From: Zaire Uh F
Fr 1:25 AM - Hey i called manger of massgot
Fr 1:28 AM - Marriott and said dick give me a room. Also lets hang out this week
Monday, December 13, 2010
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Book Report: Vladamir Nabokov - Lolita
The amazing thing about literature is the ability to push the reader towards the realm of discomfort and disdain while still retaining the essential elements of great writing. Henry Miller is one author that comes to mind immediately. I could never defend the actions of the misogynistic, anti-Semitic protagonists of the Tropic duo, but goddamn was the writing just so perfect in those novels. Great passages would turn into pages of every single word having its specific purpose, every article and seemingly secondary adjective contributing as much as the more prominent nouns and pronouns. The plots could be boiled down to Miller’s own take on two cities (New York and Paris) and his personal exploits within, without much central conflict, rising or falling actions. With a rather trivial storyline, it is too tempting to ask “What is the point of these novels?” And going further, “Is this pornographic or literary or both? Is there a place for pornography in literature?” In an afterword to Lolita, Nabokov takes initiative in answering the former: “I happen to be the kind of author who in starting to work on a book has no other purpose than to get rid of that book.” He recognizes that he is less of a conscious ego declaring himself as writer, more of a fortuitous vehicle for a book that has to be written (a great essay on this concept can be found here).
I am not here to set about answering these questions, as that would take an entirely more formal essay that I don’t think the minimal readership of this one warrants the time it would take to fully deconstruct. Rather, I am more interested in exploring the conflict between author and reader when confronted with a novel such as this. Early on, when our mainman Humbert Humbert is expressing the agony inflicted by his desire to have his future step-daughter Delores Haze, you really can’t feel any sympathy. We already know that he is giving a testimony before a jury, that he is a murderer and a pedophile. And yet, the expression of this pain almost wins the reader over. And when his Lolita eventually deserts him, his rage and murderous contempt is almost justifiable. It’s this discomfort as a reader that draws me in so much. Can I really acquit a pedophile of his crimes if he were to repudiate them and serve his time? Moreover, for a pedophile, Humbert is quite the charmer and is never vulgar. And here I exist in the world, the mouth of a sailor, and although understanding of references to Hegel and Schlegel, have never taken the time to familiarize myself with them the way this old European corrupting young America (or vice versa) has.
Away from the novel’s content and onto the form, it would be hard to guess that English was Nabokov’s second language. He developed quite the masterful subtleties and extensive vocabulary to create such phrases as “a pharisaic parody of privacy” and “burning with desire and dyspepsia.” He is able to eloquently articulate his character’s intellectual depth: “We live not only in a world of thoughts, but also in a world of things. Words without experience are meaningless.” And: “A change of environment is the traditional fallacy upon which doomed loves, and lungs, rely.” Whether or not it is Nabokov that actually believes this is not what is important, but rather as he puts it, that he needs to get rid of these ideas that bubble and fester inside of him.
Ultimately, the fate of H.H. has to be doomed. Lolita will not stay a nymphet forever. Even had she never ran away, the relationship would be strained over time regardless. He even begins to notice it himself, although even when he tracks her down years after she leaves him, he still attempts to convince her to leave her husband and come back to him. Can love that strong exist? His desire for her was mostly fueled by her youthful features and he used to consider the high school and college aged girls too old for his type. Yet when she enters this stage of life, he still has those feelings. And what could it be in him that develops these feelings? Was it the episode that he describes at a young age of his first relationship as a pre-teen? Could his view of love never mature even as his body did because of that? And these questions continue to exist today, as there is more pressure on the youth to become sexualized younger and younger (tangent: flipping through, I just found another great combination of words: “the most auburn and russet, the most mythopoeic nymphet in October’s orchard-haze.”) A good novel is often characterized as being timeless, a trait defined by its ability to remain relevant over time and raise questions and promote discussion over time. This is no doubt achieved in Lolita in not only its suggestive content but the experimental form as well. Never dense, but enough of a struggle to maintain worthwhileness, it is no wonder the book is considered a masterpiece.
I am not here to set about answering these questions, as that would take an entirely more formal essay that I don’t think the minimal readership of this one warrants the time it would take to fully deconstruct. Rather, I am more interested in exploring the conflict between author and reader when confronted with a novel such as this. Early on, when our mainman Humbert Humbert is expressing the agony inflicted by his desire to have his future step-daughter Delores Haze, you really can’t feel any sympathy. We already know that he is giving a testimony before a jury, that he is a murderer and a pedophile. And yet, the expression of this pain almost wins the reader over. And when his Lolita eventually deserts him, his rage and murderous contempt is almost justifiable. It’s this discomfort as a reader that draws me in so much. Can I really acquit a pedophile of his crimes if he were to repudiate them and serve his time? Moreover, for a pedophile, Humbert is quite the charmer and is never vulgar. And here I exist in the world, the mouth of a sailor, and although understanding of references to Hegel and Schlegel, have never taken the time to familiarize myself with them the way this old European corrupting young America (or vice versa) has.
Away from the novel’s content and onto the form, it would be hard to guess that English was Nabokov’s second language. He developed quite the masterful subtleties and extensive vocabulary to create such phrases as “a pharisaic parody of privacy” and “burning with desire and dyspepsia.” He is able to eloquently articulate his character’s intellectual depth: “We live not only in a world of thoughts, but also in a world of things. Words without experience are meaningless.” And: “A change of environment is the traditional fallacy upon which doomed loves, and lungs, rely.” Whether or not it is Nabokov that actually believes this is not what is important, but rather as he puts it, that he needs to get rid of these ideas that bubble and fester inside of him.
Ultimately, the fate of H.H. has to be doomed. Lolita will not stay a nymphet forever. Even had she never ran away, the relationship would be strained over time regardless. He even begins to notice it himself, although even when he tracks her down years after she leaves him, he still attempts to convince her to leave her husband and come back to him. Can love that strong exist? His desire for her was mostly fueled by her youthful features and he used to consider the high school and college aged girls too old for his type. Yet when she enters this stage of life, he still has those feelings. And what could it be in him that develops these feelings? Was it the episode that he describes at a young age of his first relationship as a pre-teen? Could his view of love never mature even as his body did because of that? And these questions continue to exist today, as there is more pressure on the youth to become sexualized younger and younger (tangent: flipping through, I just found another great combination of words: “the most auburn and russet, the most mythopoeic nymphet in October’s orchard-haze.”) A good novel is often characterized as being timeless, a trait defined by its ability to remain relevant over time and raise questions and promote discussion over time. This is no doubt achieved in Lolita in not only its suggestive content but the experimental form as well. Never dense, but enough of a struggle to maintain worthwhileness, it is no wonder the book is considered a masterpiece.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
David Sedaris - Naked
Why did I wait so long to read this book? Been on my list for years, finally decided to forego my usual desires to read 40s/50s Euro lit and delve into some contemporary memoirs. Rather than giving A-B-C event timelines, Sedaris focuses on specific events in his life and elaborates to the fullest extent on each one. Despite a brief internet search, I’m still unsure as to the actual validity of these stories, but as Tim O’Brien was the one who got me into literature, answering that question is the low man on this totem pole. Considering the imagination of Sedaris, it is not important if these are actual events. The meaning lies in digging out every piece of dark humor possible, from deceiving the world with a quadriplegic to getting high with his siblings while their mother sits alone on the cusp of death. The callousness of the protagonist can only be conveyed in a book titled Naked. No, his mother wasn’t the sweetest, but he recognizes his own naivety about his cold emotions without changing them. And he shares them. He lets us put on his X-ray specs by putting these words on pages between the covers. The back and forth between imagination (Chipped Beef) and straightforwardness (I Like Guys) creates a surreal landscape, populated by vulgar and awful people (C.O.G., Something for Everyone).
Of course, the point would be missed if we were to pass any judgment on these characters. What this book does is allow us to think of ourselves naked, to bring to our conscious the things we’re afraid to admit to anyone but ourselves. And this is where the book becomes most meaningful to me. I’ve become increasingly aware that I will never be a true writer. Writing involves such a strong foundation of honesty that I will never be able to achieve. As an internalizer, it’s difficult for me to express true feelings to anyone else and (amazingly) this difficulty is true for print as well. While I find no difficulty expressing my opinions on the work of others, why this book is great or why that band sucks or why I have so little interest in a lot of movies everyone clamors for, I view what I feel as so meaningless as to not even look at the map of that train line. And perhaps this is only a continuation of a path I’ve been following since high school, the rationalist vs. the empiricist, the big-picture of the world and the small timeframe that my life takes up. Either way, I will never write a Naked. I may write Winter Clothing, in which I continue to hide by never putting my Self out there. Playing it safe is dangerous territory for an aspiring writer. Alas, don’t expect me to quit my job and go play in the street.
Music: Braids – Set Pieces EP, Radar Eyes – S/T
Of course, the point would be missed if we were to pass any judgment on these characters. What this book does is allow us to think of ourselves naked, to bring to our conscious the things we’re afraid to admit to anyone but ourselves. And this is where the book becomes most meaningful to me. I’ve become increasingly aware that I will never be a true writer. Writing involves such a strong foundation of honesty that I will never be able to achieve. As an internalizer, it’s difficult for me to express true feelings to anyone else and (amazingly) this difficulty is true for print as well. While I find no difficulty expressing my opinions on the work of others, why this book is great or why that band sucks or why I have so little interest in a lot of movies everyone clamors for, I view what I feel as so meaningless as to not even look at the map of that train line. And perhaps this is only a continuation of a path I’ve been following since high school, the rationalist vs. the empiricist, the big-picture of the world and the small timeframe that my life takes up. Either way, I will never write a Naked. I may write Winter Clothing, in which I continue to hide by never putting my Self out there. Playing it safe is dangerous territory for an aspiring writer. Alas, don’t expect me to quit my job and go play in the street.
Music: Braids – Set Pieces EP, Radar Eyes – S/T
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Texts From Last Night
Victim: Andy Yeo
Time: 3:43 AM
Ears are ringing. Sentimentality is the lowest form of human emotiion. Glve me a ring tmrw. Birds are singing.
Time: 3:43 AM
Ears are ringing. Sentimentality is the lowest form of human emotiion. Glve me a ring tmrw. Birds are singing.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Falling Water
My senior year of high school, I became immersed in the world of architecture, particularly with the work of Frank Lloyd Wright. The connection was an obvious subconscious precursor to my interest in juxtaposition. The influence of nature on his urban and residential buildings allowed for the blurring of two seemingly contradictory worlds. Whether it be the horizontal essence of the prairie homes or the formation of structure with the natural environment surrounding, Wright successfully interplayed this dichotomy. Ok, ok, you already know this. You’ve seen the pictures and blueprints a thousand times before. The anthology of his work on my coffee table is one of hundreds, thousands documenting his work (each one apparently not enough). A Google Image Search for “Falling Water” provides 11,800,000 results (in .38 seconds no less) that primarily involve Wright and his masterpiece. But in the age of abundant, two-dimensional-on-demand imagery, we lose the magnitude of the significance of the places and events themselves. Overstimulation begets underwhelming. Or…
“I am here.” Pointing to the ground I was standing on, these are the words I said after following the signs that said ‘View’ towards the iconic spot we’ve seen so many of the pictures taken from of the waterfall rushing through and below the Kaufmann’s estate. “This is amazing.” I repeated this over and over, so in awe of the building that the ineloquence of my words would have been alarming if I hadn’t recognized the brilliance of the space itself and the inadequacy of language to express my feelings for the architecture. Admittedly, it can take some reality checks to actually appreciate the reality of some events. The world of experience is a rich one, and the ubiquity of the media should not take that away. We should be so lucky to engrain in our minds the words of Sean Maguire’s monologue during the “Taster’s Choice moment between guys.” The slow rush of the water due to lack of rainfall in Mill Run, PA recently did not detract from my experience. I was there. I stepped on the fallen leaves, the dirt, the sticks around the house and touched the granite ledges lining the stairs, the masonry on the cantilevers. Jenna, Josh and Lou were there. Over 1200 miles, we’re back. But we were there. It was amazing.
Falling Water
Sean Maguire
“I am here.” Pointing to the ground I was standing on, these are the words I said after following the signs that said ‘View’ towards the iconic spot we’ve seen so many of the pictures taken from of the waterfall rushing through and below the Kaufmann’s estate. “This is amazing.” I repeated this over and over, so in awe of the building that the ineloquence of my words would have been alarming if I hadn’t recognized the brilliance of the space itself and the inadequacy of language to express my feelings for the architecture. Admittedly, it can take some reality checks to actually appreciate the reality of some events. The world of experience is a rich one, and the ubiquity of the media should not take that away. We should be so lucky to engrain in our minds the words of Sean Maguire’s monologue during the “Taster’s Choice moment between guys.” The slow rush of the water due to lack of rainfall in Mill Run, PA recently did not detract from my experience. I was there. I stepped on the fallen leaves, the dirt, the sticks around the house and touched the granite ledges lining the stairs, the masonry on the cantilevers. Jenna, Josh and Lou were there. Over 1200 miles, we’re back. But we were there. It was amazing.
Falling Water
Sean Maguire
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Spiritualized
I confess the modest knowledge I have of the art world. But a concept that is intriguing to me is allowing multiple people to simultaneously view a work and perceive entirely different things. Obvious examples include any sculpture, statue or otherwise three-dimensional piece. The texture or material can affect this, as well as the use of lighting or dimensions of the piece, not to mention viewer placement to object (above, below, in front, behind, etc.). Maria Irene Forne achieves this in theater with the play Fefu and Her Friends, in which the second act is viewed in four sections with audience members watching in a different order. Other examples are vast in the visual domain of art, but the reason Spiritualized’s Ladies and Gentlemen We’re Floating in Space continues to amaze me is that it does this with sound. What I focus on and specifically listen to on any given song can and most likely will be different from someone listening to the same piece.
The simplest (but arguably most complex) place to start with this album is the eponymous opener, fading in as if in a dream that we don’t know how it started, but already are in the middle of it. Reverberating tambourine and a single vocal line stand out; panned shimmerings and a stoic appregriated guitar. The second vocal line comes in, and the photo of Jason Pierce nodding off in a space helmet immediately springs to mind. Well-placed beeps from ground control let us know someone is there. And then: the chorus. Drums build up and the electric guitars kick in. Vocal harmonies and a string section attach us back to Earth. A third vocal line emerges and indeed, and our attention is already bouncing between multiple poles. Simultaneously wanting to take it all in as well as focus on the individual components of this song, our senses and imagination are overwhelmed. A final chorus builds up and a sharp ending. We would have fallen completely into the depths of space if ‘Come Together’ didn’t reach out with its robotic arm to snatch us from the perils of the universe. The sweet melodies and comforting atmosphere of the first track are traded in for feedback and a gospel chorus, a more aggressive bass line and horn section. And if the instrumentation weren’t enough to focus on, the vocal content shifts entirely as well. Drug references abound and the repeating title lyric. And the hardest hitting part of the song? After a distortion-bass lead bridge, two handclaps that sound like the smack of a backhand to the face of a junkie in a zoned out bliss.
No silence between tracks, but a fluid transition allows us to recuperate at the beginning of ‘I Think I’m in Love.’ Droning synths, wah pedals, harmonica and hypnotic bass. Its sounds so simple but already overwhelming by the time Pierce’s layered vocals enter almost a minute in. As the song itself has the dual A/B sections of no drums/drums, the lyrics express the dual +/- that is in every thought. “I think I’m in love (probably just hungry)…Think I want to tell the world (probably ain’t listening).” Who do we decide to believe? Who do we listen to? If we’re merciful to ourselves, the first lines feel justified. But we also have to consider the reality. Perhaps our perceptions have been altered by what we’ve had for breakfast (off a mirror or from a bottle as the case may be) and perhaps it really is a shitty day out there. The genius of the album is that on a whole, the music reflects these sentiments via a dialectic fashion. Through the dynamic of music, at times quiet, at times loud, soothing or frustrating, it’s all there and never in an order we expect. The distorted cacophony of ‘The Individual’ moves right into the somber ‘Broken Heart,’ which pulls down the window shades on even the nicest of July days. And again, the frenetic energy that follows in ‘No God Only Religion,’ the chiming of church bells playing off a horn section and feedback guitars, an imposing string section backed by a rock drum beat. The eclectic amalgamation of sounds that Pierce crafts are as mesmerizing as they are mystifying. Once we think we finally understand, we are baptized in the holiness of ‘Cool Waves’ to begin life anew. The Dr. John assisted closer ‘Cop Shoot Cop…’ reaches level of epic intensity that only its mentor Sister Ray can top. Everything the album has been building up to comes back around here. The dynamic shifts, blocks of noise, the gospel chorus, repetition, repetition, the view from the moon of the Earth eclipsing the sun, the ups and downs of drug use, the lefts and rights of relationships. The album can be experienced from any of these views, and assuredly a multitude more. With so much going on, Pierce challenges our ideas of focus: the drug that irritates the mind the most is reality and our addiction to knowledge becomes disassembled when we don’t know what exactly to pay attention to. Often enough it’s the most simple, banal ideas that require our greatest awareness. We think we’re alive, probably just breathing: Spiritualized are mind blowing, probably just playing music.
The simplest (but arguably most complex) place to start with this album is the eponymous opener, fading in as if in a dream that we don’t know how it started, but already are in the middle of it. Reverberating tambourine and a single vocal line stand out; panned shimmerings and a stoic appregriated guitar. The second vocal line comes in, and the photo of Jason Pierce nodding off in a space helmet immediately springs to mind. Well-placed beeps from ground control let us know someone is there. And then: the chorus. Drums build up and the electric guitars kick in. Vocal harmonies and a string section attach us back to Earth. A third vocal line emerges and indeed, and our attention is already bouncing between multiple poles. Simultaneously wanting to take it all in as well as focus on the individual components of this song, our senses and imagination are overwhelmed. A final chorus builds up and a sharp ending. We would have fallen completely into the depths of space if ‘Come Together’ didn’t reach out with its robotic arm to snatch us from the perils of the universe. The sweet melodies and comforting atmosphere of the first track are traded in for feedback and a gospel chorus, a more aggressive bass line and horn section. And if the instrumentation weren’t enough to focus on, the vocal content shifts entirely as well. Drug references abound and the repeating title lyric. And the hardest hitting part of the song? After a distortion-bass lead bridge, two handclaps that sound like the smack of a backhand to the face of a junkie in a zoned out bliss.
No silence between tracks, but a fluid transition allows us to recuperate at the beginning of ‘I Think I’m in Love.’ Droning synths, wah pedals, harmonica and hypnotic bass. Its sounds so simple but already overwhelming by the time Pierce’s layered vocals enter almost a minute in. As the song itself has the dual A/B sections of no drums/drums, the lyrics express the dual +/- that is in every thought. “I think I’m in love (probably just hungry)…Think I want to tell the world (probably ain’t listening).” Who do we decide to believe? Who do we listen to? If we’re merciful to ourselves, the first lines feel justified. But we also have to consider the reality. Perhaps our perceptions have been altered by what we’ve had for breakfast (off a mirror or from a bottle as the case may be) and perhaps it really is a shitty day out there. The genius of the album is that on a whole, the music reflects these sentiments via a dialectic fashion. Through the dynamic of music, at times quiet, at times loud, soothing or frustrating, it’s all there and never in an order we expect. The distorted cacophony of ‘The Individual’ moves right into the somber ‘Broken Heart,’ which pulls down the window shades on even the nicest of July days. And again, the frenetic energy that follows in ‘No God Only Religion,’ the chiming of church bells playing off a horn section and feedback guitars, an imposing string section backed by a rock drum beat. The eclectic amalgamation of sounds that Pierce crafts are as mesmerizing as they are mystifying. Once we think we finally understand, we are baptized in the holiness of ‘Cool Waves’ to begin life anew. The Dr. John assisted closer ‘Cop Shoot Cop…’ reaches level of epic intensity that only its mentor Sister Ray can top. Everything the album has been building up to comes back around here. The dynamic shifts, blocks of noise, the gospel chorus, repetition, repetition, the view from the moon of the Earth eclipsing the sun, the ups and downs of drug use, the lefts and rights of relationships. The album can be experienced from any of these views, and assuredly a multitude more. With so much going on, Pierce challenges our ideas of focus: the drug that irritates the mind the most is reality and our addiction to knowledge becomes disassembled when we don’t know what exactly to pay attention to. Often enough it’s the most simple, banal ideas that require our greatest awareness. We think we’re alive, probably just breathing: Spiritualized are mind blowing, probably just playing music.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Obsession
A derivative of Bryan Ferry’s pharmaceutical of choice: obsession. Girls’ states it clearly in ‘Goddamned’: “Obsession is my favorite drug.” The innocent vocal delivery is only suspect in the nuanced aggression in the pronunciation of ‘goddamned.’ The obsession seems carefree at first, perhaps still simple puppylove. But deviousness lies behind the exterior promises of pleasures and games involved in relationships. The unconventional choice of percussion underlines the playfulness of the campfire acoustic guitar juxtaposed to the true menacing nature of the lyrics.
To be sure, the singer is not looking for love. The singer prefers the state of desire to fulfillment: playing hard to get is preferred: the chase is the thrill of it all. Does the totality of obsession have a place in love? Of Montreal’s “Gallery Piece” off Skeletal Lamping has an opinion of its own. Here, there is a complete totality in the descriptions sung by Kevin Barnes (or is it Georgie Fruit?). “I want to slap your face” is followed by “I want to paint your nails,” “I want to kiss your eyelids and corrupt your dreams.” Everything is explored to its extreme: love, hate, jealousy, pride, sex, violence: “I wanna be your what’s happening.” The bridge admits the deep reflection it took to bring out all of these emotions, rejecting the safety of the subconscious and cultivating all of the possibilities love contains. Attempting not to sound too Psych 101, we repress ‘abnormal’ emotions that may frighten us or make us feel alienated. But there comes a time when this needs release, be it a creative, sexual, or violent act, a transgression takes place, even a metamorphosis. The id needs to be engaged every now and then, and even challenged: confrontation, internal and external is what provides love its strength, rather than a simulacrum of what it should be.
Such an unconventional notion of love (or at least the suggestion that obsession has its place within love’s realm) was recognized as well by playwright Sarah Kane. Specifically, the play Crave equates love with drugs as Roxy Music’s leading track of Siren had done before. The play involves four nameless characters speaking sporadically and rarely to anyone in particular. B, at different points admits: “I smoke till I’m sick,” “I drink till I’m sick,” “I shake when I don’t have it.” The ambiguity of the last line suggests addiction to love as opposed to obsession. The climax of the play (if such a conventional term can be used) is A’s monologue, a period-less overwhelming love treatise. The I-want-to-do-this-to-you repetition is akin to Barnes (or considering our timeline, Barnes is akin to her) but for all of the violence we expect from Kane’s plays, there is an surprising amount of innocence and playfulness to A’s monologue.
Full circle, we can recognize the different stages love plays with obsession. Any new drug will at first give a ridiculous high, a mind expanding, eye opening, highly sensitized cliché of a high. And you want it more. It’s a change from the daily monotony, the one-night stands or the lost buzz from cigarettes. You want it more. You want to play hide and seek and make her jealous and buy her things. It’s still not enough. And it never will be. To love something is to completely ignore every conventionality set before you. Your addiction can lead to a great albeit short-lived love. Johnny Thunders’ addiction got the best of him, as did Romeo and Juliet’s. For better or worse? Jean Richepin: “The love of art makes us lose real love.” Does real love make us lose our love of life? I haven’t lived long enough to say. But I’m still moved by Kane, comforted by Girls, and I’ll kick up my feet to Of Montreal. Love is the drug, obsession is the overdose: the junkie understands the risk when he spikes his veins.
To be sure, the singer is not looking for love. The singer prefers the state of desire to fulfillment: playing hard to get is preferred: the chase is the thrill of it all. Does the totality of obsession have a place in love? Of Montreal’s “Gallery Piece” off Skeletal Lamping has an opinion of its own. Here, there is a complete totality in the descriptions sung by Kevin Barnes (or is it Georgie Fruit?). “I want to slap your face” is followed by “I want to paint your nails,” “I want to kiss your eyelids and corrupt your dreams.” Everything is explored to its extreme: love, hate, jealousy, pride, sex, violence: “I wanna be your what’s happening.” The bridge admits the deep reflection it took to bring out all of these emotions, rejecting the safety of the subconscious and cultivating all of the possibilities love contains. Attempting not to sound too Psych 101, we repress ‘abnormal’ emotions that may frighten us or make us feel alienated. But there comes a time when this needs release, be it a creative, sexual, or violent act, a transgression takes place, even a metamorphosis. The id needs to be engaged every now and then, and even challenged: confrontation, internal and external is what provides love its strength, rather than a simulacrum of what it should be.
Such an unconventional notion of love (or at least the suggestion that obsession has its place within love’s realm) was recognized as well by playwright Sarah Kane. Specifically, the play Crave equates love with drugs as Roxy Music’s leading track of Siren had done before. The play involves four nameless characters speaking sporadically and rarely to anyone in particular. B, at different points admits: “I smoke till I’m sick,” “I drink till I’m sick,” “I shake when I don’t have it.” The ambiguity of the last line suggests addiction to love as opposed to obsession. The climax of the play (if such a conventional term can be used) is A’s monologue, a period-less overwhelming love treatise. The I-want-to-do-this-to-you repetition is akin to Barnes (or considering our timeline, Barnes is akin to her) but for all of the violence we expect from Kane’s plays, there is an surprising amount of innocence and playfulness to A’s monologue.
Full circle, we can recognize the different stages love plays with obsession. Any new drug will at first give a ridiculous high, a mind expanding, eye opening, highly sensitized cliché of a high. And you want it more. It’s a change from the daily monotony, the one-night stands or the lost buzz from cigarettes. You want it more. You want to play hide and seek and make her jealous and buy her things. It’s still not enough. And it never will be. To love something is to completely ignore every conventionality set before you. Your addiction can lead to a great albeit short-lived love. Johnny Thunders’ addiction got the best of him, as did Romeo and Juliet’s. For better or worse? Jean Richepin: “The love of art makes us lose real love.” Does real love make us lose our love of life? I haven’t lived long enough to say. But I’m still moved by Kane, comforted by Girls, and I’ll kick up my feet to Of Montreal. Love is the drug, obsession is the overdose: the junkie understands the risk when he spikes his veins.
Sound and Nothingness
Admittedly a suburban transplant, ostensibly a Chicago native, it seems as if from birth I am to be fully aware of the life of Alexander Calder. From the Flamingo in Federal Plaza to the ubiquitous expositions at the Museum of Contemporary Art, Calder is as much a staple of Chicago culture and history as Terkel and Burnham are. His major achievement involves mobiles, a form of art that requires the viewer to crane his or her neck upwards to recognize the empty spaces above that are too often ignored. Likewise, the stage and settings of the works of Samuel Beckett and other absurdist playwrights employ the use of empty space (more to the point, Waiting for Godot constantly reminds us of a character who isn’t there). In the realm of music, the most famous example of this attention to nothingness is undoubtedly John Cage’s 4'33'’. But whereas Cage’s work involves absolute silence on behalf of the performer(s) in juxtaposition with the sounds of the environment around them, two recent albums allow the artists talents to effectively converse with the surrounding empty space.
From the beginning of Peter, Bjorn and John’s 2009 album Living Thing, we know this will not be a rehashing of Writer’s Block. Gone is the explosive attack of “Objects of my Affection” and the impatient drums and jovial whistles of “Young Folks.” Instead, we have start-stop vocals/drums, a feeling of apprehension confounding the listener. Perhaps the most striking use of negative space is on track two, “It Don’t Move Me.” A barren wasteland of a verse by PB&J standards sets up the catharsis-achieving chorus. The emptiness of the verse, the recognition of love lost (manifested in loss of sound) allows our hero to overcome, accompanied by the encounter of instrumentation. Likewise, the monotonous verse of “Losing My Mind,” with its repetitive snare and ominous lyrics, help guide tension, primarily through the slow tempo which only exaggerates the void: my fingers tap a beat too soon in anticipation of getting back in the comfort of sound. Historically, silence has held a dual definition, cliched as either ‘golden’ or ‘awkward.’ The purpose of adapting negative space in music is to help bridge the gap of these two extremes, to sense dialectically the tension then release.
Empty spaces can also help one to appreciate the subtlety of change. As PB&J employ a subtle dynamic within their songs and album, the XX use space as a way to draw a greater focus on the details of their instrumentation. Throughout “Heart Skipped a Beat,” off their debut eponymous album, the empty spaces allow the alternating and overlapping male/female vocals assume a greater sense of distance when they sing, “sometimes I still need you.” By the time everything is brought together at the end, it leaves immediately. Ambient sounds and hushed male half-slurs fill the winter alleyways emanating from the speakers. The contrasting pulsations from the bass with the fleeting guitar lead take over, and although it ends much too soon (as with many fantasies), there is a hint of what’s to come with “Shelter.” A female lead now occupies our space; we transferred from the mind of one to the other. The desolate alleyway of “Fantasy” is now a hardwood-floored, barren white-walled room; shelter from the extremes, but still cold and empty. Repeating lyrics and a build up essentially lead as far as most ruminations of a distracted mind: an eventual fade into perturbed sleep. But the dreamlike atmosphere of “Basic Space” that follows offers reconciliation with the dual vocals. The emptiness of the first verse allows a surreal transition before the clarity of the dream chorus. Certainly this is the most playful tune of this middle block of the album, the drums appropriating more fills as well as a faux-disco bass interlude. But the XX recognize the singularity of dreams, located solely in the basic space between our ears. Eventually, we wake up and return to the void.
As Tony Smith allows an aluminum sculpture to take up space and allow nothingness as part of the work, so to do PB&J and the XX recognize the importance of leaving open the window of sounds: its important to listen to what they’re not doing. The stage need not be elaborate to be a set, and the border of a painting can reveal just as much as the brush strokes. With our lives already so filled up with constant diversions, the breeze from an open window refreshes and enlivens.
From the beginning of Peter, Bjorn and John’s 2009 album Living Thing, we know this will not be a rehashing of Writer’s Block. Gone is the explosive attack of “Objects of my Affection” and the impatient drums and jovial whistles of “Young Folks.” Instead, we have start-stop vocals/drums, a feeling of apprehension confounding the listener. Perhaps the most striking use of negative space is on track two, “It Don’t Move Me.” A barren wasteland of a verse by PB&J standards sets up the catharsis-achieving chorus. The emptiness of the verse, the recognition of love lost (manifested in loss of sound) allows our hero to overcome, accompanied by the encounter of instrumentation. Likewise, the monotonous verse of “Losing My Mind,” with its repetitive snare and ominous lyrics, help guide tension, primarily through the slow tempo which only exaggerates the void: my fingers tap a beat too soon in anticipation of getting back in the comfort of sound. Historically, silence has held a dual definition, cliched as either ‘golden’ or ‘awkward.’ The purpose of adapting negative space in music is to help bridge the gap of these two extremes, to sense dialectically the tension then release.
Empty spaces can also help one to appreciate the subtlety of change. As PB&J employ a subtle dynamic within their songs and album, the XX use space as a way to draw a greater focus on the details of their instrumentation. Throughout “Heart Skipped a Beat,” off their debut eponymous album, the empty spaces allow the alternating and overlapping male/female vocals assume a greater sense of distance when they sing, “sometimes I still need you.” By the time everything is brought together at the end, it leaves immediately. Ambient sounds and hushed male half-slurs fill the winter alleyways emanating from the speakers. The contrasting pulsations from the bass with the fleeting guitar lead take over, and although it ends much too soon (as with many fantasies), there is a hint of what’s to come with “Shelter.” A female lead now occupies our space; we transferred from the mind of one to the other. The desolate alleyway of “Fantasy” is now a hardwood-floored, barren white-walled room; shelter from the extremes, but still cold and empty. Repeating lyrics and a build up essentially lead as far as most ruminations of a distracted mind: an eventual fade into perturbed sleep. But the dreamlike atmosphere of “Basic Space” that follows offers reconciliation with the dual vocals. The emptiness of the first verse allows a surreal transition before the clarity of the dream chorus. Certainly this is the most playful tune of this middle block of the album, the drums appropriating more fills as well as a faux-disco bass interlude. But the XX recognize the singularity of dreams, located solely in the basic space between our ears. Eventually, we wake up and return to the void.
As Tony Smith allows an aluminum sculpture to take up space and allow nothingness as part of the work, so to do PB&J and the XX recognize the importance of leaving open the window of sounds: its important to listen to what they’re not doing. The stage need not be elaborate to be a set, and the border of a painting can reveal just as much as the brush strokes. With our lives already so filled up with constant diversions, the breeze from an open window refreshes and enlivens.
Broken Neck
Wrote this after guitar broke and computer died. I just anticipated the next thing was carpal tunnel so I couldn't write anymore (hint: I was close).
My neck broke and took the strings with it. This hollowed body is no use without fingers grinding my veins. Red, but not from life. As stiff and lifeless as a chopped down tree, but never as strong as it had once stood. The wiring is severed; nothing connects inside of me, it all stumbles around aimlessly within the gravity-less pull of my organs.
My discs won’t spin anymore. I can’t read anything. Time is slowly scratching everything out of my memory. Click. Click. Click. And then: flashing. Rather, blinking. A dull, dumbeyed glassy look. Gin and catatonic.
My hand now disobeys the commands of the mind-brain question. First my thumb stopped responding. From there it straddled the curve between the palm and backhand ever so carefully, ignoring the freckle speedbump. The nails stopped growing: it was futile to claw at the walls. No light at the end of this tunnel.
My neck broke and took the strings with it. This hollowed body is no use without fingers grinding my veins. Red, but not from life. As stiff and lifeless as a chopped down tree, but never as strong as it had once stood. The wiring is severed; nothing connects inside of me, it all stumbles around aimlessly within the gravity-less pull of my organs.
My discs won’t spin anymore. I can’t read anything. Time is slowly scratching everything out of my memory. Click. Click. Click. And then: flashing. Rather, blinking. A dull, dumbeyed glassy look. Gin and catatonic.
My hand now disobeys the commands of the mind-brain question. First my thumb stopped responding. From there it straddled the curve between the palm and backhand ever so carefully, ignoring the freckle speedbump. The nails stopped growing: it was futile to claw at the walls. No light at the end of this tunnel.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
She'll Never Know
She’ll never know how right she was. Three days later, her words still in my ears; the Southern Belle still on the table, as empty as I feel (which is to say, not half-full). Coffee, no water, but thanks. A two nothing lead, but I have no allegiance.
She doesn’t know this but she was still right. A stranger. More of an acquaintance. She called me out: you need passion in your life. And it’s that obvious. My eyes exude it, radiated from the freckles of the iris, magnified by the glass between us. It’s written on my skin, branded in my words. It’s written on my skin: the wipe-ability of the epidermis doesn’t apply. Girls are singing love songs and it’s helping my headache. Girls are singing love songs and it’s helping my heart-ache. Was she wrong?
He could have been right. He was close. It’s half the reason we were talking at all. He was close, the cultural relativist of advice. But we both already knew the implications. The air was filled with the snow from the voices of other patrons; the generic din of a bar is uninviting to real conversation.
“There is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.” I’m well read. Am I read well? She’ll never know how right she was.
She doesn’t know this but she was still right. A stranger. More of an acquaintance. She called me out: you need passion in your life. And it’s that obvious. My eyes exude it, radiated from the freckles of the iris, magnified by the glass between us. It’s written on my skin, branded in my words. It’s written on my skin: the wipe-ability of the epidermis doesn’t apply. Girls are singing love songs and it’s helping my headache. Girls are singing love songs and it’s helping my heart-ache. Was she wrong?
He could have been right. He was close. It’s half the reason we were talking at all. He was close, the cultural relativist of advice. But we both already knew the implications. The air was filled with the snow from the voices of other patrons; the generic din of a bar is uninviting to real conversation.
“There is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.” I’m well read. Am I read well? She’ll never know how right she was.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
The gas station at the corner of Division and Damen. Post-work. Post-Pilsen. Post-buzzed-sweaty-bike-ride home. Post-beergarita. Post-Laura, post-Britny, post-Jim. A pack of cigarettes and a book of matches. The wind wouldn’t let us burn our lungs; the electric tension in the air should have been enough to light up. A well-timed cab regulates the level of cotton and jean aridity. Take us to Greektown. And not long after, “Remind me again why we came here.” Another four wheels home. Philosophical waxing, as if it would reach long-term memory.
Just as irregular raindrops can foreshadow the coming storm, the irregular shards of lightning striking the skyline foreshadow as well. Just as a few small raindrops lead to something grand, a few small nights out can lead to something magnificent. Welcome back, Lou.
Just as irregular raindrops can foreshadow the coming storm, the irregular shards of lightning striking the skyline foreshadow as well. Just as a few small raindrops lead to something grand, a few small nights out can lead to something magnificent. Welcome back, Lou.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Texts From Last Nite
Receiver: Tom Shoe Tees
2:18 AM
On my porch alone. Almort drunk. A cigarette melts. Soundtrack: lucid dreams. Smallbar tomorrow nite.
2:21 Am
Headphones. Synth bass. This panning is unworldly.
Lucid Dreams
2:18 AM
On my porch alone. Almort drunk. A cigarette melts. Soundtrack: lucid dreams. Smallbar tomorrow nite.
2:21 Am
Headphones. Synth bass. This panning is unworldly.
Lucid Dreams
Swim
An oppressively warm May Monday. Walking down Taylor St. to a night cookout, I didn’t know if I should pick up New Belgium’s Mighty Arrow or go full on for Goose Island’s Summertime. I indecisively concluded both. As per custom, Chicago decided to skip any form of transitional weather patterns and went from just-a-bit-too-cold to taint-sweltering-hot. So while the technical season called for the springtime ale, the actual mood dictated a beer “[t]he color of sunshine, with a light fruity aroma and a hint of fruity acidity.” Others at the cookout were less critical with their beer decisions, opting for cheaper pale lagers popular with (post-)collegiates, who were as well in charge of the music. Obviously, conversation is the rule over music at social events as these, so I didn’t mind the Radiohead in the background. Although had I been in charge of the night’s tunes, I most certainly would have included summer jam 2010 ‘Swim’ by Surfer Blood. Comparisons to Weezer and Vampire Weekend aren’t too far off, and I can’t help but think of power-pop tycoons Cheap Trick for some reason. Despite an album release in January, the band’s sound is entirely that of summer. The name alone conjures up images of beaches, sport, screw-ups. Surfer blood. Somebody fucked up. They missed the break point. Shell-shocked in the water trying to make it towards shore before drowning. Blood pouring out of lacerated shins, arms thrusting full force to make up for the lame bottom limbs. He makes it and takes a moment to realize what actually just happened. Surfer’s blood.
As for the music, I have to admit I’m a bit jealous that allmusic got to the description of “tidal wave-sized reverb” before I could have a chance, but it’s just too appropriate not to mention again. Listen to the song and imagine no reverb at the beginning. Every instrument (vocals included) is start-stop. Naturally, there should be moments of silence. Instead, the effect of near-drowning, half-conscious, underwater-blur overtakes the senses. The vocals are some of the biggest I’ve ever heard adding an indelible impact to the chorus’ chant of “swim to reach the end.” The surfer is hit, but he’s not going down, not without a fight. The arms make up for the loss of legs: swim to reach the end. An African-influenced interlude (that are admittedly all too the rage in indie rock these days) allows our wounded swimmer to catch his breath on the shore. And while on the beach, water from the tide lapping his wounds, I wonder if he is thinking the same thing I have thought recently: why the concept of ‘swim?’ An obvious trope for those on the coast, but a Midwesterner such as myself can understand the power of the concept as well (in case you missed it, that was foreshadow to a song I wrote involving swimming). And apparently the Scots do too. This year has also seen the release of Frightened Rabbit’s ‘Swim Until You Can’t See Land.’ This line also warrants repetition in the chorus, with the intermittent question ‘are you a man or are you a bag of sand?’ Consciousness and humanity drive one to swim; the negation of these leads to the stagnate state of sandbags. The interesting contrast between Surfer Blood and Frightened Rabbit is whereas there is an end to be reached for the former, the latter is more concerned with the endless, vast, impossible-to-reach-horizon of the open sea. Swim until you can’t see land. Because then what? You keep swimming. And maybe there is an end and maybe there isn’t an end, but it at least gets you away from the boredom, hopes, fears that drove you to swim in the first place.
It was an uncomfortable desire to listen to “Swim” (Surfer Blood) that forced me to write this. A feeling washed over me that I was required to listen to the song, to remember to reach the end. Many of us rejecters of the eternal claim to live by the journey not the destination. And I still uphold this statement, but can admit the naivety of it as well. The constant struggle of journey can be excessive. Swim until you can’t see land, yes, but reach another land, more land, reach the end. And rest. And repeat. It is the dynamic cycle of life that is necessary, that tension between the injured swimmer fighting towards the beach with himself five minutes later, the reflective journeyman, a heightened awareness of existence in mind. Chicago summer is here. Go swimming.
Surfer Blood: Swim
Frightened Rabbit: Swim Until You Can't See Land
Goose Island: Summertime
allmusic review of Surfer Blood
As for the music, I have to admit I’m a bit jealous that allmusic got to the description of “tidal wave-sized reverb” before I could have a chance, but it’s just too appropriate not to mention again. Listen to the song and imagine no reverb at the beginning. Every instrument (vocals included) is start-stop. Naturally, there should be moments of silence. Instead, the effect of near-drowning, half-conscious, underwater-blur overtakes the senses. The vocals are some of the biggest I’ve ever heard adding an indelible impact to the chorus’ chant of “swim to reach the end.” The surfer is hit, but he’s not going down, not without a fight. The arms make up for the loss of legs: swim to reach the end. An African-influenced interlude (that are admittedly all too the rage in indie rock these days) allows our wounded swimmer to catch his breath on the shore. And while on the beach, water from the tide lapping his wounds, I wonder if he is thinking the same thing I have thought recently: why the concept of ‘swim?’ An obvious trope for those on the coast, but a Midwesterner such as myself can understand the power of the concept as well (in case you missed it, that was foreshadow to a song I wrote involving swimming). And apparently the Scots do too. This year has also seen the release of Frightened Rabbit’s ‘Swim Until You Can’t See Land.’ This line also warrants repetition in the chorus, with the intermittent question ‘are you a man or are you a bag of sand?’ Consciousness and humanity drive one to swim; the negation of these leads to the stagnate state of sandbags. The interesting contrast between Surfer Blood and Frightened Rabbit is whereas there is an end to be reached for the former, the latter is more concerned with the endless, vast, impossible-to-reach-horizon of the open sea. Swim until you can’t see land. Because then what? You keep swimming. And maybe there is an end and maybe there isn’t an end, but it at least gets you away from the boredom, hopes, fears that drove you to swim in the first place.
It was an uncomfortable desire to listen to “Swim” (Surfer Blood) that forced me to write this. A feeling washed over me that I was required to listen to the song, to remember to reach the end. Many of us rejecters of the eternal claim to live by the journey not the destination. And I still uphold this statement, but can admit the naivety of it as well. The constant struggle of journey can be excessive. Swim until you can’t see land, yes, but reach another land, more land, reach the end. And rest. And repeat. It is the dynamic cycle of life that is necessary, that tension between the injured swimmer fighting towards the beach with himself five minutes later, the reflective journeyman, a heightened awareness of existence in mind. Chicago summer is here. Go swimming.
Surfer Blood: Swim
Frightened Rabbit: Swim Until You Can't See Land
Goose Island: Summertime
allmusic review of Surfer Blood
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Might As Well
One of my favs I wrote this year for my Dramatic Lit class. Involves Sarah Kane (more to come for sure), Eugene O'Neill, and Samuel Beckett.
The updating of a classic play poses many problems. Particularly, how does one modernize a play without sacrificing the original essence? With Phaedra’s Love, Sarah Kane manages to do just so, bringing Euripides’ Hippolytus into a contemporary context. Although the excessive violence, provocative sexuality, and religious blasphemy portray the original through the lens of the cruel and the absurd, the general storyline remains in tact. Via references to Eugene O’Neill and Samuel Beckett, Kane illuminates the destructive capability love possesses by juxtaposing excessive detachment with obsessive desire.
First and foremost, we cannot avoid acknowledgment that Kane is shocking. This is presented from the very first scene that not only lacks dialogue, but introduces us to Hippolytus, who rejects any real human emotion. He is in a darkened room, watching television, continually eating hamburgers. He is surrounded by socks he either blows his snot into or disinterestedly masturbates into. The most perceptive he seems to be is in his ability to avoid the remnants of the latter action to allow him to do the former. Kane divulges his royal background and elaborates on his character in the following scene involving a dialogue between his stepmother, Phaedra, and a doctor. This is followed by a conversation between Phaedra and her daughter, Strophe, and it is revealed how obsessed Phaedra actually is with Hippolytus. Strophe warns her of the danger of acting on her emotions, and that she should get over him, go sleep with someone else. The scene ends with Phaedra declaring to get over him. But we are immediately taken back into Hippolytus’ darkened room where he is joylessly playing with a remote control car and eating sweets. Phaedra soon enters and a sharp, tense dialogue ensues.
It is here that many of the connections can be made to Eugene O'Neill’s Desire Under the Elms, another play bringing the original to a different context. Both plays use walls as a physical barrier that can’t hold back the burning of desire. As Phaedra declares she can “feel him through the walls. Sense him. Feel his heartbeat from a mile,” so too do Abbie and Eben seem to stare at each other through the walls when they are in rooms next to each other. Both of the stepmothers hold the more adamant desire, whereas the stepson is resistant. However, the difference is that Eben in Desire still wants his stepmother, he just denies it as long as he can. Hippolytus is looking for nothing more than another partner to get him off. Abbie and Phaedra also portray opposite personalities in that Abbie is confident she can convince Eben to be with her, while Phaedra’s desperation of desire only allows her to give him oral sex without anything in return. Here we see another connection, which is of power struggles. Both Abbie and Eben originally argue over who will get the land when Cabot, her husband and his father, passes away. For Eben, it is the one thing that connects him to his real mom and he feels solely entitled to the land. Hippolytus expresses his power through oral sex. He gets other people to allow him pleasure and he is able to be in control, forcing his subject’s head however he chooses. Phaedra made the initial move in this situation, only further showing the obsession she has of him. When he finishes, there is a long silence, and the detached Hippolytus can only comment “mystery over.” Even after crying and being insulted by him, Phaedra still insists that she is in love with him. The endings of both plays conclude tragic for the couples. Although he was originally going to desert her, Eben decides he loves Abbie and will go to jail with her for the crime of infanticide. Kane doesn’t paint so romantic of a portrait. Phaedra ends up hanging herself, leaving a note that Hippolytus raped her. Although he didn’t do it, he still admits to it without confessing the crime. As foreshadowed by Strophe he is gruesomely mutilated by a mob, sealing the fate he recognized he must adhere to.
Over and over, the use of ‘burn’ in some form or another enters into the dialogue. This is part of what makes Kane’s play so compelling. It is first mentioned in scene two when Phaedra is trying to convince Strophe of how strong her desire for Hippolytus is. No matter how much Strophe tries to convince her to overcome her feelings, Phaedra cries how impossible it is: “Can’t switch this off. Can’t crush it. Can’t. Wake up with it, burning me.” Here burn is used to describe how her desire for him is burned into her, it scars her soul how much she wants him. Later, when Hippolytus asserts that “everyone looks the same when they come”, Phaedra counters that it’s different “when they burn you.” Hippolytus retorts that no one burns him, but Phaedra suggests a woman named Lena. Due to the denial and violent reaction of Hippolytus, it is assumed that this was an ex-lover of his and he orders her never to mention that name again. This could be assumed to be the root of Hippolytus’ depression and nihilism. When the scene is about to end and Phaedra is about to leave, Hippolytus reveals that he has gonorrhea, which can involve a burning feeling during urination. The detachment with which he says this, offering first that she see a doctor, lends a dark, dark humor, emphasized in his attempts to get her to hate him. Eventually, we get more physical senses of burning. In the next scene, when the town hears that Hippolytus raped Phaedra, they start to riot, burning down their palace. Phaedra’s body is burned at her funeral. And during Hippolytus’ absurd torture scene in the end, his genitals are cut off and thrown onto a barbecue to the sounds of cheers and laughter.
The existential nihilism expressed by Hippolytus throughout most of the play is a clear descendent of an exaggerated Samuel Beckett. Kane throws in a few direct references to Waiting for Godot in particular. When Phaedra first speaks to Strophe in scene three, she salutes “go away fuck off don’t touch me don’t talk to me stay with me,” a direct echo of Estragon’s plea of “Don’t touch me! Don’t question me! Don’t speak to me! Stay with me!” Both of these characters attempt to put up a strong veneer, but they truly just wish to have someone to talk with. The second connection, and here is where Hippolytus truly despairs, is when he asserts that “life’s too long.” He denies that he has a life at all; rather he is just “filling up time. Waiting.” Here is where we can draw a foundation for the meaning of Hippolytus’ final lines, which end the play. He asserts that he is “waiting for something to happen” and is convinced life is just wasting time, equating even Christ Almighty with “bric-a-brac, bits and bobs, getting by.” He denies the priests proposed reprieve, exerting his power and debasing the priest’s convictions to the point where he performs oral sex on Hippolytus. Clearly, he is not waiting for the afterlife for something happen. So it must be that his death is the only thing he can consider a happening. The only reason he is in this position to begin with is that he finds out that Phaedra killed herself because she really did love him. He is caught in disbelief; he feels it is almost a duty to accept the penalty, for he recognizes that he really did kill her. He realizes how she meant that love isn’t logical. He very easily could have denied the rape, but he saw a chance for something to happen, something not of the ordinary. It is a severely twisted view of love, one that relies on the destruction of both parties rather than the embracement of each other. But it is real. The burning is real. Hippolytus feels the burning, physically and figuratively. “If there could have been more moments like this” because there is beauty in the world, but it is a dark and brutal beauty, illogical and fierce. Everything else just happens while we wait and we pretend that that’s what we enjoy and makes us feel happiness. The cruel candor of this play is further underlined by Kane’s sharp, vulgar language and visually alarming interactions between characters. The effect of this is a stronger argument for love, a questioning of our near and dear values, and theater that is truly startling, convincing, and above all, honest.
The updating of a classic play poses many problems. Particularly, how does one modernize a play without sacrificing the original essence? With Phaedra’s Love, Sarah Kane manages to do just so, bringing Euripides’ Hippolytus into a contemporary context. Although the excessive violence, provocative sexuality, and religious blasphemy portray the original through the lens of the cruel and the absurd, the general storyline remains in tact. Via references to Eugene O’Neill and Samuel Beckett, Kane illuminates the destructive capability love possesses by juxtaposing excessive detachment with obsessive desire.
First and foremost, we cannot avoid acknowledgment that Kane is shocking. This is presented from the very first scene that not only lacks dialogue, but introduces us to Hippolytus, who rejects any real human emotion. He is in a darkened room, watching television, continually eating hamburgers. He is surrounded by socks he either blows his snot into or disinterestedly masturbates into. The most perceptive he seems to be is in his ability to avoid the remnants of the latter action to allow him to do the former. Kane divulges his royal background and elaborates on his character in the following scene involving a dialogue between his stepmother, Phaedra, and a doctor. This is followed by a conversation between Phaedra and her daughter, Strophe, and it is revealed how obsessed Phaedra actually is with Hippolytus. Strophe warns her of the danger of acting on her emotions, and that she should get over him, go sleep with someone else. The scene ends with Phaedra declaring to get over him. But we are immediately taken back into Hippolytus’ darkened room where he is joylessly playing with a remote control car and eating sweets. Phaedra soon enters and a sharp, tense dialogue ensues.
It is here that many of the connections can be made to Eugene O'Neill’s Desire Under the Elms, another play bringing the original to a different context. Both plays use walls as a physical barrier that can’t hold back the burning of desire. As Phaedra declares she can “feel him through the walls. Sense him. Feel his heartbeat from a mile,” so too do Abbie and Eben seem to stare at each other through the walls when they are in rooms next to each other. Both of the stepmothers hold the more adamant desire, whereas the stepson is resistant. However, the difference is that Eben in Desire still wants his stepmother, he just denies it as long as he can. Hippolytus is looking for nothing more than another partner to get him off. Abbie and Phaedra also portray opposite personalities in that Abbie is confident she can convince Eben to be with her, while Phaedra’s desperation of desire only allows her to give him oral sex without anything in return. Here we see another connection, which is of power struggles. Both Abbie and Eben originally argue over who will get the land when Cabot, her husband and his father, passes away. For Eben, it is the one thing that connects him to his real mom and he feels solely entitled to the land. Hippolytus expresses his power through oral sex. He gets other people to allow him pleasure and he is able to be in control, forcing his subject’s head however he chooses. Phaedra made the initial move in this situation, only further showing the obsession she has of him. When he finishes, there is a long silence, and the detached Hippolytus can only comment “mystery over.” Even after crying and being insulted by him, Phaedra still insists that she is in love with him. The endings of both plays conclude tragic for the couples. Although he was originally going to desert her, Eben decides he loves Abbie and will go to jail with her for the crime of infanticide. Kane doesn’t paint so romantic of a portrait. Phaedra ends up hanging herself, leaving a note that Hippolytus raped her. Although he didn’t do it, he still admits to it without confessing the crime. As foreshadowed by Strophe he is gruesomely mutilated by a mob, sealing the fate he recognized he must adhere to.
Over and over, the use of ‘burn’ in some form or another enters into the dialogue. This is part of what makes Kane’s play so compelling. It is first mentioned in scene two when Phaedra is trying to convince Strophe of how strong her desire for Hippolytus is. No matter how much Strophe tries to convince her to overcome her feelings, Phaedra cries how impossible it is: “Can’t switch this off. Can’t crush it. Can’t. Wake up with it, burning me.” Here burn is used to describe how her desire for him is burned into her, it scars her soul how much she wants him. Later, when Hippolytus asserts that “everyone looks the same when they come”, Phaedra counters that it’s different “when they burn you.” Hippolytus retorts that no one burns him, but Phaedra suggests a woman named Lena. Due to the denial and violent reaction of Hippolytus, it is assumed that this was an ex-lover of his and he orders her never to mention that name again. This could be assumed to be the root of Hippolytus’ depression and nihilism. When the scene is about to end and Phaedra is about to leave, Hippolytus reveals that he has gonorrhea, which can involve a burning feeling during urination. The detachment with which he says this, offering first that she see a doctor, lends a dark, dark humor, emphasized in his attempts to get her to hate him. Eventually, we get more physical senses of burning. In the next scene, when the town hears that Hippolytus raped Phaedra, they start to riot, burning down their palace. Phaedra’s body is burned at her funeral. And during Hippolytus’ absurd torture scene in the end, his genitals are cut off and thrown onto a barbecue to the sounds of cheers and laughter.
The existential nihilism expressed by Hippolytus throughout most of the play is a clear descendent of an exaggerated Samuel Beckett. Kane throws in a few direct references to Waiting for Godot in particular. When Phaedra first speaks to Strophe in scene three, she salutes “go away fuck off don’t touch me don’t talk to me stay with me,” a direct echo of Estragon’s plea of “Don’t touch me! Don’t question me! Don’t speak to me! Stay with me!” Both of these characters attempt to put up a strong veneer, but they truly just wish to have someone to talk with. The second connection, and here is where Hippolytus truly despairs, is when he asserts that “life’s too long.” He denies that he has a life at all; rather he is just “filling up time. Waiting.” Here is where we can draw a foundation for the meaning of Hippolytus’ final lines, which end the play. He asserts that he is “waiting for something to happen” and is convinced life is just wasting time, equating even Christ Almighty with “bric-a-brac, bits and bobs, getting by.” He denies the priests proposed reprieve, exerting his power and debasing the priest’s convictions to the point where he performs oral sex on Hippolytus. Clearly, he is not waiting for the afterlife for something happen. So it must be that his death is the only thing he can consider a happening. The only reason he is in this position to begin with is that he finds out that Phaedra killed herself because she really did love him. He is caught in disbelief; he feels it is almost a duty to accept the penalty, for he recognizes that he really did kill her. He realizes how she meant that love isn’t logical. He very easily could have denied the rape, but he saw a chance for something to happen, something not of the ordinary. It is a severely twisted view of love, one that relies on the destruction of both parties rather than the embracement of each other. But it is real. The burning is real. Hippolytus feels the burning, physically and figuratively. “If there could have been more moments like this” because there is beauty in the world, but it is a dark and brutal beauty, illogical and fierce. Everything else just happens while we wait and we pretend that that’s what we enjoy and makes us feel happiness. The cruel candor of this play is further underlined by Kane’s sharp, vulgar language and visually alarming interactions between characters. The effect of this is a stronger argument for love, a questioning of our near and dear values, and theater that is truly startling, convincing, and above all, honest.
Girls
Long night. Babysitting for drunks. Understandable. I've been on both sides of the equation many times and I probably owe more than I’ve paid off. Tonight just got to be too much though. Details aren’t necessary; just one night in an entire life, nobody’s fault. Either way, I wish the company I had kept earlier and enjoyed hadn’t been spoiled by an unfortunate eruption of simultaneously frustrating events. And at the same time, the excess of social activity has led me to enjoy the Kasheresque solitude of a bottle of 20+ year old Gilbey’s Gin to my left and a 312 to my right. Not to mention, the perfect soundtrack: “Hellhole Ratrace” by Girls. Enjoy:
Girls - Hellhole Ratrace
Girls - Hellhole Ratrace
Intro
So it’s come to this. With only one working drumstick, the head of my acoustic mysteriously snapped (again) and the consistent breaking of Jon’s strings, I have taken the sign to give up on music and to try my hand at writing. Most subjects (of which it is most difficult to come up with) will most surely revolve around literature, music and vague philosophical meanderings. If anybody has any topics they would think would be interesting for me to pursue or perhaps would like to provide an article or essay for me to comment on, feel free. Since I've rejected the conventional notion of the capitalist college graduate of finding a ‘real job’ and am continuing on with the same job I've held since high school which most likely won’t consistently supply forty hours of work each week, I, needless to say, have a lot of free time. Expect some intermittent non-sense thrown up here, every couple of days at first, followed by an upload once a week, once a month, until I’ve completely lost all motivation to follow through with this idea, as seems to be the current trend in my life. Until then, hope you enjoy the writings, perhaps want to challenge the writings, maybe make you think in a different way, or at the very least recognize the intellectual capability of my being (which I guess must be the desired goal of the incoherent ramblings of any blogger, that egoistic creature that has taken too much advantage of the technology of our era).
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