Song Bird

November is my favorite time of the year.  Although, as a Texan (who’s unwillingly native to a year-round Summer), I can only imagine what “Sweet November” can encompass.  I would like to think that I could walk along pavement that would  be covered in a blanket of crisp, honey toned leaves with the smell of Autumn hanging from a hammock of crimson clouds.  I would imagine that scent to be of cinnamon, a sweet tasting Brule and of spiced pumpkin and fallen pinecones.   

November is supposed to be beautiful.  I do have yet to live the vivid imagery in which I describe, but I can only hope that my winter endeavors in New York will give me a bit of that Autumn atmosphere. 

Another thing that comes to my mind when I think of November—I think of music.  As usual, my music taste is very subtle.  I created a playlist to share with you and I will dedicate this blog to it.  You can listen to many of these on Pandora if you were to create these following (beloved) stations: City and Colour (of course!), A Fine Frenzy, and The Weepies.

Save Your Scissors’ Sweet November Playlist:

A Fine Frenzy: Almost lover

Florence + The Machine:  Cosmic Love

Missy Higgins: Where I stand

The Violet Archers: You and I

Barcelona: Come Back When You Can

Walking Ashland: Take Me With You

Old 97’s: Question

Iron & Wine: Jezebel

A Fine Frenzy: Last of Days

The Mostar Diving Club: Worlds Apart

Vampire Weekend: Horchata

Ben Harper: Walk Away

Stateless: Bloodstream

City and Colour: Northern Wind

Frou Frou: Breathe In

Iron and Wine: Flightless Bird

Michelle Featherstone: Coffee and Cigarettes

Nada Surf: Always Love

I highly recommend  every single one of these songs.  If you like some of these songs, you might also want to add “Augustana” as a station to your Pandora.  Those that are not familiar with Pandora, it is a free internet radio that allows you to choose the music you ideally want to listen to.  By “creating a station” you will find songs that reflect your musical taste.

Grab a Cinnamon Brule Late at Starbucks. They are now back in season! Add a touch of soy milk and just a hint of nutmeg.  Enjoy a warm Pumpkin Spice and add a pinch of brown sugar.  Take your ipod, plug in those ear buds and simply b r e a t h e!

Try

      

              There is one illustrious piece of artwork that still adamantly resonates within me even to this day.  In the year of 2008, I stumbled upon a Swedish short film entitled “Try” that was a notable fifteen minutes long.  Surprisingly, within such a small frame of time, the video captured an immense amount of psychological thoughts and simply got my mind reeling—artistically, emotionally, and poetically. Jonas Akerlund’s short film was initially made for the 90’s sensational rock-band The Smashing Pumpkin’s latest single, “Try, Try, Try.”  Together, along with Billy Corgan’s lyrics and Akerlund’s short-film, Try tells an intrinsic heart retching story of two homeless young lovers, Linda and Max.  

            The video begins by displaying a visual of a blazing sunrise.  The camera captures a bright, bulbous sun that makes the entire screen burn a crimson orange.  It gave me a sudden warm feeling, the type of warmth that has an efflorescence to make one shudder at its beauty.  Immediately, I thought of what a sunrise would mean symbolically. As a literary element, the sun symbolizes happiness, life, and spirituality.  It’s an emblem for glory and brilliance. At this sunrise scene, Akerlund presents a voice over of Linda.  Linda, the main character, shares a rather significant childhood story:

 “I remember this clearly; when I was a little girl I had a dollhouse. Hours and Hours I would spend putting my dolls through lifetimes: work, kids, play. All of it happened in that little house.  I remember that perfectly. The rest is a little fuzzy. See somehow, I left it outside for a couple of days. When I went back to play with it wasps came to build a nest inside my dollhouse.  It looked like a twisted apple or something.   Back then it was scary—terrifying.  But I remember thinking, in that little girl way, that just like my dolls, wasps needed a place to stay too.  When my stepfather came home, he burned it all. Everything.  I cried all night long.”

Akerlund’s content presented through Linda’s story will foreshadow the entire short-film.  Initially, I thought, through formal analysis, that the sun would symbolize the usual clichés of happiness, warmth, and brilliancy. I was wrong.  My perception of the sunrise altered the moment Linda said that wasps had taken over her dollhouse.  The dollhouse was Linda’s most treasured item and now it was infested with wasps, distorting it into what she described as a, “twisted apple.”  This happy image of a dollhouse and its pristine perfection was now withering away by a wasp infestation.  Throughout Linda’s life, we will see this correlation as the bigger metaphor of Akerlund’s shortfilm.  While Linda tries and tries to obtain a life that is as perfect as her dollhouse setting, she struggles as a homeless, pregnant prostitute, living a life that might as well have been infested with wasps.  The sun’s symbolism is continuously embellished in Linda’s story.  The fact that her father burned the dollhouse—her treasured hopes and artifact—

will foreshadow Linda’s burning fate in the end.  While Linda confesses her lugubrious experience, the beautiful sunrise scene slowly alters into a sunset.  That warm, fuzzy feeling I once felt and the illusion of happiness seemed as if it had been shattered.  Within a minute of the short-film, Akerlund had captured all of these thoughts and emotions.  I felt eager at first—warm and comfortable as Linda described her beautiful dollhouse—but towards the end, the feeling became ephemeral. 

            After Linda has shared her childhood memory, Akerlund captures the present scene of Linda and her lover, Max.  The scene is shot in an abandoned parking garage and the two homeless teens are lying on top of piles of ragged clothes, litter, and filth.  The walls behind them are tainted with graffiti.  Almost instantly, I knew that Linda’s life did not end up as perfect as her dolls’.  The lighting effect that Akerlund used truly eluded the entire lugubrious, melancholy, and dreary feeling.  The color scheme was a dull spectrum of navy blues, charcoal blacks, and cement grey.  It was shadowed the entire time and every scene that followed lacked Linda’s warm sunrise I had first fallen in love with at the beginning of the film.  Although, Linda will continuously refer to this evanescent sunrise. She is dying to see it and dying to feel its warmth; as am I.  Now, the sun will be Akerlund’s on-going metaphor.  Linda will state in this particular scene,

“It’s funny really—how a life works.   The things you try to hold onto, you try to remember, those are what you end up losing.  And everything you try to forget or throwaway, those are the things that stay.  Like I said, it’s funny.” 

Now, I was provoked with this idea of the hardships in life we are forced to endure.  I believe that Akerlund used this quote as a subtext to explain that life is a continuous, ineffable battle—one that we can never win.  My personal interpretation was that Akerlund was trying to convey that we must spend our lives trying, trying, and trying but essentially we will always remember the struggle more than we can ever remember the gain.  It is important to remember this particular quote because in the end of the shortfilm, Linda’s voice over will repeat these exact same words—over expressing Akerlund’s subtext in his work. 

            Akerlund will continue to show us Linda and Max’s life but will also capture some disturbing footages that will spark some ideological criticism.  Linda is pregnant and clearly a drug abuser.  She looks to be about eight months along with the way her stomach protrudes out.  The camera catches a side profile of Linda, really exemplifying the fact that she is far along in her pregnancy with the size of her dome shaped abdomen and then it shows her drinking straight from a wine bottle.  This was utterly disturbing but for some reason. I believe that Akerlund was not intentionally trying to make his viewers feel appalled.  I interpreted it as though Akerlund wanted to show the brutal, raw truth of a desperate situation and explain this fact—some people do not get to live a good life.  Akerlund showed some bold and blatant honesty in these scenes and for that, it has become my favorite work of art.  The film will continue to take us through Linda and Max’s life.  They are seen in a quick station, snatching and stealing what they can fit in a bag and hopping on subways and begging in stations.  All through these scenes the viewer can still hear the distant echo of the subway station noises, the murmurous introduction of the Smashing Pumpkins song and Linda’s voice over:

“I know the world is hard and cold, and can hurt you bad I also know it doesn’t mean to. It’s not personal. And I know you have to try pretty god damn hard not to take it personally.”

Immediately after hearing Linda describe how she manages to get by such a terrible life, I could see pass the ideological criticism of it all. Akerlund portrayed Linda to seem as though her way of managing her life was by trying hard not to let it control her.  Linda’s main motivation was to simply—TRY.  Now, my personal interpretation of the short film was to understand the beauty of an ugly struggle.  Linda will list the things she so desperately dreams about: a house, a bar, dishes, clothes, dryers, TV, internet, etc.—things that are so modern and obtainable for myself that it makes me feel unbearably sorry for Linda.  Akerlund will show that Linda’s own interpretation of life is simply “getting by.”  Linda will continue to explain her dream and hopes of the life she wants to live but the scenes will show the perverse reality of it all. 

            What really resonates within me was Linda’s courage and positivity.  She says, “It could get worst” whereas my interpretation can be, how worse can it possibly get?  Even more so, when Akerlund continues to provoke some major controversy by showing Linda and Max surviving off by prostituting themselves. 

            I believe the turning part and the most brutal scenes in Akerlund’s short film are Linda’s drug scenes.  The footage captures Linda and Max sitting in a filthy bathroom, using toilet water to fuel up their heroine needle.  In these scenes I had to embellish on some psychoanalytic criticism.  Akerlund capture’s Linda’s eerie high with vibrant footages.  The shots seemed to be stretched out and moving as if to make the viewers feel dizzy or sick.  It shows inure pictures of what we would imagine to be the perfect family with the white picket fences, a beautiful woman sunbathing in an American flag embroidered bathing suit, a family having dinner, and a young girl sitting peacefully on her bed.  In the background there is constant creepy giggling and sadistic laughter along with the splitting octave of a needle grinding against metal. Suddenly, Akerlund’s scenes are highly altered to show a different take on each image—a rather perverse take.  The perfect family living in the big, colonial style house is shot to death by the husband, the woman in the bathing suit is now in the pool slitting her wrists, the family at the dinner table is regurgitating their meal, and the daughter in her bedroom is now mimicking some rather pornographic explicit content.  These were clearly psychological scenes that made me feel uncomfortable.  It had the same dark, psychological drug effect that is continuously seen in Darren Aronofsky’s movie, Requiem for a Dream.   Besides Akerlund’s psychological effect in this sequence, what really strikes me was Linda’s commentary.  She compared the feeling she got when she was high and used it as an allegory for The Wizard of Oz—going from a world of white and black to a world of all color.  She described it as if the drug symbolized the tornado and this tornado lifted her to a high where suddenly “everything changes to color.”

            The ending heightens the significance of this Swedish short film.  Throughout Akerlund’s video I see what it is like to be Linda—homeless, sick, poor, unfortunate—and I’m emotionally linked to the character.  It pains me to see her in pain, it sickens me to see her sick, and it makes me feel helpless to see her so hopeless. And suddenly, I believe Linda was right.  We, as humans, believe the things that are most tragic is what characterizes our fate because we always hold onto the things we are trying to forget.  The ending scenes show Linda rushed to the hospital; she’s bleeding and is dying.  Once again, Akerlund features Linda’s voiceover, repeating the same quote she had shared with us at the beginning of the film:

“It’s funny really—how a life works.   The things you try to hold onto, you try to remember, those are what you end up losing.  And everything you try to forget or throwaway, those are the things that stay.  Like I said, it’s funny.” 

At this point in the film, I was crying so hard I nearly made myself sick.  I was well aware that the repeating scheme of this quote was foreshadowing Linda’s death.  In fifteen minutes, I had witnessed one of the most tragic stories. Linda ends the film by saying that she was right all along; she had finally found her place, “It was sunny. Like California,” all while the remaining footages captured her casket being burned.   

            Jonas Aklerund’s short-film, Try, is my favorite work of art because of how it affected me emotionally.  I always found it odd that I enjoyed reading depressing novels and watching sad films, but Linda, Akerlund’s main character, proved to explain why I had such a masochistic taste.  The most depressing, tragic stories are the most memorable ones.  Linda believed so and so do I.  Not only was I emotionally attached to the film, I was amazed at Akerlund’s bold context—he was brutally honest no matter how much controversy the video sparked.  This is what I consider to be “art.” 

Artist’s Website:

http://www.jonasakerlund.com/

Song of the day: Try, Try, Try-Smashing Pumpkins.

Greener without the scenery

It has been quite some time since I have written in my blog.  My tedious schedule has made it rather difficult to be able to sit down and lavish in such finer things---besides some blasphemous chemistry (and I say this with MUCH exaggerated sarcasm. Consider it my hyperbole for the day, literary fanatics!)  Thus, my creative outlet has become a mere measly spark in my everyday life.  That, surely, must come to an immediate end.  I love writing and therefore, I must be diligent with my time and spare some for save your scissors. 

I will note that the majority of my (mental) time has been fantasizing about New York.  I have had quite the “Empire State of Mind,” if you ask me.  After my summer rendezvous in this chaotic city, I have realized I have fallen madly in love with New York.  I have also realized it is the best metaphor for anyone that has had some outrageous ambitions in their life.

 The first place I went to in the city was NYU’s bookstore.  I was flabbergasted, to say the least.  Our bookstore at Pan Am can only occupy a fraction of NYU’s intellectual loveliness.  I wanted to simply engulf myself in every single book.   If I were to be asked why I am now applying to New York University, I would immediately reflect back to this timeless moment.  It may sound ridiculous, but it was then that I had another outrageous epiphany—when I purchased my first NYU patriotic banner—that I would be the idealistic NYU student.    I do not mean to sound narcissistic; rather, I simply believe that I would be an intrinsic addition to the student body.  It felt right and I had an irresistible urge to buy a few textbooks.  In fact, I contemplated whether if I should go on with my day pretending as if I were an NYU student.

As I go through this impending application process, I have been stumped on the essay prompt.  The Common Application, (torturous fragment of my memory can vaguely point out how much I despise returning to such tasks) has supplements for each university.  These supplements call for additional information that the university requires in order to postulate a more “rounder” perspective of their fellow applications.   The question I have spent some amount of time on, perplexed with the flippant amount of ideas I may have for such a vague topic, is to describe something that intrigues/inspires me. 

There are many things that “inspire” me to say the least.  But, in this case, I would like to turn this question around and write about the “inspiration” my absent father has indirectly had on my studies.  It is not the approach they are expecting—but then again, I’ve always had a tasteful, spontaneous approach to writing.

Here’s a brief synopsis of my “inspiration:”

When I was growing up, I would do anything for my dad’s attention.  I rarely saw him and the few times I did I wanted to make them count.  Unfortunately though, my cousin would always tag along on these scarce visits.  My father adored my cousin and I knew, even at such a young age, that my father loved my cousin Amber more than he would ever love me.   It is a very profound thought for just a child.  I hated being aware of my father’s lack of interest and I resented him for making it so believable.  

I was also aware as to why my father preferred to love my cousin rather than his own daughter.  You see, Amber had talent.  She could sing.  For the rest of our childhood, I would always remember Amber as his little, cacophonous song bird.   But my father saw Amber’s voice more than just mere talent—He envisioned Amber as a star and as a clear ticket to Hollywood where money was just an extra incentive.    Money was always something my father lacked and therefore, his only priority was to always have some sort of constant currency to help him get by.  Their living style was much dissembled.  I would not go into details—but I know now that my dad would do anything for easy cash.  

Amber would sing every time I would visit. She’d sing all day and my dad loved it.  It got to the point where I was absolutely desperate for my father’s attention.  I knew from experience that I did not have such talent. I could not sing and I could not dance.  So, I tried to find my own talent.  I was good at writing and I loved to read.  I was a good student and that seemed like the only “talent” I cared for.    

I was an ambitious little girl and I made it a goal to make straight A’s on every single report card.  By the time I was in middle school, I had received notable honors such as “Student of the Year” and “Texas Honor Student.”   I immediately found my success in school and my love for my studies to be the perfect way to depict my character as "talented.”

So, while Amber continued to sing, I continued to study.  Amber would go to Broadway and I would go to an Ivy League.  I remember the multiple times I abated a “normal” childhood and found myself maturing faster than I had ever intended.  When I was six, I had already read a flippant amount of books and had started my own book list.  When I was eight, I knew that I wanted to go to a prestigious university.  I was determined and I was positive that my father would see my determination. 

Sadly though, I suppose my father was particularly incredulous of the thought that being a good student could be a talent.  I would like to think it takes a tremendous amount of self discipline and perseverance to have progressed this much in my studies and I suppose that within it-self makes me a talented individual.  To be quite blatant about it all, I took my fathers’ indifference to our relationship to get me where I am today.

It may sound rather perverse, but my absent father was the one that inspired me for all the most absurd, infamous reasons.    Thank you, Dad.  I have made it this far because you, without knowing, gave me something to (still) fight for.

Song of the day: Buried Myself Alive- The Used.  I have been in love with this band since I was in middle school. Granted, I went through a long period of  loving grundge, punk, rock-alternative music, but The Used has been one of the few bands I have consistantly had a taste for since then.

It's just text book stuff

In a mere week I will be traveling to a becoming city of colour (pun intended).  I will be relishing every minute of my time as an aspiring journalist in New York City.  I can only imagine how different the East Coast is compared to my usual Southern living.  The suspense makes me have a very fugacious attitude to my impending travel! If I can conjure enough courage, I will have a very poignant resume ready for Seventeen Magazine.  I have this blog to thank for that!

In fact, this blog has been without a doubt inspiring.  I have an evocative idea to get a small, measly tattoo of some scissors along my hip.  Thus, I will always remember what it feels like to write. Not to mention, as much as I hate to undermine stereotypes, it will show some musical significance to the band that has been the prodigy in my life and my writing. 

Onto another subject, I can openly admit that I have had a wonderful dalliance this month.  What could I possibly love more than writing?  My Netflix account! Alas, I have a very surreptitious confession to make.  I consider this secretive and very clandestine because I always thought that I had SOME standards.  As much as I refused to watch Glee, I have reluctantly become a Gleek.  With all honestly, Glee makes me rather….Gleeful.  Oh my, I must be delusional at this point, eh?

Besides succumbing to the Gleek Frenzy, I have rekindled my love for the band, Imogen Heap.  I had first heard the band’s music when the lead singer was known as Frou Frou, singing for the Garden State soundtrack with the hit, “Let Go.”  The lyrics were captivating.  I like the unusual, indie poetic writings these days.  Imogen Heap’s music was advertised multiple times in the Fox’ hit TV show, The OC.  The OC, like One Tree Hill now-a-days, was known for a lot of indie, underground jams.  In fact, The OC put a massive media spotlight on The Killers before they became “main-stream.”  It was typically a cynosure for indie music and it was my cup of tea.

So, this rather pointless blog has come to an end.  I would like my song of the day to be very predictable.  Try Imogen Heap’s  “Speeding Cars.”  It was my favorite song. Partially because it was well conflate with what I was feeling at the time----pretty damn blunt. 

Love washes over a multitude of things

This is something personal I would like to share.  I wrote this for my cousin's time capsule and now I would like to share it with you.  Today is his third birthday and I can honestly say, if it is even remotely possible, that I love him more with each year. Happy Birthday, Jackson.  I love you.

For Jackson

When we were children our first priorities were rather simple: steal cookies from

the cookie-jar, watch cartoons for hours while lounging around in our Disney decorated pajamas, and maybe throw some tantrums until Mommy or Daddy purchased that new Malibu Barbie that came with three different assorted bikinis.  Looking back at it, as children we took more than we could ever give and never had the wisdom to ponder what it meant to be thankful, and know the true glory of sacrifice.

In my household, I was the baby of the family; therefore, the center of attention. I lived in my own world, where the highlight of my day was learning the French alphabet with Mr. Barney’s help while sipping on two bottles: one filled with milk, the other with apple juice. How ironic—I had to have the best of both worlds even when it came to what was in my bottle.  I was a spoiled child who didn’t know what the rest of my life would hold, or if in that life I’d ever come to a point where I’d have to make a decision that wasn’t for my own selfish good.  I proceeded to milk the benefits of being the only child until the very day Jackson William Meadows was born.  It took a 6 pound 12 ounce little boy to mold me into a woman of dignity and compassion. 

            At first the sudden news that there would be another addition to the family seemed wretched.  How could this be? I’m the baby of the family. But it seemed as if everyone was enthralled with the new boy that would soon be born and forgot that it was a priority of mine to remain their little princess  As the impending due date got closer, I separated myself from the rest of my “ecstatic” family.

            I still remember the day my mother called when Jackie, my aunt, was giving birth to Jackson.  I remember her voice, an escalating crescendo, and the shrilling excitement when she yelled “JACKIE’S HAVING THE BABY!” For that split second my lips curved into a wide grin and I yielded my own selfish thoughts and showed some excitement for this new little person. I had succumbed to the infectious excitement.

            My mother came home late that night to inform me that my new cousin was in critical condition.  Jackson had a leak in his left lung, a heart murmur, and an enlarged kidney. It didn’t dawn on me how severe his illness was until it was a life or death situation.

            I remember walking into that hospital.  There were so many unfamiliar faces but out of all those faces they shared the same distraught frown.  It was a look of either sorrow, of weariness, or of utter confusion. But it was a look that sought answers— what most of us wanted in life.  The nurse directed us to the room  Jackie was in. It seemed like forever as we walked down all those halls, halls that had no color of life or any striking features that could distinguish them from all the other halls. But I can guarantee you; I can remember each hall individually as if it were permanently embedded in my memory. That day will stay with me forever.

            We entered Jackie’s room and I noticed that she looked as if this pain had sucked the life right out of her. Her china doll face would contort with agony everytime she made the slightest move. Words could not form—sorry wasn’t good enough.  Instead, I laid my espresso hues intently on her murky blues as they flickered with doubt. After a long stretch of silence, the nurse came into Jackie’s room to take the family to the “critical conditional unit,” where little Jackson was struggling for his life in an incubator.

            Since the nurse informed us that only one family member could accompany the mother, my mom and Jackie’s’ husband decided that I should be the lucky one to take Jackie to see her son for the first time. Yes, this very moment was the first time Jackie set eyes on her newborn child.  I guided her wheel chair down the isles of incubators. Each one of the many machines greeted us with a melancholy beep. It was such a lugubrious sound, nothing like the nursery rhymes I wanted my baby cousin to hear.  I stopped at the last incubator where Jackson laid, his frail body trapped inside a glass box that displayed a maze of wires snaking mercilessly in and out of his porcelain skin.  Two IV’S were stabbed into his tiny wrists that were sprawled to either side of his body like a small plea of surrender to the pain in which he had to endure.  The nurse stood before my aunt and I while she tried to explain what each monitor was going to do to help Jackson.

 “Do you want to touch him?” the nurse asked Jackie while my chestnut haired aunt nodded her head in a silent agreement.  The look on her face could have brought me to an involuntary fit of tears. Never have her murky orbs looked so distraught.  Herr eyes that used to possess such life were now slowly drowning in the depths of her own tears.

            There was a small circular opening where she eased her trembling hand into the box.  With tenacious delicacy, a solitary fingertip touched his tender palm and in that moment of clarity I surrendered my vanity and let the tears cascade down my cheeks.  I stood before a mother who would sacrifice anything to save her son; I had yet to ever fight such a battle. They say that the greatest act of love is sacrifice. I believe it.  The hand that had caressed his palm was still quivering, the same way my bottom lip trembled when I had the chance to touch the apple meat of his cheek. But I had to be strong. I had to be the adult.

            Jackson’s condition only got worse. But as we went through those days of sorrow, I was no longer a haughty, supercilious, self-absurd girl.  I was finally shaping my life into becoming a young woman who had to experience a near fatal tragedy.

Even in his moments of sheer pain, Jackson managed to put a gummy smile on his face.  The innocent way his lips would curve into the bow of a cherub is an image that will never leave my memory.  Still to this day, Jackson is battling his health issues and I, as a young woman of new wonders, see his constant fight as a beautiful battle.  I love my little cousin and I want everyone to know it.  I love the sound of his gurgles when I hum Coldplay songs to him, and I love the warm sugar-cookie smell of his hair.  I even love the loud screech of his cry.

            I could have acted the way I used to, but I realized that I couldn’t continue to blame everyone.  In the end there isn’t any feeling of satisfaction in putting the weight on someone else’s shoulders.  We must battle our own wars. Things aren’t always going to be fair in the real world. That’s just the way it is. But, for the most part, you get what you give. Because of Jackson, I now see life as a constant moment to build new mysteries, to mold new beginnings, and to make something good out of it. The rest of my life is being shaped right now and I hope, for my baby cousin, that I will continue to be the young woman he has helped me grow into.

Song for the day: Sara Groves- When It Was Over.  My aunt use to sing Jackson this song in the hospital.  It is in fact a religious song. I find it rather moving even though I am not the slightest bit religious.  If you like this song I would suggest Sarah McLachlan's song, "Angel." 

There lies a sensible heart

My uncle Travis was the first person to introduce me to the band, “City and Colour.”   During one of his [rare] visits, he shared an extensive amount of music files with me.  I remember he had asked me, “what kind of music do you like?”  It left me rather perplexed.  I could not merely limit my music taste to one measly genre.  In fact, my kind of music is vastly abstract.  I answered with multiple descriptions, but my prime genre was what I call “mellow music.”  If I were to define “mellow music” I would think of something intrinsic—Jack’s Mannequin, Augustana, Coldplay, Trespasser Williams, Analogous Rebellion, Freelance Whales, etc.   It is something independent and alternative, something that incorporates poetic lyrics with unique instruments [like the classical touch of a piano or the indie string of an acoustic guitar.] 

Travis replied with, “I think you would really like City and Colour.”  He must have been very confident in his assumption because he immediately transferred every album to my computer storage and added it to my happy itunes family of “mellow music.”  Such albums were Sometimes (2005-2007), Bring Me Your Love (2008-2009), and Little Hell (2010-present day). 

The first song I listened to was entitled, “Body in a Box.”  The song began with a musical piece incorporating a harmonica and an acoustic guitar.  Immediately, my perspective of the band was that it provided a folk music perspective.  It was a feeling I was rather familiar with after listening to The Weepies’s, “The World Spins Madly On.”  The lyrics were poetic and stimulated every appeal: ethos, logos and pathos.   In my personal opinion, I believe that the best music convey and provoke emotions and that is exactly what Dallas Green’s music does to his audience.  The lyric’s contents were an exceptional juxtaposition of metaphorical and poetic writing and folk, indie music.  If I were to annotate and generally analyze my interpretation of the song, my personal interpretation would take a vital stab at the idea of “death” as a metaphor (this can also be seen in Band of Horses’ “The Funeral).   Although the idea of funerals, death and mortality in general are rather uncomfortable to discuss, Dallas Green implies that death can be a beautifully earnest moment in ones’ life. 

After succumbing to a deep infatuation for the band, I spent every hour enjoying what my Pandora station could conjure for my latest obsession.   Out of the many songs I had listened to by City and Colour the following had left a memorable imprint:

Casey’s Song

Although the song is seemingly short and simple, the acoustic piece is musical perfection—from the initial stroke of the strings to the chords in the repeated versus.  The lyrics do not contain any thorough substance and are in fact rather vague.  But with all honesty, some of the simplest songs are the best ones. 

 Comin’ Home

Really underlining the cliché, “home is where the heart is.”  It puts a scrutinized eye on the idea of touring as an artist (with a rather tongue and cheek connotation, I might add) and explains this sudden sadness of leaving home.

Hello, I’m in Delaware

This song is one that exceptionally resonates with me.  Green’s voice is by far utterly gentle and the song’s repetitive chorus “I will see you again” is my favorite reflection on Dallas’s talent as a vocalists.  I had mentioned before in my first entry that this song reminds me of a tangible object.   When I listen to the song now, it only reminds me of the fact that it would be the perfect song for a memorial service.  I suppose it touches that melancholy and lugubrious appeal.

Save Your Scissors

At last!  The song I have honorably used to title my blog.   The lyrics are the perfect example of a musical juxtaposition.  The instrumental portion is very mellow and calming and yet the lyrics are very blatant (maybe even unintentionally violent) in which Green discusses the controversial issue of cutting.  I did not dedicate my blog title because of the lyrics (in my personal opinion, I believe that Dallas Green has other notable songs that I would have liked to recognize) but rather, I like the uniqueness of the name.  It’s something anomalous, particular and spontaneous. 



My parachute didn't open

Hello, Sprinkles.  I have been waiting forever to write another entry in my blog.  Now that it is officially summer, I am ready to sit in front of my laptop and peel every single layer of my story until I’m down to its most naked, raw core.  Kind of like a sunburn (Here I go with the similes and the incognito metaphors).    Since the semester finally came to its trudging stop, I have inquired a latest obsession with my Netflix account in which I spend continuous hours watching Weeds and Dexter and (most importantly) I have rekindled my love with my collection of Jodi Piccoult novels.   

But after being absent from the blogger world for nearly a week, I have decided to dedicate this entry to share a fond memory.  Unlike my latest blogging fetish, my sophomore year was fully dedicated to my reading.   I had picked up a book entitled, “Where the Heart Is” only to notice that it had been acknowledged as an acclaimed piece for Oprah’s Book Club.  Billy Letts’s novel, most commonly recognized as the story about the Wal-Mart baby, became my personal favorite.  I read it repeatedly five times.  I became so familiar with the novel that I could simply flip through its pages and single out my favorite quotes.  I picked up another book that was part of Oprah’s Book Club and thus I started a reeling goal to read every single book that was on Oprah’s list of critical masterpieces—from the deep, dramatic novelist, Wally Lamb to the poetic, short-story writer, Tim O’Brien.

I remember this clearly—I was sitting at my grandmother’s kitchen table thumbing through, “The Things They Carried” when CNN broadcasted the latest rumor that the memoir, “A Million Little Pieces” by James Frey was entirely fabricated.  I stared at the screen that displayed a picture of the memoir and listened to the most outrageous raucous that we call “news.”  The book’s cover had caught my attention a few times during my frequent trips to the local Barnes and Nobles, so I was vaguely familiar with Frey.  I was not completely entitled to an opinion at that moment at my grandmother’s kitchen table, but I was surely going to change that. 

I considered it-- as ridiculous as it may sound—an ironic sort- of- fate.  “A Million Little Pieces” had been on Oprah’s Book Club’s list!  It was my first memoir and I was completely enthralled with James’s writing.  At first, I had to adjust to his format.  He wrote without using proper punctuation and instead left sentences choppy and short as if they were broken up, get this, into little pieces.  He had the reverence of a poet and wrote with a benediction in mind.  His memoir documented his time in Rehab. Therefore; the entire piece was rather brutal.  The language was vulgar and had a bawdy humor to it. After reading Frey’s memoir thoroughly, I had realized that I could not, and adamantly would not, believe that any of its’ content was “fabricated.” 

So, I did further research.  I had waited for James Frey to make an appearance on Oprah’s talk show only to watch her belligerently attack Frey for “fooling his readers.”  It was there that she announced that Frey’s memoir would no longer be part of her acclaimed list of novels.  And furthermore, I found out that bookstores were making bargains with costumers that had purchased the memoir: If the customer had purchased the book a month prior to the news of its’ stated “fabricated content” the costumer could return the memoir with the receipt and receive full credit back.  Lets make a ridiculous assumption and assume that maybe some of the content was indeed falsified, it is still creditably his work and deserves to be awarded.   It does not matter whether the story may be entirely true, it is a story nonetheless and every story deserves some credit.  I tried to imagine how difficult it may be to keep a poignant documented record of events during a time of rehabilitation.   It is safe to say that James must had been at times, rather distorted and secluded from society, so not all of his memories of his trip with crystal meth will be CRYSTAL clear.

That summer I wrote a rather lengthy letter.  I had spent days on end trying to find any sort of contact information that might lead me through a bee line to Frey.  In the letter I wrote I gave him my utmost opinion, I annotated my favorite parts in his memoirs and related it to the controversy that had sparked in the media, and then I praised him and his work.  His assistant, Joyce, replied to an email I had sent her and told me that my letter was “by far inspirational.”  She had also informed me that she would directly hand it to James. 

All through June I waited with much apprehension for Joyce to contact me. In July I had received a package.  The envelope was worn and bore a vast amount of stamps on its face.  Inside was a copy of “A Million Little Pieces” and on its inside cover was a letter from James.  I recognized his style—the lack of punctuation, the short but yet straight thoughts.  “Thank you, Thank you, Thank you.” he continued at the end.  I knew at that instant I had accomplished what I wanted to do. I had given James Frey a piece of positivity that he could add to his own millions.

James had become my own personal pen-pal.  He had sent his first rough draft of the novel he was going to make and credited me. I was honored to say the least.  But what I found most treasuring was the fact that he told me that none of his documented writings was fabricated. In fact, the only thing that James had changed were the characters’ name for personal privacy and the true details of Lily’s death.  And that, I will keep to myself, bloggers. But trust me, trust me, trust me.

Song of the day: PlayRadioPlay!’s (I’m not sure if this band can still be searched as “PlayRadioPlay!” because the name had changed sometime in the long run when I lost touch with Dan’s music. If not, try “Analogous Rebellion.”)  Decipher Reflections from Reality.   It’s the song I had discussed with James as a musical reflection on his written piece.  Analogous Rebellion is a one-man-band from Fort Worth, Texas ---not necessarily considered “underground” but it surely is not recognized as much as it should be.

Paris is always a good idea

I was at Hobby Lobby the other day, absent-mindedly surveying their collection of home décor (in which I nearly always take home as an additional elaboration for my Paris themed bedroom) when it dawned on me—a sudden, life-changing epiphany.   I was going to go to Paris!

After spending my entire life anticipating college and its’ multiple (and yet seemingly slim) fortunes, I have finally realized what I want to do with my life and where it is I want to do such things.  I must make it a point, mostly for myself, that I have never taken my future with a grain of salt, or should I say le sucre!  I nearly almost surpass even my own expectations and now I have the most far-fetched, intriguing, and need I say most OUTRAGEOUS dream.  I want to be a journalist in the city of lights, vintage and fashion, beauty and wanders.  Je veux passer ma vie à Paris !

I’m not nearly familiar with any of the city’s history and I do not know how to speak French other than what a pocket translating dictionary may have to offer.  All I know is that it is beautiful and surely “beauty” is enough for me.  The inspiration is making me too anxious. 

The last book I read, after being mercilessly bombarded with the “masterpieces” of ancient Literature, was titled “Sarah’s Key” by Tatiana de Rosnay.   I am too familiar with the modern cliché, “do not judge a book by its cover” but that’s exactly what I did.  The cover looked as if it were a painting because the colors were tarnished like a hand-crafted Victorian peinture.  It symbolized vintage imagery in its most elegant form.  Sarah’s Key was a documented story of the Holocaust and its clandestine origins in France.  I have always had the most perverse infatuation for German history and had indulged myself in a plethora of other novels, but this was the first book I had ever read that was not stationed in Auschwitz, Poland or Germany.  Little did I know, and maybe other novelty historians were not aware of this, the Holocaust had some secretive connective tissues in France.   Rosnay reveals one of the most melancholy memories (At last, some alliteration!) of a young, Jewish-French girl surviving the 1942 Paris roundups and deportations.  Sarah, along with many Jews in France, were seized by invading Nazis and held in the Vélodrome d'Hiver right outside the city.

There are plenty of memorials for the French-Jews that had been imprisoned and exterminated by the German Nazis, one of the most exclusive memorials being in Paris. I would to have liked to be one of the many to place a remembrance stone at the old Vélodrome d'Hiver for my fictional friend, Sarah. It sounds strange, but I’m sure many writers and avid readers would understand.

After reading Sarah’s Key, I was inspired to write my own Holocaust novel.  Of course I am not nearly as knowledgeable as the holocaust historians, but I feel that I have read enough to be able to conjure my own story.  I have already decided on my main protagonist, Ada, which means “the noble kind” in Hebrew and her demolition lover, Joseph (yet another religious name to follow my name scheme).   Ada, a French-Jewish girl will be the voice of the novel. My novel will be a romantic drama and embellish more on Ada and Joseph’s story rather than the Holocaust in a historical text.  Joseph, a young soldier training under Hitler’s rule, falls in love with Ada before he finds out she is one of the many Jews that his father, a Gustapo, must deport to Auschwitz. It is still in its roughest form and I am constantly brainstorming.  Eventually, I will be able to complete my novel—maybe when I’m in Paris!

So consider this to be the first novel I introduce in my blog.  It is a quick, short read and I highly recommend it to those that find drama and its emotional appeal as a work of art, to read it thoroughly.

Mon obsession paris est venu à son apogée complet. Ce n'est que l'une des raisons pourquoi je veux simplement vivre en France, mais je suis plus que sûr que je vais trouver beaucoup plus dans une si belle ville. Donnez-vous dès mes amis, xx enregistrer vos ciseaux: Kayla-Ann