Death From Above 1492

Sometimes nature is just too incredibly badass for it's own good. Case in point: in an island environment that lacked large predatory mammals, the Evolver (As opposed to the Creator? No? Not a single laugh? Eh, you're right.) deemed that not nearly enough large-scale slaughter was taking place. And then it remedied the problem right then and there. Apparently science has proven the (prior) existence of Haast's Eagle, an enormous raptor capable of (easily) devouring your children/loved ones. The most terrifying part? This isn't some prehistoric beast fighting with archaeopteryx for airspace - Haast's Eagle only became extinct 500 years ago. Which means that, had Columbus had been correct in thinking he could sail across the Atlantic to reach India, there's the possibility that, due to inevitable deviations from course on a journey of that magnitude, instead of arriving at Plymouth Rock or Pondicherry and having this exchange:

Columbus: "Well, 'ello, there chap! The name's Chris, and I do believe I've found a bit o' the old India here, eh!" (I don't speak Ligurian, so we're making Mr. Columbus British/Cockney for the moment.)
Native American/Indian: looks quizzically at this strange, pale gentleman
Columbus: "A quiet bloke you are! A'right, then! We'll just be takin' your lands and women and delivering disease and death to your people! Pip, pip, Cheerio!"
Native American/Indian: falls to the ground, dead from measles

He might have been having this one on the shores of New Zealand:

Columbus: "Oy! Well it looks like there's no one---ahhrrgghhhhh"
Haast's Eagle: tearing Chris limb from limb to get at the sweet nectar inside

History, it seems, may have unfolded quite differently (the absence of the Americas notwithstanding), though I will leave the exploration of that alternate history to the likes of Harry Turtledove.

To make Haast's Eagle even more impressive (wholly unnecessary at this point, but why the hell not?), the well-learned (I assume) Dr. Scofield claims that Haast's Eagle was so deadly and ferocious a predator that it was essentially an aerial lion. That's right. The damn thing was a griffin.

Pictured: Evolution.

Haast's Eagle was cooked up just to prey on flightless birds. Let us give thanks that we're at the top of the food chain at the moment because - if this lethal monstrosity is the earth's response to too many giant turkeys, imagine what kind of Hell-spawned demon would be devised to deal with the warhead-toting species that seems to be running the show at the moment. God help us if Gaia decides we've gotten out of line and need to be taught a lesson.

Nature, I salute (and fear) you.



Note: I am aware that this article makes no scientific, historical, or logical sense. And I'm fine with that.

A Star Sign Out of Whack

Just a few short weeks ago, Third Eye Blind released their long-awaited fourth full-length album, Ursa Major. I was hoping to avoid reviewing this album until sometime around December or January, when I'll be posting my Top 10 Albums of 2009 article, but it seems that my hand has been forced. Frankly, I highly doubt that Ursa Major will make that list and being an absolutely die-hard Third Eye Blind fan for well over a decade now - as those of you who know me can well attest - I couldn't leave the album unaddressed entirely. (Did I mention that it's terrifying to realize that I've been a fan of anything for over a decade now? Well, it is.)

Something ought to be mentioned from the get-go: I love Third Eye Blind. Note the italics. I'm speaking, of course, of their self-titled debut album (1997), and while I generally love the work of the band as a whole, it is that album (and the demonstrably huge impact it made on my life) that keeps bringing me back to Stephan Jenkins and the work of 3EB. I have a lot of personal attachment to what Third Eye Blind has done and I'm well aware that this clouds my judgment considerably; as such, I'll do my best to keep things objective, but I think that you, my reader, deserve a warning: This might get a little messy (and likely quite a bit convoluted), but try to bear with me and I'll try to keep it all together.

First, a little history (or at least my take on a little history). During the spring of 1997, Third Eye Blind stormed the airwaves (and our brainwaves) with the searingly catchy "doo-doo-doo" chorus of their first single "Semi-Charmed Life". Between the cavity-inducing sugar-drenched chorus, frontman Stephan Jenkins' faux-British accent, a novelty psuedo-rap verse, and some deceptively dark subject matter, it was hard not to get the song stuck in your head (over and over and over again). Additional singles like "Jumper", "How's It Going To Be", and "Graduate" reinforced the notion that Third Eye Blind was a pop-hook generating machine. That all of those songs have dark undertones and veins of radio unfriendly minor-chord progressions was generally overlooked. (It is only fair to note that lots of pop bands release albums that are lined with hit singles but filled with darker, more exploratory tracks - it's simply the nature of the beast that those songs don't make it to the radio.) As it is, every track on Third Eye Blind is catchy and poppy in its own way, but it was those darker tracks (at least for me) that masterfully combined hook-driven pop sensibilities with a certain edginess to create aural gold. As such, tracks like "Burning Man", "Narcolepsy", and "Thanks A Lot" are more important to the album than any of the singles, not to mention the otherworldly pairing of "Motorcycle Drive By" and "God of Wine", two tracks with which I am so enamored that I won't even begin to discuss them lest we all drown in my gushing praise. In fact, though it was - by far - their greatest commercial achievement, I would suggest that "Semi-Charmed Life" is the weakest song on that self-titled release (a statement that is only further proof that this album is incredible).

By the time Third Eye Blind's second album, Blue, rolled around in late 1999, their singles were weaker ("Never Let You Go" was the biggest single on the record and probably their worst song to that point) and what were once dark nuances were now full-fledged melancholy anthems (the unedited "Slow Motion", for example, has become a cult favorite). In some cases ("Anything", "Wounded", "Slow Motion", "Farther", "Darwin") this effect worked wonderfully. In others it was less effective ("An Ode to Maybe", "The Red Summer Sun") but still enjoyable. Overall, I count the album as a success. It's very difficult to follow up an album like Third Eye Blind which was well-received both critically and commercially - especially given the turmoil within the band that eventually led to the departure of guitarist and co-songwriter Kevin Cadogan - and, though the band had faded from the national-radio spotlight a great deal, I think they did well with Blue on both fronts (though I am admittedly more concerned with artistic success than commercial success).

Four long years passed before Third Eye Blind was heard from again. Out of the Vein was released in 2003 without much fanfare. Unlike previous offerings from the band, wherein tracks were clearly single-material or not, the songs on Out of the Vein blurred the line between commercial and avant-garde (obviously, I'm using the term very loosely and relatively here) to the point that no song was a clear cut single. Due to some combination of this lack of super-pop power and the long wait since Blue, Out of the Vein met with very little radio play. Personally, I found the album to be excellent. While it did not have the peaks of Blue, it was more consistent ("Self-Righteous" notwithstanding) and seemed to show real maturation from a band which was now fully mixing the elements of their style throughout all of their tracks. Somewhat unexpectedly and despite some seriously negative reviews for Out of the Vein (something I didn't know about until recently as - believe it or not - I didn't have the internet back in 2003), Third Eye Blind was in the process of building an indomitable fan base (by means of extensive touring and word-of-mouth promotion) which would continue to grow and grow until, finally, the release of their fourth effort, Ursa Major, in 2009.


So here we are, caught up to the present day. "The time of Ursa Major", as the band has stated it. So what does all that history and all that background mean for the here and now? In a word: disappointment. Ursa Major was delayed repeatedly and even had a few false release dates, the delays generally being chalked up to Stephen Jenkins' writer's block, more specifically: the inability to write satisfactory lyrics and melodies. Over the last few years, I was among those trumpeting the need for the as-yet-untitled album's release, claiming that - no matter how little confidence Jenkins had at the moment - surely anything Third Eye Blind put out would be catchy as hell and, while Third Eye Blind has never had consistently great lyrics, there are always moments of brilliance scattered throughout their songs, so surely this effort would be no different. Regrettably, I was wrong. I can't help but feel like the constant pressure to "release the damn thing already" finally caught up with Jenkins and Co. and that maybe they were pressured into releasing something that they knew all along just wasn't ready. But here we are with a finished product, and, whether or not it was ready or even whether or not Third Eye Blind is happy with it, it's all we've got. Unfortunately, it's abundantly clear why Jenkins was struggling to be satisfied with these songs.

Before I nitpick Ursa Major's flaws, I want to point out that there are some quality moments on this album; Third Eye Blind hasn't completely imploded, they just seem to be very misguided at the moment.

The high point of the album is certainly "Sharp Knife", a track that hits in all of the right places and - like most of the best moments of Ursa Major - seems like it could have fit in on Blue. Powerful and driving, the song is solid throughout with an excellent pre-chorus/chorus combination that will have you dying to sing along in your car. And while the opening few lines (specifically: "Time tick tick ticks after me, my MP3 is out of juice") are a little awkward and bumbling, this is more than made up for when Jenkins delivers one of his finest lines in years prior to the first verse: "And all that we call chaos, I will say is by design". Tracks like "Sharp Knife" are the reason that I love Third Eye Blind and I have to say that I was disheartened to find that its sound is so unique on the album, yet it is not the only quality song on Ursa Major.

It is worth noting that I have a preference for albums with great songs at their conclusion, so perhaps there is hope for Ursa Major in the long run as one of its strongest tracks is the penultimate number, Monotov's Private Opera. Softer than most of their work (though not quite as soft as the B-side "My Time In Exile"), this track is a calming walk that seems the perfect soundtrack for a slow-moving, early-evening, late-November trip to the coffee house (specific, I know). The hook of the chorus ("it's you and only you and no one else") is matched in catchiness by the walking melody of the verse and, in an album rife with bad lyrics, this song stands out as being one of the lyrically strongest. (Though is should be noted that - as Jenkins was quick to point out - the "Monotov" of the title is actually an accidental misspelling of "Mamontov"; it seems fitting that, on this album, even the strongest tracks have failings.)

If "Sharp Knife" and "Monotov's Private Opera" are the top tier of what Ursa Major has to offer, then the next level can be found to have quite a few more songs but quite a bit less quality. The top track in this group is probably "Dao of St. Paul" which also seems like it could have fit in on Blue quite well (especially the guitar solo); it has some passion and - thankfully - solid melodies throughout, and isn't even diminished by using a very cliched "nah-nah-nah-nah" for a stretch. "Bonfire" is an above-average song but is hampered by being somewhat forgettable (even though the chorus is solid, it lacks a killer hook) and by having the unfortunate "my duct-tape vest is a party best, it's really all I own" lyric (I mean, bad lyrics get written - but how the hell did that line survive the editing process?). Meanwhile, "Why Can't You Be?" and "One In Ten" slow things down and are decent enough tracks, but each has their own problems. A live version of "Why Can't You Be?" was on the Red Star EP (more on that later) and, as much as I hate myself for saying it, was better than the album track as it had a lot more character; plus there's the fact that the term "blowjob" is actually sung within the song - really, that's just unacceptable from a lyrical standpoint (and possibly every other standpoint as well). Alternatively, "One In Ten" has an excellent hook during the title line, but the verses are sloppy and the lyrics are sub-par (plus, Weezer pretty much owns the market for the straight-guy-loves-a-lesbian market with "Pink Triangle", a much stronger song than "One In Ten").

We come now to two songs that have given me great amounts of frustration and ultimately define the album: "Water Landing" and "Summer Town". Both of these songs have a vintage Third Eye Blind sound, as if they could have been singles from the self-titled release; unfortunately, both are tarnished (and quite possibly ruined) by extended instances of the pseudo-rapping that was only really enjoyable on "Semi-Charmed Life". In "Water Landing" this transgression is only momentary and fleeting (though it still does plenty of damage to the song), but in "Summer Town" the rap goes on for nearly two minutes, which doesn't even take into account that the rap doesn't begin until the song has actually ended, meaning that Jenkins felt so strongly about this rap that - even though he couldn't work it into the song proper - he felt compelled to tack it on at the end of the track. Both of these songs show tremendous promise but ultimately come crashing down under the weight of bad ideas and misconceptions (namely the delusional belief that it is okay for Third Eye Blind to rap; because it's not - there, that's settled).

The rest of the album is adequate if unremarkable. Tracks like "About to Break" and "Don't Believe A Word" try to make political statements and make me wonder if Jenkins wants to be "Bono 2.0" a little too much. Lines like "for the lesbians in the bakery/wondering, do you really hate me?/it's about to break" feel very forced, especially coming from Jenkins, whose best work has always seemed to come in the form of strange introspection rather than outward observation. Heavy-handed statements and political-lyrics-so-poorly-executed-that-I-can't-help-but-be-embarrassed aside, the remaining tracks of the album offer average to below average pop-rock tracks that, frankly, will most likely leave little to no effect on you.

Unfortunately, I feel like my lasting impression of Ursa Major will come from a track that isn't even on the album. When the Red Star EP was released digitally in November of 2008, Third Eye Blind released one of the top tracks in the history of the band. The EP consists of the aforementioned "Why Can't You Be?" live track, as well as the unbelievably terrible "Non-Dairy Creamer" (hands down the worst song that Third Eye Blind has ever released - a winner for that inglorious distinction by a mile), and the title track, "Red Star", an absolutely incredible sonic experience. The verses are crisp, the lyrics clever (and successfully political), the chorus will grow and grow on you, and the syncopated rhythms will have you tapping along, but somehow this intense and isolated success wasn't able to translate to any other songs that 3EB was writing at the time. How does this reflect on Ursa Major? Well, in the end, I think that it's better that "Red Star" didn't make it onto Ursa Major, because, quite frankly, the album doesn't deserve it.

When all is said and done, I know I'll end up being attached to this album in some bizarre way (for better or worse, I know I'll do my damnedest to love it, at that), but the truth of the matter is that - despite my best efforts - I think I can see this album for what it is: a fairly poor and sub-standard pop album. Not poor and sub-standard by Third Eye Blind's standard, but by any band's standard. This album is just not very good, much as I want to will myself to believe otherwise. I'll still be desperately awaiting the next Third Eye Blind release and hoping for something better because, as disappointing as Ursa Major is, it's far from being bad enough to poison me against a band that I love so dearly, but the album itself is, in many ways, regrettable. Sadly, "the time of Ursa Major" is time better spent with other albums.

When They Disappear, We'll Know Why

Originally this was going to be a post about whether or not we are too hard on our musicians, whether we demand too much of them creatively while delivering not nearly enough support for their troubles, and in some respects I stayed true to that aim. But for the most part, I've let the first part of that argument lie in wait (thought it may surface at some point in the future), my reasoning being that there are several drastically different musical spheres that are not compatible with one another (especially in terms of the stresses placed on artists) and it was too difficult to rectify those differences to form a clear and cogent argument or even statement of opinion. I can't justify a comparison that assumes that U2 and Taylor Swift and the world of ClearChannel-radio is operating under the same conditions that have been forced upon the Lydias and Forgive Durdens of the independent music world. Instead, I've chosen to focus on the latter part of my initial premise: the lack of support that we're offering artists.

Ugh.

Before we really get started, I'll note that this is a topic that gets me fired up. It's the kind of thing that, once I get going, can fuel an hour-long rant on the horrible inequities of music's business side. Rather than go down that long-winded road, I'm going to be as brief as possible (which is, of course, not very brief at all).

In trying to find something¹ within the world of music that seemed to encapsulate my concern that we - consumers - are leaving musicians broken, battered, and used, the line that most frequently came to mind was from a Dear Hunter song: "I will only take from you; I'll use you up. I'll use you up." A fitting description of the relationship between artists and labels/publicists/the-media/fans².

In fact, it seems that - taking that lyric metaphor one step further - independent musicians have become the proverbial "hooker with a heart of gold". Hear me out as I attempt to break this (somewhat ridiculous) comparison down. In their heart of hearts, they (bands) really want to be dancers (artists), but it's too hard to make a profit doing what they love (creating inspired works) so they have to sell themselves short and become ladies of the night (conform to marketable stereotypes) in order to put food on the table (in order to put food on the table). In both cases we end up with a protagonist who sells themselves and their ideals short while receiving only empty dollars and regret for what they've sacrificed.

It may be that the vast majority of blame for these circumstances falls at the feet of record labels and tour-organizers/venues who ruthlessly hoard profits, exiling and blacklisting bands that don't meet their steep demands. But we consumers are at fault as well. We demand more and more from our musicians. More quantity at a higher quality. And we give less and less for it.

[Excuse me while I climb up on my soapbox for a minute] I count myself among the minority when I say that I don't download music for free (please be offended by this, therefore proving me wrong). I buy my albums the old fashioned way: with money. Artists ply their trade for a living and theft is theft, whether it be from an artist or a farmer or a haberdasher. I understand the allure of being able to get something you want without having to pay for it (with the added perk of not having to walk into a store where you might actually be identified). The internet - and its anonymity - has made this incredibly easy. Again, I understand why people do this - I am aware that "money is tight" and that people are "sure that the band would rather I listen for free than not listen at all" (perhaps the most-cited rationale for this trend, oftentimes followed by the derisive "I thought it was about music and not money, anyway"). But there are consequences for these actions - we just tend not to look past our own fingers, so we don't see them. [Stepping off of soapbox]

Bands literally breakup because of the economic climate in the music scene. For example, check out this horribly depressing quote from the now-defunct Juliana Theory:

"Financially, we would have to take regular jobs now to keep this thing going. We swore to ourselves years ago that we would not let that happen. We've always given 100 percent to this thing and it would be an insult to our fans and to ourselves to do it less than 100 percent because we would be spending most of our time making a living elsewhere. It's easy when you are 19, living in your parents' house, but when you've got bills to pay and people counting on you, real life hits you in the face. We are left with no other choice than to end the band. Like many of the bands that we looked up to when we started all of this, we die early and nearly forgotten."

Jesus. That's horrible. The last line alone is incredibly depressing - partly because I've seen it happen to several bands that I love and also because (in some very small way), I've experienced it on my own. But TJT is not alone. Bands such as RX Bandits have made statements proclaiming the need for fans to tangibly support the bands that they love, lest those bands cease to exist.

If there is any silver-lining to this state of being, it would be two Gatsbys American Dream albums: In the Land of Lost Monsters and Gatsbys American Dream; both deliver brilliant music that was inspired by the band's terrible dealings with labels and promoters as they struggled up-hill to survive in such a disastrous economic environment³. On the other hand, the members of Gatsbys were so tired out from their Sisyphean battle that they didn't even tour in support of that self-titled album (dropping off an already scheduled tour, no less), which ended up being their final work - too tired to continue in the face of such unyielding adversity, they broke up after its release.

The point is, we take and take and take, but we don't give back. We don't buy records. We don't go to shows. We don't buy t-shirts or contribute in any way other than commenting on message boards about how we love bands and all the while we watch as they die of aesthetic starvation. Hell, I'm guilty too - I haven't been to nearly enough shows lately.

We can't keep demanding albums and music as the artist's responsibility, while nonchalantly shrugging off our own responsibility to give them funding enough to keep making music. Does a few people buying CDs counteract the deprivation of funds for which labels and organizers are responsible? Probably not. But, maybe more than anything else, I find that this is a matter of principle. It's unlikely that you can get any band a new record contract or a new touring agreement that will be more beneficial to them, so we have to do what we can - if you love a band and if you want them to keep making music, buy their albums. If we all pay a few dollars for albums, thus allowing musicians to keep making more albums, isn't this better than getting only one album for free? I feel like the answer is self-evident. But I've been known to be wrong.





¹ Outside of Gatsbys American Dream and their oft-linked manifesto.

² This heartfelt post by John Gourley of Portugal. The Man also applies - and may inspire a later The River, The Tiger, The Fire post - particularly his opinion that downloading music is justified as a taste-test, provided that you buy the albums that you like - a position that I fully support.

³ In the Land of Lost Monsters is one of my all-time favorite albums and includes a 'thank you' note on the album's spine for not having downloaded the album; ironically enough, in the wake of the GAD's death, the EP is now available from the band for free download.


NOTE: I'm fairly certain that this post didn't apply to 99% of the people who read it and that the other 1% think I'm an asshole; to both parties I say: thank you for listening to my rant (now go pre-order this).

The Digital Deluge

We are drowning in a sea of information. Because of this blog, I am among those at fault. The internet will ultimately destroy history.

This has been said before. It will be said again. And each and every instance will be granted immortality on the internet. By allowing information to exist while only consuming microscopic amounts of space, the internet has essentially removed the selective processes of history. We no longer need to pick and choose what's important and what's worth a place in limited number of lines that constitute our history books. Not that written history is a flawless beast, but in the Age of the Internet we've replaced the selectively biased accounts of handwritten history with the watered down excess that comes with chronicling every minute event that happens. People and events no longer have to earn their way into history books for records of their existence to be kept; instead, that remembrance is limited only by their degree of willingness to shamelessly self-promote their blog or website. This is, of course, hideously embodied by Twitter, where brilliant musings such as "OMG Hangover was so funy. making a sandwich. txt me!" will live on in the virtual sphere until their untimely demise at the assimilating hands of SkyNet (unless maybe that was John Connor's tweet, but I digress). In a world where all things are remembered, all things are painfully equal. (Just ask Funes: when every aspect of every experience is remembered in exact detail, how do you think abstractly? When everything is unique, how does one make the generalizations that we, as humans, need?)

Aside from a sweeping concern about history and cultural memory in general, I am more specifically interested in the history and cultural memory of art. As someone who hopes to find a future in the field, I am deeply concerned by art - past and present - and how history holds it. We are able to look back at past civilizations and gain some kind of insight to their societies by means of the tried and true "what the hell survived this long?" test. The answers have always been works that were great in scale (ex. The "Visible From Space" Great Wall of China) or, as is more often the case with art, depth (ex. The Republic). If something survived it was due to some virtue that warranted remembrance. The Great Wall is an enormous monument to a turbulent and dedicated time in one region's history; it's physical size alone ensured that it would be remembered. The Republic was one of the most brilliant pieces of political philosophy ever written and because enough people were interested in its subject matter, the work was well-discussed and relied upon by great thinkers throughout the years. What's going to have been discussed enough during our time on Earth to survive in the distant future? Well, I feel secure in asserting that it won't be Between the Heart and the Synapse or A Canticle for Leibowitz (a book about historical remembrance, no less) but rather Twilight and ...Baby One More Time. Great. But this is a product of the ClearChannel-led commercialization of the mass-media rather than the complete degradation of society, right? Well, even if that's true (and it may not be - more on this in a bit), it doesn't solve our archaeological quandary.

There are quality works coming into existence today. This, I hope, is a statement for which I don't have to vehemently argue. Modern technology (read: the internet) has allowed an unprecedented number of artists to release works of brilliance to the public without the support of greedy marketing corporations who would rather pump the Jonas Brothers down 12-year old throats than worry about that most dreaded of three-letter words: art. But while self-production and publication is a growing means of communicating valuable artistic vision (see The Dear Hunter, Thrice, Radiohead) it is also a means for communicating horrific artistic failure because for every one artist that uses this freedom to give the public access to a work of genius and integrity, about 12,000 use it to promote something created hastily and haphazardly in a basement in the hopes of snagging fifteen minutes of ill-advised fame. This isn't a condemnation of those artists (as you may be aware, I am, in some respects, one of them), in fact, I fully support the ability of anyone to make and share art, but there are repercussions. When looking back on how the internet has affected art, which category - the few visionaries or the millions of hacks - do you think will survive in the memories of our progeny? Hell, forget the people of the future, when you think of art on the internet, which do you think of? I'm guessing that what you're thinking of is closer to this than to this.

So, what we're dealing with here is a world where two scenarios can unfold: A) Due to physical remnants (i.e. the huge number of copies of N'Sync albums and Stephanie Meyer books that exist), future generations will assume that we were incompetent fools that bathed in boy bands and pop starlets whilst devouring the mind-shatteringly awful world of sparkling vampires, or B) Due to the overflow of self-published books and self-produced music in the virtual world, future generations will think that art - as a means of social commentary or a dialogue on the human condition - has died and that the term has taken on new meaning as a DIY project that every single person partakes in, leaving a flood of material, none of which is worth remembrance in the least.

I was going to make a joke here about how Western culture has fallen so far that, in the end, works like Twilight and the Jonas Brothers 3-D Concert Experience would actually serve as accurate historical records of our time, but - after some reflection - I couldn't find any humor in it. Because it's true. That's what will be remembered of us, because, for the most part, that's who we - as members of this culture - have become. Childlike narratives, sugar-coated over-produced melodies, and flashing lights are all that it really takes (and, really, you only need one of those) to enrapture us. As a culture, we lack the ability (or more likely, desire) to hold anything in our mind for more than a few moments; we want everything that we touch - art most certainly included - to be easily digestible and ultimately disposable. We don't just want instant gratification, we want repeated instant gratification. Any entertainment that demands more of us is frustrating and uncomfortable and, as such, we abandon it as soon as possible in favor of the sweeter and smoother tastes with which we are familiar. I could probably keep going on and on about this cultural psyche and how it will inevitably affect how we as a people are remembered (and I'd sound increasingly jaded and cynical all the while), but no one wins if I do that (and no one enjoys it either), so I'll try to wrap this thing up.

Art may be marginalized, but it will never die - there's a reason that horrible cliches like that have always been around. (Though, I have to admit, it seems strange to cite a repetitious cliche as the salvation of individual thought; it invites discussion on all manner of paradoxes concerning what actually has cultural staying power: the vast plains of unquantifiable creative thought, or an easily memorable aphorism, as it is unclear whether that aphorism is serving as a representation of or a substitute for that very vague notion with which we began. Are these two definitions inherently mutually exclusive? Is there a possibility that...I'm sorry, what was I talking about? I seem to have forgotten.)

Fitzgerald

a day like all the rest, or so it seemed. brilliant
       crimson dressed the oaks.
pale grey, the sky hung like bed curtains on a morning
        when you wake, unsure
of where you are, disturbed by a dream that was
        as vibrant and real as life itself,
bearing the hideous spectre of death.

on the Water. out where I feel at home. the waves
        are rising, row after row
like the pews in St. Paul’s. at mass, the pastor said that
        God is everywhere.
in these waves, in the black clouds, in the taconite hidden
        in the hull, in you and
in me. in the storm.

Anderson, I should not have turned you away.
        “we are holding our own.”
or so I said. I am a fool. the men I lead…these men and
        their angelic wives,
the unwritten futures of their children, all the lights that
        my ignorance has extinguished.
I am sorry.


the captain always stays fast with the ship,
but there was no way out,
so the crew are still manning their posts.
we were swallowed whole
by cold, cold Superior.



As anyone who knows me well can attest, I have a fascination with open water and with the ships that traverse it. This poem, which began in late 2006 and - after a long time on the shelf - was completed in early 2008, is about one such vessel's unfortunate fate.

Prologue

GENEVA, Switzerland. An Argentinian man lies upon a bed, whispering fragments of Spanish and English that read like clairvoyant riddles. His breathing is shallow and his body frail - wracked by the cancer that has devoured his insides. With a final exhalation, the man - whose influence will be felt in his language and on his art for centuries - dies. So it goes.

In truth, I do not know the final words that passed Jorge Luis Borges' lips before they fell stiff and silent. I know even less about the vast experiences of his life. He died on June 14th, 1986, only a few months before I was born. What I know about Borges I learned mainly in the Senegalese savanna, where I spent some odd number of weeks excavating a lost civilization while burying myself in his words.

Borges never wrote a novel. He stated, quite simply, that it was beyond his means and the span of his attention. Reading his work, it does not take long to realize what he meant. A Borges novel could only have come to fruition as the culmination of a lifetime's worth of toil and labor. Every letter that the man wrote was carefully chosen and even more carefully placed. There are no errant words in the body of his writings; each word bears meaning and moves the narrative forward with purpose. His writing manages to simultaneously be both as soul-stirring as poetry and as dense as a textbook.

But my romance with the written word did not begin with Borges; instead - long before I had read The Library of Babel or The Circular Ruins - it first took shape in the form of lyricism. As I grew and matured as a songwriter, tackling more elaborate subjects and developing a sense of self-awareness, I realized that my desire to weave narrative structures through an inherently poetic lyric form would require that I make the most out of each syllable at my disposal. It is not surprising, then, that when I began reading Borges for the first time, I felt a philosophical bond with him. Not that I am - in any way - putting myself at (or remotely near) Borges' level. We are not equals, but rather believers in the same mythos: I feel the same sense of brotherhood with Borges that any practicing Catholic might share with the Pope.

Despite - or perhaps because of - my affinity for his work, I am wary of imitating it. It is a fine thing to admire an author, but it is folly to emulate one. So maybe it is not surprising that, for many months now, I have been attempting that which Borges denied himself: the writing of a novel. The process is long and arduous and, at this point in time, much farther from conclusion than I would have hoped. But I am not laying down my dream and will soldier on with it until it is done (though any author will tell you that no work is ever truly finished). In the meantime, however, I will admit that I miss the joy of completing a work and that this - my craving for that sense of conquest - has driven me to start this blog, where posts can move from inspiration to publication in only a few hours (and be forgotten by the reader in less than that).

In addition to his fiction, Borges was an accomplished essayist and correspondent and, because of the latter, I am inclined to believe that he would have found great merit in a tool that allows people from every walk of life to say something interesting and share it with the world. In short: I think Borges would have been a blogger himself. Its brevity and accessibility would have, I think, won him over.

But Borges is gone, and I remain, writing in a time that he never saw and maybe never imagined. I do not know where this blog will go or when it will end. Many posts will undoubtedly be frivolous, and some will be needlessly serious, there will be lists and there will be expositions, queries and conclusions, certainties and mysteries, poetry and prose. But, at this moment - here at the outset - I am not sure what will fill this space. I only know from where it will come.

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In his essay A New Refutation of Time, Borges - who concludes by refuting his titular refutation - states,

"Time is a river which sweeps me along, but I am the river; it is a tiger which destroys me, but I am the tiger; it is a fire which consumes me, but I am the fire. The world, unfortunately, is real; I, unfortunately, am Borges."

Four and a half thousand miles from home, in a sweltering land, I saw a beautiful grace and truth in those lines. I found a part of myself in those words, and I tried to make them my own. In some respects, I did.

I am the river, I am the tiger, I am the fire.

I penned those words as lyrics in my notebook, one line among many, stationed amid a myriad of references - to Borges and others - but the song was never finished and the lyrics never used. It seems to me that that is how it has always been: the words are written but they are never read. I would change that, if I could. I suppose that's all I'm trying to do now. And if this blog is to be an extension of myself, open for all to see, then it seems fitting that I should choose words that are both a part of me and a part of the outside world - the very world that Borges found so irrefutably real - as a name for this space. Inspired by (and borrowing from) a great man, I wrote these words down once. I believed them then, and I believe them now.

I am the river, I am the tiger, I am the fire. This is who I am.