To Sleep

You wave me down
like a sore tiger.
Everything stretches, and the dark
becomes seeable.
When I was just a kid, I would fight you.
I’d exhaust every avenue to escape you,
To deplete you, hidden with my night.
I would wish you would just give up.
And you would.
Now
I’m pleased to meet you.
Even when you come uninvited, knocking on the inside.
You will rust half my gears, in the afternoon sun.
I will spend more time with you than anything else in my entire life.
You are a light under a long blanket.
You show a true figure, a full face:
of what was once a shapeless phantom;
of what I had long hidden from myself.
A pendulum swinging to both sides;
Awake and humming. You take long strides as you
fold away the distance on the map
that I lay out on my bedroom floor.

The Problem of the Modern Reader

I opened the New York Times Business section today, and saw an article on Kindle increasing readership. Amazon states that people buy 3.1 as many books as they did before owning the device. It would seem that the Kindle is increasing peoples desires to read, which most people would call a good thing. This is a bit deceiving. The fact of the matter is, is that Kindles are more or less for people interested in owning a gadget, then they are in reading. Otherwise they would see that the Kindle is pretty much unnecessary.

It is obvious that someone would read more once they bought a Kindle. Someone would also listen to more music after they bought an iPod. If one were to not use it, why would one spend an asinine amount of money on something one wouldn’t use? Wouldn’t one have already realized they wasted $250 on a glowing book with a battery? It seems people forgot reading is free if you just go to the library and have some patience.

I read an article recently that detailed a young girl who downloaded the Twilight series onto her Kindle, and the library reporting that the availability of digital books may just save the institution. The fact is that on demand television, movies, music and books makes people uninterested and flippant if they cannot get access to anything in the world immediately. I can see the demand system working for movies, television and music. Those three things can mostly have a time limit of two hours, and you can generally do other tasks while listening/watching. The benefit for such short-term culture is evident. But a book? What plausible reason is there for needing a book or article immediately? This makes me contemplate what kind of relationship people engage in with books.

I do not understand what sort of advantage a Kindle can offer, aside from convenience. I don’t see why someone could not wait an hour or a day to find a magazine article or a novel. You can’t physically write in the margins, dog-ear a page, throw it across the room if you disagreed (well you could, but unlikely,) or glance at what a stranger is reading. It is engaging and promising to see what someone is reading. It can start a friendship or a romance. Sherman Alexie discussed. the idea of digitized cover art on the back of a digital reader, which besides looking cool, would be pretty awesome.

And this is the one nefarious advantage I can see with a Kindle, is that nobody can tell what you are reading, unless you asked them. I was speaking to a friend about this, and she mentioned that she met a woman with a Kindle and thought it was wonderful. I told her I am pretty sure it is a modern conveience, designed so people don’t have to embarassed about the low-quality books they are reading. She told me she in fact asked what they were reading?

“So which Dan Brown book was it?” I asked. She burst out laughing.

“How’d you know?”

What the reported increased in readership isn’t stating is what the people are actually reading. Take a look at the Kindle Store Best Seller List. The highest placer that I could comfortably call literature is Sherlock Holmes at #29, which i could surmise may have something to do with the upcoming feature-film starring Robert Downey Jr. Machiavelli’s “The Prince” follows immediately after and somewhere farther down is Uncle Tom’s Cabin. But no high-brow challenging stuff. I don’t really expect that, as much as I would expect it to place on the New York Times physical best-seller list. The Kindle wants you to continue buying books, they don’t give half-a-shit if it has a shred of cultural merit.

The fact is that Amazon and the entire publishing industry is ultimately a business. Thus, the Kindle reader perpetuates the problem of the modern reader. That it is now an act of consumption and the majority of our society has begun to regard reading as entertainment or fun. This may sound awful, but the books truly worth reading, initially aren’t enjoyable. It is very tempting to quit. The brain, or more specifically the part of the brain dealing with reading comprehension, is a muscle. It must work and sweat to expand. Otherwise it will be languish and weaken. Good reading really is work. I don’t want to read some of the books I should read, but I am always thankful I put my shoulders down and read it. The lessons learned in these books come up in life on a near-daily basis.

This problem doesn’t plague the modern music buff, as there is a cavalcade of alternative and indie music surrounding you. The art-house theaters and film critics have plenty of auteurs making quality films. However this may be a disadvantage of the medium of books; they take more time and effort to absorb. You have to think.

But sometimes people want to read when they don’t want to think. It is perfectly understandable to have trashy books around the house to kill time. But this is no excuse to ignore challenging work. Dave Eggers published a pretty sharp discussion on this in an introduction to the 10th anniversary edition of the meta-challenging masterpiece “Infinite Jest” by David Foster Wallace. It proposes the duty of the modern reader, whether or not we must read this ambitious and challenging work. It is an interesting question, likely to be probed at a later date, considering Foster Wallace’s suicide last September. It is also interesting to note that Foster Wallace implores the reader through an AA group to continue “Coming Back” and to “Not Give Up.” It becomes somewhat clear that Foster Wallace is talking to the reader and not the characters. He knows what he is doing is difficult and it is tempting to quit.

The reason that books only come out on the beach, or an a Sunday afternoon when you have jack-shit to do, is because reading has been nominalized into a form of sensed obligation. Thanks to the remants of a cultural instinct that one should read. people are still compelled to put on their New Years Resolution’s to “read more.” People should read more. However reading today is often something that is basically flipping pages of simplpe prose, as an apparently productive way to pass the time. This is a pacification of this instinct. It is the easy way out. And like most shortcuts, easy reading can be detrimental; consider this Einstein quote “Reading, after a certain age, diverts the mind too much from its creative pursuits. Any man who reads too much and uses his own brain too little falls into lazy habits of thinking.” I imagine that Einstein is referring to reading as entertainment, that serves as a distraction rather than a stimulant. And if one, thanks to the Kindle, has the ability to disguise what they are reading, then the deserved embarrassment will dissipate. People will just read more crap, and think they are doing their part as a cultured adult.

It may be easy to pass me off as old fashioned or that I have a high standard when it comes to reading. Both may be true. But I am happier with a higher standard, regardless of whatever personal disapointment follows. The high standard comes with a proportional level of enjoyment. If you know a lot about any certain subject, whether combustion or Russian novels, you appreciate well-crafted work on a higher level when you see it. The idea of “serious” and “easy” reading is about as senseless and pretentious as it gets, but it necessary for distinctions. But one should not confuse the pretensions of a distinction, with the perceived pretension of a work. Most “serious” writing I read is about as unpretentious and mundane as it gets. It can even be fun.

I am an optimistic person. I hope that the Kindle will motivate people into reading more. But to a further extent, I hope that reading more realizes what truly turgid shit they are reading sometimes. I hope it gets people to explore the world of contemporary and classic fiction. If you are a person who is in need of a spark to remember why good books make your life a better thing, I highly recommend “The Uncommon Reader” by Alan Bennett. You can read it in an hour, and it will rekindle your faith in reading (pun intended). But if the Kindle also provides a framework of thinking where reading should be easy and entertaining, it will likely take something external for someone to make that jump, much less if their scope of reading is limited to suggestions by Amazon. It will be a truly happy day when I see someone reading Mann or Gaddis on their Kindle. I mean when I have to ask them.

But please, if you want to read more, consider buying a lamp and a nice chair before buying a Kindle. It’s a lot cheaper and a lot more practical.

The Encyclopedia of Greece

Travel Journal

During this past summer I traveled in Greece and the Balkans with two friends of mine. As per my contract in school, I wrote an extensive travel journal of my experiences.

The above links to a PDF file, however you must click on Read Full Post in order to see the link.

Enjoy, and thanks for reading.

Also, expect more non-travel related postings soonish.

Thousands of Americans Already in Gay Marriages

Thousands of Americans Shocked to Discover That They Are in Gay Marriages

All over the country, more and more married couples have begun to realize they have already committed to a gay marriage. With the ongoing controversy surrounding the issue of granting homosexuals marriage rights, thousands of heterosexual couples, who have been married for years, have discovered that their marriages, are in fact, pretty gay.

Clint Barstow of Topeka, Kansas, who has been married to his wife Cheryl for ten years, at first didn’t believe his marriage could be gay. The declining regularity and excitement of their sex life was an early symptom of problems. Barstow merely thought of it as a common trend in marriage. But when the violent arguments and eventual affairs with other heterosexuals started, it finished off any sort of potential straightness for their marriage.

The Barstow’s publicly acknowledge that their marriage only exists for the sake of their son Kenny, who is aware of both of his parents dating lives. “I guess it took me until this point, to say out loud, that this marriage is gay, this shit is pretty weak” Barstow stated. He then implied he was pursuing a divorce, despite the fact that he is a lifelong Catholic. “Yes, divorce goes against the church. But at least it isn’t gay.”

In Tallahassee, Michelle Fairfield awoke one morning realizing she was in a gay marriage. “We hardly ever talk, and when we do we just talk about paying the bills and taking the kids to soccer practice, you know pretty gay stuff. If we ever talk about something personal, like say Mark’s mother, he gets defensive and whiny and we get into a fight. It’s really gay not having a conversation with your husband.”

Fairfield works during the day as a legal consultant, and Mark stays home to tend to the house and kids. Last February, Fairfield came home during lunch to find her husband drinking heavily with friends. This was the first time the idea flashed in her mind that she could be in a gay marriage.

“You know, you always hope for the best, but usually the simplest explanation is usually the right one.” Her suspicions were confirmed when for her birthday, he gave her a power drill and a nude photo of himself with a coy caption reading “Jus’ Wanted to Drill You.”

“That’s when I knew for sure,” Fairbanks said, dabbing at her eyes “That this was a gay marriage.”

Since realizing the gayness of her marriage, Fairfield founded the Gay Marriage Crisis Center, a place for couples to discuss the pain and reality of being in a gay marriage. “It is a talk therapy center, so people, stuck in gay marriages, realize they are not alone. You are not the only ones. Thousands of couples every month are realizing how gay being married is.”

However, there is another threat to the foundation of marriage. As each day passes, the fight for homosexual marriage equality becomes stronger. And many heterosexual couples are worried that these potential unions could end as gay marriages.

“Our primary concern is the next generation of married couples. The number of long-term homosexual couples who will be allowed to finally become married is huge, and we don’t want them to end up in gay marriages. They don’t know what marriage can do to an otherwise normal relationship. It can get gay so fast, you wouldn’t even believe it.”

“I’m just afraid,” Barstow says “That more and more people are going to realize they are in gay marriages, whether it’s a homosexual couple or a heterosexual couple. And if people realize that marriage may be a gay thing altogether…well that sounds pretty gay to me.”

Skulls

A woman holds a human skull in her hands. She sits with a group of students in a circle of tables. She alternates which hand holds the skull, playfully moving it between the two like a tennis ball, even spinning it in the air at one point like a ball. She catches it. She hands the stage prop around for us to examine. The color is too bright. The skull looks too light. There are no imperfections.  There is a piece of plastic bound to the back of the skull. The jaw opens and closes, there is a click. This is not a real skull. But it is a skull. It’s a sunny day. She is writing something about skulls. She has been criticized.

The skull comes to a young man, he sits near the end of the circle. A person in the class appears particularly preoccupied by the presence. One could say bothered. She sits next to the young man. He watches her in his periphery as he fiddles with the skull. She recoils when he makes the jaw pop. He wants to tell her that it’s okay, that it won’t bite. But class isn’t the place to sooth someone’s irrational feelings. He hands the skull to her.

When she receives the skull her hands moves up, she anticipated it being heavier. She anticipated it to feel like her skull, without the muscles and blood and veins and brains. Like hers, but lighter. But it isn’t a real skull. It’s just a skull. She comes around to the notion of holding a prop skull. A smile escapes at one point; she may even be enjoying herself. The young man had anticipated that she wouldn’t even want to hold it, and would yield her turn with the skull. So much for what one anticipates.

The first woman tells the class about a Polish pianist who wanted his own skull to be used in Hamlet. The class is shocked. The young man finds it interesting. Who cares what happens to your skull when you’re dead? Isn’t this man living the dream? To continue living once one has died? Anyway, there were complications. It wasn’t so simple as to whether or not they could use the skull. The question of the audience arose. Does one tell the audience that it is a real human skull? And not just a skull? But that wasn’t the primary concern. They didn’t want to detract publicity away from the guy from Dr. Who. Please fill out the following questionnaire:

There are two productions of the Royal Shakespeare Company next door to each other. One stands there with one’s hypothetical date, after having consumed a hypothetical romantic dinner. Both productions are of Hamlet.  Does one:

1) Attend the performance of Hamlet starring the actor from Dr. Who who has received unanimously positive critical reviews or does one

2) Attend the performance of Hamlet that utilizes the actor from Dr. Who as well as a 25-year-old real human skull that has been sitting in a box until now, until tonight, when it will be held by another real human being, and it is a secret kept from the audience, except for one, obviously and lastly

3) How can one tell the difference?

Thank you for the interest in our questionnaire.

One sits down. One’s date goes to the bathroom. One’s date returns and sits down next to one. The curtain comes up. The gravedigger scene arrives. There is a skull. There is also potentially a real human skull.  The scene passes. The play continues on. It ends. Both audiences are uniformly convinced that theirs is the one with the real human skull. And not just a skull.

The second woman in class is still the holding the skull. She is nearly done examining it. She has safely concluded for herself that it isn’t a real human skull. It’s just a skull.

The first woman from class speaks up. She has been lying to us. It isn’t just a skull. It is actually a real human skull. And we have all been touching it. Real human remains.  People start screaming. People hurl indignant insults, and claim personal vendettas against the first woman. One woman flips over a table and sets it on fire punching her chest and screaming with her throat clicking. Lawsuits are promised. Limbs will be mutilated. Some people calm down. The first woman begins to speak again. She has been lying to us again. It isn’t a real human skull. It’s just a skull. People look confused. People look indignant. People still seem upset. Most seemed relieved. The woman who started the fire politely puts it out. She hopes nobody reports her. The young man and the second woman are still sitting next to each other, examining the skull, hardly noticing the carnival. Because it’s not a real human skull. It’s just a skull.

We know what we believe. And we believe what we know.

Discern

The boy sits in the passenger seat. The belt runs across his neck. The summer sun cascades through the windshield and his window is rolled down. He squints at the words on the page. They shine on the white sheet.

His mother opens the hatchback, and lugs the paper sacks filled with groceries into the back. She climbs into the drivers seat and with her index finger, props her glasses close to her face. The chocolate brown interior makes the car feel warmer. She rolls down her window, and asks the boy to roll down the ones in the back. He clambers back and reaches for the rollers, inching forwards when the rotation demands. The boy sinks back into his seat. His mother is holding a chocolate bar in front of him.

-That’s for being patient. She rubs his head like a dog when she says it. The boy smiles. He takes the chocolate bar and strips off the wrapper and lets it fall to the floor. The entire bar is in his hands, hands unprotected from melting chocolate. Soon his fingers are a smeared brown. His mother shakes her head and smiles, making him promise to clean himself before he returns to the book.

She pulls her jacket from the back of the car, and begins to pick through her collection of used-wadded-up-tissues, searching for a proper one to give to the boy. Even though it’s hot, she still has her jacket with her. Dressing down only happens under desirable circumstances. She hands him a napkin. The boy wipes his fingers clean, and then thoroughly licks the remaining melted chocolate off, wiping his damp fingers off on the car seat and then his pants.

He goes back to the story. He reads the sentences out loud, pronouncing the string of words with an adult’s temperance. He seems so big for his age. They climb the hill and arrive at a stoplight. His mother lights a cigarette, a menthol, long and thin, and tosses the match out the window. The boy struggles with a word, his mispronounces it. His mother corrects him.

-You’re saying it like “Frisbee.” The first syllable is the first three letters.

-Oh.

-Do you know what that word means? she asks. She exhales a plume of smoke and tilts her head towards the boy. He shakes his head and squints at the glove-box.

-It means to distinguish, to understand something.

-Okay.

-Well then also it can mean that you understand something compared to something else, something a lot like it. Something so close to it that you can hardly tell the difference. Follow?

-Uh-huh.

-But no matter how close it may be to it, if you really understand it, then you can always tell the difference, you can determine which one is which.

-Okay

-Do you want to give me an example if you’re feeling up to it?

The boy thinks. They make eye contact, and he opens his mouth to say something, but pauses. He closes his mouth and starts to look out the window.

-Think about something you really like. That’ll help, she says.

He looks out the window a bit more.

-Baseball, he says.

She slides the burning cone out of the cigarette and closes the ashtray to let it burn out.

-Baseball is good. What’s your idea, I’ll help.

-That’s okay I already got it. When we watch the Cubs, he pauses dull, combing his tongue for the right combination. When we watch the Cubs, he continues, I always know where they are playing, even if I don’t remember at first. If there’s no ivy on the wall, it’s not Wrigley. And if there is ivy on the wall, it is Wrigley.

She smiles broadly and rubs his head, like a dog. His smile comes in through the clofts of hair, and her forearm and hand obstructing the view of his face.

-That’s my boy. You sure are going to discern yourself from the rest of the kids in your class. That’s a good way to remember, “there will be a discernable distance between you and the other kids.” You’re a smart boy.

She sips at her lime soda. It’s grown flat with time, and warm with the sun. The boy would have thought it was hot yellow tea in a can, if he didn’t read the label.

He goes back to the story. A with his girlfriend is chasing a gang of men who had stolen stuff from his car, while he was with the girlfriend at this beach, passively seducing her. He runs towards their getaway car, frantically memorizing license plates. It’s all a wasted effort. He jumbles it. He forgets. Things change. He swears.

The boy continued to read aloud. And what he stumbled or stuttered, or seemed unsure of himself, his mother would appear, and help him along, a following tide to correct his mistakes.

She pulls the car into the driveway. They sit together on the couch, the television aglow with the chatter of strangers, pictures and words from other worlds. Different lives. The dog places his front paws up to the screen, leaning against it. She encourages the boy to throw something, and he flings a shoe at the dog, it doesn’t hit him, but it does come close, and he scampers off into another room.

-Good aim.

He yawns. She carries him to bed. She slides the sheets over the outline of his body. He sure is small for his age. She kisses his forehead and gently closes the door. The sun had sunk. The world had dried. The empty gray space of night breathed out slowly, sharing, always sharing. And the boy breathed it all in.

What Sucks, What Doesn’t Suck for March

Basketball doesn’t suck. Anyone with the last name Gumbel sucks. Zaga doesn’t suck, but not anymore in value then Northern Whatever (Kentucky) sucking hard and giving the game just after they took it. Duke never will suck. Utah State sucks in my feelings, not in my heart. Maryland SUCKS. Thabeet is a giant that could eat me, so he probably doesn’t suck. Beware doesn’t suck. D-Wade doesn’t suck. The Darjeeling Limited sucks. Wes Anderson sucks. Blogs suck. Books suck. People suck. Cats definetley suck. Awareness doesn’t suck. Pot makes you stupid.

Poem for Target

Red beacon of thrift, next to Happy Teryiaki.

Shitting parking lot, too long and too short to be honest.

Sleet and snow and shit fall from the sky.

It’s raining like puppies and kittens,

with parachutes of course.

Nobody likes splattered puppies and kittens.

Sliding doors, they know just when I call,

Wet shopping carts, none even in the front.

All are wet.

I wipe them down with my soul.

My love goes to look at clothes

I gorge two hot dogs.

Reading ketchup packets.

Lycopene, corn syrup, tomato paste.

Lovers. Alvin & The Chipmunks shirt. Tight, tawdry.

Wonderful.

Waxed floors shining and reflecting the composite lights.

A basketball rolls down the mile long aisle,

Lonely and forgotten.

Luggage locks, and Yoga mats.

Books on tape, self improvement.

I need this. Joel Osteen, Nickelback, Little Richard.

K.I.S.S.

I feign reading, flip through a magazine, No Griffey in the M’s preview.

It’s a game, not a movie.

It’s a store, not a game.

It’s a life, not a store.

I’m in love with being in love with love.

And Target.

Fifteen Obama books, half illustrated.

More shampoo than I ever need.

I wonder what Costco,

Has that I didn’t know that I need

Videogame kiosk, Celtics vs. Lakers. Up by thirteen.

Ends in first quarter.

Man yanks little boy away from ajacent kiosk.

Little boy falls down. 

Man barely notices.

Flashlights, catfood, flimsy hammers. 

Rugs that cost three hundred dollars.

On sale! 3.47 off!

Not a sale, after all, really in the scheme

Of things.

Men with crooked jaws, and Seattle Seahawks shirts.

Leering at teenagers.

I wear a Seahawks shirt.

Identification gap.

I stopped leering at teenagers.

When I stopped being a teenager.

Now I leer at adults.

I am in love with the love of leering.

And fifty bathtubs for three grand.

That’s a sale.

I find my love, she has found clothing.

I have an outlet adapter that causes cancer and birth defects.

According to the state of California.

Dash for food.

No ice cream sandwiches.

I sulk, this the reason of reasons for the trip of trips.

To the store of stores!

So

My 

Love

Watches impatiently

As

I chew on a tire.

A Day in Pictures

This is what happened to me today, March 10th, 2009 as told in aggregated pictures.  Bear with me, this is quite the day, so please read until the end.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Depression + Memory + Music

This morning, I was reading a list of the best “indie” love songs. No dearest reader, don’t fret, I am not going to try to define what the hell indie even means these days. But I will take a stab in the dark: having a day job still? But look at that, I already kind of lied, but since it was in a contextual lie, it doesn’t really count. Anyway that list was terrible, (The New Radicals  “Someday We’ll Know” and Weezer “O Girlfriend” were on it. WHAT THE FUCK!??!) But the reactionary comments were much more entertaining, the songs people would’ve picked ranged from the terribly cliche (Neutral Milk Hotel, Bright Eyes) to the spot-on (The Weakerthans  “My Favorite Chords”) to the expected (Velvet Underground “I’ll Be Your Mirror”) to the ones that I hilariously agree with (The Stranglers – Golden Brown) because they are love songs dammit, and it shouldn’t up to anyone to judge you if you are writing love songs to heroin. If you love heroin, that’s just great. If you love your forty cats, like that Sun Kil Moon dude, then that’s great, keep writing songs about heroin/cats. It’s better than nihilism. And it’s a hell of a lot better than what that  illiterate fucktard Ben Gibbard, who gets married, has kids (assumedly, unless he is gay which could also be interpreted as assumed by some) and still write yearning adolescent love songs. Grow the fuck up and get your drummer from The Photo Album back. You sound like Jay Cutler or that cross eyed fuck from The Bachelor. A little bitch.

Basically I find the comment section on any remotely controversial article far more rewarding of a read than the article itself.

I LOVE TWO WOMEN, WOE IS ME!

Really, I could go on for hours about what makes good indie music, or what makes a good indie love song, or what makes for a productive sustainable career in indie rock, why indie rock is the only critically respected form of rock anymore, all without defining what indie is. I am that talented of a circular logician/writer. But fortunately, I am not going to undertake any of the previously described tasks. I am taking on a far gloomier and more interesting task. Writing the most depressed songs I can!

There are two moments that compelled me to write this feature.

1) The first is a series of moments. Now don’t close that window, give me a chance, you beautiful reader you. Sometimes when I have my music on, my girlfriend will tell me that she is going to slit her wrists, if I don’t changethe song or cd. At first this confused me. It also offended me for a minute. The good music that brought me so much solace and comfort in my life, was making someone I love suicidal. The cd’s and songs I listen to on a rainy day, that made me hum and smile, made her want to jump out the window. What a wacky situation! Maybe it’s because her skin isn’t as tough as mine,  I thought, seeing that I grew up in the most depressing environment in the country, (Seattle – where the sun never shines!) and the local art community hear is pretty gloomy to match. The “best” artists from the pacific northwest are all marginally crazy isolationists, used to be crazies that auspicously stopped acting crazy once they got monies (Issac Brock) or dead (Kurt Cobain.) And if not, then little bitches or sell-outs (Colin Meloy, Ben Gibbard. Though Meloy’s Northwesterniness is debatable, Portland transplants from Montana are still from Montana.) But this isn’t a PNW music exclusive thing. That it really could be though is an entirely seperate matter.

There are some self-imposed guidelines to this excursion. There can’t be one single upbeat quality in the song and the only extractable overall feeling should be sadness and loss. These have to be absolutely devastating songs. And I mean this in both  execution and content. The good ol’ Tom Waits inversion theory: that you can write upbeat music with sad lyrics like “I Don’t Wanna Grow Up” or write a downtempo song with happy lyrics isn’t going to work here. It has to be downtempo AND have gloomy lyrics. Even a crescendo towards the end or a slight hint of irony in the lyrics should disqualify. This is only done to confirm we are talking about some fucked up songs, for the good of someone, lord knows who could actually benefit from this. Maybe someones ego.

None of these songs can I tolerate listening to when I’m not feeling blue. I have to keep a distance from them in order for their cathartic function to remain intact. That and I generally like to avoid depressing thoughts, on principle. Now that this horribly long introduction is over let’s get to the MUSIC. Most of these songs are contemporary songs. There probably are sadder, older songs out there, but I didn’t have to heart to delve into that wide of a scope for such a downer of a topic. These are songs I know to be depressing and I’m writing about why. I’m not making claim that these are the saddest songs out there. Otherwise Nick Drake would be mentioned.

The first song on the list, is also the second moment that compelled me to write this.

1(2) Damien Jurado -Medication

This is the granddaddy, wrist-slitting, life-isn’t-bearable song. This song is so brutal, so gut wrenching, so painful to listen to, so earnest, that on the first listen you think “This dude must have a brother in a psych-ward.” Then after a couple listens it turns into : “Holy shit, this guy is an incredible writer. Why does he tell these kind of stories?” I tell every one who gives a shit about art with half-a-brain about this guy. Most people, who I consider in touch with good music, have never heard of him. It’s a shame. He is a goddamn genius and the most underrated songwriter on the indie circuit. Period. The only knock I hear on him is that most of his songs are sad, which isn’t entirely true, though the ones that are sad are particularly sad, but is just indicative of the press’s unfamiliarity with his catalogue and the incredible skill this dude puts into his craft. His new album, Caught in the Trees is relatively upbeat and is a collection of the some of the catchiest, wittiest, most incisive songs and ultimately the best album released in 2008. But yes, Medication is dreadfully sad song, the saddest one I can think of even. Take a listen.

I went to a show of his in Seattle in January, and when he played the song I didn’t even recognize it halfway through. Why was this? I had heard it hundreds of times. I came to the conclusion that I have subconciously  blocked out the majority of this song from my memory, for the benefit of my own psychic abilities. And I;m a guy who enjoys a sad song, and if I actually blocked it out, it is a testament to the power of this song. It fucking haunts me. When I tell people about Jurado, I never mention anything about “Medication” or even the album it is from, Ghost of David, which in it’s entirety is almost as depressing as this song which is the opener of all songs.  Lines like

“Brother called this morning in a terrible panic/ Spies in the closet, bugs in the attic/ He screams bloody murder saying,/We`re all gonna die/

are just a happy precursor for the closer:

Lord, do me a favor/It`s wrong but I ask you/Take my brother`s life

You’ll see what I mean. But, don’t start there if you are interested in him. Get Rehearsals for Departure. The two super-depressing albums, Ghost and …And Now I’m in your Shadow, will scare you away from him for life. I’m lucky this is the first song I heard from him:

But enough of my hetero-boner for Jurado.  The other one’s won’t be like that. I rep Jurado every chance I can get.

One final thing: the other reason I wrote this came from the comments on the YouTube video for “Medication.” It is filled with remarks about the intensity and depressive qualities of the song, and immediately followed by endorsements of emotional attachment (i.e. “I love this song.”) Why do people attach themselves more strongly to songs of a depressing nature than a happy nature? More on this concept towards the end.

2. Elliott Smith – Pitseleh

Having an Elliott song is obligatory. Not because he is the King of Sadness, but because he just does the sad song so well. He’s reference an amount of times that most of his lyrics are about his dreams.In general, dude was a jovial, gregarious person, who wrote really fucking sad songs and made a lot of teenagers feel sadder/happier depending on the inclinations of their dopamine receptors. He just must have had really messed up dreams. And from what I’ve gathered, when he didn’t like someone or an idea, he didn’t outlet his anger with his accusatory and condemnatory writing, which is well crafted, dude won’t stop until there aren’t any well placed daggers to use. He won’t let shit go. Or at least doesn’t know how to. This is why he picked fights in bars with guys he perceived as assholes. Don’t y’all give Elliott an intervention, or he’ll write one mean fucking song about you (Everybody Cares, Everybody Understands) and who knows, even if he does get tired of getting wasted and smoking crack in the back of taxicabs and passing out, and decides to clean up he might freak out and stab himself in the heart once he is stable and sober. Now who knows what’s best for a dude, especially one who wasn’t even psychotic, was inward, cared a lot about the people in his life and majored in Feminist Studies?

ANYWAY let’s talk about his music. It took me a long to pick an Elliott song for this. My initial thought was “King’s Crossing” which if we’re talking lyrical imagery, definitely takes the cake. Some of the gloomiest of the gloom, I-am-on-death’s-door-and-really-going-to-do-it, kind of shit in this one. For example:

The judge is on vinyl, decisions are final/And nobody gets a reprieve/And every wave is tidal – if you hang around/You’re going to get wet/I can’t prepare for death any more than I already have/All you can do now is watch the shells/The game looks easy, that’s why it sells.

I could just copy and paste the whole song, but that’d miss the point. The song strikes me more of a dream song, especially with the nurses and the soldiers bit, and the streaking thrashy instrumentation. It’s one hell of a nightmare of a song, the one typically pointed to in his foreshadowing of his own demise. And Basement is also littered with these little I want to die jabs, (for example “The Last Hour”; “Don’t keep me around/ Make it over), and actually his entire catalogue explores the darker corners of life examining loneliness and despair (“Needle in the Hay”, “Everything Means Nothing to Me.”)

“Everything” was actually a close second in this choice, that battering repetition of the title over and over and over again in the last two thirds of the song is devastating. But after a little while it becomes hopeful, the instrumentation gets lighter, and he raises the voice an octave (or half-octave) as he goes. The whole thing turns into an uplifting, redemptive beautiful thing. But that’s not what I’m looking for here, though it is a considerable artistic achievement, creating a positive feeling out of such an awful chorus.

Pitseleh is his darkest, most painful of songs. I don’t even need to listen to it, and I choose not to because I’m in a particularly good mood, and I can tell you all about it. I have heard the song maybe between 15 and 20 times, never truly aware of it, even it’s title. But one day it struck me particularly hard- as I was going through a particularly hard time myself- so I finally looked up the name of the track and the lyrics. The most devastating of songs end well, they know when to quit, instead of at their brightest, or highest moment, but at their darkest. Sort of like George on Seinfeld leaving work when he tells the good joke. He’s aware of the impression he can leave, and knows it’s at his best. The failling of most artists is that they add too much, one more stroke of a painting, an extra verse or two in a song, because they are so in rapture by the moment that they are producing something good that they lose track of the audience’s patience/perception.The airy, drowsy tone of “Pitseleh”, makes this remorseful dread, accentuated by the focus on pianol. It’s the usual sad song of love lost. But for some reason this song is exceptional. And it’s why I have trouble listening to it.

Give up the thing you love

It then goes into a weepy shrill piano solo that carries the song away until the final verse.

the first time I saw you I knew it would never last/ I’m not half what I wish I was/ I’m so angry, I don’t think it’ll ever pass/ and I was bad news for you just because /I never meant to hurt you

It sounds like it was taken from a break-up letter Smith found on the street. But he makes these words – which look somewhat awkward and whiny on paper, into  a heartbreaking melody, concluding that it’s best to just give up what you love instead of holding onto it, even though “I was bad news for you.” It’s not the breakingup that’s hard, it’s getting over the break up that’s hard. Isn’t life fun?  Thanks for the reminder of the fragile, fleeting nature of emotions Elliott!

Also for an extra bonus catch the suicide reference in the first verse;

A silent kid is looking down the barrel/To make the noise that I kept so quiet

The King of Sadness!

And on a serious note: R.I.P. Elliott. You were a dude. Now that I’ve talked incessantly about the two heavyweights, these furhter ones will be a bit shorter. Now more about the utilization of pianos for a depressing effect!

Cat Power – Color and the Kids

This downer, from the…interesting Chan Marshall, has a lingering piano that allows her voice to become the focus of the song. You can hear her thump the piano keys harder as she gets closer to the emotional climax. The song is a meditation on the past, and she does a more than adequate job romanticizing it.

She analyzes a series of important people in her life, the one she built a house on the beach with, a teenage friend who knows everyone in the city, and her own loss she must be experiencing. Becase:

It must be the colors and the kids/that keep me alive/ on this January night

Life must seem empty, she’s made poor choices and looking back on her life, something common to do in winter. The lyrics are peppered with lines insighting the best parts ofthe relationships, the little things of intimacy, you can just see her with her boyfriend at the time going to the beach and;

we can roll up our jeans so the tide won’t get us below the knees/ yellow hair, you are a funny bear/yellow hair, such a funny bear/slender fingers would hold me/slender limbs would hold me

The piano line will get stuck in your head. Her emphasis on the word such does so much for the song, it’s this tiny moment that brings a geuineness to the song, a knowledge of the depth of someone. And the loss of having that knowledge nearby, as well as familiar is what makes it so damn sad. And for the comment about the yellow bear, it fips between adorable and pitiful everytime I listen to it. So whenever I smile at thatsong I take it off the list I guess.

Next up is who I surmise is the first person in this song is describing.

Smog – I Break Horses

Bill Callahan is one cold-blooded, monotone-singing, Elvis Presley-if-he-grew-up-like-The-Kid-in-Blood Meridian, talented motherfucker. Check him out.

Maybe you don’t think he’s so badass, I mean dude looks bored and there’s some other persons shadow in the picture. You know who that is? Joanna Newsom. He is (was) hitting that. I don’t think Andy Samberg is going to stop him. Bill would just stare at Andy and he’d turn to dust. Bill would sweep him up, row out to sea and throw his ashes into a whirlpool and say to himself, “Who’s on a boat now, motherfucker?” promptly row back home and write a song about horses and how bad-ass he is. Seriously. He’s  changed his musical moniker twice, and doesn’t care. That’s kick-ass.

Anyway, the song about horses. “I Break Horses” is all about being a stubborn alpha male, who uses women. The couplet that gets repeated in the chorus is a real downer.

I break horses/I do not tend to them/They seem to come to me/Asking to be broken/They seem to run to me/I break horses/Doesn’t take me long/Just a few well-placed words/And their wandering hearts are gone

The arrangement is sparse, letting Bill’s baritone enigma of a voice do the work. And obviously, horses is an interpretation for women. He’’s the one who makes the wild girls scared. He’s the guy who dates your wife before she decides she’s ready to meet the right guy and settle down. That or he kills them, but only after he rides them to the ocean, so he can go to his “favorite island.” Check the murder imagery out:

At first her warmth felt good between my legs/Living breathing heart-beating flesh/But soon that warmth turned to an itch/Turned to a scratch/Turned to a gash

So with the baritone, minimalist guitar, murder imagery, and the “ooh” and “aah” around the chorus that gives me fucking shivers, I tend to stay away from this song. But I love it. I only listen to it on youtube, and keep it off my iTunes/cd collection. I’m not even sure what album it’s from. But it’s a song that is one of Callahan’s best, and indicative of the trick in his darkest lyrics: Subtle brutality.

Now you can enjoy singing along to the song, which will be played when I dance at my wedding, to the horror of all.

That or the incredible song “Your Wedding” about getting wasted an at a newly become ex’s future hypothetical wedding. It’s a gut-clencher, for the same arguably good reasons as this song.

Immortal Technique – Dance With The Devil

Don’t think I forgot the hip-hop masterpiece about a guy raping his own Mom. I don’t want to talk about it. Real fun stuff there.

Casiotone for the Painfully Alone – Don’t They Have Payphones Wherever You Were Last Night

This pathetic song, comes from one of the self-deprecating, I’m poor white and lonely genres. The dude is like the Mountain Goats album Get Lonely except with a Casiotone keyboard, synth and not just one album but all the time. I saw him live a couple years ago and he was wearing a backbrace. He said he learned how important it is to lift with his legs. This song actually makes me want to die. Thankfully he didn’t play it at that show. Check “Tonight, Was A Disaster” if you want to hear the close second from this guy. I’m posting a link to a happier song though, to prove he doesn’t always make the thought of my own death appealing. Here he is playing the song “Calloused Fingers” in a phone booth in Seattle. I’d like to hear Bill Callahan’s version of this song.

Conclusion:

The fondness and attachment for these songs is what makes them “great.” They are propelled to an exclusive stratosphere because only a sad song can make an impact on you in an emotionally cathartic way. Happy, upbeat, pop songs that are considered great are usually only considered great because of technical prowess – an incredible singing performance, a catchy hook, a defining sound- and may impact your emotions however, but those emotions tend to be ephemeral.

And obviously, a sad song that makes you feel good is probably associated with sad times. Hearing the song can you remind you of a time when you used to be sad- like listening to Either/Or reminds of of high school, and what a fucking weirdo I was then, which thankfully I am not anymore. Lessons have been learned, happiness, or the presence of non-sadness at least, has been found, and I’ve moved on. These sad songs wouldn’t be loved so much if we were still sad.

That and liking sad songs makes you “deep,” and if you’re deep you are probably sensitive and intelligent and wouldn’t find Whitney Houston great in the way you find Elliott Smith great. Everyone loves being interpreted as intelligent and unique, and liking hard to like, or hard to bear music and/or art definetley is a step in that direction. But that is also because people identify themselves with what they like, and use that as a way to convey their personality, without having to actually present anything vulnerable or actually personal.

But I promise I’m not one of those people. You probably are though.