computers

I havn't updated in a long time because i've been adjusting to moving across the country, and i don't really have a computer of my own anymore. Hopefully i'll beable to secure something and get this going again. I just thought i'd let you know.

Schehewowowwowowshhhhh

While we are on the still shoe-gazing, this is one of my favorites from the space pop realm.

Sometimes it looks like this:



But sometimes it looks like this:



Click here for "Souvlaki" by Slowdive.

Alcest

awesome shoegaze (black) metal.



Alcest - Souvieners d'un Autre Monde.

First to Finnish

Enigmatic staticy experimental folk act from Finland. Just another great export from Fonal Records. This was like 2005 but they're releasing a new record soon and I CANT WAIT.




Paavoharju - Yhä hämärää

A Sad Day

:(

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/entertainment/6921960.stm

The thrashin' of the Christ.

Awesome crossover thrash band from Virginia. For fans of S.T.R.E.E.T.S. and skateboarding on the faces of police officers.




Municipal Waste - Hazardous Mutation

A haiku I wrote in my head while shaving this morning.

Get out of bed, You.
Pick the truth up off the floor.
Comb out your fear-hair.

cartography.

I.
I've found myself once again stuck in that strange state transients are so familiar with, in which, on account of moving across the country, you are not progressing because you feel as if you can just start fresh once you move. It's kind of a paradox, because in theory, the idea is that you would want to try to cram everything in with what time you have left: sustaining friendships, cartographical explorations of your city, shows you wouldn't see elsewhere. But it hasn't worked that way for me. Before Montreal, I had certain ideas about whom I wanted become, and after becoming dissillusioned (yes, with myself) I once again decided to push these aspirations back untill my relocation. I think the most important thing i've learned really is that Art really IS hard.

I've been accepted to Mount Royal College, also. I don't know if i'm going to go yet.

II.
I've been having an extremely disturbing recurring dream, something I have no idea how to deal with. Untill now I've hardly been able to remember my dreams at all, and the ones I do remember are usually just casual sexual encounters or having my teeth fall out, which i understand are both very common. This dream kind of plays out as i'm the caracter Cliff in Crimes & Misdemeanors. With Woody Allen himself as the charachter of Prof. Levy We sit and talk, and i'm taking a lot of notes and watching very closely, because i think i'm supposed to be making a documentary of him. But he is talking about life as an eternal void, as if completely meaningless. And he mentions he regrets any hopeful element in his films thus far, and denounces all of them. And when he gets to talking about a master/slave psychic dynamic and how people become the latter out of a resentment for those who are optimistic about life. Then he kills himself. In no particular way really, he just ends up dead, but it's clear it is self inflicted. Then all of a sudden If becomes objective and I am no longer in the room with him but i am watching his body and his wife somes in then just looks really sad. That's it.

It's really intense, i've had this dream about 4 times now, and I have no idea what it means or why i'm having it now. It's actually quite distressing. Sorry to get all dark on you all.

III.
Holy Crap, Micheal Gira is the most visceral motherfucker on the planet. Also possible contender for best album cover this year:



Angels of Light - We Are Him

Everybody do the time lapse.

A quick note, written on a whim, in aspiration of blogging as routine again.

I.
It's been awhile since i've updated with anything substantial here, and right now i havn't anything to say really. I just felt like I should be posting some real words to disrupt this lengthening string of links to albums which unfortunately are just sitting on some faraway server somewhere, laying dormant until they meet their inert death.

I have my apartment to myself for the next two weeks, which happens to coincide with two weeks vacation from my diner job, on account of le juste pour rire festival happening on my block. My ambition is to use this opportunity for an auspicious hunkering down to finished my zine i've been hyping up. we'll see how that goes, i guess.

Fishing made me a man.

Creased Comics.

Jeans were in a uniform.

I was going to wait till this was a lil' closer to the release date, but fuck it it is too good. Buy it though.



Liars - Liars

†

Justice - †

Four Eyed Monsters

Pissed Jeans.

Pissed Jeans - Hope for Men

Punishment and Crime of Binomials: A Syntactic Sociological Experiment.

Hey wouldn't it be a funny sociological experiment to flip those english constructs wherein there are two words juxtaposed and seperated with an and/or but are always said in a particular order. They're called binomials i think. Then gauge reations? I think it would be very funny. I would ask for quiet and peace, the pepper and salt, games and fun. I would exclaim that it is raining dogs and cats outside! and that this pork is indeed sour and sweet. Sweeter than matrimony and love, or a jelly and peanut-butter sandwich. That perhaps we should go out for some chips and fish later. I will complain about the state of order & law today, calling for a times & life documentary on anthropomorphic cops. Because anthropomorphic cops are even funny on their own.

Hilarious. Updates to come. Die or Do.

William, Justine, and Henry - they all died by my hands.

I.
I feel compelled to make note here of one of the most beautiful films i've watched recently. Espíritu de la colmena, Or: The Spirit Of the Beehive, directed by one Victor Erice. I have a strange fascination with Franco-era civil war Spain, which I find to be rich with a kind of more dignified tragedy than some of those OTHER war time fascist dictatorships. Its just that whole For Whom The Bell Tolls, 1936, Viva La Libertad, mujeres libres ilk is incredibly inspiring, even for one whom political concern seems to be slipping away from. Congruent to my fascination with guerilla war fighters, there lies a similar infatuation with Frankenstein, and Universial Movie Monsters of the like. This is a common thing, but c'mon they are awesome. So much possibility for Monster Allegory EVERY DAY.

THAT BEING SAID, The spirit of the beehive is about two girls who see Frankenstein in a small post-civil war town. They're emotionally affected by the film, as is the town by the war they've just experienced. Franco's Spain is atmospherically combined with the romanticism of childhood fantasy, as the girls start to raise, in their own unbearably cute, innocent way, important questions about life. Haunting and visually arresting. It's at some points slow moving, but the story benefits from this if anything.

II.
Montreal Mix-Tapers, I am starting a mixtape club! The idea is we meet once a month, exchange names via the hat system, and themes, then exchange tapes. Fun! The first meeting is TOMMOROW at casa del popolo. I don't know who would be reading this who doesn't know already, but YES. Tommorow. 19:30 at Casa Del Popolo.

III.

Over the last 10 years, Alog have navigated a singular path, treading with delicate precision between thickets of electronics and copses of environmental sound.The results are as fresh and quixotic as you might imagine: staccato, pointillist constructions like ”A Throne For The Common Man” positively thrum with energy as they shake and rattle along in a storm of percussive detail. Moments like these reach back through Tom Waits to Harry Partch, but the flickering, metallic accents of ”The Beginner” are closer to Steve Reich´s ”Drumming”; they conjure a cloud of harmonics shot through with quelrulous whines and whimpers. But in the end, ”Amateur” is simply too various to be summarised with a couple of neat comparisons. Towards its close, ”Bedlam Emblem” executes a graceful ten minute movement from Nordic windblasts through surging psychedelic distortion to whispery near silence; like the rest of the record, it´s immensely suggestive and almost impossible to pin down.

-The Wire



Alog - Amateur

Bröckengespenst

I.
I have a new job washing dishes at a tiny restraunt across the street from my house. No one speaks english there except for this one girl who just moved here from Germany. The restraunt pays for everyone to have a round of drinks after their shifts. I think it's going to be awesome.

Deux.
New Shellac. It's interesting.



Shellac - Excellent Italian Greyhound

Sorry Steve Albini. I know you hate me for this, but people are just stoked about your band.

Fact may not be truth, and truth may not be factual.

I.
I finished reading the Wind-Up Bird Chronicle. I'm not sure if there is any need to say this, but I was amazed. Surrealism, or more accurately: Modern Surrealism, isn't something that i've explored too much in literature, save for the essential Kafka novels, and I don't know why not. There is so much depth in the ambiguous relationships between the images the novel evokes. I'm going to be having dreams about this one for awhile i'm sure. Looking forward to reading more into Murakami, and similarily, exploring surrealism more. He's sparked my intrest in what I have a feeling will be a beautiful friendship.

I've been thinking a lot about this concept of truth. What's "real" or what's "fact" may not be what is truth. Reading the Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, It seemed that it made that distinction between reality and truth really well.

I bought myself a new pack of cigarettes and a copy of Infinite Jest, I've got the next few days off, and plan on immersing myself in it.

II..
Two instances in the past week which I felt had a particular resonance of reality. An honest representation of human nature. These are the facts, and you are to find your own truth in them

Factual Retelling of an Instance Which Exemplifies an Aspect of Human Nature: A
Sitting at the park. Lit by a crescent moon and fountain lights. J., R. and myself are getting high when the sketchy park regulars, previously practising pink floyd covers on acoustic guitars, have now started yelling. We think they are tripping balls. Jean Jacket freaks out and threatens to smash a guitar on the pavement, this is all in french so everything wass lost in translation. The owner of the guitar is unknown, but Jean Jacket chips it pretty good swinging it around. It escalates when Jean Jacket is thrown into the fountain by T Shirt. In the midst of the confusion that ensues, Bandana takes off with the guitar and hides it in the adjacent bushes. Jean Jacket is soaked and angry, but he still refuses to fight, despite further instigation by T Shirt. Bandana disarms the situation. Poor Jean Jacket, bad trip. We never discerned what the fight was about. The crescent moon kept glowing. Later that evening Jack Black smashed his acoustic guitar on our television.

Factual Retelling of an Instance Which Exemplifies an Aspect of Human Nature: B
Sunday night. Korova. J., R. have left early but I wasn't ready to call it a night just yet, having been staying home for several nights previous. Became more aquainted to A. while, like a dream, more people than i've ever seen inside Korova show up. They are dancing. M. is dj'ing so it's pretty groovy. Once I get myself on the dancefloor the most beautiful girl in the world shows up, L. That kind of girl you have a crush on from afar because there's no way she'd be in your league. The kind you dream, albeit involuntarily, about. She's a dancer so she's dancing circles, quite literally around everyone. Then, much to my suprise, she's dancing with me. I felt scared and exited all at once, shaking knees and everyhthing. L. remembers me from a brief meeting a month prior. Her lips brush against mine and hands are against waists. She tells me she's going to the bathroom and to wait a minute. But when I turn around she's really into kissing this other guy. She's wearing his hat. I dismiss this as mere "getting wild" and things are cool. The whole process repeats itself, and now everyone is too drunk to give any weight or meaning to actions. I go home and am incapable of dreaming of anything else.

III.
Champagne straight out of the bottle. Ghost riding the whip. Hella Trees.



UGK - Ridin' Dirty

Note: Not to be confused with Chamillionaire's 2006 single of a similar nature.

Another Zine Preview.

The first thing that came to mind when we found the body was a terrible joke. It wasn't just that it was in bad taste considering the circumstances, although that attributed to it, the joke itself was inherently bad. The kind of joke that deadened rooms, and I knew it. It almost slipped out while my girlfriend, Mary, was still gaping in horror at the amount of blood. An older woman had jumped from her apartment balcony. We saw the body, limp and broken, before we heard the cries that it had been a suicide. It happened about a block away from Mary's apartment, where we were headed. The woman looked so old lying there on the pavement. About eighty? I looked at Mary, her mouth still gaping like an aquarium fish. What the hell. I decided to let the joke loose. "All she had to do was wait another couple hours and she would have died of natural causes."

"How many grapes can you fit in your mouth?" It was later in the afternoon, and she seemed calmer, almost docile. I plucked a handful of grapes from the bowl that lay at the exact midpoint between the places at which, graphed out by cold tile, we were sitting. It seemed absurd to me, to be sitting on the kitchen floor. But she just needed to sit down right where she was I guessed, so I moved the bowl of grapes from off the counter and sat down too. I hadn't ever seen her sit on the kitchen floor before, It was the first conversation we had there. I let it go because I realized it didn't actually matter where we sat. She didn't answer.

Mary gave me that look she has. One of those forcibly indifferent stares. like she was so above cramming grapes in her mouth. I was trying to get her to forget about the old woman. We didn't know her, and that was probably for the best. I've always been able to cram more grapes in my mouth than anyone I've met. Usually girls think it's funny. I was like a cute, silly chipmunk they'd tell me. But Mary was somone else. One of those "I'm eighteen but i'm soo old types". If I couldn't get her to cram grapes into her mouth maybe she'd at least let me try to toss them in. "Open up." I said. Teeth shining between chipmunk cheeks.

Surgery.

I.
This is a project by Secret Mommy comprised of three songs which sample sounds from a trip to the destists office. Crazy! Then remixes of each of said songs by Kit Clayton, Sun O.K. Papi KO, and Piers Whyte! Whoa!

ALSO, If you're someone who BUYS music, Secret Mommy's Plays, containing the song on which the title of this blog derives its name from, is now available on vinyl here.



Secret Mommy - The Wisdom EP.

Everything passes. Nobody gets anything for keeps. And that's how we've got to live.

I.
I went exploring today. Even though I'm still relatively new to Montreal, most of my stay here has been spent indoors, so everything seems new to me. From Deciduous rooflines to the tragedy laden steps of Dawson, determined wind pushed me to the alien end of St. Catherine. The only familiarity was the sound of traffic in the rain. It suddenly became apparent just how far away from home I was and I was overcome with this overwhemling feeling of transience. I've got three months left with these streets, I thought, and they're not warming up to me yet.

II.
This album sounds particularly great on headphones, but careful not to get them wet everybody. It's still raining.


Christian Fennesz & Ryuichi Sakamoto - Cendre

Mop head.

Monday morning glitch.



edIT - Crying over pros for no reason.

Is the mother turned out?

Turn that mother out!

Vivid and uninhibited.

I.
I'm currently reading The Wind-up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami. I'm finding it strangely captivating in its story and narrative, because I havn't really gotten far enough to grasp its larger themes and ideas. The protagonist is this submissive, apathetic type who, much like in the last epic I read: Thomas Pynchon's V., is searching for something he has lost. I don't know why i've been so attracted to books such as this lately, i've been thinking of tackling Infinite Jest sometime soon, so expect me to be talking about books a lot in here. This protagonist dreamily stumbles across, in psuedo-gumshoe style, an underworld of characters who, parallell to Montrealers, encapsulate all the aspects of the platonic vs. sexual relationship dynamic. In more recent chapters, I'm sensing a shift towards the surreal which i'm looking forward too. I'll make sure all you interested readers hear all my opinions about the wind-up bird chronicle in their most vivid and uninhibited.*

II.
The girls have all shed their extra layer of spring coats, legs and shoulders fully exposed but still in their winter skin. Summer cells will come quickly enough, but not before their ice cream cones melt over the sides. I'll be spending my days in the park (see: Prince Arthur;)) watching the girls through my shameless sunglasses, like some character in a Camus novel. Legs crossed in a way that i'm conviced makes me look cute, just Murakami and me. Sitting just to the right of me is the hope that one of these girls will talk to me. I am that open book in my lap, and for the first time in a couple months I have the energy to meet someone new.

III.
I just found this album on my roomate's computer and listened to it without prerequisite for doing so. I was sweetly suprised. My internet research has lead me to believe they are something of an enigma. If I were ever to use the adjective "lush" when describing electronic music, it would be when talking about Black Moth Super Rainbow. Download this.



Black Moth Super Rainbow - Dandelion Gum



*Sarcastic Tone

Dirty dirty bombs.

I'd just like to direct your attention to this news article. It's frightening.

A pint of beer and a new tattoo.

I.
I wish my life was like that song "Greetings to the New Brunette" by Billy Bragg, but really it's like i'm Igby Slocumb but minus the whole bourgeoise upbringing. That is to say, disillusioned and sophmoric in my angst. Fast-paced urban lifestyles are too intoxicating for the already confused, I'm afraid that everyone falling in and out of my company is noticing my growing sense of misanthropy. I don't know if i'm becoming more "modern" or if it's a regression into myself, but it feels like i'm watching my own life play out in front of me, rather than being in control of it. So I've been finding comfort in the written word again. Dipping my toes into the philosophy of Objectivism. An area which I've been skeptical of treading untill now, on account of its justification of laissez-faire economics and digression from existentialism, where i've been philosophically centered. Even if Ayn Rand is a fucking capitalist bigot, she understands this growing sense of objective reality, no matter how disillusioned i've become with it.

II.
I'm seeing Ted Leo tonight. Now, as exited as I am about it, It's not where I thought i'd be 2 months ago. There was a time when TL was the voice of everything positive in my life, he personified my idealism and made me want to dance. But on account of the growing sense of disattachment I mentioned earlier Im not jumping out of my seat. Ted Leo, since I first heard "Timorous Me" 3 or 4 years ago, has been on my list of musicians I HAVE to see. I have a feeling that once i'm there, up in the front row and he breaks out "Hearts Of Oak" I'll be caught up in it, pumping my fist and dancing like it was this time last year again. La Sala Rossa is the absolute perfect venue for this to go down in, I'm hoping it will be a night to be remembered.

III.
The skeleton of the second installment of my zine had been written, finally. It's about two lovers who come across a dead body one morning, and upon realizing that this death has no influence on their lives and the universe is orchestrated randomly, they are able to have sex that afternoon without guilt. There is also this whole thing about grapes and the catholic church and girls having their periods. I promise lots of sex, blood and reflective conciousness.

Les linéaments du désir gratifié.

I.
Spring is manipulative. It has all these subtle hints and suggestions that you should start raising your metabolic rate and come out of your apartments, when in fact, it's just teasing. I always remember it being this way too, I hated spring for the way she would trick my friends and my soaked socks. Spring is a first girlfriend. Romanicized by those on the proverbial "other side of the fence" but really the grass isn't even green yet. Because spring, with it's clumsiness and awkward haste hasn't allowed us to photosynthesize properly. This is why I've always though that if you're going to make a bad decision, spring is the time to do it. Everyone's crazy. Here is a poem that I think captures how crazy everyone looks running around trying to have sex with one another. It is by William Blake:

The Question Answered

What is it men in women do require?
The lineaments of gratified Desire.
What is it women do in men require?
The lineaments of gratified Desire

II.
I don't why the lack of the aforementioned photosynthesis has so many people charged romantically. And believe me, blog readers, I am no exeption, but I still think that it's one of those tricks Spring is playing on us. I could pontificate for pages about how everything is oh so beautiful, and how blossoming flowers could represent new relationships. The squirrels and birds would be mating, and I could make note of their innocence. But are they the lineaments of possibility, or just a grander "first warmth" that is to say, a transient bait to lure everyone out of their comfortability, only to be hit with Fall's reality? and by whom? Fortuna? the squirrels themselves?

I've concluded the answer dosn't matter. There is a certain honesty in the nervous allure of spring romance, however fleeting. One night stands, instead of lonley bodies grasping for satisfaction, become admition to vulnerability. All of springs cliches, grass, squirrels, even the fucking flowers exist because we allow them to. And it's okay.

III.
I saw the band Deerhunter last night. They were crazy. My favourite part was when the singer, skin and bones and dressed in a wedding dress, told the audience that he wished to be cremated when he died. The ashes, he told us quite matter-of-factly, were to be masturbated into by one hundred twelve year old boys and the resulting mixture of ash and cum to be spread upon our faces. It seems like Cryptograms is pretty hot shit right now, so I'll upload their newer Fluorescent Grey EP, recorded during the mixing of Cryptograms. It's more concentrated and focused than Cryptograms, while still retaining that radiant, shoegazy quality. Hope you have WinRAR:



Deerhunter - Fluorescent Grey

Dog's mouths are cleaner than humans.

I.
In addition to the existing list of what I have to feel sorry for myself about, I found another augmentation sitting in my email inbox this morning. I have been denied entrance to the UofC this coming fall. This really wasn't a suprise, seeing as my GPA was just borderline acceptable, but it fucks with my 'ideal' plan. As well as it hurts to be rejected by anything, expectation notwithstanding. The UofC was to solve this restlessness I can't seem to escape. I'm really not meant for working full time, it's too depressing. I guess my only course of action is to take high school upgrading classes, take another dip in the sine wave-pool and get my feet wet for university next year.

II.
With my newfound penchant for escapism, I spent yesterday evening indulging myself in irony and cinamon kit kat bars at Dollar Cinema with some pals. We saw The Number 23. Holy shit. I was expecting it to be bad, but it undoubtedly exceeded these expectations. I thought there would be casual references to discordian chaos theory, or at least one reference to the illuminatus trilogy, at which point the wikipedian in me would cheer. Failing that, I hoped to see Jim Carrey fuck some shit up, and it disapointed on both accounts. What I got was a very poorly concieved compilation of hollywood cliches, with the added twist of "stylistically dark" (gratuitously gothic) imagery. And Jim Carrey is always holding this fuckin' saxophone but he never plays it! what the fuck!

THAT ASIDE, I certainly enjoyed myself, as one assuredly will at Dollar Cinema regardless of which movie they are seeing. The nights are growing clearer, and with it a sense of innocence and possibility.

III.
xbxrx is a band i've been aware of for years, but never really got into them untill recently. Their newest full length "Wars" has really grabbed my attention. It sounds more like the actualisation of their sound than an attempt to be more serious, as pitchfork insinuates. I think they're a band that, while not "maturing" are growing more comfortable with themselves and can still keep up their energy. Fucking great, punk/hardcore songs. This is what vocal distortion should sound like:


xbxrx - Wars

Sorry, I was too busy being awesome.

I.
Ok. Admittedly I am a terrible blogger. Due in part to circumstances beyond my control, re: computer malfuntion, but I should credit it mostly to my own lack of ambition. I've decided to not go into the past month here, its details, anecdotal and poignant, shall be left only to my bedroom walls, and in a more ambiguous version to my coworkers. That's it.

II.
I've recently become quite interested in the finnish musician Marja Kokkonen, AKA Islaja, having heard some of her songs on a Fonal Records compilation. I've since come across her new album 'Ulual YYY' and become quite taken with her. I think that this obvious finnish translation from the fonal records websites quite eloquently, albeit simply, sums up how I feel about her:

Islaja as a concept has turned into a star that is expected to shine with brilliance. But she is something else. The songs tell us about the decay of our age, its demise and immorality. Its plunge into heartless consumer culture. Islaja herself does not burn in that same fire. Her fire is an inner fire. Behind her eyes and in her heart you can see and hear her true charisma. True dedication and utter disrespect for the artificial authority made by men. Yet she is not the self-destructive Nico or the eccentric Björk. But a good woman. A tough one. Her eyes can burn a hole in you. Her songs are poems and stabbing knives.

Because her lyrics are in finnish, my entire emotional reaction is based on sounds instead of lyrics, which is not something that I really normally experience. Because it sounds so original and haunting, I don't even have to know what she is saying to know her heart is in the right place. Check it:

Islaja - Ulual YYY


III.
I'll start real updates again soon. Hopefully writing?

so it goes.

God bless you, KV.

More alone than I can remember ever being.

I'm an empty milk crate, and you're the changing weather. The air is so thick that I keep mistaking it for tangible, and try to shake out sheets of humidity and end up looking foolish. I hate trust. My thoughts are sinking, while my disposition has fully capsized in it. You've got an advantage in that you know the street names better than me. How New York is so much closer to you than to myself. How I don't yet know many more. I'm stupid for falling for a transient and expecting reciprocation. Right now i'm wordering why I would bother with attempting metaphor, when it's much more than I was given. I guess I figured I could at least save face, if not myself. Not all bodies are so deciduous. Lay some books in me.

Let's take back what is hours.

Short Bout of Optimism.

Let's all burn holes in our pockets and make mixtapes full of the songs that we chose because of what they mean, not for what we think the recipient will enjoy. And we wouldn't sneer at power chords anymore and our jokes wouldn't be at anyone else's expense. We'd crowd bathroom stalls in a greyhound station of a city we've never been to before and share giant beers. You know the ones. We'd never get caught but we wouldn't take our freedom for granted. And it wouldn't matter about our interests being linear, as everything would be seen as congruent. And we'd discover how to sever the line between certain souls and the culture they appreciate. There would still be critics, and critism of the critism, but we wouldn't forget to share the last laugh. We'd stay up late.

and we would be genuinely considerate of each other. and it would be without expectation of reciprocation.

Rushed.

I.
To me, Leonard Cohen is allegorical of the person i've recently become, or am becoming. On a practical level, this is because I just recently got into his music, and because he is from Montreal, but there are consistent themes in his music i'm finding more and more relevant each time I return to him. Today I can't seem to escape his refrain of "Hey, that's no way to say goodbye."

II.
Tess left for Halifax last night, and already i've found myself missing her much more than I thought I would. I had left in a kind of ackward, sleepy-eyed rush that morning, with a little less hesitation than I should have given. Later to say goodbye over somone else's cell phone static in a crowded department store, with the kind of ambivalence that comes from five people being able to overhear your conversation. Now, since becomming much more comfortable with myself at her apartment than my own, I don't know what to do with myself. You can only pretend you are less lonely than you actually are for so long. BUT:

III.
Friends (M. B. E. A.) from Calgary are visiting and KILLER PARTIES are about to ensue.

I am running extremely low on battery power as I type this so it with just have to be as an addendum that I will mention my new job: It is rediculous. Details to follow.

Saint Valentine's Sweet Life.

I.
Today I celebrated the martyrdom of St. Valentine and last day of unemployment by watching two movies: La Dolce Vita et F for Fake. They were both great. The former chronicles a week in the life of a journalist, Marcello, who is struggling to find meaning in his life. He tries to fill this percieved meaningless with women. He's kind of misogynistic, but in the end I feel for him despite this. One scene in particular struck me as beautiful. Marcello, his date, and his father are having dinner at a restraunt. A lone trumpeter, dressed as a sad vaudevillian enters through these large doors. He plays a terribly sad tune to his feet, which are shuffling toward the centre of the room where balloons lay scattered about. Everyone is quiet watching. He continues his lament through the horn, and the ballons begin to bob around his ankles. Slowly as he came, he begins to shuffle out of the room. Halfway to the doors, he nods at the ballons which all become animate and follow him out of the room. Also: this is the movie that coined the term paparazzi.

F for Fake was something completely different than i've ever seen. Described as a "Free-Form Documentary" it's a frantic potrayal of an art forger, as well as a critique on superficiality in the art market. Honestly, I found it hard to watch. There are quick cuts all over the place, superimpoition and voice overs. One conversation is constantly flowing into another. And the structure drops in and out of documenting Elmyr de Hory's career as an art forger and Orson Welles' narrative on what should be considered reality and what shouldn't. It is crazy. Also: worth watching. I understood it much better upon reflection.

White as a Bedsheet.

Today, I just want to direct your attention to the Rasterbator. It's a downloadable (or web-based, if prefered) prgram that will print out digital images on a large scale using computer sized paper, to be peiced together afterwards like a giant puzzle. You can then put it on your wall. Enjoy.

Congruency.

I.
I awoke yesterday morning, much like so many times before, with a strong inclination to hear a certain song. Perhaps it's just subconcious residue left over from my dreams, but i've always felt it's something stronger, a premonition. These songs usually have some relevance to their respective days. This time it was One More Time by Daft Punk. It's a kind of cheesy post-techno club hit, without much relevance to anything really (except: dancing, partying) and would feel out of place in my apartment on that particular day, my only plans being eating some yogurt and reading a Thomas Pynchon novel. ( The Crying of Lot 49.) But still I searched my apartment High and Low for a copy of this song anywhere, digital library and a stack of mixed cds notwithstanding. I gave up.

II.
Tess, enigmatic, called me hoping I could give weight to one of her options for what she should do that evening. I suggested she go out, which she did. What this meant was any possibility that someone might call me up that evening wanting to hang out was exhausted. I proceeded to the coffee shop to finish my book. A word I couldn't remember haunting me like the song I couldn't listen to that morning.

III.
I was distracted. Oedipa was peicing together the Trystero mystery before me, but I still couldn't keep my mind with her. Justin Timberlake overbearing though the near-empty cafe's speakers. I couldn't place that word! No thesaurus in sight, and unwilling to go back home for it, I was close to calling up T. or J. and asking if they could help me place it. It was a mathematical term, I knew that. I decided to keep reading. A page later, and there it was. That fucking ghost of a word was right there in the book: congruency. For some reason I immediately found this ironic not knowing exactly why, a firing of brain synapses later I realized why: Justin Timberlake had given way to Daft Punk's One More Time.

It's not a trick.

Tommorow I have an interview for a job, which, if given, I will have the noble task of interupting families during their dinners, or on their way out their doors to try and sell them services from some of the largest corporations on earth. Such jobs are only taken, at least here in montreal, by three types of people: ignorants, maladroits, and anglophones. Belonging to the third catagory I, until now, hadn't much luck finding work elsewhere, so I was relieved at the prospect. But i'm still conflicted about taking this job. I hope it will just serve its transitionary purposes and I will find myself working somewhere more, shall we say, becoming, of my personal beliefs. Freud said that work gives the illusion of purpose. A statement which, in this case isn't true on the surface, but once underneath it couldn't be more true. It's exactly that, an ILLUSION.

At least Springsteen understands.

Once is Nonce.

I.
Sometimes, instead of songs or ad-jingles, I get phrases or words stuck inside my head. They involuntarily permeate my conciousness and I'll repeat them over and again. Often without any consideration to the meaning or implications of it. I'll just be watching a movie or trying to sleep and some word, as an example i'll use "progeny", will sneak it's way aboard my train of thought. "Hmm, I should get up earlier tommorow progeny. What should I make for breakfast? Progeny. Wait, ew!" and so on.

I just finished The Unbearable Lightness of Being, something i've been meaning to do for a very long time. I had very high expectations for it, and it exceeded every one of them. It's been a long time (about the same length at which I had been meaning to read it) since I read something that brings up certain ideas that I'll constantly be concious of. The ideas brought up in this book stick like the words or phrases I mentioned earlier, with the addition of consideration and contemplation. I've never understood eternal recurrance, (or eternal return, whichever floats) and in fact i still don't. But since reading this book I can't stop thinking about it.

Let's say reincarnation is totally secular. Forget God. And you are born once again with the entire memory and experience you had when you died the first time. You'd probably live your life differently the second time around. But it happens again, and again an infinate number of times. At what point do your influences and choices pleateau so you'd live the same life over and over?

Anyways, I'm not very good at articulating these kind of thoughts. In summary; Milan Kundera: cool dude.

II.
I'd like to make note, for anyone who may actually be reading this, that this blog is entirely self-interested. It is merely a collection of words pertaining to who I think I am. And there is no intended audience, exept myself in about one year hence.

Keats was DEAD by 24.

I.
6:59 pm. Wearing rediculous sweater. Stomach in the wake of a sugary carrot cake and an indoor cigarette. Still no job.

II.
One of my goals for my year here in Montreal, is to make a zine. I haven't an excuse not to do it since, distribution and subject matter being irrelevant to just having MADE one, there isn't much standing in my way. It'll probably end up a disjointed set of short stories, chaotically illustrated and stapled haphazardly. But considering i'd have done something I've been, untill now, only talking about, I'd be happy with it regardless. I'll keep you updated.

La Cité Swallows the Sparrow.

I.
Today walking down Saint-Laurent I came across a burst fire hydrant. This was peculiar for two reasons: It's Febuary in Montréal (cold) and no one seemed to even notice it. A lone city worker stood about ten feet away from it like a sleepy sentry, but nothing about his demeanor said that he was going to do anything about it. Meanwhile the streets were flooding and freezing over while pedestrians just skipped and hopped over the puddles swirling around their ankles. Perhaps it was for a reason, clearing freezing pipes or something. But now all I can think about is how I wish I could have taken a picture.

II.
I'm going to see the band Thundrah tonight, which I am particularly exited for. Upon seeing them live a couple months ago, I decided they were the type of band I could go see every weekend and still find myself exited about it. Unfortunately, in reality, they, being the mysterious types that they are, don't play very often. They sound like Liars caught up in the 90's math rock movement. But with delayed-ayed-ayed-ayed-ayed vocals. Possibly my favourite band out of Montréal right now.

III.
Today's Mix:
edIT - Ants
Venetian Snares - Szerencsétlen
Panda Bear - Comfy In Nautica
Thundrah - Weighing and Wanting
Konono No. 1 - Lufuala Ndgonga

Oh, I've been to Prague.

I.
As you can clearly see, I, Robin Graham, have decided to start blogging again. Gone are the days of diaryland. I've always seen blogspot as a sign of more mature or committed blogging, Which is why i'm here. Now you know. I'm committing myself to a minimum of four (4) entries per week, wherein I will talk about music, Montreal, and hot hot gossip. (And More!) We'll all see how that pans out.

II.
Woke to an empty day, due in part to recent unemployment but mosty in failure to commit myself to anything worthwhile. With the worthwhile replaced by laundry, and financial issues hanging over my head, I kinda of stumbled throughout the earlier hours of today, and found myself here, in the cafe across the street from my apartment, sipping the same cup of coffee for over an hour now. Both the coffee and I have since gone lukewarm (I as in my disposition, not in the literal sense), and the evening is sneaking up on us.

III.
I'm going to Tess's later on, or more specifically, her bed. This bed has this tremendous ability to render any poor soul who might happen to find themselves within it instantly sleepy and unwilling to leave (comfy). So it can go without saying that i've been spending too much time there. I'm thinking about bringing the movie Kicking & Screaming over (The Noah Baumbach one, not the Will Farrell one.) mostly because I'd like to see how she reacts to the line, wherein Prague is mentioned, that they argue about The Unbearable Lightness of Being.

IV
Today's Mixtape:
Stars Of the Lid - Articulate Silences Part 1
Secret Mommy - String Lake
Pan Sonic - Pakoisvoima/ Fugalforce
Drive Like Jehu - Sinews
Stars Of the Lid - Articulate Silences Part 2


Endnote:
I'm sorry for any grammatical errors you may have come across. It's been awhile since I have practised writing of any sort, and I am trying to experiment with a denser vernacular.