Wednesday, November 18, 2009

" I Want To Change The World..

Instead, I sleep."

I'm afraid this line is ringing way too literal for the time being, and it shouldn't. I'm also afraid music has gotten way too deep into my system. Not that I would want to get it out, but it would have been cool to know I could. I cannot write without music (not just have it on, I'm talking about basing-upon here), I cannot drive without music, I cannot think without music. My internal playlist terrifies me, having mentioned the thinking part. You know how you find yourself caught up in your head but you have no idea what the thoughts actually are? the song playing in the background,and sometimes out loud without me noticing, is the one that gives me the clues. I haven't even come to realize this except very recently, relative to the time since I started being serious about my music, which is approximately two years ago,for the record.

In one of my other lives, which is naturally one of my most pensively visited ones, I have walked out on my whole life and started over toute neuve as a musician. One that always wears a hat, for some reason. That includes Everything I knew, everything I've been, and ever wanted to be...and everyone I've known.

Which reminds me, I always wonder why the thought of cutting your ties with everyone around you seems very relieving at times. Not fighting, just stopping everything. I don't get this kind of thought out of feeling I don't love my people or that I don't enjoy being around them, or even that I wish to have other ones instead or anything, it's rather the idea itself. This thought, of course, runs in all directions across my mind like a ridiculously inebriated bird, only when the ugly face of lonesomeness brings to a nap, behind the stocks of faces I keep at the back of my head.

I'm sleeping way more than I should these days, and it's so not because I have nothing to do. Midterms are in 3 days and my progress is the exact of half a chapter over 20. The one-month novel project I've started has not gotten more than a paragraph past its second chapter, and is dead at it so far. I put my main character up on a mountain and I left him there, not knowing where I would throw him next. Yesterday was the first time I got close to catching a remote hint about the plot. This should have gotten me to sort of branch these basic threads to drive up the pathetically late word-count requirement. But it hasn't, really. Right now I am doubting the fact that I can finish by the end of the month, as the project entails. On the other hand, I still managed to come closest than I had ever been to writing a book. This had been on my list since I was introduced to the concept of lists itself.
It's because...It's just because I will have to say something, one day. I can't die without figuring it out, and I don't believe I will die before I do. I still believe that even when the worst comes, more often that it seems it should, to the worst, it's all a puzzle in the making. You need the fragments before you can start trying to fit them together. And it's a high price to pay, that I realize too, but I can't control it for the most part, so I might as well make any use of it. I might actually be saying that I have accepted the existence of all the fragments. Even the heaviest ones on my chest, the most harmful ones to my sense of self, and how cruel they can be when they accumulate and fall upon me where the sounds of their edges crashing down resonates in my ears and madly chases me into forgetting about the world, and sleeping.

But of course I want to change the world! Oh I want to do everything! and I will, world, I will. Just as soon as I wake up. In our definition, it takes a tad more than opening your eyes, and a few more than one beam of sun...doesn't it?

You can still see me, though. In the times of consciousness that spring between, like random flashes from a previous night's dream. When the labels are still blurred and we cannot identify one another, but nevertheless are immensely thankful for the shortcoming.

So until the beams gather, until the knees hold up, until the shield is lifted, I will meet you there, in the next momentary outburst of senseless enchantment.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009


I am trying to raise funds for my long awaited maiden voyage. Currently, I am working as a freelance review-writer for various websites through an agent . A couple of days ago, my online "boss" gave me a task to write a number of articles about learning guitar, for this new website that will offer online lessons. I was glad this time the subject turned out to be of personal interest, so that I would not get bored of all the mundane researching I have to go through to finish the reviews.

Anyhow, yesterday I was brainstorming on the aspects I should write about in these 13 pieces of work. I came up with all it would take for the introductory reviews. But I was, yet, one article short. So, I thought it would be cool to write about the musicians you cannot really play the guitar and not know a thing or two about. I looked up the Rolling Stone magazine's list of the 100 Greatest Guitarists of All Time, to pick out as many names as my word count can handle. Nevertheless, I already had a few names in mind, out of personal preference, and I wanted to at least write about one of them in my article. For the sake of saving some professional face, I settled for writing about the people I would find there in common between the magazine's list, and mine.

There's a certain, not sure what to call it but, state when a certain song sticks with you so much that you literally can neither turn it off nor listen to any other one. At times it turns into a phase that goes on that way for days, and maybe as well even weeks. Sometimes even during this state you catch yourself mumbling that song involuntarily, at random times, in the middle of a conversation. Yeah. I am almost constantly in this state. The only variable is the song.

In a previous, not so distant matter of time that I cannot exactly remember, that song was Nirvana's unplugged version of David Bowie's The man who sold the world. I heard it accidentally on the radio after I switched to it when the ipod ran out of charge. It irritates me when that happens, and at that time I needed a sound in the air, no matter whose. I had not really gotten past the mandatory of Smells like teen spirit and Heart shaped box when it comes to Nirvana. I had only known the rest of their songs by name. That night there was so much traffic that it took me an hour to get through a 5 minute drive. But I found out it had been that long only when I looked down at the clock in my cellphone.

Because, apparently in my head I had been there, In 1993, on that MTV night. Sitting somewhere far from the stage, restlessly adjusting my place to see through. And finally, in the spaces between the heads in front of me I got hold of a view through an invisible cylinder where Kurt Cobain sat in his chair at the other end, while he played that song that was just on the radio.

And there was my new variable.

I believe it lasted for at least a week. But while it did, it got me to recall the few things I knew about Kurt Cobain. I knew he was rather famous for who he was on his own rather than along with the band. I also knew his death was an unsolved mystery between suicide and homicide. I knew he had drug addiction, but I did not know that he was diagnosed as bipolar and manic depressive until later. I had seen a few random photos of him on the internet before but one of them stuck to my memory more than I thought. I discovered that only after the song had played during my ride.

By that phase, Kurt Cobain had become one of the few names in my highly meticulous list of Monsters. That is how I call my "favorite" musicians, for many reasons that I do not feel like telling now.

And then he almost totally disappeared from my conscious thought. It was only when I jotted down the idea of this remaining article that I remembered all that again. He was the first name in the ones I decided will have to be there. I was certain he would be on the Rolling Stone list anyway, and he was.

I almost finished that article yesterday, but my eyes could not take the sight of the laptop any longer so I turned it off and went to bed, leaving the part about Cobain, the last part, to do first thing today before I start on the rest.

Today I put Kurt Cobain on while I was working, the particular song. I keep a tab open for entertainment when I am working. So I looked up the video of the performance to watch it in the nearest quick break. What happened is that I ended up watching nearly all the videos of that night. Because after I saw him on the first video I had to watch more of him.

I cannot really describe what I saw in his face, but it got to me. I found myself typing in the simplest manner "why was Kurt Cobain unhappy" in the search toolbar.
The first result was an article titled The Death of Kurt Cobain, so I thought this would provide explanation. At the end of the part that was about the night he died, his suicide note was attached.

This note is why I started the post. I was intending to just published it here and try, once more, to shape my reflection on it in word form.

But I couldn't.

That was such a long and seemingly unnecessary foreword, but I found my fingers running and I learned the hard way how to savor every chance of this occurrence, regardless of the outcome.

This is the last letter Kurt Cobain wrote to his childhood imaginary friend:

To Boddah

Speaking from the tongue of an experienced simpleton who obviously would rather be an emasculated, infantile complain-ee. This note should be pretty easy to understand.
All the warnings from the punk rock 101 courses over the years, since my first introduction to the, shall we say, ethics involved with independence and the embracement [sic] of your community has proven to be very true. I haven't felt the excitement of listening to as well as creating music along with reading and writing for too many years now. I feel guilty beyond words about these things.
For example when we're back stage and the lights go out and the manic roar of the crowds begins., it doesn't affect me the way in which it did for Freddy Mercury[sic], who seemed to love, relish in the the love and adoration from the crowd which is something I totally admire and envy. The fact is, I can't fool you, any one of you. It simply isn't fair to you or me. The worst crime I can think of would be to rip people off by faking it and pretending as if I'm having 100% fun. Sometimes I feel as if I should have a punch-in time clock before I walk out on stage. I've tried everything within my power to appreciate it (and I do,God, believe me I do, but it's not enough). I appreciate the fact that I and we have affected and entertained a lot of people. It must be one of those narcissists who only appreciate things when they're gone. I'm too sensitive. I need to be slightly numb in order to regain the enthusiasms I once had as a child.
On our last 3 tours, I've had a much better appreciation for all the people I've known personally, and as fans of our music, but I still can't get over the frustration, the guilt and empathy I have for everyone. There's good in all of us and I think I simply love people too much, so much that it makes me feel too fucking sad. The sad little, sensitive, unappreciative, Pisces, Jesus man! Why don't you just enjoy it? I don't know!
I have a goddess of a wife who sweats ambition and empathy and a daughter who reminds me too much of what I used to be, full of love and joy, kissing every person she meets because everyone is good and will do her no harm. And that terrifies me to the point to where I can barely function. I can't stand the thought of Frances becoming the miserable, self-destructive, death rocker that I've become.
I have it good, very good, and I'm grateful, but since the age of seven, I've become hateful towards all humans in general. Only because it seems so easy for people to get along that have empathy. Only because I love and feel sorry for people too much I guess.
Thank you all from the pit of my burning, nauseous stomach for your letters and concern during the past years. I'm too much of an erratic, moody baby! I don't have the passion anymore, and so remember, it's better to burn out than to fade away.
Peace, love, empathy.
Kurt Cobain

Frances and Courtney, I'll be at your altar.
Please keep going Courtney
for Frances.
For her life, which will be so much happier without me.

I know what Kurt Cobain's favorite song was. And this is why.

And I was there the night he played it. I was there.