Today was another fifty-something sunny day in Harlem.
I've noticed from my modern music playlist that the 1990's were mostly depressing alternative songs or angry heavy metal songs. Yet as I approached the new millennium, the songs became more focused on being artistically riveting than on being angst-ridden. Every so often the sun peaks through the clouds with a positive upbeat tune here and there. The Smashing Pumpkins are closing up shop, Kurt Cobain left the arena long ago, and Metallica has one more covers album worth canoeing across the sea to, like some sort of supersonic power chord fueled viking. Tool has transformed from playing so hard and loud and fast and weird and mind-blowing that it tore a hole in the universe, and moved to greener pastures where it repairs the universe into a finely tuned spooky metallic harmony by doing the exact same things. The soothing melodic whines and roaring distorted guitars of Radiohead have completed their first act of awe-inspiring adventures in audio and are now giving way to their future as uber-hip ethereal edgy explorations of uncharted electronic landscapes in the tundra of the 90's frozen emotional ebb from previous generation's loving flow. The Chili Peppers are just as wild, but slightly more contemplative, artsy, and experienced than before. Powerful, angry and excellent hardcore exercise assistants like the Deftones are taking a bow and motioning The White Stripes onstage for another reinvention of rock and roll music, yet one that goes back in time to its eternal ever-manifest roots, realizing the sublime sense of tuning into its present vibration through the once future media that is now. The Offspring is done complaining about everything with clever observations and "Nitro (Youth Energy)," and now Modest Mouse is starting to break away from the same by flying us from Antarctica to the moon and back. The Flaming Lips have triumphantly entered the scene with heart-wrenching mind-expansion of the cosmic solitude enforced by inherent temporal existence fluctuating between pleasure and pain, love and fear, and will soon arrive here with a butt-kicking Japanese beauty named Yoshimi, who, by nature of her will and spirit, will kick the butts of any pink robots who dissuade the steady progress of confidence, courage, bravery and soulful ecstasy. Like the ones that require working on a Sunday morning.
This morning I walked through the turnstile listening to The White Stripes' "We're Going to Be Friends" when I felt someone patting me on the back. I turned and saw my friend Glenn. He was on his way to breakfast, and I was on my way to work. I've known him since we met on the school bus in kindergarten.
During class we read about mistakes and problems in order to practice grammar: should have, was supposed to, had to, needed to, could have, might have, shouldn't have, wasn't supposed to etc. We discussed mistakes we had made in the past, although nobody really felt like opening up.
I've been reading over all of my 2013 web log pieces the past two weeks. I've found glaring grammatical errors, tiny typos and stylistic faux pa's which called out to me for repair. I've also given greater consideration to writings I have recently produced.
The other week I wrote "do no rush for your train." The train is the dream. I did not mean don't go for your dream or work hard for your dream. I just meant don't rush, because you make mistakes, like forgetting that your iPod might fall out of your pocket if you start running. Many of the web logs had grammar mistakes and typos because I was rushing. Running is just fine, because running implies prepared intent. I have decided to go fast, but my pockets are zipped up and I can't lose anything. Rushing is impulsive, without considering all the possibilities. For example, I rushed a sentence saying that my iPod was my most unnecessary possession, which couldn't be further from the truth when considered amongst my possessions. I just meant to say it was a thing, and things aren't important. The music is essential, but the device is not, because the music still exists from another source.
I also wrote about seeing agents at a graduate program. Perhaps my tone was too hasty to appear to put down such programs. I'm sure they are all fine programs. Many of my favorite writers have taught or attended such programs. Beyond writing, there are dazzling, extraordinary masters of art and music who refined their crafts and learned essential techniques at schools of higher learning. All I was really saying there was that I already paid a lot of money for college, and am still paying money, and the best teacher I had there told me that the best you could do was to write honestly about something you knew. Once you knew the grammar and the basic mistakes to avoid, all that's left is feedback from reputable readers. Sometimes programs help, but in my experience, they haven't. What can an inexperienced writer who loves fantasy stories about dragons and kings really say to someone writing new journalism style about a work experience? With music and art you can find others to collaborate, but prose writing is a solo endeavor. It would have been nice to stumble into a gathering of agents under different circumstances; i.e., without lying about my identity and stealing some other hardworking person's name tag.
Another rush involved quoting Abraham Lincoln that writing was the "greatest invention." To be specific, I wouldn't agree that it is the best experience, endeavor or even method of communication. Most of the best religions hint at truth that is beyond words. The greatest moments in life are often created by magically making eye contact, or a simple touch. The "hello" is the one who breaks the spell of the mystic silence by turning the knob to open the door to something more. I wouldn't call any of those inventions. Music isn't an "invention," even though artists invent songs. Music is the way of the world. It's the fabric of existence, a fluid spark akin to electricity: it was already there, so it couldn't be invented, but if properly respected and understood, could potentially be harnessed and transmitted by worthy heart-mind-bodies in new beautiful ways to benefit as much of life as life feels wondrously apropos.
Running is fun and can get the job done. Just don't rush.
I've noticed from my modern music playlist that the 1990's were mostly depressing alternative songs or angry heavy metal songs. Yet as I approached the new millennium, the songs became more focused on being artistically riveting than on being angst-ridden. Every so often the sun peaks through the clouds with a positive upbeat tune here and there. The Smashing Pumpkins are closing up shop, Kurt Cobain left the arena long ago, and Metallica has one more covers album worth canoeing across the sea to, like some sort of supersonic power chord fueled viking. Tool has transformed from playing so hard and loud and fast and weird and mind-blowing that it tore a hole in the universe, and moved to greener pastures where it repairs the universe into a finely tuned spooky metallic harmony by doing the exact same things. The soothing melodic whines and roaring distorted guitars of Radiohead have completed their first act of awe-inspiring adventures in audio and are now giving way to their future as uber-hip ethereal edgy explorations of uncharted electronic landscapes in the tundra of the 90's frozen emotional ebb from previous generation's loving flow. The Chili Peppers are just as wild, but slightly more contemplative, artsy, and experienced than before. Powerful, angry and excellent hardcore exercise assistants like the Deftones are taking a bow and motioning The White Stripes onstage for another reinvention of rock and roll music, yet one that goes back in time to its eternal ever-manifest roots, realizing the sublime sense of tuning into its present vibration through the once future media that is now. The Offspring is done complaining about everything with clever observations and "Nitro (Youth Energy)," and now Modest Mouse is starting to break away from the same by flying us from Antarctica to the moon and back. The Flaming Lips have triumphantly entered the scene with heart-wrenching mind-expansion of the cosmic solitude enforced by inherent temporal existence fluctuating between pleasure and pain, love and fear, and will soon arrive here with a butt-kicking Japanese beauty named Yoshimi, who, by nature of her will and spirit, will kick the butts of any pink robots who dissuade the steady progress of confidence, courage, bravery and soulful ecstasy. Like the ones that require working on a Sunday morning.
This morning I walked through the turnstile listening to The White Stripes' "We're Going to Be Friends" when I felt someone patting me on the back. I turned and saw my friend Glenn. He was on his way to breakfast, and I was on my way to work. I've known him since we met on the school bus in kindergarten.
During class we read about mistakes and problems in order to practice grammar: should have, was supposed to, had to, needed to, could have, might have, shouldn't have, wasn't supposed to etc. We discussed mistakes we had made in the past, although nobody really felt like opening up.
I've been reading over all of my 2013 web log pieces the past two weeks. I've found glaring grammatical errors, tiny typos and stylistic faux pa's which called out to me for repair. I've also given greater consideration to writings I have recently produced.
The other week I wrote "do no rush for your train." The train is the dream. I did not mean don't go for your dream or work hard for your dream. I just meant don't rush, because you make mistakes, like forgetting that your iPod might fall out of your pocket if you start running. Many of the web logs had grammar mistakes and typos because I was rushing. Running is just fine, because running implies prepared intent. I have decided to go fast, but my pockets are zipped up and I can't lose anything. Rushing is impulsive, without considering all the possibilities. For example, I rushed a sentence saying that my iPod was my most unnecessary possession, which couldn't be further from the truth when considered amongst my possessions. I just meant to say it was a thing, and things aren't important. The music is essential, but the device is not, because the music still exists from another source.
I also wrote about seeing agents at a graduate program. Perhaps my tone was too hasty to appear to put down such programs. I'm sure they are all fine programs. Many of my favorite writers have taught or attended such programs. Beyond writing, there are dazzling, extraordinary masters of art and music who refined their crafts and learned essential techniques at schools of higher learning. All I was really saying there was that I already paid a lot of money for college, and am still paying money, and the best teacher I had there told me that the best you could do was to write honestly about something you knew. Once you knew the grammar and the basic mistakes to avoid, all that's left is feedback from reputable readers. Sometimes programs help, but in my experience, they haven't. What can an inexperienced writer who loves fantasy stories about dragons and kings really say to someone writing new journalism style about a work experience? With music and art you can find others to collaborate, but prose writing is a solo endeavor. It would have been nice to stumble into a gathering of agents under different circumstances; i.e., without lying about my identity and stealing some other hardworking person's name tag.
Another rush involved quoting Abraham Lincoln that writing was the "greatest invention." To be specific, I wouldn't agree that it is the best experience, endeavor or even method of communication. Most of the best religions hint at truth that is beyond words. The greatest moments in life are often created by magically making eye contact, or a simple touch. The "hello" is the one who breaks the spell of the mystic silence by turning the knob to open the door to something more. I wouldn't call any of those inventions. Music isn't an "invention," even though artists invent songs. Music is the way of the world. It's the fabric of existence, a fluid spark akin to electricity: it was already there, so it couldn't be invented, but if properly respected and understood, could potentially be harnessed and transmitted by worthy heart-mind-bodies in new beautiful ways to benefit as much of life as life feels wondrously apropos.
Running is fun and can get the job done. Just don't rush.
No comments:
Post a Comment