' fine. I mean, that's why I go to bed at night. To rest. And yeah, my life's pretty stress and responsibility free, so I've got that excuse. I could laugh, but instead all this makes me cry.
Cause I don't care how tired I am, I try to enjoy whatever moment I'm livin'. Even the so-called "mundane" can be reimagined as "excitement". Sure, I'm at a windowless desk job, but there's the internet at my disposal, which's immediately hours of fun. Not to mention, simply rememberin' what I dreamt of last night can put a smile on my face. That's enough.
Well, I guess it helps that my coworkers'ren't pains and my duties'ren't cutthroat. I suppose that kinda nonsense'll make boredom look like a temptin' alternative. And add to that the lack of a good night's sleep and yeah I can see how someone'll do a shot of an energy drink if they wanna keep their job. Which is all the more sad. That there's a market for this stuff.
(1.26.12)
She did her homework at my assistant's table whilst I'd my feet up on my desk as I read Murakami's A Wild Sheep Chase. For an hour we were in the same room, quiet except for her sometimes shufflin' in her seat or my turnin' a page. It was early Saturday evenin'. "Let's go get dinner," she finally said.
We'd some Japanese soul food with warm sake. It rained in the mornin' and as winter goes in Los Angeles, it wasn't the coldest I've felt, but I did wear a jacket. Ok, that probably ain't gonna mean anythin' to anyone livin' anywhere where it snows, but the atmosphere in the restaurant was perfect considerin'.
Every wall space hung either a framed Japanese paintin', Japanese mask, Japanese fish kite, Japanese calligraphy, or Japanese carvin'. She wore her handmade earrings again. Later, at the coffee/tea shop I mustered a mention that her ears weren't bad lookin'. Across the street, there were two police cars.
Their lights were flashin', but their sirens weren't soundin'. Soon an ambulance drove by followed by some fire trucks. We talked 'bout words as we sat at the same table we did the last time we patronized the place. Later, a demolished car was trucked away. "Can they still repair it?" she asked. "I doubt it," I guessed.
(1.27.12)
Generalizations notwithstanding, the Pixies can be an adrenaline rush. Their faster songs don't've extreme tempos, but perhaps it's the energy, the tension and release brought on by the dynamics, or the primal associations expressed in the screamin' that pumps the listener's blood.
My nephew, who's 18 months old, already knows how to navigate a touch screen tablet. He can select and replay his favourite video clips, mainly the ones that feature him, and be entertained. Meanwhile, his grandparents are still figurin' out how to use a computer, let alone tablets.
I'm beginnin' to notice that, with few exceptions, I can't look at people in the eyes, figuratively speakin'. And it's not them, it's me. Cause it seems like nearly everyone I encounter is aspirin' to better themselves, in socially obvious, qualitative, and quantifiable ways. Good for them.
Not that I'm a virtuoso with programmable machines, and I wasn't born with the head start that my nephew inherited, but I don't squint at the screen, look for letters on the keyboard, am confused 'bout which button on the mouse to push, or believe every story I read on the internet.
Cause when you see behind their pupils, they're not in the here and now, rather they want to go up to the next higher level, etc. And sure, they're workin' hard to realize their ambitions, and I'll help 'em if I've got somethin' they can take from me, but it's like talkin' to passin' tourists.
Increasin'ly, I've been gettin' photography gigs. I suppose part of the appeal of the medium is the freezin' of time and space. A picture, especially a portrait of someone, locks that person in that moment, regardless of where they hope to be in the future. The money's good, too.
The university environment consists of students who, by definition, are there to expand their potentials. As well, my job is all about spendin' money. I've never had to competitively consider, devious or not, how to make money, which I gather is a motivatin' factor for upwards mobility.
And there's nothin' wrong with any direction anybody decides to head towards, nor any reason why, if briefly, I can't connect with 'em at my stationary junction. I guess I'm just lucky that I find my current position in life not bad. However, I don't remember ever tryin' to reach for it.
Budget cuts've limited promotions and hirin'. So when a coworker retires, instead of refillin' their role, it might make sense for me to reclassify. In other words, it'll be cheaper to give me a raise as I help pick up the slack. I don't mind given that my speed's probably faster than the retiree's.
Some might call it what they deserve after payin' their dues. I think of it as extra income to save stupidly or spend wisely. It could be worse. Either way it was a nice buffer to fall back on when one night I turned up the volume of the Pixies in my car. A highway patrol car caught me.
(2.6.12)
Basically, I can subdivide my life into two frames of mind, one bein' in orbit with a girl and the other not, of which the latter last occurred before those beacons began colonizin' on my teenaged female classmates' chests. Ever since, I've always'd a chick in my head, imagined or real, young or old, but mostly and increasin'ly younger, and odds are a string player of sorts. I mean, I can't say I've'd many, but there's usually a weekend when I'm sake'n'dinin' a graduate student, cause they're less likely to be illegal agewise, unless they're wiser beyond their years, which some of the feisty Asians ones seem to challenge my...
"Temptation," she attempted to pronounce.
"Do you know what that means?" I asked in Japanese.
...patience with their elaborately etiquetted entrapments, etc. So currently 99 percent of the multiple copies and campus library holdin's of Murakami books're checked out. Mathematically, that's slower than I'm readin', thus I ordered some personal copies online with a gift certificate from my brother, his wife, and son. For my nephew, I signed a copy of the coffee table book that features me. I'd wrapped it up in aluminum foil for a gift exchange game me and my extended family experience every Xmas, whereby everyone brings a gift, we all pick a number, the lowest number goes first gettin' to pick from the pile...
"Foil wrap!" everyone, inludin' me, chanted with mockery.
"Choose the foil wrapped present," I whispered to my sister-in-law.
...the later numbers can either pick from the diminished pile or steal an unwrapped gift. In my hand, unwrapped was a scrap of paper with greatest number possible, namely the highest, which granted me final authority as to who gets what, cause everyone before me'd made their choices, and I held the ticket to upstage 'em in the end. Thru the game, my brother's family at one point had in their possession some sorta tin box stocked with twenty bucks, give or take, worth of candy, a couple of decent DVDs, and finally the "undesireable" cause it was the last one opened, my foil wrapped copy of the coffee table book that features me. I bumped into my first violinist...
"Have you read this?" I flashed the spine.
"Not that one," she caught sight, "but another one."
...after I'd retrieved a copy of Sputnik Sweetheart, which I know's kinda wrong to do, but nonetheless've got charged to my library card even though I'm readin' Norwegian Wood first in case my second violinst wants to check out the movie next week. I mean, if it's based on a book, I'd like to've read it before seein' the cinematic interpretation. After which, I'll hit Sputnik Sweetheart. Luckily, I've got a weekend where she's got "too much homework". I like games where the rules'ren't unbreakable. Unpredictible is a given with her, all seductive durin' the photo shoot, and school girl routine waitin' outside my office. I took a shortcut...
"Well, good luck," I offered.
"Thanks," she waved, "see you later."
(2.7.12)
There's this clock that I could've sworn was broken cause the second hand wasn't movin'. But it turned out that it kept the time, just that one hand wasn't workin'. Cause I double checked later and it wasn't wrong.
Someone told me that someone'd a miscarriage and it bummed me out. You can't've a good day regardless of what nice things happen after hearin' such news. And if the day's already bad, well it got worse.
She planned to hang out. Yet there was somethin' 'bout the timin' that was off. I knew exactly how it was gonna play out. "Sorry," she texted. The plan fell thru. You can't be bummed out when it was expected.
The other day I rehearsed with my singer. We collaborated in a practice room and sung our parts. She was a little shy, but I can't believe how perfect her voice is. Give her a microphone and I think she'll be more than OK.
But back to today, everythin' was wrong. From the second I woke up to writin' this entry. Somethin' was terribly off. Either I'm payin' for some slight I commited in the past, or I'll get compensated in the future.
(2.8.12)
We're supposed to've seen Norwegian Wood tonight--the foreign film taken from the Beatles song, scored by Jonny Greenwood, and based on the Murakami novel that I recently finished readin'. But she forgot that her sensei was playin' a concert of some Mozart sonatas. As discreetly as I could word, I texted her if we could go together. She replied, likewise, with a rejection. But with a hint of "Can we go another time?" Last night, she was in my dream...
The sky was Sven Stromson Blue. And she was at the wheel. We made a left 'round a seashore corner, but missed and hit the water. But instead of drownin' the car, we made it swim. I saw seagulls give us a winged thumbs up as we traced the shores of the Gulf of Mexico, guacamole in the breeze, burritos on the brink of burnin', and the mutilatin' waves. She said she was sorry and liked my unique Japanese and I'd inspired her to read Murakami after midnight.
Of course I admitted beforehand 'bout a dream I had with us disuccin' the book, which wasn't a lie, although I might've failed to've revealed our nudity, but that's another story. Instead, I treated myself to a chili cheeseburger tonight. One of the last in my life, so I might as well enjoy it. And today wasn't a day not to indulge. The rhythm was torn. The melody lost. The harmonies didn't occur, unless you count the disembodiment of cellphone texts.
(2.9.12)
How to cure car cassette adapter "auto-reverse flip-flop".
(2.10.12)
Some photos by me (see credits).
(2.13.14)
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