tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-40516029982931531442023-11-16T11:57:27.812-05:00rethink.dPersonal accounts of cultural experience in and around Detroit, observations, epiphanies, stories, questions, problems, and other such nonsense.Jesus Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759964011091604852noreply@blogger.comBlogger50125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4051602998293153144.post-49893523926538848312013-09-02T12:54:00.000-04:002013-09-02T14:44:25.684-04:00Melting your soul, molding your life in the AlleyI'm going to give a personal year-by-year account of my experiences at <a href="http://dallyinthealley.com/" target="_blank"><b>Dally in the Alley</b></a>. If you live in the <b>Detroit</b> area and don't know what <b>Dally in the Alley</b> is, then you should <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dally_in_the_alley" target="_blank"><b>learn about it</b></a> and <a href="https://www.facebook.com/events/568220673241241/" target="_blank"><b>just go</b></a>. It's a great counterpoint to the commercial path that most festivals have taken. It's free, community focused and non-profit, bringing together people of all ages, ethnicities, lifestyles and backgrounds. I met my bandmate Leah at the Dally 2008, and I've always loved it there. My band <b>Eleanora </b>is playing there at<b> 3:30</b> on the <b>Forest Stage</b>. You should get there early and stay late. Good luck parking if you're taking a car. Here's my history with this beautiful festival. All photos are taken by me unless stated otherwise.<br />
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<b>2005:</b> My first Dally. I didn't even know it was happening or what it was until that same afternoon. I moved into my dorm at <b>CCS</b> (10th floor, formerly a luxury hotel) the week before. I am on my own for the first time in my life. My white girl dreads are starting to lock in. I walk the streets feeling like I have been transported to a different time and place. It is low-lit. It is packed. It is loud. It is full of hippies with smiles on. It is my 18-year-old libby mind's heaven. I buy a patchwork dread cap for 20 bucks.<br />
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<b>2006:</b> The first year I go with Scottie. I don't remember much from it other than that, honestly.<br />
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<b>2007:</b> I wake up on the morning of the Dally, confused as to all the noise going on outside of my new apartment at Forest and Second. I saw the banners. I take a picture. I realize that this was exactly where the Dally in the Alley takes place. Scottie, Rachel and I take turns sitting in the bay window, watching the happenings. We go out and explore. We meet <b>Rodriguez</b>. We meet <b>John Sinclair</b>. We talk to people in <b>Amsterdam Coffeehouse</b> in the basement of our building. We feel the community.<br />
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Rachel Pearson</div>
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<b>2008:</b> Less than a week before this year's Dally, Scottie gets a call from <b>Blair</b>. "Hey, I need a drummer for the Dally in the Alley. Do you think you can learn a few of my songs and play them with me and a couple other people from my band?" They practice the day before the festival, where Scottie meets two lovely women named Markita and Leah who play trumpet and clarinet, and sing.<br />
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The day of Dally, I help Scottie unload the drums from my purple Plymouth Voyager. I stand in front of <b>Forest Arms</b> and recall the year before, when I was looking out of that window that's now boarded up. The building is a ruin after the fire in February that claimed the top two floors and one man's life. A beautiful young woman walks up to me. Scottie introduces her as Leah, the clarinetist who plays in Blair's band. We have a little chat and they set up on the <b>Forest Stage</b>, right in front of the Forest Arms. My sister comes up and we watch the band play together. The rest of the day is fun, and I get to talk to Leah and Markita more.<br />
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Lara Stephenson</div>
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<b>2009:</b> Scottie is in Rogue Satellites. We just moved to Ferndale. <b>Rogue Satellites</b> are playing the <b>Alley Stage</b>. Scottie's sister, brother-in-law, and nephew and niece boogie to the synth and drums. He brings Wendell up on the stage with him to try out the drums. Then there's a party at the <b>Illy Mack</b> apartment, with a lot of loud music in hot rooms, and I pass out in Steve's bed. I wake up the next morning to the sounds of someone throwing up in the doorway. "Yes," I think, "It was a successful Dally."<br />
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<b>2010: </b>Scottie plays a set with <b>Tone and Niche</b> during the day at the <b>Forest Stage</b> again. It's been a while since they've played together but he remembers the songs. <b>Marco Polio and the New Vaccines</b> play the <b>Garden Stage</b> late at night. Everyone wants to party, which means everyone wants to mosh really hard, and Steve Puwalski has to stop the music to tell everyone to calm down, have fun but have respect for each other and be in this one human family.<br />
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Unknown</div>
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<b>2011:</b> Blair left the world in July of this year. <b>Audra Kubat</b> rustles up a tribute where all the "Boyfriends" (after <b>Blair and the Boyfriends</b>) play his music. We are irritable. We are in mourning. We are good musicians who know his songs. We take the garden stage, and, though guaranteed an hour of play time, are given about 20 mins. It's heartbreaking because of how much we prepared, practicing at the <b>Trumbullplex</b> to get the show together. Yet I know the stages always run late. <b>Leah</b> and <b>Markita</b> are up there, Leah (my bandmate since 09) expecting her son, and also many of our friends, like <b>Mike Anton</b>, who survived a shot in the face on his birthday earlier in the summer. It's an emotional concert but the love just flows out of us. It's also my sister's going-away party, as she's lived on Hancock and is about to move to the UK to get her Master's degree. Her backyard is inside the actual alley.<br />
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Lara Stephenson</div>
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Lara Stephenson</div>
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<b>2012:</b> <b>J. Walker and the Crossguards</b> play the <b>Alley Stage</b> to a big happy crowd. It's a dance party. It's a joyous celebration--as it has been since I have known the festival, as it was since the 80s, and as it will always be. The sun sets to their Motown-garage fusion and I feel at home. Eleanora was slotted to play at a point but we couldn't because of work conflicts. I think, "Next year. We gotta do it next year."<br />
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So now it's 2013 and my band <b>Eleanora</b> is going to play. I feel like a baby because so many of my friends have been going since the 90s or earlier. Do you have a favorite Dally memory?Jesus Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759964011091604852noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4051602998293153144.post-22771374874978544462013-05-13T16:29:00.000-04:002013-05-13T16:30:26.812-04:00Persona || Architecture<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Until I was 15, I thought that Feminism was something that ended in the 60s. I'm quite serious. I was flabbergasted in 2002 when 17 year old Sarah Michaels told me she was a Feminist. It made no sense to me. But, as I've always been curious, I immediately looked into it and started questioning, looking at the world around me with different eyes; and of course, I found my role models from a distance: Ani DiFranco, Marge Piercy, Adrienne Rich. It was exciting to me that people could hold views unlike the ones I'd usually seen around my suburban neighborhood, and experience worldly lives completely different from the isolated Midwest ideal I was in. I started questioning my faith, my judgment, and my style. With faith, I stopped displaying my Christianity like a badge that separated me from all the teenagers who just didn't get how much I loved God. I realized that that wasn't really fair, and still, I replaced church with my new-found sense of political emancipation and enlightenment. My judgment of my peers turned from "how moral are you?" to "how liberal are you?" When I turned 18, I dreadlocked my hair. Paisley skirts abounded. I fervently preached the gospel of Feminism and Neo-Hippy 101to fellow college freshmen.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Like anyone who gets wrapped up in ideology as a distraction from their own broken sense of self, I put on a parade where all the pretty floats covered up nasty, moldy mechanical skeletons. Just as in church I had evangelized and judged and never lived or believed anything Christ-like in my heart, I took Feminism and liberal politics and wore them as a mask to please, judge and impress others. It never even occurred to me that the way I behaved personally within my relationships to those I loved, my friends, family and myself might be in conflict with those ideals I touted so fully. I convinced myself that I liked masculine things I actually didn't and denied liking any feminine things I actually liked because I did not want my peers to think I was girly. I was femmephobic and obsessed with everyone knowing that I was unique in every single way. No, <i>every single way</i>, goddammit. I wanted to be a superhero. Both adored and anonymous, intriguing, odd, and surprising at every turn. I needed to be great at everything, while being altruistic and accepting of everyone. When I did something even slightly wrong, the guilt consumed me. I still time-travel back to most of the small shameful things I have done and wonder how anyone I know could look at me and not think I'm a monster (hint: because they might have healthier senses of others). I am easily embarrassed by my naiveté and clumsiness. It's because the committee in my head sees them as revelations of my humanity, the part of humanity that is not kind or loving but messy and unknowing. And the committee in my head did not want that.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">How the hell is any of that attitude in line with Feminism? It's insane behavior, it's repression at its finest.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">As I'm trying to get healthy in my mind, I'm realizing the ways I used the tenets of political Feminism to permit myself to ignore its most important personal applications. "The personal is political" has nothing to do with how I display myself to the world; it has everything to do with honesty. If I am not honest with my self--if I have constructed my self on the warped basis of what I think every person in the world would like, then I am a broken woman. I make choices based upon self-objectification. No doubt, outside forces have played their part. I think it's just part of the plan that I've traveled this path. I have a lot to learn about being myself, whatever that really is, and accepting my flaws as forgivable and present. For instance, I gained ten pounds in the last few months, and while I've defended the concepts of fat acceptance and health at every size, I have found myself under immense anxiety over my muffin top and tighter jeans. Now that anxiety is a signal to me that I need to relax and pay attention to how I feel inside and to my intuitive rationality. I'm trying to use anxiety as a tool/gauge rather than a jailor.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My LiveJournal username at 16 was facadesbanned (yep, LiveJournal). I "refuse[d] to put on a facade", as I put it. Of course, I can see now that I've worked all my life to create the prettiest facade I possibly could (and pretend I wasn't!). But you can only add so much to the front of the building before it crumbles on its own weight. I guess now I'm just working on fixing up the raw structure to let my soul grow through it. And it's okay if I'm not perfect at it.</span>Jesus Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759964011091604852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4051602998293153144.post-12687064288927674292013-01-17T22:52:00.000-05:002013-01-18T07:20:51.116-05:00New Year's Resolutions, Detroit-StyleOkay, okay--generally, these things called New Year's Resolutions can induce eye-rolls in the cynic. I can definitely be a cynic. But I'm also aware that most of the time, the reason resolutions suck is that they're made the wrong way. This year, I made a few personal resolutions that captured the essence of what one should really be considering when making a resolution. Those considerations are: What would I enjoy doing that would benefit me physically, mentally, or spiritually? Is it reasonable to expect this of myself? Will I be crushed if I don't follow through? Is there help available to me while trying to accomplish this? Et cetera. It's really helpful to view a resolution as a gift you give to yourself instead of a chore.<br />
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Anyway, after making those personal ones, I decided I should make an edition of resolutions for myself that entirely involve what I'd like to accomplish in, about, and for Detroit in 2013. In 2012, I started getting back into the city more, and now that I work in Cass Corridor full-time, I feel a renewed pull to experience things. I'm sharing them with you in case you want to experience them too! Here goes:</div>
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1. Find out what this Jam Handy building thing is all about</div>
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2. Record something <a href="http://beehiverecording.com/" target="_blank">somewhere</a></div>
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3. Visit newer galleries more often</div>
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4. Beer gardens? <a href="http://www.tashmoodetroit.com/" target="_blank">Yes, please</a>.</div>
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5. Regular gardens? <a href="http://greeningofdetroit.com/" target="_blank">Hell yeah</a>.</div>
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6. See the <a href="http://www.dia.org/auxiliaries/event.aspx?id=3596&iid=&aux_id=14&cid=100" target="_blank">Oscar-nominated shorts</a> at the DFT</div>
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7. Patron the fabulous <a href="http://nestdetroit.com/" target="_blank">Nest Housewares</a> more</div>
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8. Visit the seemingly multiplying print-shops of various natures growing from Eastern Market</div>
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9. Play <a href="http://www.dallyinthealley.com/" target="_blank">Dally in the Alley</a> with <a href="http://eleanora.bandcamp.com/" target="_blank">Eleanora</a> (and other Detroit venues!)</div>
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10. Spend time unfettered on Belle Isle</div>
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11. <a href="http://greendotstables.com/" target="_blank">Eat</a>! <a href="http://detroitvegansoul.com/" target="_blank">Eat</a>! <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/09/27/hatch-detroit-winner-la-feria-2012_n_1920806.html" target="_blank">Eat</a>!</div>
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Let me know what I'm missing out on! I've been out of the loop about the city for quite a while and feel like a newcomer to a degree! What's been happenin'?<br />
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Jesus Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759964011091604852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4051602998293153144.post-83209993917697168102012-12-31T15:58:00.001-05:002013-01-17T22:53:55.431-05:00Exposure, Part 2.Of course, while losing my grandmother unexpectedly was certainly the most tragic event of the year, and may well serve as a hinge on which I place some before-and-after significance in my life, it's not just an ending. I don't know if there really are such things as endings. Because the event itself was not the thing that changed me. It was the spark. It was the button that pushed me. It caught my heart on fire. It clicked something and allowed me to finally pay attention to my life. It woke me up to the unreasonable, irritable, lonely, depressed person I had become in the last several years and which I actively pretended didn't exist. The person that I presented to everyone was slightly attention-seeking, introverted, virtuous, and doing just fine, thank you very much. But that's just a carefully, artfully constructed mask, to use the old, appropriate cliche. I haven't been fine, because I've been ignoring myself for years. My own physical, emotional, spiritual health was just a foreign concept that I pretended to think about sometimes. But mostly I worried about everyone else, and everything else, and all of these things I can't possibly change.<br />
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It's like possession. Depression or perfectionism or paranoia or whatever, it takes possession of your faculties and you become lost in its fog. You don't even know you're possessed. You just roll with the punches, terrified, grappling on to whatever thin string of control you think you have in order to survive. But it takes a real risk--from yourself, not the rescue you imagine will come--to stop holding tight, to let the string go, to admit you don't know where you are and you need help. The reason, other than denial, that doing that is so hard, is because you think of yourself as a total failure and you don't want anyone to know. I certainly did, anyway. I do a lot. No matter how many compliments I got from caring friends, family, loved ones, (and boy, do I feed on them!), I didn't believe them.<br />
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The events of July slowly shook off that mask I spent so much time on. I realized I wasn't okay when I started getting panic attacks, when I actually paid attention to how often I cried, to how upset I felt inside about the tiniest things. I did what I should have done a few years ago, but this time was actually ready for--I got some help.<br />
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Even though I thought I was getting help for the grief of the family death, I found out my problems ran way deeper and I started to be able to see that thing that had taken possession of me. Now, just a couple months since finding help, I feel so much freer. I'm not as terrified of life and how other people perceive me. I struggle all the time with the concept that I'm not a failure, and I'm trying to learn how to take care of myself without feeling guilty about it. Already I know I'm on a healthier track, I'm changing the way I see myself and what I can and cannot change. I'm able to open up to others a little more. And I'm so grateful. This year has been one of extreme ups and downs, but I believe that the stain of my grandmother's death will be overcome by the joy of being woken back up, made alive. And if it weren't for those around me who care about me so, so much, I wouldn't be in this place. So thanks, loves. Thank you for making my year turn on its heels and stick its head up high.<br />
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<br />Jesus Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759964011091604852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4051602998293153144.post-27240548653266502172012-12-30T11:35:00.001-05:002013-01-17T22:54:25.237-05:00Exposure.Here's a reflection. Some overly-gratuitous, very soul-beating, unapologetic navel-gazing, if you will. This past year is one I will never forget. I can say with confidence that 2010 and 2011 have been incredibly forgettable in many ways (with wonderful/bad experiences along the way that were, in fact, memorable). There was this post back in December of 2010 where I was recounting the notable things of that year (fishing in barren waters) and I included this:<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="background-color: #ddfbff; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="background-color: #ddfbff; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">2. No one close to me died.</span></blockquote>
An acquaintance pointed out that that was a significant thing to say. I shrugged it off, because seriously, that's how uneventful the year was to me. Then in 2011 weird things happened. Couldn't put that quote on the list again. The weather, all that rain and heat, cemented in my mind, when I came back from a weekend away in July to find out that musical mentor Blair had unexpectedly died. At the same time, my bandmates were incubating a child. They told us they were pregnant two days after Blair passed, while we were reconfiguring the show we had scheduled with him for the coming weekend. Then during the winter we recorded our full-length album and got distant and despairing for some months. I got a new job and stopped waiting tables. Leah and Jim had their beautiful baby James David Warren Dunstan (David for David Blair) on March 15, 2012. The spring was bizarre, with that record-warm March and subsequent freeze and crop loss. No rain during most of summer. The one notable rain of the summer months was on Independence Day.<br />
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On July 4th, 2012, a storm rolled in. Finally. But instead of delivering nourishing water to the plants here, it shot bullets of ice big enough to ruin any crop that <i>was</i> braving the drought. Because of the intense heat and dry weather that dominated the weeks before, this storm was spiteful. My boyfriend and I took pictures, frantically covered my tomato plants, and stalked facebook in all the excitement of the evening. The hail subsided and torrents of rain, thunder and lightning took the stage until I fell asleep, slightly concerned about the silence and lightning, which both increased exponentially with time. At 5am, I woke up to a particularly loud explosion of light and sound. I didn't have my glasses on, so the flashes of light I knew were coming from the transformer across the street were fuzzy and ominous and frightening as fuck. When you can't see exactly what's going on, you feel like an idiot calling 911 even though you think you may be the only person who saw it.<br />
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I called 911 twice. The first time, I don't think I expressed the urgency that was really needed for the situation, especially considering I didn't know the names of the streets surrounding me and therefore didn't know how to properly describe exactly which power line was glowing orange and exploding white. I was tired as shit and scared sleepless. Fire trucks finally found the electrical fire in the pouring rain after the second call and I at least felt like it was out of my hands.<br />
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I watched the early morning news for company, and then went to work from 9 to 5. My boyfriend and I had decided that since it was such a tough night, we would go out to dinner right when I got home. I took a shower, put on a fabulous white cotton dress, and we walked about a mile to a new joint. While I waited for my meal, my mom called my boyfriend. That's unusual. She told him to tell her when we were home without any other information. I started to feel sick. I didn't know what was going on, and the speculations started rolling like ticker-tape behind my eyes. In any case, I had the waitress package our food and left immediately, walking home in the hot sun with my incredible red shoes tearing up my heels. The sickening feeling increased, because of how out-of-character it was for my mom.<br />
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By the time my parents got to my door, I was a nervous wreck. When I walked out the front door, my dad was pointing at my tomato plants, which were doing well but had narrowly escaped annihilation from the hail. They looked calm, but exhausted, in a fog. My mom told me how pretty I looked. My dad's eyebrows and downcast gaze braced me. "Honey, we have some bad news." My mom was on the ground, and I was one level above her on the front step. "Grandma Shields has passed away." That was the last thing I expected from her mouth. It was really shocking, because she was healthy and her own mother had only died the year before at age 104. But then my mom said, choking back tears, "That's not the worst part." I knew immediately. My schizophrenic uncle, my mom's baby brother, had been living with Grandma for the past few years, and his condition had obviously gotten worse but despite my mom's efforts to get him out of the house, Grandma insisted she felt safe. She wasn't safe. My grandma was murdered by her youngest child on the anniversary of Grandma and Grandpa's first date, July fourth. The incident occurred in the afternoon, as the storm rolled in from the west, and while the hail fell, my uncle stayed inside. When the rain stopped and I fell asleep, the police were finally called. The lightning, silent as my grandmother's heart and violent as my uncle's sickness, continued through the night. When I went to work, exhausted and still slightly terrified, my mom went to her mother's house, expecting to have conversation and lunch with her and finding a crime scene instead.<br />
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The strangest part of this is that I feel incapable of anger toward my uncle. I keep thinking it's my duty to feel that way, and I certainly don't blame my sisters and the rest of the family for wishing him to rot in hell. But I can't. For some reason, it was the storm that changed me. In the six months since, I've jumped and trembled at the most innocuous sounds. My heart races at particularly loud planes. Panic comes at the slightest change in environment. I think it's because I can only imagine my grandmother's death, but I witnessed God's wrathful fire. I've delighted in the mystery of nature all my life, and now I've been taught its terrific power. From the electrical pulses between my uncle's broken synapses, to the exploding transformer threatening the neighborhood, I can see the chaos of the world a little more.<br />
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<br />Jesus Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759964011091604852noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4051602998293153144.post-55940446012479709852012-05-11T22:04:00.002-04:002012-05-11T22:26:32.418-04:00Service Frontroom<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I came across something serendipitous tonight. Going to a friend's house at Marshall and Allen in Ferndale, I parked on the street by their house, and noticed that across the street there were lights on in one of the two seemingly abandoned, signless old storefronts, with real live people and what looked like wine, white walls, and black frames. So I hopped over after greeting my friend, and sure enough, art was afoot.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Kenny <a href="http://karpovwreckedtrain.tumblr.com/" target="_blank"><b>"Karpov-The-Wrecked-Train",</b></a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"> as he's familiarly known around these parts, is a photographer of many things, and is artistically enthusiastically interested in Detroit people, culture, history. His series of Macomb Ballet Company dancers, in stark, well-composed black-and-white digital prints were hung tightly spaced in the small storefront, their tightness belying the grace of the content.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The space itself--a month-old community center called <b><a href="http://www.servicefrontroom.com/" target="_blank">Service Frontroom</a></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">--has an interesting grace about it. Well, more a romance. The floor's in need of repair, but I love floors that aren't repaired. There are patches of crumbled paint, but I love missing paint's revelation. An eight-foot American flag covers a short corner, and there's a pretty well-equipped kitchen behind the front room. The word "S E R V I C E" is hung on the wall in old-post-office manner and color. There are vegan snacks and Trader Joe's Wine on a table constructed of rough wood. I feel like this room was once full of fine time-pieces and hats, or like it was a building in Williamsburg that was teleported to Ferndale's "Secret Garden" sector.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I meet<b> <a href="http://www.corinnerice.com/corinne.htm" target="_blank">Corrine</a> Rice </b>after nibbling on a pumpkin spice cookie. She's happy about being co-operator of the bourgeoning collective space. There are a lot of plans for it, including, but not limited to, pop-up dinners, raw food classes, yoga, art shows, and health talks. Some events will be free, some not, some by donation. Rice knows that things like yoga and health information are really important and that people in this area often can't afford them, and wants to make sure the community part of the center doesn't get squelched. Rice herself is quite experienced with both cooking and teaching raw food techniques. I liked the sweets. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">For a more complete schedule and information on how to donate or become involved with the space (I have a feeling almost any talent can be used), visit their </span><a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Service-Frontroom/416980254998007" target="_blank">facebook</a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> and their </span><a href="http://www.servicefrontroom.com/apps/calendar/" target="_blank">Real Life Website</a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">. Visit them anyway. I know this place is brand new, (still waiting on occupancy permits) but it's worth checking out through whatever its evolution will be.</span></span></h3>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="https://fbcdn-sphotos-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-snc6/75506_418619974834035_416980254998007_1438054_1938280025_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></span></div>Jesus Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759964011091604852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4051602998293153144.post-54984360626509062672012-04-29T18:28:00.002-04:002012-04-29T19:48:09.545-04:00This is way longer than I intended it to be.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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"It's <i>all</i> new songs. All of them," Lo-Fi Bri yells to me, looking at the band. He's smiling, bewildered, camera in hand. I know. I saw them a month ago at the <b><a href="http://www.thecaid.org/" target="_blank">CAID</a></b>, where the above pic was taken.<br />
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Let's scroll back a little here. I could give you the entire history of <b>the Rogue Satellites</b>, besides parts of 2010 and 2011. Everything that band did for most of its history, I knew about. But I'll truncate that history: a drummer and a singer-songwriter played around with a synth way back in fall of 2007. There were beers, tears, many late-night loft practices, apartment fires, marriages, marriage proposals, divorces, mini-tours, stolen cars, projections, and Pictionary games that followed, speckled with dirge-y two-piece pop-rock that would wake up in a bar called a "coffee" shop in the morning sun. There was a bassist for a while. Then there was a keyboardist-singer, and then the drummer quit, so the band had made its way back to a two-piece, in a different form, in late 2009. Another drummer dabbled for a while. Then the keyboardist-singer parted ways as well, and for a moment <b>the Rogue Satellites</b> were singular.<br />
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Then, a very fierce and unexperienced woman named <b><a href="http://lisaposzywak.com/home.html" target="_blank">Lisa</a></b> was (as I understand it) coaxed into doin' a little auxiliary work, and, unsure as she was, started practicing intensely on vocals, glockenspiel (as I like to call it, "the glock") and tambourine. The first time I saw this incarnation of them, I must admit, I was disappointed--perhaps mostly because of my history--at the stripped down and awkwardly performed songs. Too slow; little zygotes of songs; and being in the cold, decidedly silent <b><a href="http://trumbullplex.org/" target="_blank">Trumbullplex</a></b> didn't help. But I did notice that this woman, who had never considered singing in front of people before, had quite a sweet voice, that might actually grow to compliment Jaye's. That was in October.<br />
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Last month <b>the Rogue Satellites</b> closed an art show at the ever-interesting Contemporary Art Institute of Detroit. And they really blew me away. The songs that seemed to trudge in fragments before, now held together nicely, varied in atmosphere, tempo, melody. Jaye's insistence on barre chords had matured into the use of a heavily effected bass played as a rhythm guitar. Lisa, so unsure and quiet in October, now shone, perfectly complimenting Jaye with her voice and getting there with stage presence. The parts are very specific and seem to be painstakingly mechanically written, but they work, especially with the moods of the music.<br />
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So I saw them again last night at the art/music studio space they rent in Corktown (appropriately called <b>Corktown Studios</b>), with two other incredible bands. Though some more animation would be good for Lisa, the subtlety and serious calm of her confidence really works well with the darker, crafted music. It was great. They've worked very hard and it's paid off.<br />
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<b>The Rogue Satellites </b>have really grown in the last few months, and I would suggest anyone who hasn't seen them lately, or at all, should go out and see their next show. I don't know when that will be, but you can keep up with them on le <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Rogue-Satellites/131689403512433" target="_blank"><b>facebook</b></a>. I mean, they make Lo-Fi Bri excited, so that should be enough for you.Jesus Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759964011091604852noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4051602998293153144.post-57360632392593885172012-03-21T17:08:00.001-04:002012-03-22T08:06:57.433-04:00The Conundrum of Spring<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">When Spring comes, we become voyeurs again. We peek into flower beds and perk up for the love songs of trees and swamps. The sounds of birds have become particularly dense, almost overriding the noisy swish of cars driving far too fast down the block. Thank God. Winter mild though it might sometimes be, requires self-examination to a point of unnecessary self-loathing. The inwardness of it isn't productive. It's a cancer. It eats from the inside out and, because we cannot appreciate the silence of Winter, we distract ourselves with paralysis that we pretend to be movement (shadows on the cave walls during winter are very nice). </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Sometimes, the loathsome conditions of February are met so suddenly with the bustle and rage of Spring that it shocks the system. We panic. This can be the case every year, even when it is expected. One cannot truly prepare for fulfilled promises after months of brokenness and mystery. The change even, at times, triggers a further coil inward, to block the burst of collaboration, of physicality, of joy and sex and work. It's too much to see the truth and light. Too much to have the ability to venture and conquer. This is the conundrum of Spring. And it applies liberally to those who have forgotten how to adapt to it. Namely, repressed and confused adults.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">So, then, our missions must be to accept the words of Spring as we accept the <a href="http://rethinkd.blogspot.com/2011/10/slow-down-bessie.html" target="_blank"><b>words of Fall</b></a>. Though it's hard and allergic to brush off the dust, exciting colors lie beneath. Though a run may render a painful fall, it also renders a good story. Movement gets those little bulbs of expenditure sprouting. We must thrust ourselves into every dawn now, get planting, and make eye contact. Look into the eyes of the world and its moving parts. It's terrifying to fully see a thing. But it's the first step to authentic experience, and it's necessary among present conflicts and perils. Just as important as <i>reserve</i>, <i>store</i>, <i>stabilize</i> are to the Fall, so <i>leap</i>, <i>plant</i>, <i>share</i> are to the Spring. The ideas we talk about at harvest time--the slowing and localizing of life--are not dismissed but rather invigorated by the persistent growth of an early, swift "warming up".</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The panic-inducing business of March is just and beautifully a phase. Enjoy it.</span></div>Jesus Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759964011091604852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4051602998293153144.post-2105896615461547492012-03-10T15:17:00.000-05:002012-03-10T17:15:14.607-05:00I Saw Mythical Beasts<br />
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<iframe allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="100" src="http://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/v=2/album=4169576846/size=venti/bgcol=eb6100/linkcol=00f0fa/" style="display: block; height: 100px; position: relative; width: 400px;" width="400">&lt;p&gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;p&amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;p&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;a href="http://mattjones.bandcamp.com/album/half-poison-half-pure"&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;Half Poison, Half Pure by Matt Jones &amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp; The Reconstruction&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/a&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/p&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/p&amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&lt;/p&gt;</iframe></div>
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**Disclaimer: I am way behind the musical times when it comes to the business and news of it all.**<br />
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It is a rare and mystical acoustic trio that can command the attention of <b>The Loving Touch</b> crowd on a Friday night, and it's like sighting Sasquatch for a cellist in that bouncy sound-hole to ring clear and strong. <b>Matt Jones</b>, <b>Colette Alexander</b>, and <b>Misty Lyn</b> are beauteous unicorns, then (and the sound guy, too!).<br />
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I saw <b><a href="http://mattjones.bandcamp.com/" target="_blank">Matt Jones and the Reconstruction</a></b> last night. First of all, I've thought before about the use of a cello as the bass instrument before, so it was exciting to see that idea in action, and it really worked with the register of the vocals and guitar. The cello's sound was pure, thick and rich, and I could go on for days regarding Miss Alexander's craft with her instrument, not to mention her fluid and intense movements. I kept my eye on her through the set, just watching her technique, trying to pick up a few things for myself. While that fact in itself could have been enough to really overcome the other elements of the band, Jones's own particularities with melody-writing and subverted folk kept the focus moving, so that the songwriting shone just as well. I'm always impressed with a good melody, but it wasn't the usual brand of washy folk, which impressed me further!<br />
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Had I not been paying such close attention to the fantastic cello work, I would have focused much more closely on Misty Lyn, who provided near-constant backing vocals. I don't know if Misty Lyn normally plays with them, but her harmonies and energy really worked. She's one of those songwriters that everyone I love dearly has mentioned to me at some point but I'd never had the privilege to see in her own band. Obviously I still haven't, but seeing her with Matt Jones gave me an idea of her prowess.<br />
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Please check out their<b> <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Matt-Jones/47754632768" target="_blank">Facebook</a> </b>after you've downloaded their record on bandcamp. It's been a while since I've been around the Ypsi/Ann Arbor scene, but I used to hang out there a lot, especially around Tone and Niche, and I know there's a lot of music out that way that's really right up my alley. Last night was a very nice reminder of that.<br />
<br />Jesus Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759964011091604852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4051602998293153144.post-43558383794398711052012-03-07T21:06:00.000-05:002012-03-10T15:18:29.537-05:00No Promises.Yep, it's been a while. I've been hibernating.<br />
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By "hibernating," I of course mean spending all my free time doing non-productive thinking by way of internet scuba diving, and staying away from all friends besides a few by all means. And not going out. And claiming all sorts of unconfirmed alcohol allergies.<br />
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In any case, a combination of Old People Podcasts and a change of jobs has me feeling a little more social. Oh yeah, Spring's ominous eyes on me, too.<br />
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So I went to the Blowout.<br />
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This year, I wasn't nearly as organized as last, and considering last year wasn't very well-organized, that means basically I barely even knew when, who and where everyone was playing until band members told me. I had a lot of fun, and talked to a lot of friends I hadn't seen in a while (you know, the hibernation thingy). I saw over the weekend, in order, <b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/BARS-OF-GOLD/345540705050" target="_blank">Bars of Gold</a></b>, <b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/SOYSV" target="_blank">SOYSV</a></b>, <b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/childbite" target="_blank">Child Bite</a></b> (missed <b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/xdannyxbrownx" target="_blank">Danny Brown</a></b> because my stupid ass had to be at work erlai in da morn); <b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Cosmic-Light-Shapes/156987101071573?ref=ts&sk=wall" target="_blank">Cosmic Light Shapes</a></b>, <b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/FerndaleAcidScene" target="_blank">Ferndale Acid Scene</a></b>, <b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/oldempire" target="_blank">Old Empire</a></b>, <b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Pupils/197508680261788" target="_blank">Pupils</a> </b>(names got shorter as the night went); and <b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/JeecyAndTheJungle" target="_blank">Jeecy and the Jungle</a></b>, <b>RLK and V</b>, <b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/thebeggars" target="_blank">The Beggars</a></b>, <b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/beekeepers/117433688285565" target="_blank">Beekeepers</a></b>,<a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Betty-Cooper/174459069262881" target="_blank"> <b>Betty Cooper</b></a>, <b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Factory-Girls/216130388411699" target="_blank">Factory Girls</a></b>, and a little bit of <b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Dirtbombs/112231945460459" target="_blank">The Dirtbombs</a></b>. I started on Thursday with Brandon Moss playing the kit with his hands, and ended it with Kyle McBee getting naked--<i><b>lily-white naked</b></i>--amongst a blushing crowd. Can't say it was a forgettable weekend.<br />
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It was good to, like, go out in public. Thanks, Blowout.Jesus Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759964011091604852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4051602998293153144.post-19011682694027279942011-11-16T21:24:00.001-05:002011-11-16T21:35:22.660-05:00Ends Meeting EndsSunday I was at a memorial for someone I thought of as an aunt through my teen years, surrounded by people who guided me through my formative years. As I sat in the church pew, during a lull, a spark of memory ignited and I recalled that last night I dreamt that I was being executed. I was going to get a lethal injection for a crime that I didn't commit. I believe the rest of my family was too, but I'm not sure. In any case, the battle had already been fought and I knew I was going to die. Most of the imagery was in a white cinder-blocked hallway, but the events were so cerebral that imagery wasn't that important. Emotion was everything. <br /><br />The part of the dream that I remember involved knowing that I could pick my last meal, the last music I heard, and my visuals while I died.* And what it really involved was me accepting the quickly coming inevitability of my own death. It was REAL. Unlike my zombie dreams, which seethe with reverie, adventure, and independence, this dream shoved together my consciousness with the end of my consciousness. The processes I went through in this flash of night were genuine, even though I know the probable cause for profound feelings in dreams. While the processes may be an effect of my brain trying to sort out its intake, that doesn't make the lessons or the experience any less real or valid. It really jarred me, forcing me to not just think about the reality of death but to truly experience it, completely forget it for eight hours, and resurrect it in the midst of slight grief. And of course, once it's resurrected, that feeling can be remotely accessed; genuinely re-felt upon command. It requires that unconscious point of gullibility and spontaneity to tap that feeling truly. Quite an unsettling sliver of sleep, that one.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />*For the record, salmon sashimi and mashed potatoes with <a href="http://allrecipes.com/Recipe/eclair-cake/detail.aspx">Mom's eclair cake</a>, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S-Xm7s9eGxU">Erik Satie's Gymnopedie No. 1</a>, and <a href="http://v1.lscache1.c.bigcache.googleapis.com/static.panoramio.com/photos/original/51614575.jpg">Elizabeth Lake shore at sunrise</a>.Jesus Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759964011091604852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4051602998293153144.post-46130276501782320422011-10-28T15:47:00.001-04:002011-10-28T15:49:45.799-04:00Everything Is Good.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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You might think that title is a hippie-dippy succession in my philosophical post parade. But you'd be wrong, even though we should constantly remind ourselves of that little nugget. Have you heard <b><a href="http://toneandniche.com/">Tone and Niche</a>?</b> They're pretty incredible people who write classic and moving songs. And not just moving in the slow, sad, must pay attention to all the words way; there's a real captivating melodic genius to Anthony Retka's writing that doesn't require active attention. It's so easy to hear and understand even through the poetry and nuance mixed in like peat to the rich musical soil. With influences as time-honored as <b>Lennon</b> and <b>Dylan</b>, and as far-reaching as <b>Andrew Bird</b> and <b>Leadbelly</b>, they've found ways to interweave pop science with contemporary songwriting experimentation. But basically, they write a damn fine song. And violinist "Niche" Nicole Varga? Just try standing on two legs while she plays her solo on "From Her to Me." I dare you.<br />
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Well, anyway, <b>tonight</b> they're releasing their first full length album since 2007 (I can't believe <i><a href="http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/toneniche2/from/viglink">Rust</a></i> was that long ago!). It's called<i> <a href="https://www.paypal.com/us/cgi-bin/webscr?cmd=_flow&SESSION=6SZ2FBxzPYfQJUAHxSoHFnu5-xU9PYatj5JKvgAuj3bc-BHDSbH9iy2QqtS&dispatch=50a222a57771920b6a3d7b606239e4d529b525e0b7e69bf0224adecfb0124e9b61f737ba21b081988562bf19d61623c669b34e5cd175ba4a"><b>Everything Is Good</b></a></i>, and I can't wait to hear it. It's a pretty optimistic sentiment in ornery, cranky times, which is actually both comforting and yet seems a bit sarcastic. The band believes in their friends, believe in heartfelt conversation, and believe in the community of artists around them. They talk about the good in everything constantly. <a href="https://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=195993190472534">Tonight's show is at the <b>Berkley Front</b></a>, it's costume-optional, and you can even bring a painted or carved pumpkin to decorate! Time for me to bring out my best Nancy Drew.<br />
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The funny thing about me promoting this release is that I haven't heard a single track. I'm not even sure if I've seen them perform more than two of the songs on it. But I'm so assured in Retka, Varga and gang's ability to craft something beautiful that I'll confidently say it's more than worth the money to get, and the songs are so sweet that you'll find yourself humming them on car rides home from work, or walks to the mailbox. Please go. If you can't make it to the show, consider buying it or one of their other releases from their <a href="http://toneandniche.com/store/">store</a>.Jesus Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759964011091604852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4051602998293153144.post-8603027255844161252011-10-16T17:01:00.002-04:002011-10-16T17:20:54.570-04:00Slow Down, Bessie.It's mid-Autumn, which, of course, has its characteristic smells, sounds, memories, and compulsions. It's the most beer-friendly season, where warmth and family (in whatever sense family manifests) become more important than crazy hot nights. Even though Americans don't often operate how we used to when seasons actually dictated our lives, there's still some sense of needing to store, to take note of what we have, to plan. We see the animals doing it, and even though we can still get avocados in November, we're more compelled to use at least some seasonal vegetables. Many of us start staying in and drinking more, going into a little pre-hibernation or getting closer to our "best" friends.<br />
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This season, along with my reading habits and living habits, have me thinking about these ideas; the tenets of Fall. After an exceptionally rowdy boyfriend's birthday party, and the two days of hangover that have followed it, I'm taking at least a month off. Not just the sauce, but caffeine, highly processed foods, overly-salted or sweetened stuff, store-bought drinks, and other things that just basically suck for my body (and my psyche!). I'm sick of consuming things and wasting so much. It's a full-time job to organize your own waste efficiently, but I'm going to at least make conscious decisions on what to buy. I don't need to get bottled drinks. I don't need to get that candy bar (which is pumped full of air anyway), and I certainly don't need to get spring and summer produce in the dead of winter! (Although, I must admit, giving up avocados all winter will be <i>very</i> difficult!)<br />
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I'm reading a book called <b><i>Eaarth</i></b> by Bill McKibbon, and I think this feeling I'm getting relates largely to his sentiments about the planet's Autumn, when we sober up and realize reckless consumption can't last forever. Basically, McKibbon reasons quite astutely that the workhorse, not the racehorse, will need to rule the principles of humanity's future. "Durable | Sturdy | Stable | Hardy | Robust | These are squat, solid, stout words. They conjure a world where we no longer grow by leaps and bounds, but where we <i>hunker down,</i> where we <i>dig in</i>." (Emphasis his) We are so used to demanding and getting exactly what material conveniences we want (and yet being constantly mistreated, oppressed, and repressed in essential ways) that the idea of personal sacrifice seems ridiculous to many. I'm certainly exhausted after a hard day of work and have had my fair share of microwaved Lean Cuisine broccoli fettucini. But I'm starting to invest far more value into the notions of <b>Durable</b>, <b>Sturdy</b>, <b>Robust</b>. They speak of more depth; they resound.<br />
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Connect <b><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Slow_Food">Slow Food</a> </b>and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cittaslow"><b>Cittaslow</b></a> with the current buzzy <b>Occupations</b> and <i>finally</i> publicized raised consumer consciousness (I may just muster up the gumption to move my money into a local credit union instead of the big bank it's been in for my adult life). The push for locality and conscious consumerism is hard in ways; some of us have been showed the inconvenience and price tag of paying attention our whole lives. Yes, it takes time to make meals. It takes effort to know what's in season. But the kinds of sacrifices we should be making are far more rewarding than the injustices that we endure regarding our livelihood.<br />
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I've been seeing a commercial lately that seems cute enough to work for lots of people my age. But I now have a hard time even being able to see the sense in it, and I have a feeling more and more people are starting to feel the same way. It's animated and the narration throughout it actually says that you accumulate Stuff through your life in your tastes and documents, and that Stuff is what defines you; it's who you are. It shows others who you are. Through the spot the cute little animated characters have balloons of music notes, calculators, computers, whatever that are attached to their blue and pink heads at all times. The end of the commercial is as follows: "...what are you without your Stuff? Better yet, without your Stuff, <i>who</i> are you?" It's a scary concept to consider "within the normal bounds of American ideology". I mean, by that logic Ghandi was a total loser, and so were all those other minimalists. If you don't have Stuff, like say, you're a refugee mother trying to freakin' feed her children in the Somalian drought, well. You're nothing, I guess.<br />
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No, it's silly to think that. It may seem like a harmless commercial but ads are powerful propaganda. With this said, my thoughts for the Occupiers everywhere boil down to this. <i>Remember that while we are constantly brainwashed, our political power is constantly revoked, and our voices are constantly trivialized, we also have more power and responsibility than we sometimes think</i>. The demands we make for freedom and justice really must mirror personal loosening of the shackles of consumer bingeing. It's got a strong hold, but it's important to even just be conscious of the <b>Power</b> we have. Not only the angry, demanding power we have, but the Hardy, Durable Power we have to hunker down and make things work for the Winter that's ahead. It's one of the grand human and American values a large portion of us have forgotten. I'm not trying to be holier than anyone--I'm a wimp who rarely follows through on any of her grand decisions. But we gotta try to wake up. Wake up and smell the leaves, feel the shift, gather the family, and tally the store.<br />
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<b><i>How is there intrinsic value in manmade structures but none in natural resources?</i></b>Jesus Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759964011091604852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4051602998293153144.post-78011812560427586472011-10-03T00:43:00.000-04:002011-10-03T01:08:35.852-04:00Miss Guided<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I had to run errands today. Apparently it's October and that means it's extra important to tell people their bodies are not their own, so there were a bunch of anti-choice church-related protesters all along Woodward for a good mile stretch surrounding the Shrine of the Little Flower. Signs that separated Jesus from baby-killing women, all that. I know that the people protesting (including preteen girls and boys and men and women of every age, all caucasian besides one family I saw) have no ill intent, and genuinely think that they are helping people with the blanketing notion of no abortion, and I feel no contempt for the actual vessels that hold the misguided ideas that seem to be spreading through a tired and cranky America.</div>
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But I couldn't just ignore it. It made my blood boil. The youth were laughing about the seriously twisted things they were saying: a joyful fellowship of horrific judgment. I had to express what I was feeling. Not angrily. I had to go to the mega-grocery store anyway for a couple things and I picked up a marker, poster board, and masking tape. In the windy lot I marked the thing up and then taped it to the passenger door (I debated the hood at first, which may have been more effective, but who knows). I trawled by. I don't think anyone even tried reading the sign, but you know, I don't care. Because I said something I believe wholeheartedly, publicly, without malice. And this was such a trivial little gesture, but for me it was big because I'm mostly unable to articulate myself. It's a step, just one of many. Ineffective to others as it in all probability was (except maybe for that middle aged guy with the pickup who watched me tape the sign up), it still signified a movement within me; a movement from reserved, tongue-tied sputtering frustration to clear, responsible expression. Whew.</div>
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The displays of white crosses I see on church lawns are angering and disturbing. I know someone who walked up to some protesters and asked them if they wanted someone else's shoes to walk in. I'm realistic; I know that this issue will be debated for a long time. But really, being vehemently against personal bodily choices is silly at best in the <a href="http://www.genocidewatch.org/resources/newsmonitors.html">grand</a> <a href="http://amazonwatch.org/work/belo-monte-dam">scheme</a> of <a href="http://www.prosperity.com/countries.aspx">things</a>. <a href="http://www.worldwater.org/data20082009/Table1.pdf">Really</a>. </div>
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<br />Jesus Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759964011091604852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4051602998293153144.post-59356171248762548992011-09-28T23:34:00.000-04:002011-09-29T07:46:55.924-04:00Practice, taller ants.Yesterday I was sitting on the raggedy "black" leather couch, eating my lunch (<3 burritos) and glancing intermittently at the ivy facing me and the book in my face. Though I did not feel it at all (where did you come from, ya bastard!), a little brown ant somehow very quickly crawled up my arm and near the center crease of my book. I contemplated the things I would have normally done. Either brush it aside fiercely (certain death for the ant) or close the book and crush it (beyond certain death for the ant), then let it fall to the floor. I instead thought about the value of the ant's life as higher value than the book binding. I tried to coax it out of the crease by several means: first blowing, then with my finger, by slowly closing it without crushing it, and finally by taking a pencil from my purse and trying to guide it out. Alas, that fucker was so confused by the whole ordeal that it kept trying to hide itself as deeply as possible, so into the tenuous binding of the book it fled. As much as my father taught me to be absurdly respectful of books and other such actually valuable possessions, I purposely partly broke the binding of this book (which is invested in cultural understanding) so I could properly herd the insect onto my arm and then blow it onto the floor.<br />
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In all probability, it never found the pheromone trail back to the colony and perhaps died victim to a sole or a terrier's tongue within the foot surrounding, but I like dreams and dreaming.Jesus Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759964011091604852noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4051602998293153144.post-60885944667856461402011-09-26T18:37:00.001-04:002011-09-29T07:47:24.362-04:00Wider LensMy sis's blog is over <a href="http://widerlens.wordpress.com/">here</a>. It's cool. She's posting a picture a day, starting yesterday, while she's in Manchester. The first one's a loo.<br />
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That's it for the moment. :)Jesus Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759964011091604852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4051602998293153144.post-969669410227005242011-09-25T16:57:00.000-04:002011-09-26T00:16:31.180-04:00The Wayfinders<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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My sister just moved to Manchester, UK, for the next 13 months to get her Master's Degree in Visual Anthropology with an emphasis in ethnographic filmmaking. It sounds complicated but it's very closely related to the idea of making documentaries. Just think about it from the point of view of a cultural Anthropologist. It's pretty awesome, and I know she's going to do some amazing work, because she's someone who is constantly invigorated by people and knowledge. It's something that runs in the family.<br />
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As soon as she left, of course, I happened to be at the library and I picked up a book called <b>"The Wayfinders: Why Ancient Wisdom Matters in the Modern World" by Wade Davis</b>. By reading the back, I knew it was related to Anthropology. Now in the middle of it, it's clear that it's completely anthropological, and closely related to my sister's field. Davis is actually a documentarian too, and has traveled the world to discover the different forms of genius that exist in cultures that still are often thought of as savage or uncivilized. The reading is fascinating. It's full of historical accounts, personal journeys, and fantastic descriptions of ways of life that are vastly different from ours yet incredibly complex and in many cases more egalitarian, efficient, thriving. The reason cultural diversity is important, Davis reasons, is the same reason biodiversity is. We have so much to learn from all different cultures and yet often the predominant or colonizing forces outlaw those things they don't understand. That idea has been taught to us since we were small, and so it gets tired, but it's still relevant, and Davis puts it in a fresh perspective.<br />
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So I've recommended the book to my sis and I'll recommend it to you, too. Another thing I'll recommend is to go to your local<b> <a href="http://nces.ed.gov/surveys/libraries/librarysearch/">Public Library</a></b>, walk without paying any attention through the non-fiction aisles, and blindly pick out five books. Many might be duds, but you'll get to learn about something you wouldn't normally seek out.<br />
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<br />Jesus Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759964011091604852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4051602998293153144.post-24308317188204946712011-09-02T16:47:00.002-04:002011-09-03T09:33:02.469-04:00A Note on Creation and Destruction.I'm a guilty pseudo-punk. Intellectually, I despise the forces of modern slavery (corporate rule, sanctioned addictions, etc.) and the subliminal traps we as humans are born into. Concretely, I pretty much don't do a damn thing about it. I think a lot about changing that. A lot. I think about art's role in revolution and change, and I think about the creative power of community, and I think about the uses of current modes and tools in the fight for better ways of living for everyone. I think about the "I" versus the "we" and I think about creativity versus destruction. But I think. Part of the problem with that is that it doesn't even get to the physical, visceral "talk" point with other people. I just sit on it. Mull it over. Get angry. Post an article. Complain with friends about the obvious things through well-thought-through Facebook comments. And then let it recede, nestling into the little pacifist blankets in my brain to sleep until next month.<br />
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I mean, look at this, what I'm doing right now. I'm writing on a blog which a dozen people read but I don't update enough to expect them to, into the continuous self-purging noise of the internet, for what? A release? I guess that must be what it is. I have a hard time talking with people but I can be eloquent in text. However, the obsessive attachment with non-physical, non-verbal interactions that riddles the globe and my generation especially is ruining the very spirit of life, empathy and <i>real</i> communication that is so key to actually changing anything for better. Yes, outrage spread by angry consumers can get demeaning shirts off the shelves, and can generate conversation about the horrible things that are being publicized all over our culture, but what about the things that are only experienced in reality? At the end of the day, the Western world is hooked into twisted machines of continuous insatiability while the third world uses water they shit in (and the wealthy dump toxins in) to make their food and wash their clothes. When it comes down to it, our culture is eating itself and we can't even really fathom what it's like to struggle in the way that people trying to survive actually struggle.<br />
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Living the way we do causes a lot of anger and repression. We are one psycho bunch of people. More than half (I'd be willing to bet at least 3/4) of us have some sort of psychological issue or mental disorder. We're grossly unhappy, and many of us, especially the young ones, react in almost a knee-jerk fashion. We want to destroy what's making us unhappy. Many of us are smart enough to know, even just in fragments, what is responsible for pushing in on all sides (other than our own selves, of course). We know it's that boss who won't let you take a break on your job because you don't smoke, that logo that keeps insisting you won't be able to live without an iPhone once you get it, that movie that reiterates exactly how a woman and a man should act and present themselves. But it's bigger than that. We just lash out at the small stuff. Sneer at the Apple employee. Tell people how awful the movies and how fake the actors are. Hold a deep contempt for all the smokers who stand outside and talk about things you couldn't care less about. Maybe we sometimes take direct action. Spraypaint the crap out of a billboard. Spit in our boss's face with the final straw. Egg the producers. Destroy. Even if it's well-prepared for and thought out, it's still knee-jerk.<br />
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One of the concepts I dealt with a lot in art school was destruction as a form of creation, and vice versa. Burning a house fertilizes the soil, etc. Destruction brings renewal. It's something I definitely agree with, generally. In fact, I'm sick of making art that just adds more stuff to this miasma. As much as new images seem constantly needed (especially on such an image-heavy environment the world is in now), the value of the image is a far, far cry from the value of genuine experience, and the ecological impact of artistic materials (including computers, production, and more, not just paint and canvas) weighs out the value of that image, to me. The spraypaint that was used to "subvertize" is horrible for the Earth and for our health. The eggs used to pummel the bigwigs were taken from probably abused chickens, a total waste of unrealized life. That window you smashed cut up the feet of a little boy walking through the street in his sandals. Using bad destruction as symbolism is dangerous too. You want to smash your TV? Go ahead. The chemicals in there will make people sick and kill plants and curious animals. This kind of "destroy" mentality is counter-active.<br />
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The emphasis needs to shift from selfish anger to active responsibility. The same goals can be accomplished, but through means that benefit or at least stabilize the people, animals, plants and geography around. Yeah, it might take more time, it might mean scratching ideas that would make more sense because they "work with the concept more aesthetically". But ultimately, we have to ask ourselves what is more important; the individualistic triumph of cleverness, or the ethical, communal triumph of intelligence. It's a weird place for us to come from. Considering we are continually told to be ourselves, screw the crowd, and that everyone is out to get us, it's hard to think of others as our allies. But I think it's high time we do that. Not by following the masses, but by seeking out genuine companionship, responsible ways of creation, and honest, open dialogue.<br />
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Cynicism ain't gonna get us very far. In fact, I believe that's the biggest problem with the portion of the youth who <i>can</i> actualize change. We gotta stop smashing our Stratocaster on the stage floor and start putting it in the hands of a thirsty young girl. It will make far more difference. In a spectacle that proclaims as its mission, "MORE, MORE, MORE!", we need to become the louder voice, screaming, "WE CAN DO BETTER!" What is better than more? I'm not sure, but I know some things that go into it. We're sick with an absurd hunger and the doctor's telling us there's no reason to change our diet. He doesn't even acknowledge the tapeworm comfortably inside. We have to tell him we know it's there. We have to become the doctors, the teachers, the students, the explorers, the crafters, the farmers, the builders, the ambassadors and councils that determine our own well-being. I know I've got a long way to go. I'm writing a blog post that I'll post on my Facebook wall in hopes that someone reads and comments. But I swear, I want to make a change. I want to try to engage people in conversation. I want to learn what people have to offer, no matter what their background. I'm just so sick of all this... stuff. I want to experience reality, or at least the quasi-reality we're offered, to see what transformation needs to happen, through creative, responsible destruction and construction. I don't like being so cynical, as easy as it is. Anyone else?Jesus Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759964011091604852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4051602998293153144.post-84640643685817652052011-08-04T12:07:00.002-04:002011-08-04T12:21:37.831-04:00Axis Mundi PARTAYY<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu8iBrASHY3zjG3lMhAEQzAsggvdCZhTSE7DSDIYpGKKSF39TFnQSNGUuPapwOQey5UDvmIgh6F3IE-axk00E0osipppKb3NE3U3yR1HPrKHrOWCUeFZ8xV_zVJxZ6bqy7hKBJ7ffKbM-b/s1600/288337_2293418415474_1249444565_2769865_7718194_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu8iBrASHY3zjG3lMhAEQzAsggvdCZhTSE7DSDIYpGKKSF39TFnQSNGUuPapwOQey5UDvmIgh6F3IE-axk00E0osipppKb3NE3U3yR1HPrKHrOWCUeFZ8xV_zVJxZ6bqy7hKBJ7ffKbM-b/s320/288337_2293418415474_1249444565_2769865_7718194_o.jpg" width="246" /></a></div>Who doesn't love a good party? Hush, it's a rhetorical question. I know you love it. How about a "truly eclectic musical soiree? Fuck yeah. A bunch of bands are gearing up to play this fantastical shindig on <b>TOMORROW, AUGUST 5th</b>. The caps were necessary to reinforce that I'm really late with this post. "What is <b>Axis Mundi</b>?" you ask. Well, I hope that's a rhetorical question. It's a record label collective. Here, let them tell you.<br />
<blockquote><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">Axis Mundi is currently comprised of Communist Day Care Center, Algae Records and Tapes, Forget Records, and Sonic Lullaby. The collective was formed on the simple mission statement of artist success through artist collaboration, and its labels specialize in music ranging from lo-fi tape fuzz, to ambient shoegaze, to country rock. </span></blockquote>So we can all expect to hear <b>No Age Sigur Ros Drive-By-Truckers</b>, not <b>Hawthorne Heights Yanni Toby Keith</b>. Believe me, I know this. I've seen many of the involved bands. Axis Mundi holds showcases some weekday nights at <b>The Berkeley Front</b>. But what excites me is that I've <i>not</i> seen many of the bands, too. Tons of bands that aren't your everyday expected Detroit Pop-Rock. It's like punks and hipsters and nerds all holding hands on stage. If there's anything I can say about the guys in charge of this event, it's that they are hopelessly excited about music in its infinite forms. And they're damn good at bringing people together to enjoy it, no matter what kinds of cliques those people might wanna stay in. Bands that are playing, which stretch all across the board, include<b> Sound and Fury, DandyLyon Whine, Dinosaur Monster, Pupils, Sea Turtle Restoration Project</b>, and other diverse acts, including offshoots of <b>Mother Whale</b> and <b>Jura</b>. One of them, <b>St. Zita</b>, is brand new and is comprised of a viola and a guzheng (pronounced goo-jung) and my nerdy self cannot wait!<br />
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This whole thing is going down at <b>North End Studios</b> (known to many as <b>Sparklewood</b>), which is that huge building on Grand Boulevard in <b>Detroit</b> with the teal and pink drip mural. Thanks to Katie for making that lonely building so easy to direct people to.<br />
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Because the collective is very much about the fusing of visual and sonic art, they've also made sure this is an art exhibit. Artists that have either worked directly with some of the bands involved or around the collective's orbit have work selected for the gallery. <b>Alana Carlson</b> specializes in allegorical painting, but has shown her installation chops with her involvement in <b>Forget's</b> performances. <b>Steve Gambord </b>experiments with all sorts of mixed media and is continually pushing his own 2D boundaries. Other artists on display include <b>Christin Richards, Mike Ross</b>, photographer <b>Gabriel Banuelos</b>, <b>Eric Peiti,</b> and many others.<br />
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It's August. I'm pretty sure August is party month. (Don't tell July, he'll get jealous.) Everything starts at <b>7:30</b> on<b> TOMORROW, FRIDAY</b>. It's just <b>$5</b> for all that fun. <a href="https://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=256962344313893">Here</a>'s the fb page. Come equipped.<br />
<blockquote><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span> </blockquote>Jesus Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759964011091604852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4051602998293153144.post-38848264176211721962011-07-24T22:32:00.000-04:002011-07-24T22:32:59.925-04:00"hope our poems make things clear..."I know it's been a month, and I know a lot of my posts tend to be either entirely too cheery or entire downers. But this is going to be mostly the latter. I hope it's got enough of the former.<br />
<br />
My friend died today. Or yesterday. It doesn't matter which day. I've always been able to tell others that I feel blessed to have had a great childhood with little grief and strong foundations. Although I have a lot of friends who encountered significant loss early in life, and I have encountered major loss of some kind, I've been lucky in that a peer never unexpectedly left. This is hard.<br />
<br />
David Blair is an artist, a poet, a musician, an actor, an author, a thinker, a performer, a teacher, and one of many gods I've hugged in life. I'm so happy, in a way, that I have an opportunity to help cultivate the seeds he's spread. He's not gone, but he did die. I'm expecting him to call and say, Oh, they mixed me up with some other dude. You know how it goes! and then laugh big with a piratey tooth gap. But he left, and he just gave everyone he touched with the next task: to take his lessons and craft them into our own beauty, to give that beauty to other people of all creeds and stations (I don't care how cheesy this is) and to ensure that that beauty is multipliable infinitely. He traveled the whole world and called Detroit home. He introduced me to half of my friends, and the other half just knew him. I played his CD release two years ago, my Birthday Eve. We did an impromptu unrehearsed Purple Rain. I'm rambling but I guess I can't help it.<br />
<br />
This loss is such a shock that it requires me to be vigilant of all the amazing people that Blair has touched in his life. He was SO completely uncompromising that he lived 7 lifetimes in his short 50 years. And he didn't lead just by example; hundreds of students can attest to that. I'm one of them.<br />
<br />
He has believed so enthusiastically about humanity that typical Detroit cynicism immediately stops being cool as soon as he enters the room. His natural knack for musical and English language commands whatever he points his tongue or pen or guitar toward. He's worked hard his whole fucking amazing life. The things he can see make the most privileged feel blind. Just say "hello" and you may have stopped a war, right?<br />
<br />
I'm going to leave you with a poem about this city. Why? Because I can't lie, I hate it here sometimes. But you can't listen to this piece and not fall in love with the insanity like the first time. You just can't. Us mental cases are too sweet.<br />
<br />
<object height="390" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/HcX6j_ufRic?version=3&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/HcX6j_ufRic?version=3&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="480" height="390" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object>Jesus Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759964011091604852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4051602998293153144.post-16415484671872653762011-06-22T20:36:00.004-04:002011-06-22T20:41:59.324-04:00Flux Sucks.<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbMUlevn5Bj_pz73WsLYDw_m6RPltaIguYz9y6L33YIdsTI-6y5J4N-hz_09IU98o82e2kHb0wNo_wfbUEwBxqFLXP2zi_XN8BF8m5DVBsOyEf9QKxUEFzGYPtsd5k9usdyO95rbfj5Tav/s1600/IMG_1690.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbMUlevn5Bj_pz73WsLYDw_m6RPltaIguYz9y6L33YIdsTI-6y5J4N-hz_09IU98o82e2kHb0wNo_wfbUEwBxqFLXP2zi_XN8BF8m5DVBsOyEf9QKxUEFzGYPtsd5k9usdyO95rbfj5Tav/s320/IMG_1690.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(Eleanora playing at Club Bart, 2010)</span></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Maybe it doesn't help that I'm listening to Vic Chesnutt's last release before his untimely death, and that I'm drinking merlot, and that my apartment is a mess. But the news that's been hitting lately is throwing my moods into difficult spirals. First, we heard with less than a week's notice that the </span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Belmont</span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> was closing. Well, no, actually, first we heard that the </span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Burton Theater</span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> was moving. That was a bummer, considering its promise and the fact that I'd only been there once, to find out the night's show was sold out. Then we heard the Belmont had been sold and that there would be a last hurrah on June 11th. I was directly impacted by this, because I was supposed to have a solo art show at the end of July. I didn't attend the closing party because of the competing </span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Lager House</span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> filming. Now, with only four days notice, Ferndale's online world has become aware that </span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Club Bart</span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> will close and await a transformation into what some are saying will be a French bistro. I was told that last bit a day before it was published, but I thought the bearer was sorely misinformed. He wasn't. I'm devastated.</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4dcBAytUI3BTiKyu-PloYUJSETIpEXsE-v1n20zOx7FxoIxT_kHQBDqfUKbR0JOKnvHG98xV79BXEXZ4flaA4pPV2THXsYvAHboiESCwfx43bDQe9gxA-ZGhyZgXFXypaawkMRFDMn_ie/s1600/IMG_1748.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4dcBAytUI3BTiKyu-PloYUJSETIpEXsE-v1n20zOx7FxoIxT_kHQBDqfUKbR0JOKnvHG98xV79BXEXZ4flaA4pPV2THXsYvAHboiESCwfx43bDQe9gxA-ZGhyZgXFXypaawkMRFDMn_ie/s320/IMG_1748.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(Hanging out at Club Bart, 2010)</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Of course, everything is in flux, especially when it comes to Detroit musicians, artists, DIY-ers, and young entrepreneurs; the target market hangs at financial threads itself most of the time. I know half the shows I've been to in the last three years, I couldn't afford the cover. I can't say that my own shmuckiness didn't contribute to these places shuttering. I can't say that it wasn't due to poor management, shady employees, asinine customers, or simple geography. In most situations, I guess it's a combination of these, flicked into oblivion by bad luck. It must be expected, I suppose, with stability a rarely used word in the Detroit arts, that our mainstays are not always staying.</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">While everything around our culture shifts, we must keep tallies on the memories we've shared with one another and the places they're attached to. Being a part of two filming sessions at the </span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Belmont</span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">, wearing a beard at </span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Club Bart,</span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> passing out 'til dawn on the couches at </span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Trowbridge House of Coffee</span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">--these memories, the grittiest, most Detroit, most genuine and at times most frightening moments of my life, lived at bars that worked for years to make sure stupid kids could do stupid things at will with the caveat that they achieve something brilliant once in a while. I think some of us got to those moments. Perhaps the best we self-proclaimed helpless bystanders can do when our little dives and venues disappear really </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">is</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> to realize that that $3 can of Cream Ale was totally worth it.</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4dcBAytUI3BTiKyu-PloYUJSETIpEXsE-v1n20zOx7FxoIxT_kHQBDqfUKbR0JOKnvHG98xV79BXEXZ4flaA4pPV2THXsYvAHboiESCwfx43bDQe9gxA-ZGhyZgXFXypaawkMRFDMn_ie/s1600/IMG_1748.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZoshXTL9ISxAZda6K39t83WxDFt6rZlucsGWAbGnqgbrht6U-O3Rg2czoZLiMXnq-CFFkvNACBCUQktayeZpgzKWbLVuRGmQBlcvIYz3Pl5aEMyaOPmMiT6mZkUP1fTCV9riGQttBq40D/s1600/IMG_0129.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZoshXTL9ISxAZda6K39t83WxDFt6rZlucsGWAbGnqgbrht6U-O3Rg2czoZLiMXnq-CFFkvNACBCUQktayeZpgzKWbLVuRGmQBlcvIYz3Pl5aEMyaOPmMiT6mZkUP1fTCV9riGQttBq40D/s320/IMG_0129.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(Trowbridge House of Coffee, 2009)</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/wYTZKdv4Bfk?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></span></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZoshXTL9ISxAZda6K39t83WxDFt6rZlucsGWAbGnqgbrht6U-O3Rg2czoZLiMXnq-CFFkvNACBCUQktayeZpgzKWbLVuRGmQBlcvIYz3Pl5aEMyaOPmMiT6mZkUP1fTCV9riGQttBq40D/s1600/IMG_0129.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a>(Belmont music video shoot, 2009?)</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZoshXTL9ISxAZda6K39t83WxDFt6rZlucsGWAbGnqgbrht6U-O3Rg2czoZLiMXnq-CFFkvNACBCUQktayeZpgzKWbLVuRGmQBlcvIYz3Pl5aEMyaOPmMiT6mZkUP1fTCV9riGQttBq40D/s1600/IMG_0129.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4dcBAytUI3BTiKyu-PloYUJSETIpEXsE-v1n20zOx7FxoIxT_kHQBDqfUKbR0JOKnvHG98xV79BXEXZ4flaA4pPV2THXsYvAHboiESCwfx43bDQe9gxA-ZGhyZgXFXypaawkMRFDMn_ie/s1600/IMG_1748.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4dcBAytUI3BTiKyu-PloYUJSETIpEXsE-v1n20zOx7FxoIxT_kHQBDqfUKbR0JOKnvHG98xV79BXEXZ4flaA4pPV2THXsYvAHboiESCwfx43bDQe9gxA-ZGhyZgXFXypaawkMRFDMn_ie/s1600/IMG_1748.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></span></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Jesus Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759964011091604852noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4051602998293153144.post-40582566895463940742011-06-18T00:35:00.001-04:002011-06-18T00:36:42.154-04:00Things about me at which my friends are amazed when disclosed.<ol><li>I've never seen The Big Lebowski.</li>
<li>I come from a Polish family but never had polish food 'til college friends who live in Hamtramck educated me.</li>
<li>I once wanted to be a preacher.</li>
<li>I once loved really shitty country music. (No, like REALLY shitty.)</li>
<li>I've never had collard greens, ribs, or any form of duck, rabbit, or elk.</li>
<li>I know how to change oil.</li>
<li>I really believe that the government is tracking us through RFIDs and other such things through vaccines and other tools. (Though they just need facebook, already proving useful to them)</li>
<li>I still weep when I hear a young voice sing an incredible aria in an incomparable tone.</li>
<li>I've never been south of northern Tennessee (other than Hawaii, which I was sick for half of and it's like going to another country so it doesn't count), or west of the Mississippi (read above).</li>
<li>I hate. </li>
</ol>Jesus Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759964011091604852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4051602998293153144.post-6969877509584086392011-06-15T21:57:00.002-04:002011-06-16T08:14:46.532-04:00No, I'm not posting lyrics.I realized today that I write far too many "lyrics" to ever put to music. The problem with these little couplets, stanzas, one-liners and phrases is that they would look ridiculous as poems. And the ideas that are deserving of their composition are so varied that they could never be put together in a single "clever" song like Dylan has done well time after time. And so they collect in little notebooks mixed with drawings and exhibition concepts that I hope will overtake the bookshelf eventually, crowding out the leftover textbooks and old Juxtapoz rags that junk it up now. But these are inactive words.<br />
<br />
Here, now that I've given you a readable, interesting paragraph, let me confuse the shit out of you and myself and go completely off topic.<br />
<br />
The problem with the era of the simulacra is that language and valuable/meaningful action are so vastly set apart that language becomes its own hyperreal action, set apart from valuable/meaningful action. An easy (albeit, very superficial and non-interesting) example of this is the popular facebook copy/paste status that is intended to raise awareness for one thing or another. we've all seen (or posted ourselves) that "90 percent of you won't repost this, but 2 billion people die every year of horcruxes. If you know someone who's been affected by horcruxes, put this as your status for one hour and I'm sure so many people will all of a sudden cry a cure into existence." Thing is, it's an easy way to tell people that you care. The digital world is a funny thing (here I'm jumping ahead; follow me!): you can renege on just about anything you type by indicating your tone wasn't taken in the right light. This is different from previous print-based communications because it takes place on a more immediate context and in much smaller sentences/fewer characters. Twitter statuses can be taken as poetry because they are packed with as much information as possible that anyone with a bit of wile can use to invite all sorts of interpretations. ...Hence, trolls. It's like a triple dog dare to be a troll. And anyone can do it at any time, because there is no font for sarcasm and the anonymity of the web gives so much power to play with serious people. The internet segregates and separates people just like "IRL" because it's language-based, and language is the origin of segregation. So you have well-educated people (who have been shown the tools to use language in a wide variety of ways) and poorly-educated people (who have not) communicating on a single platform--not to mention all the age differences, and they often will separate from one another, or when they clash, more virulent results are seen than when they clash IRL, because of the mask and immaterial nature of digital communication (no bodily risk is associated, <i>usually</i>, with online bickering). The cleverest wins online, and seems to be the ultimate goal of modern Homo Sapiens. So this is the contemporary problem. A platform for an ultimate world community to congregate is invaluable and utopian, but when it is immaterial, the results will ultimately be immaterial. ...Right?<br />
<br />
If you actually read all that, then I congratulate you upon your mapping of my brain.<br />
<br />
In keeping with the theme, TL;DR version: OMG the world sucks and is awesome too and it's all the internet's fault and it's just like real life dood.Jesus Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759964011091604852noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4051602998293153144.post-16023647937243595392011-06-08T20:32:00.002-04:002011-06-16T08:13:06.274-04:00What To Do, Part Two of Infinity, Or: Zombie Dreams Abound<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I keep having zombie dreams. Last night I had one for the first time in months. In these dreams there are rarely zombies; in fact often times there are only half a dozen or so people at all. Mostly they consist of the struggle to ransack and seek out everything that will be useful, starting from my own home and then moving with a friend or two to a camp. Many times they are more about exploring houses, and the dreams have a very whimsical aspect. Once in a while, like last night, there will be an element of danger, but the danger isn't zombies (even though they are the reason for this societal meltdown), it's the people who scour the houses for anything useful, rob anyone who might be there, and kill them. Last night I hid in an attic at my parents' house with someone until these people left. Then it was all business, grabbing what to me were the most important items to take in whatever car we were going to find. Almost always, the people I am with, who are allies or camp-mates, are unspecific; that is, they have no identity that I know of. Last night's dream took place near the beginning of the apocalypse, but I have had some where I had been wandering the countryside with a few "friends" (no one I know in real life), mostly in cars, for perhaps years. One dream took place at night, in winter, and we searched for a house that we could settle down in for good, now that the threat was over. It was so peaceful, looking down that line of houses, some porch lights lit (which in the dream just meant that the power grid for that neighborhood was functional), and knowing that there were worlds of architecture to explore with barely any people to get in the way.</span></span></div>Jesus Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759964011091604852noreply@blogger.com0