Tuesday, June 29, 2004
We're More Than One
~
2004.06.29 23:54 KST (EST + 13 hrs): Suwon, Republic of Korea
I like to hear music. I can admit it. And I'm o.k. with it. Really. There's something private and personal about hearing music. It can make you feel empowered and special or intelligent and part of a larger community of hearers of music. I've even heard people admit that it makes them more creative or personable or outgoing. Me, I'm always up for a good hear either way. Sometimes, I'll even steal a quick hear right before bed or a meal -- to make it that much better.
Once in a while, it's great to find out there's something new out. I love rushing out for a new purchase so I can give it a spin -- purely for the comparative and analytical value, that is. It's great to come home, unrap the plastic or untie the wrap, bust it out and toss it in the little red machine. With my speakers alit, the rest is history. Or bliss, depending on what intake you prefer.
Now I've been told (falsely, I suspect) that hearing music can get in the way of what you should really be doing: like being productive, going to work, phoning your friends or feeding your pets. This may or may not be true, but sometimes you start kicking it and before you know it, you've watched The Wizard of Oz, and PeeWee Herman's Big Adventure on mute at least twice each. And it's really not your fault: it was the music.
Mind you, you should occasionally mix things up: reading a book or cleaning the apartment while under the influence of hearing music are options, but be warned, excess physical activity can get in the way of a potentially excellent musical buzz. And after all, priorities are priorities. Yes, there's really nothing quite as satisfying as finishing a hard day of hunting through your stash, ordering a pizza and spinning up the volume to soothe away the pain and while away the evening.
If you're still not convinced, remember that in the end, in this world full of bad, mad and sad people, it's comforting to know that we can all kick back, hit the stacks and listen to the eight-track, without the bother or bore of life's little nuances (like laundry and bills) getting in the way.
So like me, I hope you have the wonderful opportunity to experience the wonders of hearing music sometime in your very near future. After all, I always recommend a good twist.
From here to there,
S*
Fave current track(s): "Cherry Chapstick" - Yo La Tengo, "Since I Left You (title track)" - The Avalanches
Current read(s) in progress: "Mensa Genius Puzzle Book" - Mensa, "Mojo" magazine
2004.06.29 23:54 KST (EST + 13 hrs): Suwon, Republic of Korea
I like to hear music. I can admit it. And I'm o.k. with it. Really. There's something private and personal about hearing music. It can make you feel empowered and special or intelligent and part of a larger community of hearers of music. I've even heard people admit that it makes them more creative or personable or outgoing. Me, I'm always up for a good hear either way. Sometimes, I'll even steal a quick hear right before bed or a meal -- to make it that much better.
Once in a while, it's great to find out there's something new out. I love rushing out for a new purchase so I can give it a spin -- purely for the comparative and analytical value, that is. It's great to come home, unrap the plastic or untie the wrap, bust it out and toss it in the little red machine. With my speakers alit, the rest is history. Or bliss, depending on what intake you prefer.
Now I've been told (falsely, I suspect) that hearing music can get in the way of what you should really be doing: like being productive, going to work, phoning your friends or feeding your pets. This may or may not be true, but sometimes you start kicking it and before you know it, you've watched The Wizard of Oz, and PeeWee Herman's Big Adventure on mute at least twice each. And it's really not your fault: it was the music.
Mind you, you should occasionally mix things up: reading a book or cleaning the apartment while under the influence of hearing music are options, but be warned, excess physical activity can get in the way of a potentially excellent musical buzz. And after all, priorities are priorities. Yes, there's really nothing quite as satisfying as finishing a hard day of hunting through your stash, ordering a pizza and spinning up the volume to soothe away the pain and while away the evening.
If you're still not convinced, remember that in the end, in this world full of bad, mad and sad people, it's comforting to know that we can all kick back, hit the stacks and listen to the eight-track, without the bother or bore of life's little nuances (like laundry and bills) getting in the way.
So like me, I hope you have the wonderful opportunity to experience the wonders of hearing music sometime in your very near future. After all, I always recommend a good twist.
From here to there,
S*
Fave current track(s): "Cherry Chapstick" - Yo La Tengo, "Since I Left You (title track)" - The Avalanches
Current read(s) in progress: "Mensa Genius Puzzle Book" - Mensa, "Mojo" magazine
Friday, June 11, 2004
The Run: An Anecdote
~
2004.06.11 19:59 KST (EST + 13 hrs): Suwon, Republic of Korea
Quietly, he leaves the door unlocked, steps down three flights and faces the sunshine -- its glare echoed between parallel rows of beige bricks and sterile geometry. To the end of the project, down two flights, fifty-one steps to the sidewalk, along right, round the corner, to the beginning. The starting line.
He stares up a slow incline like a slow burn, three high-schools perched, hillside, to his left, children staring, yelling, playing, being children. The rise is a steady one, he pants, his pace quickens but the muscles don't respond just yet. He's only begun but the sun already glares unobstructed down onto his bare shoulders and calves. Yes, he is running a light run, but by the end, one to mete out a quickly-paced heartbeat, leaving his brow amply damp.
He rounds the last school, turns left and calculates the slow decline past local fields smelling like the manure of more than one species. These low-slung terraces, cascading rhythmically, curving each one downward, each a prickly imitation of the one before, each a sheet of growing glass. They are largely rice fields, still wet, to become wetter still with July and August rains yet to fall. For now, they smell of life and someone's promise.
The road slides almost imperceptibly from smooth to rough concrete then shortly, to dirt. He passes a shack where a man and dog seem always tied, always present. They must watch over the fields or the entrance to the upcoming rest area -- half-secluded and rife with evergreens but the sun still finding patches of brown earth to keep alit while allowing the most part to stay cool and shaded -- a refuge for the walking, conversing elderly, strolling mothers with toddlers, students and lovers alike.
The road gets dustier as roots weave the path past more fields and public outhouses reeking of overuse. Yes, and as the road winds upward and forks at a mass of overgrown undergrowth looming menacingly straight ahead, he lefts; into the hooded crowns of the green and brown forest. This place is full of activity: housewives trickle like spilled milk finding ceramic grooves; old men sit patiently and watch from rock benches, knowing much that passes by. If stared at for long, he offers a polite bow, happily receiving smart grins in exchange.
The forest offers him a hill and -- albeit only a slight eastward tilt -- he tackles it quickly, arriving at a small outcropped rest area with stumps for stools and a view of the natural reservoir below he will very soon run along then, later, circle. Down a long flight of stairs -- some wooden, most earthen or logs -- he descends to a long-trodden path, fifteen or twenty feet above the water, it snaking adjacent to the still shore. The ground becomes supple as it muddies from the presence of moisture and absence of sunrays. Still, he must concentrate on the low-arching trunks and branches while readying himself for the next upward lilt: another staircase -- this one with wide steps, he leaps up gracefully only to find an unforgiving and constantly rising path at the top and several more sets of stairs, some up, some down. Within a few short minutes, this set of nature's curved ridges has been humbled and he is back down to water level.
Then, the path grows sunnier as a cramped inlet appears. Quickly he darts out, off the path, down a shallow hard beach, topples a dip, gathers speed and leaps, two-legged, over a stilled hollow of green flow, confused if the colour is thanks to the reservoir flowing up or the fields draining down. Landing, his shoes fall with a knowing damp thump into yesterday's same marks.
Yes, and by this time, the sun has touched him enough to feel his triceps darken while sweat gathers in his shoes, his socks. He is working, panting, rushing through earthen walkways, through nature’s veins and capillaries, panting, working. After the stream bank, he quickly steps out of his footprints, gains momentum and leaps up the waiting log stairs: the first one higher than expected, nearly tripping him, but in the end, only requiring a fast spatial recalculation. Rejoining the path, it rises slightly and reaches a minor climax amidst a mass of tangled, exposed tree roots, some fat, some old, others bare and stepped on. Leaping, circling, they fall behind him, he treads on, now forty or fifty feet above the reservoir, still to its right, but closing fast on its end.
Another rest area exposed to the sun: this one small, round and perched on the tip of a mass of land that serves both as the water's raised end and a leeward slope speckled green, brown, with minute yellow wildflowers and fat, white clovers. He surmounts seven, eight steps, the logs set horizontally askew up the hilly earth, then precariously down two dozen of broken concrete, natural rock and root. He is now at water level, but at the base of three long flights of grey, wide slabs, the grassy hillside randomly dancing to his right, the remaining obstacle between him and the top of the reservoir's retaining wall. One, two, he silently counts, then pounces two by two, quickly meeting the top, sunshine glaring on, breast heaving, shoving his feet forward, he inhales, deeply, stealing as much new oxygen as he can.
Here, pedestrians mingle to and fro, sneaking glances at the long perspiration stains streaking his blue t-shirt and the glistening ones along his forehead. He walks slowly now, resting though still in motion, patiently regaining energy for the longer stint ahead: this one straight, road-side, public, with cars, busses, motorcycles and a sidewalk littered with more elderly, more mothers, others. He stretches, he starts, he covers a short fifteen hundred metres, alternating light and hard dashes, lamp poles serving as his milestones, his indicators.
In a final sprint, he veers off the two-lane road, tired, worn, but invigorated. Momentarily, he catches glimpses of glances from the middle-aged walkers resting by the public washrooms, sitting in the shaded recesses of the interlocked courtyard, the quad, this clearing with its lofty branches, meandering children and blowing, fallen blossoms. He has nearly come full-circle now; one solitary mountain separating him from home.
A quick stretch – one standing, the other sitting – elates his blood flow as he readies for the near-final leg of the outing. There remains one obstacle between where he sits and where the mountain will meet him, vertically: a small red metal bridge with grey cables and wide, brown ties at its feet. It has seen many passengers over this trickling stream -- it carrying the murk of the hills, the leaves gone dead, and young, white egrets tiptoeing through the shallow recesses of an overgrown shore. Energized, he crosses this path, inhales, and meets the base of the hilled stairs that will take him to the mountain’s tip.
The first step set askew from the second and each from the last, he hobbles up one, two, three, four long flights of logs, rocks and earth, up to another perspective, the view decorated with dead branches and drooping, leaved arms. This is the passage to the top: a testing one, another slow burn with a forest peckish from the small presence of light but breezy and heavy with humus. He is panting, glistening, worn.
A final heave. The top. To the gaze of the seated elderly.
He quickly boards the next path and descends the mountain’s front face. Here, the breeze blows sweetly with a fragrance of flowers, of pollen and the scent of clean, rushing water somewhere underground. His pace quickens as he flies over roots, down easy earthen escarpments, past children, mothers and the middle-aged. The bottom comes soon, bringing with it rest, breath, and a fitting solace earned, due.
S*
Fave current album(s): "Blazing Arrow" - Blackalicious, "Buck Up Princess" - Josh Martinez
Fave current track(s): "First In Flight" - Blackalicious feat. Gil Scott-Heron
Ottawan recommendations: (an oldie but a goodie) Watch Dusty spin on Wednesdays at 56. Drink Grasshopper. Be high.
Personal recommendations: Have someone say to you: “I’m falling in love with you. Really.”
Current read(s) in progress: "Siddhartha" - Herman Hesse, "The Crying Of Lot 49" - Thomas Pynchon, "Austerlitz" - W. G. Sebald, "Pound" magazine, "Wax Poetics" magazine
2004.06.11 19:59 KST (EST + 13 hrs): Suwon, Republic of Korea
Quietly, he leaves the door unlocked, steps down three flights and faces the sunshine -- its glare echoed between parallel rows of beige bricks and sterile geometry. To the end of the project, down two flights, fifty-one steps to the sidewalk, along right, round the corner, to the beginning. The starting line.
He stares up a slow incline like a slow burn, three high-schools perched, hillside, to his left, children staring, yelling, playing, being children. The rise is a steady one, he pants, his pace quickens but the muscles don't respond just yet. He's only begun but the sun already glares unobstructed down onto his bare shoulders and calves. Yes, he is running a light run, but by the end, one to mete out a quickly-paced heartbeat, leaving his brow amply damp.
He rounds the last school, turns left and calculates the slow decline past local fields smelling like the manure of more than one species. These low-slung terraces, cascading rhythmically, curving each one downward, each a prickly imitation of the one before, each a sheet of growing glass. They are largely rice fields, still wet, to become wetter still with July and August rains yet to fall. For now, they smell of life and someone's promise.
The road slides almost imperceptibly from smooth to rough concrete then shortly, to dirt. He passes a shack where a man and dog seem always tied, always present. They must watch over the fields or the entrance to the upcoming rest area -- half-secluded and rife with evergreens but the sun still finding patches of brown earth to keep alit while allowing the most part to stay cool and shaded -- a refuge for the walking, conversing elderly, strolling mothers with toddlers, students and lovers alike.
The road gets dustier as roots weave the path past more fields and public outhouses reeking of overuse. Yes, and as the road winds upward and forks at a mass of overgrown undergrowth looming menacingly straight ahead, he lefts; into the hooded crowns of the green and brown forest. This place is full of activity: housewives trickle like spilled milk finding ceramic grooves; old men sit patiently and watch from rock benches, knowing much that passes by. If stared at for long, he offers a polite bow, happily receiving smart grins in exchange.
The forest offers him a hill and -- albeit only a slight eastward tilt -- he tackles it quickly, arriving at a small outcropped rest area with stumps for stools and a view of the natural reservoir below he will very soon run along then, later, circle. Down a long flight of stairs -- some wooden, most earthen or logs -- he descends to a long-trodden path, fifteen or twenty feet above the water, it snaking adjacent to the still shore. The ground becomes supple as it muddies from the presence of moisture and absence of sunrays. Still, he must concentrate on the low-arching trunks and branches while readying himself for the next upward lilt: another staircase -- this one with wide steps, he leaps up gracefully only to find an unforgiving and constantly rising path at the top and several more sets of stairs, some up, some down. Within a few short minutes, this set of nature's curved ridges has been humbled and he is back down to water level.
Then, the path grows sunnier as a cramped inlet appears. Quickly he darts out, off the path, down a shallow hard beach, topples a dip, gathers speed and leaps, two-legged, over a stilled hollow of green flow, confused if the colour is thanks to the reservoir flowing up or the fields draining down. Landing, his shoes fall with a knowing damp thump into yesterday's same marks.
Yes, and by this time, the sun has touched him enough to feel his triceps darken while sweat gathers in his shoes, his socks. He is working, panting, rushing through earthen walkways, through nature’s veins and capillaries, panting, working. After the stream bank, he quickly steps out of his footprints, gains momentum and leaps up the waiting log stairs: the first one higher than expected, nearly tripping him, but in the end, only requiring a fast spatial recalculation. Rejoining the path, it rises slightly and reaches a minor climax amidst a mass of tangled, exposed tree roots, some fat, some old, others bare and stepped on. Leaping, circling, they fall behind him, he treads on, now forty or fifty feet above the reservoir, still to its right, but closing fast on its end.
Another rest area exposed to the sun: this one small, round and perched on the tip of a mass of land that serves both as the water's raised end and a leeward slope speckled green, brown, with minute yellow wildflowers and fat, white clovers. He surmounts seven, eight steps, the logs set horizontally askew up the hilly earth, then precariously down two dozen of broken concrete, natural rock and root. He is now at water level, but at the base of three long flights of grey, wide slabs, the grassy hillside randomly dancing to his right, the remaining obstacle between him and the top of the reservoir's retaining wall. One, two, he silently counts, then pounces two by two, quickly meeting the top, sunshine glaring on, breast heaving, shoving his feet forward, he inhales, deeply, stealing as much new oxygen as he can.
Here, pedestrians mingle to and fro, sneaking glances at the long perspiration stains streaking his blue t-shirt and the glistening ones along his forehead. He walks slowly now, resting though still in motion, patiently regaining energy for the longer stint ahead: this one straight, road-side, public, with cars, busses, motorcycles and a sidewalk littered with more elderly, more mothers, others. He stretches, he starts, he covers a short fifteen hundred metres, alternating light and hard dashes, lamp poles serving as his milestones, his indicators.
In a final sprint, he veers off the two-lane road, tired, worn, but invigorated. Momentarily, he catches glimpses of glances from the middle-aged walkers resting by the public washrooms, sitting in the shaded recesses of the interlocked courtyard, the quad, this clearing with its lofty branches, meandering children and blowing, fallen blossoms. He has nearly come full-circle now; one solitary mountain separating him from home.
A quick stretch – one standing, the other sitting – elates his blood flow as he readies for the near-final leg of the outing. There remains one obstacle between where he sits and where the mountain will meet him, vertically: a small red metal bridge with grey cables and wide, brown ties at its feet. It has seen many passengers over this trickling stream -- it carrying the murk of the hills, the leaves gone dead, and young, white egrets tiptoeing through the shallow recesses of an overgrown shore. Energized, he crosses this path, inhales, and meets the base of the hilled stairs that will take him to the mountain’s tip.
The first step set askew from the second and each from the last, he hobbles up one, two, three, four long flights of logs, rocks and earth, up to another perspective, the view decorated with dead branches and drooping, leaved arms. This is the passage to the top: a testing one, another slow burn with a forest peckish from the small presence of light but breezy and heavy with humus. He is panting, glistening, worn.
A final heave. The top. To the gaze of the seated elderly.
He quickly boards the next path and descends the mountain’s front face. Here, the breeze blows sweetly with a fragrance of flowers, of pollen and the scent of clean, rushing water somewhere underground. His pace quickens as he flies over roots, down easy earthen escarpments, past children, mothers and the middle-aged. The bottom comes soon, bringing with it rest, breath, and a fitting solace earned, due.
S*
Fave current album(s): "Blazing Arrow" - Blackalicious, "Buck Up Princess" - Josh Martinez
Fave current track(s): "First In Flight" - Blackalicious feat. Gil Scott-Heron
Ottawan recommendations: (an oldie but a goodie) Watch Dusty spin on Wednesdays at 56. Drink Grasshopper. Be high.
Personal recommendations: Have someone say to you: “I’m falling in love with you. Really.”
Current read(s) in progress: "Siddhartha" - Herman Hesse, "The Crying Of Lot 49" - Thomas Pynchon, "Austerlitz" - W. G. Sebald, "Pound" magazine, "Wax Poetics" magazine
